Lady Maybe Read online

  “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. “A little girl.”

  The housekeeper nodded her understanding. “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.”

  The housekeeper’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 servant’s 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 shift and climbed into bed. Hannah made a mental note 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, isn’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, too, must 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 check 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 describe 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 shall 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 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.”

  “I do hope Mrs. Fontaine is not unwell.”

  “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 look
ed down and realized she had made a mess of her last several stitches and would need to pick them out.

  Mr. Fontaine’s hand lifted 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 well-endowed. A fact emphasized by the low neckline of her evening gown and her excellent stays. When Hannah next looked up, she noticed Anthony Fontaine’s gaze linger on her bosom. Then a finger followed suit.

  Hannah rose 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 eyes 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 abruptly 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 its side.”

  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. “Sir John 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 long-case 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 in part 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.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The next day, Hannah awoke to find Mrs. Turrill folding back her shutters. Then the housekeeper turned, opened the wardrobe, and began perusing its contents.

  Hannah sat up in bed, favoring her wrapped arm. She noticed the tray of hot chocolate and toast on her bedside table.

  Mrs. Turrill followed her gaze. “I thought you might like a little something straight away. You ate so little yesterday.”

  “Thank you. You do too much for me, Mrs. Turrill.” Hannah sipped her chocolate.

  “Yes, I do.” The woman gave her a saucy wink. “It’s why I have engaged a housemaid to start tomorrow. Her name is Kitty. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. You need the help, managing the house and helping to care for me as you do.” Hannah nibbled a bite of toasted bread.

  “It’s been my pleasure.” She looked back inside the wardrobe. “My lady, you’ve been wearing those same two frocks since you’ve been up and about. Let’s try one of your other pretty gowns today.”

  Marianna’s pretty gowns, Hannah reminded herself. Since the accident, she had rotated between two of Marianna’s older, simple day dresses—insisting they were the easiest to slip over her wrapped arm.

  Mrs. Turrill pulled forth a dress of lilac sarcenet. “How about this frock? It must look so well with your coloring.”

  Hannah eyed the crossover bodice warily. “Oh. That’s all right, Mrs. Turrill. I have no need to dress especially well today.”

  “Now, I insist. Mrs. Parrish and the vicar’s wife are coming for tea this afternoon, remember?”

  Were t
hey? How had she forgotten? “I . . . I am not sure. . . .”

  “Oh, do humor me, my lady. It is a pity to neglect such pretty things.”

  Hannah climbed unsteadily from the bed and began washing for the day. She allowed Mrs. Turrill to help her lace her stays and tie her stockings. When the housekeeper lifted the lilac dress, Hannah tried to demur once more. “Really, I don’t think the gown will suit me. I . . .”

  Ignoring her protests, Mrs. Turrill slid it over her head and shoulders. Nervously, Hannah put her good arm through one sleeve, then Mrs. Turrill helped her carefully and gently manipulate her wrapped arm though the other. Hannah stood, facing the mirror, as Mrs. Turrill began working the fastenings behind.

  Hannah’s palms began to perspire. She knew that she and Lady Mayfield were not the same build. Hannah was slightly taller and more slender, while Marianna had been far curvier. The nightdresses, shifts, and adjustable stays were forgiving, but this formfitting dress, made for and tailored to Marianna’s measurements would surely give her away.

  “I have not worn this gown before,” she mumbled. Perfectly true.

  Mrs. Turrill asked, “Recently made, was it?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Finished with the fastenings, Mrs. Turrill looked over Hannah’s shoulder into the long cheval looking glass. She pulled at the ribbon-trimmed waistline and at the extra material crossing Hannah’s small chest. “It doesn’t fit you very well, my lady.” She frowned. “Have you lost weight since your last fitting?”

  “Since giving birth, yes. In the bosom, especially.”

  The housekeeper’s brow puckered. “I’m not a dab hand with the needle, I fear. Not with something so fine.”

  “Never mind, Mrs. Turrill. I shall give it a go as soon as I regain use of both hands. But for now, perhaps the sprigged muslin? That one will . . . still . . . fit me, I think.”

  Later that morning, Edgar Parrish knocked on the open nursery door. In his arms, he carried a box of baby things, saved from his own childhood—tiny gowns, caps, and stockings, a finely knit blanket, and a gnarled stuffed rabbit.