Page 7 of Lady Maybe

Back on the road the next day, they passed the village where they’d seen the two women in the stocks. Now the stocks were empty. Even so, a shiver crept up Hannah’s spine.

As they passed through Countisbury and neared Clifton House, Hannah’s palms began to perspire and she found herself breathing shallow and fast. Here, the road hugged the cliffs more tightly, and the chaise seemed to careen too close to the edge. She winced as snatches of memory flashed through her mind—tumbling down, crying out, a whipping red cape and whirling windows, glimpses of the channel beyond....

Hannah tensed and searched for a handhold.

“Is this where the accident happened?” she asked, a little catch in her voice.

Nancy looked out the window, studying the passing terrain. “Yes, my lady, very near.”

Another shiver passed over Hannah and she held Danny closer.

When the chaise reached Clifton at last, Hannah’s heart beat so hard she feared Nancy would hear it. The postilion slowed the horses and brought the chaise to a stop in front of the house. Ben opened the door for them and let down the step. Edgar extended his hand to help Nancy alight. When it was Hannah’s turn, she stepped from the carriage on shaky legs, then reached back to take Danny from Becky.

Child firmly in her arms, Hannah turned toward Clifton, pulse tripping unevenly, ready to bolt if need be. Becky stepped down beside her, hovering near. She felt Becky’s uncertain gaze return again and again to her profile, but she was too anxious to offer any reassurances.

Out from the house came Dr. and Mrs. Parrish, followed by the housekeeper, Mrs. Turrill. She could not make out their expressions—accusation or welcome?

Nancy waved and Edgar lifted a thumb high.

“Here you are,” Dr. Parrish called. “You must have made an early start. We were just beginning to look for you.”

Her throat tight, Hannah asked, “How is Sir John?”

The physician looked at her, his expression grave but not, she thought, angry.

“About the same. I had hoped for more improvement by now, some good news to welcome you home, but—”

“He has not awakened?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Relief. Had she smiled? She hadn’t meant to, but she realized Mrs. Parrish was looking at her askance. Hannah hastened to add, “Yet he lives and that is good news in itself. You can’t know how I worried what might await me.”

That was perfectly true.

“Yes, we can thank God for that.” Mrs. Turrill smiled. “For while there is life, there is hope.” She came forward and held out her arms. “And here he is, the little man. Hand him over, my lady. I’ve been waitin’ to get a good look at ’im.”

Reluctantly, Hannah handed Danny to the housekeeper.

The older woman beamed. “Oh! Aren’t you the handsome one? Looks like his mamma he does. And there’s a bit of his pa around his nose and mouth.”

Hannah felt heat creep up her neck at the words. She reminded herself that the woman would naturally assume he was Sir John’s son.

Mrs. Turrill turned toward the door, carrying Hannah’s boy into Sir John Mayfield’s house. At the thought, Hannah’s knees suddenly wobbled and her head swam.

Dr. Parrish was at her side in an instant. “Steady on, my lady.”

Mrs. Parrish added, “Careful, Dr. Parrish, she looks ready to swoon.”

“I’m sorry,” Hannah murmured, embarrassed. “I’m fine, really. I—”

“And no wonder. Such a long journey so soon after your injuries. Come inside, my lady, and let’s get you settled. A good meal and a good night’s sleep in your own bed, that’s what I prescribe.”

My own bed , she silently echoed. The bed I’ve made for myself, and now must lie in.

The Parrishes invited her to join them for dinner at the Grange, their quaint thatched house adjacent to the grounds of Clifton. But Hannah claimed fatigue and politely declined. She thanked Edgar and Nancy warmly for helping her retrieve her son. Then, with a chorus of “welcome homes” and “you rest nows,” Mrs. Parrish, Edgar, and Nancy departed.

Dr. Parrish remained to look in on Sir John once more. He opened the door for the women and followed them inside. Danny still in her arms, Mrs. Turrill surveyed Becky’s scrawny figure and ordered her down to the kitchen for tea and toast.

Dr. Parrish invited Hannah to accompany him upstairs to Sir John’s bedchamber. Knowing it would be unnatural not to want to see her “husband,” she took the doctor’s arm and allowed him to help her up the stairs and into Sir John’s room. There, she met the chamber nurse, Mrs. Weaver, who had arrived while they were gone. Hannah smiled wanly at the woman, who then excused herself to give them privacy.

Dr. Parrish approached the bed, but Hannah held back, watching from a distance as the physician performed his usual routine, examining Sir John’s eyes, his heart rate, his breathing.

When he finished, Hannah stepped nearer and looked down at the injured man. His whiskers had grown a little longer, while his swelling had subsided somewhat. Even if it was wrong of her to be relieved he had yet to regain his senses, she was sincerely glad he still lived. It’s all right , she said to him silently. I’ve got my son back. You can wake up now.

Dr. Parrish turned to her. “I’ll have a look at your arm, if you don’t mind. Make sure nothing’s gone awry during the journey.”

“Very well.” She sat in the chair he indicated while he tested the condition of the stiff bandages and the circulation in her hand, then palpated her upper arm above the sling.

“Still tender?”

She bit back a yelp. “A little.”

He tilted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Any headaches?”

Her head had pounded with tension all day. “A small one.”

“I’ll give you something for it. Take it the next time you eat something and try to get a good night’s sleep.”

“I shall. Thank you.”

He smiled at her, patted her good arm, and then took his leave, following his family home.

Hannah went to find Danny. Belowstairs, she found Mrs. Turrill and the kitchen maid filling a small tub with warm water. Together they bathed her son and dressed him in the clean things Hannah had purchased. If the housekeeper noticed that Danny had smelled less than sweet, she’d been too polite to comment.

“We shall have to do some sewing and shopping,” the housekeeper said. “Get this lad a few new things. I’ve taken the liberty of bringing over my old cradle I’d stored away in the cottage I share with my sister. No doubt you’ll want to get something finer, but for now...”

“I am sure it will do perfectly well, Mrs. Turrill. Thank you so much.” She was glad the housekeeper did not press her about why they had neither brought more supplies nor asked them to prepare a nursery before their arrival. Apparently the kind woman assumed Sir John’s decision to bring no servants also explained why they had brought no furnishings and scant clothing for the child. How strange and thoughtless she must think them.

While the kitchen maid dumped the water, the other women went upstairs to the small room Mrs. Turrill had begun fitting out as a nursery. There, she had arranged the cradle, along with a side table, dressing chest, and rocking chair. She asked Ben to help her carry in a single bed for Becky. White lace curtains and a cheerful braided rug brightened the room.

“It’s lovely, Mrs. Turrill. Thank you.”

“Becky, why don’t you put your things in this dressing chest as well. Or if you prefer, we can bring in another from one of the other rooms.”

Becky shook her head, saying timidly, “That’s all right. I don’t want to be no trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Becky. This room is yours and Danny’s now. Or, if you’d like your own room, there is a spare one just next door.”

“A whole room, just for me? Oh no. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

Again, Hannah found the housekeeper studying Becky. She then shifted her gaze to Hannah, her brows high with questions.

Hannah ignored them.

Once they had put away Danny’s few things, Mrs. Turrill asked Becky to run downstairs to fill the pitcher for the basin. When the girl had hurried from the room to do her bidding, the woman turned to Hannah and asked, “My lady, I am curious. A girl like Becky. Sweet to be sure but a little ... well, simple. Lost. How is it you came to engage her as Danny’s nurse?”

Hannah’s pulse quickened. Though living a lie, she hated each falsehood she uttered. What could she say that was truthful without mentioning the maternity home? Recollecting the haunted look on Becky’s face when she found her in the alley, Hannah swallowed and said, “Becky needed us ... needed Danny ... as much as we needed her.”

Mrs. Turrill considered her reply, expression somber. “Her wee one died, is that it?”

Hannah nodded.

“I know how devastating that is. A boy, was it, or...?”

“A little girl.”

The housekeeper slowly shook her head. “She’s barely more than a girl herself. I’m surprised her family could part with her.”

“She hasn’t any family that I know of. I believe she is all alone in the world.”

Mrs. Turrill’s dark eyes misted. “Well, she is not alone any longer.”

Late that afternoon, Hannah ate a simple meal in the dining parlor alone. She had offered to eat her meals in the small servants’ hall with the others, but Mrs. Turrill would not hear of it.

Afterward, Hannah went upstairs and kept Becky company while she nursed Danny. When the girl began repositioning her dress, Hannah rose and gently took Danny from her.

“You go to bed, Becky. I’ll rock Danny until he falls asleep.”

“But I’m the nurse; I’m to do that. Mrs. Turrill says I need to learn the duties of a proper wet nurse.”

“And you shall. But tonight you look ready to drop from exhaustion. You go to bed and get some rest.”

Becky complied. While Hannah gingerly gathered Danny in her good arm and settled into the rocking chair, Becky stripped down to her threadbare shift and climbed into bed. Hannah resolved to provide Becky with a nightdress as soon as she could.

Pulling the bedclothes up to her chin, Becky said wistfully, “Mrs. Turrill is nice, ain’t she?”

“Yes. Very.”

“It’s strange to hear her call you ‘my lady’ or ‘Lady Mayfield.’”

Hannah quickly glanced toward the door, then whispered, “Becky, you mustn’t speak of it, remember. That is my name here. You must also call me ‘my lady’ or ‘ma’am.’”

Becky sighed. “I’ll try, Miss Hannah.” She closed her eyes and said no more.

Heaven help me , Hannah thought. Her secret was in this poor girl’s hands.

The night passed uneventfully, and Hannah began to breathe a little easier. She enjoyed her breakfast in the sunny dining parlor, strolled through the garden, and then returned to look in on Danny. A short while later, Mrs. Turrill came up and found her in the nursery, where Hannah sat rocking Danny and talking quietly to Becky.

“A gentleman is here, my lady,” she began, her usual smile absent, “asking, or rather demanding, to see the lady of the house.”

Hannah started. “Who is it?”

“He refuses to give his name. Shall I send him away?”

Who would refuse to identify himself, and why? Hannah wondered. She felt Becky’s panicked look but ignored it, forcing her own voice to remain calm. “Did you tell him about the accident? That Sir John is ... incapacitated?”

“I told him nothing, my lady. He never asked about Sir John. Only you.”

“How odd.” Hannah’s thoughts whirled. “What does he look like?”

She shrugged. “Dark, curly hair. Handsome, in his way. He’s dressed like a gentleman.” Mrs. Turrill sniffed. “Though his manner contradicts that impression.”

Hannah’s stomach churned. Could it be? The description, though not specific, could easily be of Lady Mayfield’s lover, Mr. Anthony Fontaine. If so, how had he discovered where they’d gone, and relatively quickly, too? Hannah knew she could not refuse to see him, for Marianna would never have done so. And he was unlikely to leave after one refusal. He would probably assume Sir John was preventing his wife from seeing him, and dig in his heels.

Did Mr. Fontaine deserve to know his lover had died? Hannah owed him nothing, yet she didn’t want the man hanging about, causing trouble for them all.

She rose and handed Danny to Becky. “I will 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 when 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....

When 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.”

Hannah assumed Mr. Fontaine claimed to have a wife to lessen the servants’ suspicions.

“I do hope Mrs. Fontaine is not unwell,” Marianna said.

“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 wrongly placed her last several stitches and would need to pick them out.

Mr. Fontaine’s hand rose 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 shapely. A fact emphasized by her excellent stays and the low-cut bodice of her evening gown. When Hannah next looked up, she noticed Anthony Fontaine’s gaze linger there.

When his hand lifted in that direction, Hannah stood 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....

And 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 gaze 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 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 the wreck.”

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. “He 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 tall pendulum 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 partly 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.”