Page 16 of Lady Maybe

Hannah spent the rest of the afternoon rethinking her decision and praying she had not made yet another mistake by not leaving with Fred. Sir John’s wife had just died. It was far too soon to expect anything from him. Was she foolish to remain a little longer, and increase her risk of discovery? Especially knowing that Mr. Lowden was in Bristol asking questions about her? Who knew what information he might uncover and bring back with him? In the meantime, she curtailed her visits to Sir John’s bedchamber. Because if the servants or the Parrishes thought their relationship had become intimate, how much worse it would be when the truth came out.... She shuddered at the thought and pushed it away once more.

A few days later, Sir John issued a formal invitation for “his lady and son” to join him for dinner in his room. Mrs. Turrill grinned like a schoolgirl and eagerly planned a meal as festive as a picnic.

Kitty enthused, “So romantic of Sir John. You are a lucky woman, my lady.”

Hannah wasn’t sure about that, but managed a nervous smile, wondering what Sir John was up to now. She hoped he wasn’t trifling with her for some reason. She thought again of his compliments, the way he had touched her, and the fact that he’d asked Dr. Parrish if she could share his bed. Might Sir John want marital “rights” from this pretend marriage of theirs?

The housemaid insisted on curling Hannah’s hair and touching a little rouge to her cheeks. As if her face wasn’t red enough between her self-consciousness and her freckles.

Becky bathed Danny and dressed him in a fresh gown and cap, while Hannah wore an ordinary white muslin dinner dress—gently but firmly refusing to wear one of Marianna’s more elegant gowns. She remembered too well Sir John’s reaction to his wife’s nightclothes.

At the appointed hour, Hannah carried Danny into Sir John’s bedchamber. The days were longer now, and the room was bathed in golden, late-afternoon sunlight. Someone had helped Sir John into the wheeled invalid chair, and he sat at a small tea table laid with linen, china, and fresh flowers. He was dressed in an open banyan robe, shirt, and loose cravat. Instead of a waistcoat, his ribs were bound in thick bandages. His hair had been cut, by Mrs. Turrill, she guessed, and brushed back from his face. His beard had been neatly trimmed, which accentuated his cheekbones and masculinity. He looked handsome, and for a moment reminded her of a pirate.

“Good evening, my—” He stopped, bit his lip, then abruptly held out his hands to take Danny.

A blanket-lined basket sat on the floor near her chair, so she might lay the child down to better eat her meal, but Sir John insisted on holding him.

She sat down, wiping damp palms on her table napkin. She surveyed the meal spread before them: veal-and-ham pie, roast chicken, salad, stewed fruit, bread, and biscuits. “Mrs. Turrill has outdone herself,” she said.

He nodded. “Indeed she has.” He held Danny in the crook of one arm while he ate with the other, now and again feeding the boy bits of biscuit or stewed fruit. Clearly, Sir John was already regaining strength with the help of Mrs. Turrill’s excellent cooking.

After several bites, he began, “May I ask how you have been occupying yourself? You have been somewhat scarce these last few days.”

Hannah thought back quickly. “Oh, well, I ... have undertaken to teach the young nurse to read. I found her staring at your copy of Sir Charles Grandison . And when I said she could read it when we were through, she confessed she could not read. So I have begun teaching her.”

“That is good of you.”

She ducked her head. “I am not doing so to boast, nor to impress you.”

“Though perhaps as an excuse to avoid me?”

A dry crust caught in her throat, and she hurriedly took a sip of lemonade. Setting down her glass, she picked up a bread basket near at hand and offered it to him. “Bread roll, Sir John?”

He took the hint and didn’t press her, instead turning his attention to Danny, talking quietly to the child and gently bouncing his knee to keep him content.

With relief, Hannah focused on her meal. The pie was delicious, and she savored every bite. Next she attempted to cut a piece of roast chicken, but found it difficult to employ both knife and fork with her arm in its sling.

Danny nodded off to sleep in Sir John’s arms, and he gently bent low and laid the boy in the basket. Then he reached for her knife. “Here, let me help you with that.”

Hannah flushed. “No, really, I am not a child.”

He placed his warm hand over hers, stilling her efforts, and looked into her eyes. “You are a woman, as I am very much aware. But I am at least partly to blame for your injury, so please allow me this small thing.”

She gave in then and watched as he cut her meat, feeling like a helpless little girl and not liking the sensation.

Finishing, he set down the cutlery and asked, “Does your arm pain you a great deal?”

“No. Hardly at all.”

“And your forehead?” He reached his hand toward her.

She recoiled in surprise and, seeing the flash of hurt cross his eyes, instantly regretted her reaction.

He said, “I only wanted to see it. To assure myself you are healing well.”

“I am. I promise.”

He extended his hand again. This time she sat still as he gently brushed back the hair that Kitty had so carefully arranged to hide the red mark.

“See? It’s nearly healed,” she said.

He frowned. “That will leave a scar.” He regretfully shook his head. “Another injury at my hands.”

“Sir John, it’s nothing.”

He softly traced her brow. “I disagree.”

Hannah’s throat felt suddenly dry, and she found the words stuck there as the crust had been moments before.

In his basket, Danny let out a cry. Glad for the diversion, Hannah reached down for him. “Probably needs to be changed.”

She rose. “Thank you for dinner, Sir John, but I had better take him back up to the nursery.”

Sir John gave her a knowing look. “Making your escape already, Miss Rogers? I knew it would only be a matter of time until you did.”

The next afternoon, Hannah was on her way downstairs after settling Danny for his nap and giving Becky a reading lesson when she heard the door open below and Mrs. Turrill greet a visitor. Hannah tensed. Had Fred returned?

She descended the final pair of stairs on tiptoe and paused on the half landing to survey the vestibule. There, James Lowden handed his hat to Mrs. Turrill. He looked up, and his green eyes locked on hers, his expression difficult to decipher.

Mrs. Turrill turned her head to see what had arrested his attention. “Ah. My lady, look who’s here.”

“You’re back,” Hannah breathed in some surprise.

“Yes. I said I would return in about a week. Do you not recall?”

“Oh. It’s just ... well, the time passed quickly.” And she had not departed as planned.

“You are not ... happy to see me?”

“On the contrary, you are perfectly welcome.”

He studied her face, his brows low in curiosity—or suspicion?

She looked away first and found Mrs. Turrill watching her, worry evident in her soulful dark eyes.

The housekeeper excused herself, leaving the two alone in expectant silence.

Hannah said awkwardly, “Your former room is ready for you. And the morning room is at your disposal. Everything the same as before.”

He tilted his head to the side, eyes glinting. “Not everything.”

She swallowed, unsure of his meaning and afraid to ask. What had he learned about her while he’d been away? She forced a smile. “Well, I shall leave you to get settled. We’re to have roast duck for dinner tonight, I understand. I hope you like duck?”

His mouth quirked. “Domesticated or decoy?”

She blinked. “I ... have no idea.”

“Poor hen,” he said. “Trapped in a decoy snare of her own making.” His cold eyes belied his sympathetic tone.

Hannah was taken aback by the odd exchange, stung by the innuendo. She hoped she was imagining it.

He tugged off his gloves and said, “Well, I shall go up and greet Sir John if you don’t mind. Assuming he is still alive?”

“Of course he is,” she defended. “In fact, you will find him greatly recovered and speaking for himself.”

“Well. Good.” He slapped his gloves onto the sideboard and took himself upstairs.

James Lowden walked up the stairs, irritation coursing through him. He was vexed with himself, with her, and with Sir John. How much should he tell his employer of what he’d learned in Bristol? He paused at the bedchamber door, took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Come,” Sir John called.

His strong reply surprised James. It was the first time he had heard the man’s voice since the accident.

James entered the room, surprised again to find his client sitting upright in bed in a fine burgundy dressing gown, though a counterpane covered his legs. He wore a beard, neatly trimmed. And someone had cut his hair. He looked younger than when James had last seen him.

“Good day, Sir John.”

“Mr. Lowden. Welcome back.”

James shook his head. “You wrote to say you were recovering, but—my goodness, how well you look.” He did indeed. James knew he should be glad.

“Thank you. Good journey?”

“Oh, the usual tedious, spine-jarring experience. No accidents or anything if that’s what you meant.”

“I did not.”

James felt his neck heat. What a callous thing to say. “I did not mean ... I was not referring to—”

Sir John waved away his apology. “Never mind. As you see, no harm has befallen me during your absence. You worried for nothing.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, as it turns out.”

“And ... why is that?”

“Why? Because the lady in question means me no harm, I assure you.”

“Does she not?”

Sir John shook his head. “In fact she has been quite kind in ministering to me body and soul.”

Body and soul? Astounded, James faltered, “Do ... do you still wish to revise your will?”

“Let’s hold off on that at present.”

“But—” James bit his tongue. He cleared his throat, wishing he might clear his confusion as easily. “Well, that is your prerogative of course, though I must say I am surprised.”

But was he—was he really?

“Go and get settled, Mr. Lowden. We shall have plenty of time to talk later.”

That evening, Hannah ate dinner with Mr. Lowden in awkward formality, the roast duck tasting like sawdust in her mouth. Their former fledgling camaraderie seemed to have vanished. He had changed toward her, she realized. During his absence, had he learned something unsavory about Lady Mayfield ... or about Hannah Rogers?

Near the end of the meal, Mr. Lowden picked up his wine, but instead of sipping, held his glass in midair.

“You once told me you received a letter from a friend of Miss Rogers, who took it upon himself to inform her father of her death.”

Sending a nervous glance to Mrs. Turrill, dishing out their rice pudding at the sideboard, Hannah nodded.

He asked, “Was this ‘friend’ a Fred Bonner?”

She snapped her head toward him, instantly on her guard.

Not waiting for her to answer, he added, “And was her father a Mr. Thomas Rogers, formerly of Oxford, now perpetual curate of St. Michael’s on the outskirts of Bristol?”

She only stared at him, heart racing.

“Hannah Rogers’s mother, a Mrs. Anne Rogers, died ten years ago of the influenza, I believe.”

Dear Mamma ... Hannah felt torn between relief that her mother was not there to see her only daughter in her current situation, while at the same time longing for her comforting presence.

He continued, “Hannah had two brothers, both gone to sea. Did you know the eldest, Bryan Rogers, has passed his lieutenancy examination?”

Mutely, she shook her head.

“Apparently, I know more about this bosom companion of yours than you do, my lady .”

Hannah faltered, “How did you...?”

“When I returned to Bristol, I unearthed a letter Sir John wrote to my father from Bath, asking him to look into the matter of his wife’s missing companion. As you yourself told me, Hannah Rogers left abruptly, which concerned Sir John, as she had always been a steady, reliable sort before. According to my father’s notes, Sir John feared some harm may have befallen her, or that someone in his household had done something to offend her, or to make her fear for her safety—something significant to cause a dependable person to act in such an uncharacteristic manner.”

Hannah’s mind whirled. Sir John had worried about her? Who in his household did he think had done something to offend or frighten her—Mr. Ward, Marianna and Mr. Fontaine, or he himself?

Mr. Lowden continued, “My father asked Sir John if this Miss Rogers had stolen something or if anything had gone missing. He assured my father it was nothing like that. He seemed to trust her thoroughly.”

“Did he?” she murmured, surprised and pleased to hear it.

“Yes. I reviewed what little correspondence I could find pertaining to Miss Rogers. My father did not pursue the matter very far, so I decided to do so myself. First, I went to her father’s house, but Mr. Rogers had not seen his daughter since she’d moved with the Mayfields to Bath. I also met a friend of hers, a Fred Bonner. He seemed quite reticent to speak with me. It was obvious the young man had been fond of Miss Rogers, perhaps even loved her, and mourned her loss. It was also clear he was hiding something about her past. It made me wonder if Hannah had got herself into trouble with this young man. If she had left the Mayfields’ employ to conceal a certain ... condition.”

Hannah’s throat tightened. “Why would you think that?”

“Just a guess. A suspicion. Did no one notice anything unusual about her? Had Miss Rogers confided anything about a young man, or her future plans? Had she been ill in the mornings? Gained weight?”

Hannah felt her neck heat. “These are not things spoken of in polite company.”

A spoon clanked and she glanced over, only then realizing Mrs. Turrill was still in the room. Hannah pressed her lips together. “That will be all, Mrs. Turrill. Thank you so much.”

“Yes, an excellent dinner,” Mr. Lowden added. “Thank you.”

With a concerned look at one and then the other, Mrs. Turrill backed from the room and closed the door behind her.

Mr. Lowden continued, “I asked for a description of Hannah Rogers.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped past several pages. “Would you like to hear how she was described?”

“No.”

He read from his notes as if she had not spoken. “‘Slender. Red hair. Fair eyes. Modest in dress and comportment.’ That was from Mr. Rogers. And this one from Fred Bonner. ‘A pretty girl with ginger hair and freckles. A lovely smile.’”

Tears bit her eyes, but panic burned them away. She had no idea what to say.

He looked up at her. “Is it an accurate description?”

Instead of answering, she asked, “Have you shared this information with Sir John?”

“Not yet. Do you think he will find it interesting?”

“I have no idea.” Very little of it would surprise him, Hannah thought. Then why was she so frightened?

James Lowden leaned back in his chair and surprised her by changing tack. “Sir John is in good spirits. He tells me you’ve been ‘ministering to him body and soul.’ What did he mean by that?”

She licked her dry lips. “I ... suppose he means that I have undertaken a regimen Dr. Parrish ordered to help him strengthen his limbs after lying in bed so long. Simple stretches and the kneading of muscles. That’s all.”

“Is that all?”

She blinked away images of Sir John holding her hand. Brushing the hair from her brow. Touching her waist.

Mr. Lowden watched her face. “Very ... wifely,” he allowed. “Very intimate. I must say I am surprised.”

“It isn’t intimate ,” she defended. “Not in that way.”

The housemaid knocked once and poked her head into the room. “Excuse me, my lady. But Sir John wishes to know if you will be visiting his bedchamber again tonight?”

Heat suffused her neck and face. She could not meet Mr. Lowden’s startled gaze.

Hannah did go to Sir John’s bedchamber that night, but she went earlier, before she had changed into her nightclothes—determined not to stay long. Mr. Lowden’s return had been a cold splash of reality, making her tenuous situation seem less hopeful and more tawdry. She knew he had gone up to see Sir John again after dinner. She wondered if he had confided any of his findings—his visit to her father, or his theories about Fred Bonner and Hannah. Should she?

She once again found Sir John sitting up in bed with a portable writing desk in his lap and quill in hand. He looked up at her with a ready smile. Then his gaze flicked to the mantel clock before returning to her, sweeping over the emerald green evening dress—one of Marianna’s older ones she’d altered to fit her slighter figure.

“Good evening, my lady. You’re ... early.”

“Good evening, Sir John.”

She approached the bed without being asked and stopped beside it.

He looked at her, taking in the fine gown. Her pinned hair. Her wary face. “The color suits you. You look beautiful.” He added quietly, “Beautiful and sad.”

She ducked her head.

Nib in hand, he lifted the quill, tickling under her chin. “Look at me,” he said gently. “What is it? Is Danny all right?”

“A little colicky, but otherwise fine.” She raised her head and braved a small smile. “Thank you for asking.”

Holding her gaze, he slowly lowered the quill from beneath her chin, down the column of her throat, and along her collarbone.

She jerked away, stepping back from the bed. His familiarity, which had previously warmed her, now put her on edge.

“Forgive me, I thought—” He hesitated, then frowned. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“Mr. Lowden is with us again, and it’s... awkward. He’s asking questions.”

“About us?”

“About ... Hannah Rogers.”

“Ah...” He considered this, then said quietly, “Remember that Mr. Lowden works for me. You have nothing to fear from him.”

He tilted his head to the side and regarded her cautiously. “Or is fear not what you feel for him? Is there ... more to it?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “He took against me at first. Then we seemed to come to a truce. But now ... he’s changed toward me. He knows, or at least suspects the truth.”

“Leave him to me. Unless...” He studied her face. “Have you developed feelings for my solicitor?”

She stared at him, stunned by the suggestion, and yet ... could she honestly say she felt nothing for the man? After he had helped find Danny and Becky? She couldn’t deny she found him attractive. “I ... We ... Nothing of that sort is going on. But he seems ... angry with me, or at least distrustful, and I don’t like it.”

He nodded and said in his low, rich voice, “Perhaps he cannot reconcile the Lady Mayfield I wrote about with the modest gentlewoman he met here. A woman twice as ladylike as Marianna Spencer ever was.”

She relished his praise, even as dread cramped her stomach. She had been living in a dream these last few days. An unrealistic, unattainable dream.

He held out his hand to her. She hesitated, then placed hers in his. But then someone knocked on the door and Hannah jumped back. She didn’t want James Lowden to find them in anything resembling an intimate position.

But it was not James Lowden. Mrs. Turrill entered carrying Danny, dressed in a little nightshirt and cap, his face red and pinched in pain.

“Sorry to disturb you both,” Mrs. Turrill said. “But it’s the colic again. Becky couldn’t settle him and nor can I.”

Hannah took the baby from the housekeeper and began gently bouncing him, her wrapped arm bearing more weight now without pain. “Thank you, Mrs. Turrill. I’ll take care of him. Why don’t you retire for the evening—you look exhausted. I’ll be up soon, and Becky can help me change.”

“I am worn off my feet, I admit,” the woman said. “Very well. If you’re sure.”

“I am. Good-night, Mrs. Turrill.”

“Good-night, my lady. Sir.”

When the housekeeper had departed, Hannah turned back to Sir John. Danny continued to whine. “Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you don’t want to listen to him fuss.”

“Nonsense. Here.” He set aside his writing things and opened his arms. “Give him to me.”

What was Sir John doing? What was she doing? Opening her heart to foolish hopes and dreams again, that’s what. Still, she could not refuse his offer, his warm expression, and outstretched arms.

She handed Danny to him and he laid the boy on his lap, feet toward him. He slowly, gently, lifted the child’s knees toward his abdomen and then repeated the movement several times. It reminded her somewhat of the stretching movements she had performed for Sir John.

At first Danny’s face continued to pucker, but after several more repetitions, her little angel broke wind. Hannah was embarrassed and relieved both. The boy’s small abdomen became less distended as the pressure eased.

Sir John smiled. “There we go. That’s better, ay, little man?”

Danny relaxed and Sir John lowered the boy’s legs, keeping his large hands on her son’s pudgy white feet. Danny looked up at his deliverer and cooed.

It nearly broke her heart.