Page 27 of Lady Maybe

Hannah left Devonshire without speaking to James Lowden or seeing Sir John again. She decided Mrs. Turrill was right. It was time to go home and make peace with the past—and with her father. To confess all, and hope for mercy.

Hannah traveled with Becky and Danny by stagecoach to Bristol, a city she’d once doubted she would ever see again. Mrs. Turrill had insisted Hannah not travel alone. But she promised Becky she could return to her and her sister’s house whenever she wished, and had even pressed coach fare into the girl’s palm to seal the promise.

Upon arrival in Bristol, Hannah first secured a room in a respectable lodging house and left their baggage there. After changing and feeding Danny, they walked to the carter’s stall where Fred Bonner worked with his father. Hannah carried Danny while Becky trailed behind, gaping and craning her neck to take in the tall buildings of the unfamiliar city.

“Hannah!” Fred called when he saw her. He jumped down from his cart, reins and horse forgotten, and bounded over to her like the overgrown boy he was. She was relieved to find him there on her first attempt, and not en route to Bath.

He beamed at her. “How good to see you again.”

“You too, Freddie.” Thankfully, Fred seemed to have forgotten they’d parted on bad terms when he came to Clifton. He always had been a forgiving sort.

He stooped down, hands on knees, to regard the child in her arms. “Is this little Daniel? My goodness, he’s grown.”

Hannah turned and gestured. “And this is Becky Brown, his nurse. And ... my friend. Becky, this is my dear old friend Fred Bonner.”

Fred tipped his cap. “How do you do?”

Becky bobbed a shy curtsy. “Sir.”

He found a chair for Becky and Danny several feet away and then returned to Hannah’s side, dark eyes penetrating deep. “How are you, Han—it is Hannah now, I hope?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. How was she? It was a complicated question, considering Marianna was back in Sir John’s life, while Mr. Lowden was apparently out of hers. But the lengthy truth could wait for another day.

Instead, she smiled and said, “I am well. And how are you? Your cart looks dashing. New paint?” She walked over to it, away from his too-direct gaze.

He gathered the reins and set the hand brake. “It is, yes.”

“And how goes your route? Business good?”

“Very well. Or, well enough. Han—”

“Oh. I wasn’t hinting or anything like that,” Hannah hurried to say. “Truly. I just wondered ... hoped it was going well for you.”

His hound-dog eyes turned downward. “Hannah. I know better than to hope, though the offer still stands. So tell me, what is it you want? Why did you come to see me?”

“Dear Freddie.” She swallowed. “I wanted to let you know I was back. And to ask about my father. How he fares ...” To herself she added, What he knows .

“He seems all right. Sad of course, but he’s in good health, if that’s what you mean. He told me Mayfield’s solicitor came to see him as he did me.”

“May I ask what you told my father?”

Fred shrugged. “I’ve told him nothing since I saw you in Devonshire. You asked me to let it lie.”

“I know I did. Though now I think it’s time I faced the truth. Confessed everything. But I’m scared.”

“As well you should be.”

“Freddie!”

“I’m sorry, Han. But it’s true. It’s a deep pit you’ve dug for yourself.”

She bit her lip and asked tentatively, “I don’t suppose you’d help me out of it?”

“You don’t want my help.”

“I just meant, ease the way for me. Let him know that the newspaper had it wrong, and I’m still alive. And ... have a child. And I am here in Bristol if he wants to see me. I’m staying in Mrs. Hurst’s lodging house, in Little King Street.”

“I don’t know, Han.”

She recalled Mrs. Turrill’s words, “But nothing is too big for God. No pit we dig for ourselves too deep. He is already reachin ’ a hand down to you, ready to pull you up....”

Silently, Hannah prayed , God, will you help me?

She looked at Fred and suddenly straightened with resolve. “You know what—you’re right. I will go and see him myself.”

His brows rose. “Now?”

Fear flooded Hannah at the thought. “Oh. Um. Not this moment, but very soon.” After I find the courage , she thought. If only she had thought to pack some.

Hannah pressed her friend’s arm. “Thank you, Freddie.”

“I did nothing.”

“That’s not true. You gave me just what I needed.”

On Sunday, Hannah stood outside the Bristol church where her father served as underpaid curate. He had not the connections to bring him a good living as rector or vicar. The humble life suited him, he’d always insisted. Though it had meant his sons had to be sent to sea quite young, and his daughter had needed to seek a paid situation to support herself.

From outside the ancient grey stone building, she heard the low drone of her father’s voice delivering his sermon, followed by the reedy voices of the elderly congregation singing a solemn hymn.

She did not intend to enter. Nor interrupt. She would wait until she could greet him alone, in private. Yet knowing he was occupied inside, Hannah felt at her ease to meander through the churchyard and gain her bearings. Oh, the hours she’d spent there as a girl.

Seeing the gnarled yew tree in the corner, Hannah walked toward it to visit her mother’s grave. As she neared, she suddenly stopped and stared, craning her head forward even as her feet felt rooted to the mossy ground. There was a new grave beside her mother’s. And the name on the headstone...

It was her name.

She stepped forward and melted to her knees before the modest headstone.

In Memory

Hannah Rogers

Beloved Daughter

1796–1819

Tears flooded her eyes. Had he really? Had her father, with his threadbare stockings, worn-out shoes, and watered-down soups, actually spent such a sum? To memorialize her life and death, when there had not even been a body to bury? She would never have thought it. Not in a hundred years. The same man who would read or compose his sermons by a single candle, and only when the waning sun through the window refused to provide sufficient light for his ever-weakening eyes. He had spent such a sum on her?

Seeing the headstone made her sick with regret. She felt she would lose her meager breakfast then and there. It stole her courage, even as “beloved daughter” ought to have bolstered it. How doubly sorry he would be to have spent his modest savings on such a stone, when she had been alive all along. Alive and living a lie in the bargain. How sorry he would be to have memorialized her as beloved daughter, once he learned of her many sins.

She ran gloved fingers over the carved letters of her name.

That Hannah Rogers—cherished, blameless daughter—had died. Had died more than a year before. And there would be no resurrecting her now.

Hannah returned to the lodging house without seeing her father. She could not face him after that. She would write a letter and invite him to call on her if he wished.

Thoughts of a letter reminded her of Sir John’s admonition to keep Mr. Lowden apprised of her whereabouts. So, Hannah also sent a note to his offices with the direction of the lodging house.

Then, she waited. Several days came and went. And with each passing hour her nerves and fears escalated. When she had written to her father, she told him they had been apart too long. She wanted to see him again and proposed a meeting. But did he want to see her, after the way she had left him? She didn’t know.

Mrs. Turrill had advised her to meet him on neutral ground. Away from his usual territory. So, she waited in the lodging house’s private sitting room, which she had let for an extra half-crown for the occasion. The proposed meeting time came and went. Tea steeped, grew strong, then cold, and Hannah began to lose heart. And courage.

She paced the room again, wringing her hands. Practicing what she would say. Becky and Danny napped in their room above. Hannah wanted to see him alone first—wanted their reunion to be a private one. But would he even come?

Another half an hour passed. Tears threatened and she blinked them back, refusing to give in to them. She and Danny were managing on their own. She reminded herself that they had each other. They had friends in Mrs. Turrill, Becky, and Fred. They didn’t need—

A knock sounded and Hannah froze. Her heartbeat seemed louder than the distant knock. Footsteps followed— thump, thump, thump . The owner of the lodging house going to the front door in her heavy-heeled shoes. Muffled voices and then two pairs of shoes crossing the entry hall. Hannah’s pulse accelerated with each approaching step. A single knock on the sitting room door, the hinge creaking open, footsteps entering. Hannah took a deep breath, wiped her damp palms on her handkerchief, and turned.

There he was.

Mrs. Hurst nodded solemnly and shut the door behind her visitor. Hannah’s heart squeezed to see him again. He stood stiffly, wearing neither coat nor hat. Mrs. Hurst must have polished her manners and taken them. Could she not have taken his grim expression as well?

Hannah reminded herself to breathe. To hold herself erect. To pray...

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Please, won’t you be seated?”

Her father stared at her a moment, but remained where he was.

Nerves quaking, she gestured toward the tray. “Tea?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Her father’s voice. Ah, what memories it evoked. He looked older, even thinner than she recalled.

She was strangely relieved to allow the tea she had paid for to go to waste. She was sure her hands would tremble if she tried to pour.

She decided she would not presume to call him “Papa” as she used to do. She cleared her throat and began. “Father, I have asked you here to seek your advice.”

“Oh?” Wary reserve steeled his expression. “You did not see fit to seek it before.”

“I know. That was just one of my many mistakes. But I am asking now.”

He crossed his arms over his thin chest. “I am listening.”

“I have many decisions before me. Decisions that affect my future and that of my son. Yes, I have a son now.”

He nodded. “Fred told me a few days ago—even before I received your letter. He came to let me know you were alive. Why did you not tell me yourself?”

So dear Fred had broken the news after all. She said, “Because I knew my fall from grace would cast a shadow on your reputation, perhaps even cost you the curacy. Don’t worry. I have not come to ask for money or help. Only for advice and ... perhaps, forgiveness. I have no wish to be a financial burden, nor a burden of any kind. Though I do long for your forgiveness.”

He had been staring down at his hands during this, her practiced speech, but now he looked up at her. “You assume I care more for my reputation than my daughter’s well-being?”

“Well, you cannot help but be concerned about it, and I don’t blame you.”

“You thought I wouldn’t forgive you?”

“Will you? I am so sorry, Papa. For everything.” There. It slipped out.

He looked down at his hands once more. “Do you know how I worried? How devastated I was when I heard that you died? I would have given up a hundred curacies to have you back.”

Hannah’s chest ached. Tears filled her eyes. “And when you learned I was alive?”

“I was relieved, and yet ... angry. Why did you not come to me yourself? Tell me what was going on? I might have helped you.”

“Forgive me, Papa, but I know you well. You would not have easily forgiven my being with child, nor bringing shame upon you. In all honesty, I thought it would be better for you if I had died.”

He gaped at her. “Are you so new at being a parent? You’re right—I would have been greatly disappointed, shocked, embarrassed, everything. I might have even asked you to go away somewhere and have the child in secret. But I would never, ever, wish you dead.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“So am I,” he said, voice low and gravelly. The voice she had often heard when he prayed over a dying child or a favorite old parishioner. He stepped closer, and she noticed tears in his eyes too. “And, yes, I forgive you.”

He reached out and took her hand, and she squeezed his in reply. For a moment they stood that way, in thick silence, eyes damp.

Then he tucked his chin and looked up at her. “Now. Do I get to meet this grandchild of mine or not?”