Page 13 of Lady Maybe

After dinner that evening, Hannah and Mr. Lowden sat near the fire in the drawing room, somewhat more companionably than before their shared trauma. Mr. Lowden read a book by lamplight and Hannah sewed as best she could with one hand restricted by a sling. Earlier, when they’d returned from the river, Mr. Lowden had insisted Dr. Parrish reexamine her arm. The physician had done so, and applied new starched bandages as a precaution, although he assured her the bone was knitting nicely.

Now Mr. Lowden apparently grew restless, for he laid the book aside and rose. He paused beside the game table with an inlaid chessboard made from squares of oak and maple. He picked up the queen, then looked from the piece to her. “I recall my father mentioning a visit you and Sir John once paid him.”

She glanced up from her needle, instantly wary. “Oh?”

“Yes, he invited you both to dinner, I believe, soon after your marriage.”

She looked at him, waiting for him to continue. Wondering what he was up to.

“I was in London at the time, at the company headquarters. But I seem to recall him telling me later that he had challenged you to a game of chess. And that you beat him quite handily. Is that true?”

She stared at him, thinking quickly. Dare she assent to remembering the occasion? James Lowden had not been there; it was only the hearsay of his deceased father. She thought again. She didn’t recall ever seeing Marianna play chess and she barely tolerated any card game that required more than luck. But ... why would Mr. Lowden recount such a tale if it weren’t true? Was it a trick? And what if she agreed and he challenged her to a game?

She said, “I’m afraid I don’t recall that, Mr. Lowden. Perhaps your father was being overly chivalrous ... or forgetful.”

For several ticks of the clock James Lowden held her gaze. Then he replaced the piece. “Actually, I am the one being forgetful. Now that I think about it, it was another client’s wife he referred to. You don’t play chess, I take it?”

“Not well, no.”

“Ah. My mistake.”

He regarded her with a strange glint in his soft green eyes, the color of pale moss. The corner of his mouth quirked in a knowing grin that seemed to say, “ You have passed another test, but it shan’t be the last .” The grin emphasized the deep brackets on either side of his mouth. Not dimples, but long grooves, masculine and appealing.

Stop it, Hannah , she reprimanded herself. Attractive though he was, she could not trust this man. Heaven help her if she began to admire him.

Hannah was massaging Sir John’s calf muscle with one hand as Dr. Parrish had instructed when the physician came in to pay his daily call.

“Ah, how diligent you are, my lady. Well done. It will help him, you will see.”

She looked up to acknowledge his encouragement and froze. Sir John’s eyes were open. He was staring at her. And not with the vacant look they had seen before. He was looking at her .

“Well, well!” beamed Dr. Parrish. “Look who has returned to us at last! Thank the Lord and pass the glass! Good day, Sir John.”

The patient’s gaze slowly slid toward the physician, then returned to her.

Immediately self-conscious, she began lowering the bedclothes over his exposed leg. “He must wonder what I am doing. How strange to wake up and find someone rubbing his leg.”

“Oh, I don’t think any man would object to that!” The good doctor winked at Sir John. “Would he, sir?”

There was no change in Sir John’s expression.

“Ah! I forget you don’t know me. You may not remember meeting me earlier, but I feel as though I’ve come to know you quite well. I am George Parrish, your physician and neighbor. My son Edgar showed you about the place when you first visited.”

The barest flicker of comprehension shone in Sir John’s eyes before returning to Hannah.

The doctor gestured toward her and smiled. “And you know this lovely creature, of course.”

When his patient failed to respond with word, smile, or even nod, the doctor asked him to follow his finger, to blink one for yes and two for no, and squeeze his hand.

“Now, there’s no rush, Sir John. You speak whenever you’re ready. No hurry. You are healing nicely and no doubt will be your old self soon.” The doctor brightened. “I know! Perhaps you would like this dear lady to read to you. She has a fine reading voice. In fact, I heard her reading to Master Daniel only last evening.” He turned to her. “Has Sir John a favorite book?”

Hannah hesitated. “I ... shall find something.”

“I think reading to him for an hour or so each day an excellent idea. Stimulate his brain. Help him rediscover words again, which seem to have left him.”

Hannah began that very afternoon. She’d been pleased to find the first volume of The History of Sir Charles Grandison among his salvaged things. Her own copy was lost forever, along with her valise.

She sat in the armchair near his bed and began reading. Sir John opened his eyes and watched her as she did so. His bruising and swelling continued to fade, and his marled brown-and-silver beard continued to thicken.

Half an hour or so later, Mrs. Turrill knocked and entered with a tea tray. “Shall you have your tea here with Sir John, my lady? Ah! He is awake, bless my soul, he is.”

“Sir John, this is Mrs. Turrill, our housekeeper.”

Mrs. Turrill dipped her head and smiled. “What a happy day this is. Well, I shall leave you. Anything else you need, my lady, you just ring, all right?”

The phrase, “my lady,” which she had begun to grow accustomed to, sounded like a trumpet blast in Sir John’s presence. She winced.

“Thank you, Mrs. Turrill.”

The housekeeper left, closing the door behind her.

For a moment, Hannah kept her gaze on the closed door, all the while feeling Sir John’s scrutiny on her profile. Slowly, resignedly, she turned. Damp hands clasped in her lap, she faced her begrudging employer, her former mistress’s husband, her first infatuation, although he’d never known it. His expression remained inscrutable.

She sighed and quietly began, “When they found us alone together in the carriage after the accident, they assumed I was Lady Mayfield. At first I was insensible, as you have been. And when I regained my senses and realized ... well, I should have corrected them, but I did not. I have a child to think of. And with my arm broken, there were few or no posts I would be suited for. I felt I had no choice but to remain here. With Lady Mayfield gone, who was I to be companion to? I would have no employment, no place to sleep, and no way to provide for my son or myself. So I allowed the misapprehension to continue. It was wrong of me, I know. I plan to leave as soon as my arm is sufficiently healed and I might find work somewhere. In the meantime, I hope you will forgive me.”

His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, but whether his expression spoke of anger, or confusion, or deep thought, she was not certain. Did he even remember her?

Good heavens. She realized she had said, “with Lady Mayfield gone.” Was this the first he was hearing of his wife’s fate? This was not the way to break the news, bound up in her own confession. But it was too late now. And who else besides her would tell him his wife was dead?

“Yes. I am sorry to have to tell you—Lady Mayfield perished in the accident. Dr. Parrish doesn’t think she suffered.” Lacking the courage to meet his gaze, she closed the book and arose. “Well. Again, I am sorry. Sorry for your loss. For everything.”

She turned and quit the room, knowing it was only a matter of time until he regained the power of speech and ordered her to leave. Or worse.

Mr. Lowden would surely return to Bristol soon. He couldn’t abandon his practice for long. And when he did, she would depart as well. If she left now, the solicitor might suspect what she had done and send someone after her. She thought again of the two women they had seen in the village stocks and shivered, knowing she would pay a high price for her deceit.

The next day, James Lowden entered Sir John Mayfield’s bedchamber, closing the door behind him. He stepped toward his employer’s bed, not feeling as charitable toward the man as he should.

Sir John watched him approach, recognition flickering in his eyes. Evidently he was more sensible than during James’s earlier visits to his bedside.

“Good morning, Sir John. How are you feeling today?”

The man lifted a limp hand in a weak, so-so gesture.

James said, “As you are not yet able to discuss your wishes regarding your will, I think I ought to return to Bristol for a few days and take care of things there. But if you wish me to remain, I shall.”

Again the man lifted his hand, this time in a wave of dismissal.

“You are ... comfortable ... being alone here—well, not alone exactly, but without me to watch out for you and your affairs?”

Sir John nodded.

“Of course, Dr. Parrish is here daily, as is Mrs. Turrill. An excellent woman,” James said. “I have asked the good doctor to send word as soon as you regain the ability to speak or write your wishes. I will return by week’s end either way.”

Again, the slight nod.

James gave a cursory bow and turned to go. Hand on the door latch, he looked back over his shoulder. “I wish you a speedy recovery.”

It wasn’t completely true.

James had nothing against his employer, but a part of him wanted a little more time alone with Lady Mayfield. He had enjoyed their conversations in relative privacy, which would evaporate if and when her husband regained his mobility. The woman intrigued him, though she was clearly hiding something. And he wanted to puzzle her out, like a complicated legal case. Like a mystery.

James Lowden had never felt this way about a married woman before and didn’t like himself very much because of it. He was attracted to Lady Mayfield, even as he reminded himself again and again that she was another man’s wife—although not a faithful one. He wasn’t even sure what drew him. He had met women more beautiful, more skilled in flirtation, more tempting. Was it the challenge she presented? Did he not want to be the one man she did not flirt with? He hoped he was not so shallow.

Did he see mutual attraction mirrored in her blue-green eyes, or did he fool himself? She probably had this effect on many men, Anthony Fontaine most of all. Probably engendered such feelings to suit her ends. Yet she didn’t seem like that sort of woman, for all he’d heard about her.

Yes, he had some business to attend to in Bristol. But he also knew he ought to remove himself from Lady Mayfield’s presence before he said or did something stupid—something they might both regret. He also wished to find the family of the lady’s companion, Hannah Rogers. There were several nagging questions and loose ends he wished to lay to rest with her. While he was there, he might also inquire into the whereabouts of Anthony Fontaine.

James packed his things and carried them down to the dining parlor where Lady Mayfield sat near the window finishing her breakfast. Sunlight shone on her, bringing out the coppery highlights in her red hair.

She looked up when he approached. “Good morning, Mr. Lowden.” Her gaze fell to his valise and her eyes widened. “You are leaving us?”

“For a week or so. I am leaving my horse and traveling by stage. I have asked Dr. Parrish to send word if Sir John speaks and asks for me sooner.”

“I see. Apparently you don’t trust me to do so.”

He hesitated. “Not completely, no. Even so, I regret my rudeness to you and I apologize.”

She rose and stepped around the table. “I understand, Mr. Lowden. No hard feelings. And thank you again for your help in finding Danny and Becky that day.”

“I was happy to be of service.” Still he hesitated, gripping his hat brim.

Abruptly, she held out her hand to him. One of his hands immediately abandoned his hat to capture the delicate fingers in his.

“Farewell, Mr. Lowden, and safe journey,” she said. “I hope your practice thrives and many new clients realize your competence and skill despite your youth. I wish you a long and happy life.”

How earnest, how sober her expression.

“My goodness,” he said with a half grin. “I am only leaving for a week. I shall see you again.”

She blushed and ducked her head. “Of course.”

Chagrined to have embarrassed her again, he squeezed her hand. “But I thank you. Your well wishes mean a great deal, especially considering our rough beginning.”

She gave him a regretful little grin and then lowered her eyes once more.

Unable to resist, he lifted her hand to his lips. He pressed a kiss there, lingering a second too long for propriety but not caring. What did a woman like her care about propriety anyway? Or was that only with a certain other gentleman?

“Good-bye, Mr. Lowden,” she said.

His gaze locked on hers, then she slipped her hand from his.

“We shall just say ‘until we meet again,’ all right?”

She formed an unconvincing smile.

Why did he feel that she was saying good-bye for good?