Lady Maybe (7 page)

She rose and handed Danny to Becky. “I shall see him, Mrs. Turrill.”

Mrs. Turrill studied her face. “Shall I go in with you?”

“No, thank you. If it is who I think it is, it is best that I speak to him privately. Find a way to gently tell him about the accident. The . . . drowning.”

Her expression softened. “A friend of that poor girl’s, is he?”

“If it is who I believe it is, yes.”

Mrs. Turrill followed as far as the drawing room. Hannah peeked through the narrow crack between the double doors. Inside, facing the windows stood Anthony Fontaine, unmistakable in profile. Roman nose, dark curls falling over his brow, brooding, yet undeniably attractive.

Hannah faced Mrs. Turrill. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I know him.” She hoped the woman would not eavesdrop at the door.

She waited until Mrs. Turrill nodded in reply and turned away.

Standing there, Hannah thought back to the times she had been in Mr. Fontaine’s company. Usually Lady Mayfield went out on some pretense to meet him. But on the rare evening Sir John was at his club or away at one of his other properties, Marianna often invited friends over. Usually female friends or a couple. But on a few occasions, she had been brazen enough to invite
him
to Sir John’s Bristol house.

Hannah recalled one evening only too well. . . .

W
hen Hopkins announced his arrival, Mr. Fontaine bowed to Lady Mayfield as though a mere acquaintance. “Good evening, Lady Mayfield. Thank you for your gracious invitation.”

“And where is Mrs. Fontaine?” Marianna asked.

“My dear wife is at home and plans to go to bed early.” With a glance at the footman arranging decanters on the sideboard, he added, “But she insisted I come. How rude it would be, she said, were we both to disappoint Lady Mayfield when she so kindly, and unexpectedly, invited us.”

“I do hope Mrs. Fontaine is not unwell.”

“A trifling malady, I assure you. A cool drink and a warm bed are all she longs for on this chilly night.”

Lady Mayfield coyly dipped her head. “All she longs for?”

Hannah rose to excuse herself, but Lady Mayfield insisted she stay. Hannah knew why—so the servants wouldn’t spread gossip of their tête-à-tête from servants’ hall to servants’ hall. If they did, all of Bristol would soon know she had entertained a man alone in her husband’s absence. There were enough rumors about Lady Mayfield and Anthony Fontaine as it was.

Hannah had begrudgingly complied, sinking back into her corner chair and picking up her needlework once more. But it was difficult to concentrate. Her gaze flitted over to the couple more often than it should have. The two sat close together on the sofa, sipping from glasses of port, heads bent near in private conversation. Had he just kissed her cheek . . . her ear? Hannah looked down and realized she had made a mess of her last several stitches and would need to pick them out.

Mr. Fontaine’s hand lifted from the arm of the sofa to stroke Lady Mayfield’s gown-covered knee. Marianna’s eyes flashed to Hannah and caught her looking, but she did not scowl or demand her to leave. Rather she grinned, mischief dancing in her big brown eyes.

Hannah looked away first.

Lady Mayfield was not only beautiful, but well-endowed. A fact emphasized by the low neckline of her evening gown and her excellent stays. When Hannah next looked up, she noticed Anthony Fontaine’s gaze linger on her bosom. Then a finger followed suit.

Hannah rose abruptly. “I am sorry my lady, but I would like to retire.”

“Oh come, Hannah. What a prude you are. Very well, if you
must. But slip through the side door so the servants don’t see you leaving.”

Anthony Fontaine winked at her.

Blindly Hannah slipped from the room. She retreated to her bedchamber upstairs, trying hard not to imagine what was happening in the room below. . . .

A
nd now Anthony Fontaine was here in the Clifton drawing room. Hoping to see Marianna. How could he fail to expose her? Heaven help her, this would not be easy.

Taking a deep breath, Hannah opened the double doors, closed them behind her, and faced Lady Mayfield’s lover. She was glad she wore a nondescript muslin, and not one of Marianna’s more memorable gowns.

Mr. Fontaine turned, surprise crossing his handsome face. “Miss Rogers?” He frowned, then bowed dutifully. “I did not expect to see you here. I asked for the lady of the house.”

Hannah put a finger to her lips. “Please, keep your voice down.”

“Where is she?” he demanded, hands on hips.

“Won’t you sit down?”

“I will not.” He ran an agitated hand through his forelock. “Does he forbid her to come down?”

“If by ‘he’ you mean Sir John, he forbids nothing.” For some reason, Hannah was reticent to reveal Sir John’s weak state to this particular man. His foe. “She cannot come, because she is not here.”

He scowled. “Don’t try to fob me off. I know this is where he brought her. I have already been to his other properties. Go and tell her I am here.”

“Please, sit down.”

“I won’t. Not until you tell me where she is.”

Hannah took a deep breath. “I’m afraid there has been a terrible accident.”

His eyes flew to hers, alert. Tense.

“On the journey here, we drove through a storm. The carriage slipped from the road, fell over the cliff, and landed partway into the sea.”

“Good heavens.” He visibly stiffened, preparing for a blow.

Hannah dreaded telling him. “The doctor says she likely died on impact and did not suffer.”

He gaped at her, then slowly sank to the sofa, crumpling the hat brim in his hands. Then abruptly his eyes hardened. “Are you fabricating this tale to trick me into leaving?”

She lifted her splinted arm, then pulled back the hair from her brow to reveal the jagged line on her forehead. “No. The accident was all too real.”

He looked down at his hands. When he next spoke, it was in a whisper. “Where is she?” The same words, but now seeking a different sort of answer.

She hesitated. “I am afraid her body has not yet been recovered.”

His head snapped up. “Then how do you know she is dead?”

“The doctor and his son saw a figure floating away as the tide receded. A figure in a red cloak. Marianna wore hers that day, I remember. They believe she was thrown from the carriage as it fell, or that the tide drew her from a broad hole in its side.”

His mouth parted, incredulous. “And where was
he
?” His lip curled. “Probably threw her over the cliff himself.”

She shook her head. “Sir John was insensible as was I. In fact . . .” She hesitated. “Sir John has yet to awaken.”

“But . . . it’s been what—eleven or twelve days?”

She nodded. “About that.”

“Will he live?”

“The doctor hopes so, but is not certain.”

His handsome face contorted. “I hope he dies. I hope he suffers for all eternity.”

Several moments passed in strained silence broken only by the ticking of the long-case clock.

Then he glanced at her, sullen. “She did not mention you. When did you return?”

“The day they left Bath.”

He nodded, looking across the room at nothing. “I am glad you were with her. She was always fond of you.”

Guilt pricked Hannah. She could not say the same.

He rose, still twisting the hat brim, unable now to meet her eyes. “It’s his fault, you know. Not mine. It’s not my fault.”

Strange that he should feel guilty, though she supposed he
was
at least in part to blame for the move in the first place, the hurry, though not the wreck itself. But who was she to absolve anybody?

He turned toward the window, countenance bleak. “Marianna can’t be . . . gone. I would know it. In my heart, I would know it.”

She was surprised at how genuine his grief appeared. Perhaps it had been more than an affair after all—more than physical attraction. Though Hannah resented this man for Sir John’s sake, he had done nothing to her personally. She said softly, “I am sorry, Mr. Fontaine. Truly.”

He stood there, staring blindly through the wavy glass, making no move to leave.

Tentatively, she asked, “May I offer you some refreshment before you go? You must be tired after your journey.”

“No. I could not eat or drink.” He fumbled for a card in his coat pocket and gave it to her with trembling hands. “If you hear anything. If her— If she is found. Please write and let me know.”

Hannah didn’t plan to be there much longer, but she could not very well refuse the stricken man’s request. “Very well.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, and stumbled from the room and out of the house looking dazed and lost.

Hannah stood at the front windows watching him wander away toward town. Mrs. Turrill joined her at the window. “Took it hard, did he?”

“Yes,” Hannah agreed. “Very hard.”

T
he next day, Hannah awoke to find Mrs. Turrill folding back her shutters. Then the housekeeper turned, opened the wardrobe, and began perusing its contents.

Hannah sat up in bed, favoring her wrapped arm. She noticed the tray of hot chocolate and toast on her bedside table.

Mrs. Turrill followed her gaze. “I thought you might like a little something straight away. You ate so little yesterday.”

“Thank you. You do too much for me, Mrs. Turrill.” Hannah sipped her chocolate.

“Yes, I do.” The woman gave her a saucy wink. “It’s why I have engaged a housemaid to start tomorrow. Her name is Kitty. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. You need the help, managing the house and helping to care for me as you do.” Hannah nibbled a bite of toasted bread.

“It’s been my pleasure.” She looked back inside the wardrobe. “My lady, you’ve been wearing those same two frocks since you’ve been up and about. Let’s try one of your other pretty gowns today.”

Marianna’s
pretty gowns, Hannah reminded herself. Since the accident, she had rotated between two of Marianna’s older, simple day dresses—insisting they were the easiest to slip over her wrapped arm.

Mrs. Turrill pulled forth a dress of lilac sarcenet. “How about this frock? It must look so well with your coloring.”

Hannah eyed the crossover bodice warily. “Oh. That’s all right, Mrs. Turrill. I have no need to dress especially well today.”

“Now, I insist. Mrs. Parrish and the vicar’s wife are coming for tea this afternoon, remember?”

Were they? How had she forgotten? “I . . . I am not sure. . . .”

“Oh, do humor me, my lady. It is a pity to neglect such pretty things.”

Hannah climbed unsteadily from the bed and began washing for the day. She allowed Mrs. Turrill to help her lace her stays and tie her stockings. When the housekeeper lifted the lilac dress, Hannah tried to demur once more. “Really, I don’t think the gown will suit me. I . . .”

Ignoring her protests, Mrs. Turrill slid it over her head and shoulders. Nervously, Hannah put her good arm through one sleeve, then Mrs. Turrill helped her carefully and gently manipulate her wrapped arm though the other. Hannah stood, facing the mirror, as Mrs. Turrill began working the fastenings behind.

Hannah’s palms began to perspire. She knew that she and Lady Mayfield were not the same build. Hannah was slightly taller and more slender, while Marianna had been far curvier. The nightdresses, shifts, and adjustable stays were forgiving, but this formfitting dress, made for and tailored to Marianna’s measurements would surely give her away.

“I have not worn this gown before,” she mumbled. Perfectly true.

Mrs. Turrill asked, “Recently made, was it?”

“Mm-hm.”

Finished with the fastenings, Mrs. Turrill looked over Hannah’s shoulder into the long cheval looking glass. She pulled at the ribbon-trimmed waistline and at the extra material crossing
Hannah’s small chest. “It doesn’t fit you very well, my lady.” She frowned. “Have you lost weight since your last fitting?”

“Since giving birth, yes. In the bosom, especially.”

The housekeeper’s brow puckered. “I’m not a dab hand with the needle, I fear. Not with something so fine.”

“Never mind, Mrs. Turrill. I shall give it a go as soon as I regain use of both hands. But for now, perhaps the sprigged muslin? That one will . . . still . . . fit me, I think.”

L
ater that morning, Edgar Parrish knocked on the open nursery door. In his arms, he carried a box of baby things, saved from his own childhood—tiny gowns, caps, and stockings, a finely knit blanket, and a gnarled stuffed rabbit.

Hannah protested, “But you’ll want these for your own children someday.”

“Someday, my lady. But not today.”

“That is kind of you, Edgar. But I’m afraid we’ll spoil them.”

He shrugged easily and glanced around the nursery. “I know it’s been hard for you to set up a place for Danny here, what with your arm and your headaches.”

Must they all be so kind to her?

Hannah said, “I hope your mother doesn’t mind.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his face. “No . . . Though she didn’t think a lady like yourself would accept such humble offerings.”

“Of course I will. And gratefully.”

She smiled at him and he returned the gesture.

When he left the room a few minutes later, Becky stepped to the window to watch him go. “Edgar is surely handsome, ain’t he?”

“I suppose so.” Hannah began sorting through the articles in
the box. When Becky remained silent Hannah looked up. The wistful expression on the girl’s face disquieted her.

She said gently, “Becky, you know he and Nancy are courting, don’t you?”

Becky shrugged her thin shoulders. “Well, they ain’t married yet.”

“No. Not yet.”

“Not ever, if I have my way.” She gave a little giggle.

“Becky, be careful. The Parrishes have been very kind to us.”

“What has that to say to anything? Mrs. Parrish don’t approve of Nancy. It’s plain as day she don’t. So who’s to say they’ll marry?”

Mrs. Parrish doesn’t approve of anyone
, Hannah thought. But she said only, “Becky, we shall not be staying here much longer. Don’t go forming attachments that cannot last.”

Perhaps she ought to take her own advice, Hannah thought, for she was already fond of Dr. Parrish and Mrs. Turrill, and knew both of them doted on her. She hated the fact that she would soon disillusion them, disappoint them, and sink in their estimations. But would it not become only more difficult the longer she allowed this act to go on? Oh, if only her arm would heal so she could leave. But Dr. Parrish thought it might take six weeks to heal fully and two had barely passed. Even then, would she really just steal away with Danny and Becky without a word of explanation to anyone? How Dr. Parrish and dear Mrs. Turrill would worry. Probably even gather a search party. No. At the very least she would need to leave behind a letter, explaining. Apologizing. And hope they might understand and somehow forgive her.

But a letter seemed so cowardly. How much better to come out with it, to explain, to admit she had been wrong, but hope they could see that her motivation had not been self-gain, but the preservation
of her child. How Mrs. Parrish would gloat and rail. Edgar would be hurt, as would his father. Mrs. Turrill? She had no idea how the kindly woman might react, but somehow Hannah thought she would be the most understanding of them all. At least she hoped she would be.

After wrestling with herself all morning, Hannah made her decision. She would confess all to Dr. Parrish. She hoped to catch him in the hall, but by the time she gathered her courage, she heard the door to Sir John’s bedchamber open and close. Taking a deep breath, she left her room and walked across the landing. She knocked and let herself in.

Dr. Parrish was bent low, ear pressed to Sir John’s chest, listening. He glanced up when she entered.

Hannah grimaced in apology and waited near the door. From there, Sir John looked much the same as he had before, his eyes still closed.

A few moments later, Dr. Parrish lifted his head and straightened. “Hello, my lady. Come to see how Sir John fares this afternoon?” He turned to search for something in his medical bag. When she made no reply, nor moved to join him at the bedside, he looked at her over his shoulder. “Did you need something?”

She licked dry lips, heart pounding.

He turned to face her, expression concerned, clearly sensing her anxiety. “Is everything all right?”

“No.” She swallowed and shook her head. “Dr. Parrish, I need to tell you something.”

He tucked his chin. “Oh?”

She clasped her hands tightly. “Do you remember finding us—Sir John and me—in the overturned carriage? Rescuing us?”

“Of course I remember. Far better than you do, I imagine.” He smiled.

“Yes, of course. But do you remember when you first called me ‘Lady Mayfield’?”

His brow puckered in thought. “I don’t recall exactly. Though I know I did call down to you to let you know Edgar and I were there to help.”

“Yes. You see, you kindly assumed that I was Lady Mayfield, when I . . .”

Her words fell away, her breath hitched. She stared past Dr. Parrish into the eyes of Sir John Mayfield.

“When you were . . . what?” Dr. Parrish prompted kindly.

But Hannah could not remove her gaze from Sir John’s. She grasped the doctor’s arm. “His eyes are open.”

He whirled toward the bed.

“My goodness. You’re right! Well, hello, Sir John.” Dr. Parrish stepped forward, then turned his head. “My lady, I wonder if you would be so good as to introduce us?”

“Oh.” Hannah hesitated. “Of course. Sir John, may I present Dr. George Parrish, who has been caring for you since the accident. Dr. Parrish, Sir John Mayfield.”

“How do you do, sir?” Dr. Parrish smiled, but she noticed how his eyes roved his patient’s face, gauging his reaction. There wasn’t one, at least nothing she could see.

“If I may, Sir John, I am going to take your hand.” The doctor did so. “If you are able, please squeeze my hand in return.”

Sir John’s eyes did not move to follow the doctor’s movements. They seemed fixed on her—or was he merely staring blindly in her direction? She wanted to move away from that disconcerting, blank gaze, but felt rooted to the spot.

Apparently Sir John did not perform the doctor’s request.

“That’s all right. There’s plenty of time for that later. We are very happy to see you open your eyes. You have been, shall we say, asleep, for nearly a fortnight.”

Was that the slightest flicker of his eyes, or merely an instinctive blink?

Hannah whispered, “Is he aware, or . . . ?”

Dr. Parrish raised a hand and snapped his fingers before Sir John’s eyes. No reaction.

“It doesn’t seem so. Perhaps the muscles of his eyelids simply contracted, opened, of their own accord.” As if on cue, Sir John’s eyes drifted closed once more. “Still, it is something new. A good sign, I think.”

Dr. Parrish continued his examination, while Hannah chewed her lip . . . and her options.

He straightened. “Well, I must go tell his nurse and Mrs. Parrish. If you wouldn’t mind sitting with him until Mrs. Weaver returns? I’ll send her up directly.” At the door, he turned back. “I’m sorry, my lady. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

Hannah’s lips parted, then she pressed them together once more. “Um. Never mind. In light of this, it was nothing. I shall tell you later.”

He gave her a distracted smile and hurried away.

Hannah had lost her opportunity. And her courage.

—

Perhaps it was a sign, Hannah decided. A sign she should leave a letter instead of trying to tell Dr. Parrish in person.

But first, Hannah had to face a visit with Mrs. Parrish and an introduction to the vicar’s wife. Hannah had suggested Mrs. Turrill join the ladies for tea—she was a relative after all—but Mrs. Turrill said it wasn’t her place.

At the appointed hour, the ladies arrived and were seated in the drawing room. Mrs. Turrill quietly served the tea, ignoring Mrs. Parrish’s patronizing smile, and quickly departed.

The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Barton, seemed a pleasant, timid little
thing, Hannah decided. A perfect foil for confident and outspoken Mrs. Parrish.

The ladies sipped tea and chewed dainty bites of butter biscuits. Then Mrs. Barton said, “My lady, may I ask which church you attended in Bath?”

“Oh . . .” Hannah hesitated. “I . . . that is, I’m afraid we rarely attended in Bath.” Hurrying to redeem herself, she added, “But as a girl I spent a great deal of time in church in Bristol. My father was a . . .” She stopped, realizing she was about to answer as herself, and not as Marianna. “A churchgoer,” she finished lamely.

“Ah . . .” Mrs. Barton nodded faintly, clearly unsure what to say to that.

Mrs. Parrish rolled her eyes.

After that, Hannah spoke as little as possible, afraid to make another mistake, no doubt disappointing her guests and proving herself a poor hostess.

Mrs. Parrish took over the conversation, explaining that she had a few friends in Bath, and was sure Lady Mayfield must have heard of them.