Page 14 of Lady Maybe
The next day, Hannah read another chapter to Sir John. She glanced over at him, lying flat, staring at the ceiling, eyes open. Being a tall man, his heels extended past the end of the bed. He seemed to be listening, but it was difficult to gauge his reaction or how much he understood.
Did he even remember giving her this book for Christmas two years ago? The History of Sir Charles Grandison was the only gift she’d received, save a length of ribbon from Freddie. It was not unusual for an employer to give a few coins or a token gift on Boxing Day, but one so personal and considerate? Unusual indeed.
When she’d unwrapped it, he’d explained, “I know you enjoy novels. I don’t read many, but this is a favorite. The main character is a good, honorable man one actually admires.”
Like you , she remembered thinking at the time. But she was a clergyman’s daughter, and knew better than to covet another woman’s husband, so she had endeavored to stifle her admiration for the man. And for the most part, she had succeeded. It helped that he gave her no encouragement.
Remembering those feelings now made her feel almost disloyal to Marianna’s memory. Regardless, she still thought him a good, admirable man. Even now. After everything.
A quick knock sounded and Mrs. Turrill came into the room, Danny in her arms. Hannah laid aside her book and quickly rose to intercept her son, but the housekeeper was already approaching the bed, angling Danny toward Sir John.
“Look who I have here.”
Sir John slowly turned his head toward them.
“Now, you know who this fine handsome lad is, don’t you?”
Sir John stared, slack-mouthed. His head moved left, right, in the slowest of shakes.
“Why, this is Master Daniel. And if you don’t recognize him, I shouldn’t wonder, growing so fast as he is.” She looked from Sir John to the child and back again. “Is there not a marked resemblance, I ask you?”
Hannah held her breath.
Again, Sir John’s head turned side to side.
“He looks like his mother, of course, but also like his father,” Mrs. Turrill persisted. “Don’t you see it?”
Here it comes.... Hannah thought, fidgeting nervously.
Sir John’s gaze shifted to her. He rasped out his first word since the accident. “No.”
Her heart pounded. What had she expected?
She felt Mrs. Turrill’s uncertain gaze on her profile. The woman obviously sensed something amiss. Hannah wondered if she guessed what it was. If only she could brush it off with a smile and say easily, “ Sir John has always insisted Danny takes after my side .” But she couldn’t do it. The lies she had told had begun to rot and stink and sicken, and she could not bring herself to utter another to this dear woman.
Hannah stepped near the bed and held out her hands to take Danny, but the housekeeper kept hold of him, her smile unnaturally bright. “How good to hear your voice, Sir John.”
Mrs. Turrill insisted she would take Danny back up to the nursery for his nap. “You go on with your reading. It seems to have helped Sir John already, for has he not just spoken? That is good news indeed.”
Not for me , Hannah thought. It was only a matter of time now.
She stood there, uncertain what to do as Mrs. Turrill left, shutting the door behind her. Longing to flee the tension in the room, Hannah turned from the bed, but Sir John gripped her arm.
She gasped and looked down at his hand on her wrist, as surprised as if a crab at the seashore had leapt onto her arm. She blinked and risked a look at Sir John’s face. His expression was turbulent, bewildered, questioning. But angry? She wasn’t sure. He stared into her eyes, and she stared back. When his grip weakened, she pulled her hand from his and hurried from the room.
Hannah avoided Sir John’s bedchamber for the rest of the day. She asked Mrs. Turrill to look in on him for her, claiming a headache—the headache was real, although not the reason she avoided Sir John. She imagined Mrs. Turrill and Dr. Parrish thought it strange and uncaring of her.
While Mrs. Turrill was busy in Sir John’s bedchamber, Hannah went upstairs to see Becky.
“Quietly gather your things. I’ll gather Danny’s. It’s time for us to leave.”
“But I like it here,” Becky pouted. “And Mrs. Turrill says I’m like a daughter to her.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But Sir John is beginning to speak. Our time here is at an end. I told you we wouldn’t be staying forever.”
“Where will we go?”
“Exeter, I think. It’s a sizeable town. Lots of work there, I imagine.”
Becky’s chin trembled. “I don’t want to go....”
Hannah forced a smile and patted the girl’s arm. She couldn’t afford for Becky to erupt in a fit of pique. “There, there. Never mind, Becky,” she soothed. “You just lie down and rest, all right? We’ll talk about it another time.”
Becky nodded in relief.
Hannah left her and went down to her room to finish packing. She pulled the partially filled valise from under the bed, tucked a few more things inside, and was about to retrieve the letter hidden in the hatbox when Mrs. Turrill knocked and stuck her head in the door.
“Sir John is asking for you, my lady.”
Hannah’s heart slammed against her breastbone.
“Dr. Parrish is in with him now. Talking quite well he is, too. He wishes you to join them.” Mrs. Turrill watched her closely. “He also asked that you bring Danny.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, though he referred to him as ‘the child,’ not by name.”
How concerned the woman looked. Had she guessed the truth?
Hannah forced a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Turrill. Just give me a few minutes to freshen up.”
Five minutes later, Hannah set her packed valise beside her door and went up to the nursery for Daniel. Over her day dress she wore Marianna’s long pelisse, since her own had not survived the accident.
She dressed Danny in the small clothes she had purchased during the journey, and a wool jumper Mrs. Turrill had knit for him. She left all the baby things the Parrishes had loaned her—clean and pressed—in the nursery. Becky, napping peacefully on her small bed, slept on, undisturbed.
Hannah had decided to leave Becky at Clifton, knowing how attached she had become to Mrs. Turrill and Mrs. Turrill to her. She knew the troubled young woman would be in better hands with the kindly housekeeper than with her. Danny would have to be weaned more abruptly than she’d like. But thankfully, he’d already begun taking a bit of thin gruel and mashed fruit. Becky continued to nurse him, but Hannah had noticed the feedings did not last as long, and that Danny grew restless and popped off her breast more quickly than before. Yes, the end was near. In more ways than one.
Hannah returned to her room for her valise. She would have to hold it in her good hand and Danny in the crook of her bandaged arm. It couldn’t be helped. She would simply walk downstairs, out the side door, and to the nearest coaching inn. There, using the money she had left from the trip to Bath, she would put as much distance between herself and Clifton as she could.
She stepped across the threshold. But to leave with no word of explanation or apology? She hesitated in the passage, pulse pounding. On the left, the stairs and freedom. To the right, Sir John’s bedchamber.
“Face him , ” a quiet voice whispered in her mind. Her own voice, God’s, or the devil’s, she couldn’t be certain.
I am afraid , Hannah thought in reply.
As well she should be.
She set down the valise and shifted Danny to her other arm. She turned not to unknown freedom but across the landing to Sir John’s bedchamber, to sure condemnation.
She heard their voices before she reached the door, left ajar. Sir John’s low, raspy voice now and again responding to Dr. Parrish’s loquacious one. Were they talking about her? Had Sir John already told him?
Dr. Parrish turned when she entered. His face lit up at the sight of them. “Ah, here is your family now. Your lovely wife and fine healthy son.”
Clearly, Sir John had yet to disillusion him.
Hannah swallowed. “Dr. Parrish. I am glad you are here. There is something—”
“Always glad to be of service, especially to my neighbors,” the doctor went on. “And I’ve grown quite fond of this lad, I don’t mind telling you. Just look at him. My goodness, what a resemblance.”
“Resemblance to whom?” Sir John asked, voice scratchy from disuse.
Dr. Parrish’s brows shot up. “To whom? That’s a good one, sir. To you, of course. Mayfield nose and all.”
“That’s not who I see.”
It was now or never, Hannah realized. To explain her side, to apologize. Better to confess voluntarily than to wait to be exposed and then try to defend herself afterward.
She began hurriedly, “You see, Dr. Parrish. When you found us in the wrecked carriage and saw only the two of us within, you quite naturally assumed that we were ... that I was—”
“What a sight it was too,” Dr. Parrish interjected. “I shall never forget it. What a picture of tenderness amidst tragedy. For even though the both of you were injured and insensible, your wife tenderly cradled your head in her lap.”
Why must the man always interrupt? Hannah took a breath and pushed on. “Dr. Parrish, you are very kind. But it was only the way the carriage landed, the positions the fall thrust us into.”
“The positions fate thrust you into!” he insisted. “Do you think such things happen by chance?”
“Fate? Tenderness?” Hannah shook her head, incredulous. “I don’t know how you could find such a scene anything but horrid.”
The doctor sighed. “Well, I had not yet come upon the coachman, who was thrown some distance from the wreck. Nor had we spied the poor creature carried away on the tide.”
Sir John winced. He murmured through a crackling throat, “My fault. All mine.”
Dr. Parrish said, “And your wife suffered injuries too, but look how well she has recovered. Her head injury—show him, my lady, if you would. There. I put in the stitches myself and later removed them. I’m no surgeon, mind, but there isn’t one for miles, so the missus and I did our best. There will be a scar, I fear, but nothing a little carefully arranged hair cannot conceal. And her arm is knitting nicely. She needs to regain the strength of it, just as you will need to regain the use and strength of your limbs.”
Hannah squeezed her eyes shut. It was so tempting not to press on. Not to admit the truth. She exhaled an agitated sigh. “Dr. Parrish, please let me finish. I need to apologize. You misunderstood the situation and I allowed that misapprehension to continue. I am not—”
“My lady.” Sir John slanted her a look. “Are you unwell?” He turned toward Dr. Parrish. “Might her head wound have left her confused? For my wife does not seem herself.”
Hannah stared at him, feeling her mouth sag open. She glanced over her shoulder. Had Marianna miraculously appeared? Was he seeing an apparition? She turned back and met his unwavering gaze. Had his head wound left him confused, or...? Or what? “My wife does not seem herself.” What did that mean? Was he blind, or off in his attic? But the eyes that locked on hers held a disconcerting, knowing glint. Was he telling her not to reveal her identity to Dr. Parrish? Why should he?
As though for clarification, Sir John asked, “The poor creature carried away on the tide...?”
Dr. Parrish replied, “Your wife’s companion. Hannah Rogers.”
Hannah had mentioned the death before, though she wasn’t sure how much he’d comprehended.
Sir John lifted his chin in understanding. “Ah. Of course.”
Dr. Parrish added, “And as sad as that is, we can at least be thankful that you and Lady Mayfield were spared.”
Hannah opened her mouth in one last attempt, but the words evaporated under the intensity of Sir John’s gaze. He reached out and grasped her free hand. It likely appeared a comforting gesture, but to Hannah it felt like a warning.
As if sensing her unease, Danny began to whine and chafe, kicking painfully against her arm.
Sir John said with a casual air Hannah found unsettling, “The child is restless, my dear . Perhaps you ought to lay him down and get some rest yourself. But do come and see me again in an hour or so.”
He wanted to speak to her alone, was that it? To avoid scandal to the Mayfield name? And no doubt to tell her exactly what he thought of her in private.
She returned in an hour’s time as bid, curious to learn why Sir John had not exposed her, even as she feared it. Surely he would not knowingly cover for her, would he? No, she was foolish to hope. But when she peeked in at the door, she saw that the man was asleep in his bed and hadn’t the heart—nor the courage—to wake him.
She thought back to their first private meeting, the one in which they had discussed the terms of her employment as lady’s companion. Sir John offered a generous allowance, though he clearly had reservations about engaging a companion for his wife in the first place. She recalled sitting awkwardly in the morning room of the Mayfields’ Bristol house, while Sir John stood across the room, looking not at her but out the window. “Are you willing?”
“Yes,” she replied.
He winced, indicating her reply didn’t please him, although she wasn’t sure why. He said, as if to himself, “But ... should I agree to it?”
“Only if you wish to.”
“My wishes?” He barked a bitter laugh that sounded anything but jovial. “God doesn’t often grant me what I wish for, I find.”
She said earnestly, “Then perhaps you wish for the wrong things.”
He looked at her then, as though for the first time. “You may be right. And what is it you wish for?”
Challenge lit his silvery blue eyes and for a moment she sank into them, feeling tongue-tied and intimidated.
Before she could fashion a suitable reply, he crossed his arms and continued, “It would be unfair to ask you to report where Lady Mayfield goes and whom she meets, but I can at least hope you will be a good influence on her.” He added dryly, “Unlike most of the company she keeps.”
She lifted her chin. “You’re right, sir. I cannot be her companion and your spy. I will, however, offer friendly advice when I can to keep her from harming her own reputation or her marriage.”
“Ha,” he’d scoffed, his cool eyes icing over. “Too late.”
If she’d known everything that would happen in that house, would she have agreed to the arrangement? How na?ve she had been to think she could curb Marianna’s behavior with men. She had not even succeeded in controlling her own.
Curiosity piqued, Hannah decided not to leave until she heard what Sir John wanted to say to her in private.
The next evening, Hannah quietly slipped into his bedchamber while Dr. Parrish repacked his medical bag. He lifted a hand to acknowledge her presence, then returned to his task. She sat stiffly in the chair she had occupied to read to Sir John, but did not pick up the book. Instead, she clasped nervous hands in her lap and wondered what awaited her. Sir John wore a fine dressing gown over his nightshirt and his hair was combed. He had likely been blond in his youth, but now at forty, his hair was light brown and, at the moment, in need of a good cutting.
He flicked a peevish look in her direction. “I asked you to return last night.”
“I did. You were asleep.”
Not appearing convinced, he turned his calculating gaze to the doctor. “The, em, medical rubbing my kind wife has been performing so ably ... Is there any reason not to continue with that?”
Hannah cringed at the biting irony in his voice, but the good doctor did not seem to notice.
He shook his head. “None at all. Not until you are on your feet and taking exercise on your own.”
“Excellent.” Sir John sent her a challenging look. “And doctor, one more thing?”
“Yes?”
“Any reason I cannot resume my ... conjugal duties ... with my wife?”
Hannah gasped and ducked her head, cheeks flaming.
The doctor’s mouth parted, clearly taken aback. He glanced from one to the other, then fiddled with his case. He ended with an indulgent dimple. “Sir John, you jest, I think. You enjoy teasing Lady Mayfield, no doubt. But you have embarrassed her, my good sir, and must endeavor to be more discreet in future.”
Sir John did not return the man’s grin. “I am not jesting. I am in earnest.”
Hannah’s mind whirled. What was Sir John doing? Embarrassing her as a form of punishment for her deception? It was not like him. Had the crash damaged his mind and character as well as his body? Or, did he somehow really believe her to be his wife?
The doctor faltered, “Well. I ... that being the case, I would prefer to speak in private about such matters.”
“Why? Does your answer not affect her as much as it does me?”
Dr. Parrish frowned. “Not exactly, no. For she is all but recovered and you are not, though you progress daily. I think with your ribs and that ankle of yours, any activity will be quite uncomfortable at present. Painful even.” He shook his head. “No, in my professional opinion, it is not advisable at present.”
“No? Pity. What about sharing my bed? For simple comfort and affection? Is there any harm in that?”
“Sir John!” Hannah protested. “You push too far.”
He coolly studied her face. “Evidently, Lady Mayfield is concerned she would injure me in the night.”
She recognized the sarcasm in his tone even if the physician did not. Dr. Parrish pursed his lips in thought.
Please say no , Hannah silently pleaded. Even if she had admired Sir John in the past, at the moment, all she felt was fear and mortification. He had never spoken to her so coarsely nor been so cavalier.
“If she is careful not to jostle you too much, I see no harm,” the doctor decided. “And no doubt it would be a welcome change for both of you after such a long parting. Yes, I think that would be all right.”
Hannah sputtered, “But, I—I can’t.”
Both men turned to stare at her.
She faltered, “I mean ... What will Mrs. Turrill say? She will know I have not slept in my own bed and—”
Dr. Parrish interrupted gently, “My dear lady. We are not such proper city folk. Here in the West Country, a man and wife may share a bed without raising eyebrows, I assure you.”
“Ah, what a relief,” Sir John said with a patronizing smile. “There, my lady, those objections are dealt with and the matter settled.”
“But, Sir John—” she began.
He cut her off once more. “Thank you so much, Dr. Parrish. You have earned your stipend today indeed.”
The trusting man looked from one to the other in some bemusement, perhaps noticing Sir John’s sarcasm at last, but unsure of its cause or meaning. He was clearly aware of “Lady Mayfield’s” discomfort, yet likely assumed it was due to modesty and not any real unease or fear of her changeable husband.
When Dr. Parrish had taken his leave, Sir John said archly, “I’m sure you will want to change into your nightclothes.”
She slowly shook her head. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because my memory is beginning to return. And with it, my imagination.” His sardonic tone followed her out the door. “Don’t be long, wife .”
She walked stiffly from the room and forced her legs down the passage. How had it come to this? What was she to do—refuse and cause a scene? Gather up Danny and walk out the door as darkness began to fall? Surely he did not really expect her to share his bed. Had seeing Danny and realizing she’d had a child out of wedlock given him ideas? Just because she had fallen in that way once before did not mean she would do so again. She had learned her lesson, and a painful one at that.
For several minutes, Hannah stood in her bedchamber, uncertain. Then a quiet knock pulled her around.
There stood Mrs. Turrill, questions in her eyes. “I hope you don’t mind, but Dr. Parrish mentioned Sir John’s request. I thought you might like me to help you change.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Turrill.”
The kind woman helped her into her nightclothes and brushed her hair.
“Are you certain you will be all right?” The light in the woman’s eyes, her cautious expression, made Hannah wonder just what she was asking. Just what she knew. Or suspected.
Hannah forced a smile. “Yes, of course.” I will just sleep in the upholstered chair near the fire , she told herself. In the same room, to appease Dr. Parrish. Near enough to Sir John, she hoped, to appease him in whatever strange test he was giving her. If he wanted to provoke her into confessing who she was, why had he not simply allowed her to do so before? Was he trying to force her to blurt out the truth and bolt?
She was tempted to do just that.
But where would that leave Danny?
When she entered Sir John’s room, she noticed he had slid himself over—or Mrs. Turrill had helped him—leaving space for her in bed. Yet, she did not miss the surprise flash in his eyes when she returned in her nightclothes. Apparently, he had not expected her to agree.
A moment later his expression hardened once more, and he patted the bed beside him. “Come, wife .”
“Sir John...” She ducked her chin in reproof.
“You’re the one who started this. If you prefer to leave, go. It’s not as though I could chase you.”
His gaze flickered over her nightdress and dressing gown. She expected a leer or amorous glance but she was mistaken, for he winced as though in pain.
“Those are Marianna’s, are they not?”
So he did remember his wife after all.
Hannah looked down at the ivory lawn with its pink ribbon trim. All of Marianna’s nightclothes had pink trim, she recalled. She’d insisted upon it.
“Yes. I’m sorry, but my things were lost in the accident.”
He turned his face, looking up at the ceiling instead of her. His lips pressed together, working. “So much lost.”
Her heart unexpectedly lurched for him. He had shown no grief over Marianna before now. She had begun to believe he didn’t feel any. She had been wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, the words heavy with new meaning.
She saw tears brighten his eyes before he blinked them away.
Voice hoarse, he asked, “Is she really gone?”
Hannah whispered, “Yes.”
“Gone ... or dead?”
She looked at him sharply, stunned by the question.
He glanced over before returning his gaze to the ceiling above. “Come now. You cannot pretend not to know she was daily hoping for a way to be rid of me. A chance to leave me and return to her lover .” He spat out the final word like spoiled meat. “How the two of you must have mocked me, laughing behind your hands at the honored knight whose own wife was repulsed by him.”
Hannah shook her head. “I never mocked you, sir.”
“Tell me the truth,” he went on. “Did you help her plan her escape? Evidently, you at least went along with it, since you are here, pretending to be her.”
She gaped at him. “Is that why you are doing this? I promise you, sir. I had nothing to do with it. It was an accident. A terrible, unforeseeable accident.”
He held her gaze as if measuring her honesty. Then he blew out a breath. “If she really is dead—drowned—then I am cruel indeed to voice such a thing, to even think it. And may God forgive me. Yet knowing her as I did. How she despised me. I cannot help but wonder.”
Standing there awkwardly, Hannah said, “Sir John, I don’t know what to say. Dr. Parrish believes she may have already been dead when the tide drew her from the broken carriage. Or perhaps she was thrown into the channel when the carriage crashed, but I don’t think that can be true.”
He frowned at her. “Why?”
Hannah closed her eyes, trying to capture the fleeting memory before it scurried from view. “I don’t know. I think I may have seen her drifting away.... Dr. Parrish and his son tell me they saw her floating, slowly sinking, without struggle. They assured me she did not suffer.”
Should she tell him about the ring? If she did, would she not have to return it directly? She did plan to return it, once she found employment. But the ring was her insurance. If it was between Danny going hungry or without medicine if he needed it ... then she would sell the ring or pawn it. She hated the thought of stealing. Knew it was wrong. But she was loath to give up the only thing that might stand between her son and starvation until she found a way to support them.
“I was in and out of my senses,” she explained. “I remember only a few fragments of the accident and what came after. I have a vague memory of trying to grasp her hand, to pull her back, but I had not the strength.”
He gave a shiver of a nod. His eyes remained distant, as though trying to visualize the scene for himself.
“Not your fault,” he whispered. “Mine. All mine. I should never have insisted we drive on.”
“Perhaps, but it was an accident. You could not have known what would happen. That we were so near the cliff. Had you known, of course you would have made a different decision.”
“Would I? You have more confidence than I do. All I cared about was getting her away from him. Wanted no delays to give him opportunity to catch up. I was determined to separate the two of them forever.” He uttered a dry laugh and his voice cracked. “Apparently, I succeeded, did I not? And the poor driver. May God forgive me.”
Again, her heart went out to him. To suffer such a loss was hard enough. But to couple that loss with the guilt of feeling responsible for your wife’s death? As well as that of a young man? It could cripple the strongest of men. She briefly wondered if his serious injuries added to the torment, then realized they probably served as some sort of consolation. Had he escaped unscathed, his guilt would likely be tenfold.
She was tempted to ask him why he had not exposed her, why he had allowed her false identity to stand, but was afraid she would not like his answer. He looked so weary, so grief-stricken at the moment, that she could not bear to press him. Nor did she want to goad him into taunting her again.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to ask. Cautiously she stepped toward the bed she had been afraid to approach a quarter of an hour before. She did not know what she intended to do. Not to lie in it, no. But to offer some sort of comfort.
He watched her, eyes wary.
“Water, Sir John?” she asked, nodding toward the jug and glass on the side table.
He slowly reached out his hand, elbow propped on the bed.
She poured a glass with trembling fingers and held it out to him, but he did not take it. He only looked at her, arm upraised. He moved his hand away from the glass, yet left it extended toward her.
“No?” She set down the glass and nervously eyed him. She recalled holding his glove found after the wreck, and wondering if she’d ever held his hand. Tentatively, she slid the fingers of her good hand over his and gave them a gentle squeeze. She waited anxiously, but he did not grab tight or pull her into his bed. Nor repeat his request that she join him there. For a few moments more they remained as they were, she standing, he lying, gazes touching, fingers entwined.
Then she said, “I shall sit here by the fire and keep you company until you fall asleep, shall I?”
With a slight nod of resignation, he released her hand and lowered his arm.
She sat in the cushioned chair near the fire, angling the chair to better see Sir John. She gathered a lap rug over her legs and settled back. “You sleep now, Sir John.”
“That’s all I do is sleep...” he murmured, but already his eyes were drifting closed.
She awoke with a start many hours later, surprised to see dim dawn light seeping in between the shutters. She looked over at the bed and found Sir John watching her, an extra pillow propped under his head.
Self-consciously, she straightened in the chair, wincing at her stiff neck and numb arm. She glanced down at herself, relieved to find her nightclothes were not askew, and still covered her modestly.
“I ... didn’t intend to sleep here all night.”
“I’m glad you did,” he said. “I liked having you here, though it cannot have been comfortable.”
In more ways than one , she thought, rising gingerly.
He added, “I’ll have that water now, if you don’t mind.”
She hesitated. If he had managed to place a second pillow under his head, he could likely slide over and help himself to a glass of water.
She walked forward slowly. She didn’t mind helping him, but she was wary of his motives. Or was he simply accustomed to being served?
She handed him the glass, and this time he took it and sipped. His eyes dropped to her hands. Only then did she realize she was unconsciously rubbing one hand with the other, trying to restore feeling and dispel the prickling numbness. Her efforts were somewhat hindered by the rigid bandage.
He handed back the glass and she returned it to the side table.
“Sit,” he commanded.
“What?”
“Just sit.” He nodded toward the bed. Nervously, she obeyed, sitting on the edge, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
“Your hand.” He laid open his palm to receive it.
Thankfully, she was not wearing his wife’s ring. Even so, she hesitated. Did he simply want to hold it again, as he had the night before? It seemed childish to refuse him when she had complied once already, but somehow in the light of day, the act seemed more awkward and forward.
She swallowed and tentatively laid her numb hand in his. He raised his other hand as well and began gently kneading and massaging her palm and fingers.
Needles of pleasure and pain shot up her arm. Embarrassment followed. “Sir John, you needn’t do that. It had only fallen asleep. I—”
“Hush. It is the least I can do after all your ministrations to me.”
She wanted to pull her hand away. Knew she should. But the pleasure, the relief, were too sweet, and she failed to do so.
So that was how Mrs. Turrill found them when she came in with the breakfast tray. Hannah sitting on the bed, her hand in Sir John’s. She felt embarrassed at being caught so close to him, and tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast.
Mrs. Turrill smiled a closed-mouth smile, dimples in her cheeks. For a second, Hannah saw the scene as though through the housekeeper’s eyes. What a sweet domestic picture they must make. Husband and wife, hand in hand. If only she knew the truth of it. How her smiles would fade then.