Lady Maybe Page 9

  Hannah protested, “But you’ll want these for your own children someday.”

  “Someday, my lady. But not today.”

  “That is kind of you, Edgar. But I’m afraid we’ll spoil them.”

  He shrugged easily and glanced around the nursery. “I know it’s been hard for you to set up a place for Danny here, what with your arm and your headaches.”

  Must they all be so kind to her?

  Hannah said, “I hope your mother doesn’t mind.”

  A flicker of hesitation crossed his face. “No . . . Though she didn’t think a lady like yourself would accept such humble offerings.”

  “Of course I will. And gratefully.”

  She smiled at him and he returned the gesture.

  When he left the room a few minutes later, Becky stepped to the window to watch him go. “Edgar is surely handsome, ain’t he?”

  “I suppose so.” Hannah began sorting through the articles in the box. When Becky remained silent Hannah looked up. The wistful expression on the girl’s face disquieted her.

  She said gently, “Becky, you know he and Nancy are courting, don’t you?”

  Becky shrugged her thin shoulders. “Well, they ain’t married yet.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Not ever, if I have my way.” She gave a little giggle.

  “Becky, be careful. The Parrishes have been very kind to us.”

  “What has that to say to anything? Mrs. Parrish don’t approve of Nancy. It’s plain as day she don’t. So who’s to say they’ll marry?”

  Mrs. Parrish doesn’t approve of anyone, Hannah thought. But she said only, “Becky, we shall not be staying here much longer. Don’t go forming attachments that cannot last.”

  Perhaps she ought to take her own advice, Hannah thought, for she was already fond of Dr. Parrish and Mrs. Turrill, and knew both of them doted on her. She hated the fact that she would soon disillusion them, disappoint them, and sink in their estimations. But would it not become only more difficult the longer she allowed this act to go on? Oh, if only her arm would heal so she could leave. But Dr. Parrish thought it might take six weeks to heal fully and two had barely passed. Even then, would she really just steal away with Danny and Becky without a word of explanation to anyone? How Dr. Parrish and dear Mrs. Turrill would worry. Probably even gather a search party. No. At the very least she would need to leave behind a letter, explaining. Apologizing. And hope they might understand and somehow forgive her.

  But a letter seemed so cowardly. How much better to come out with it, to explain, to admit she had been wrong, but hope they could see that her motivation had not been self-gain, but the preservation of her child. How Mrs. Parrish would gloat and rail. Edgar would be hurt, as would his father. Mrs. Turrill? She had no idea how the kindly woman might react, but somehow Hannah thought she would be the most understanding of them all. At least she hoped she would be.

  After wrestling with herself all morning, Hannah made her decision. She would confess all to Dr. Parrish. She hoped to catch him in the hall, but by the time she gathered her courage, she heard the door to Sir John’s bedchamber open and close. Taking a deep breath, she left her room and walked across the landing. She knocked and let herself in.

  Dr. Parrish was bent low, ear pressed to Sir John’s chest, listening. He glanced up when she entered.

  Hannah grimaced in apology and waited near the door. From there, Sir John looked much the same as he had before, his eyes still closed.

  A few moments later, Dr. Parrish lifted his head and straightened. “Hello, my lady. Come to see how Sir John fares this afternoon?” He turned to search for something in his medical bag. When she made no reply, nor moved to join him at the bedside, he looked at her over his shoulder. “Did you need something?”

  She licked dry lips, heart pounding.

  He turned to face her, expression concerned, clearly sensing her anxiety. “Is everything all right?”

  “No.” She swallowed and shook her head. “Dr. Parrish, I need to tell you something.”

  He tucked his chin. “Oh?”

  She clasped her hands tightly. “Do you remember finding us—Sir John and me—in the overturned carriage? Rescuing us?”

  “Of course I remember. Far better than you do, I imagine.” He smiled.

  “Yes, of course. But do you remember when you first called me ‘Lady Mayfield’?”

  His brow puckered in thought. “I don’t recall exactly. Though I know I did call down to you to let you know Edgar and I were there to help.”

  “Yes. You see, you kindly assumed that I was Lady Mayfield, when I . . .”

  Her words fell away, her breath hitched. She stared past Dr. Parrish into the eyes of Sir John Mayfield.

  “When you were . . . what?” Dr. Parrish prompted kindly.

  But Hannah could not remove her gaze from Sir John’s. She grasped the doctor’s arm. “His eyes are open.”

  He whirled toward the bed.

  “My goodness. You’re right! Well, hello, Sir John.” Dr. Parrish stepped forward, then turned his head. “My lady, I wonder if you would be so good as to introduce us?”

  “Oh.” Hannah hesitated. “Of course. Sir John, may I present Dr. George Parrish, who has been caring for you since the accident. Dr. Parrish, Sir John Mayfield.”

  “How do you do, sir?” Dr. Parrish smiled, but she noticed how his eyes roved his patient’s face, gauging his reaction. There wasn’t one, at least nothing she could see.

  “If I may, Sir John, I am going to take your hand.” The doctor did so. “If you are able, please squeeze my hand in return.”

  Sir John’s eyes did not move to follow the doctor’s movements. They seemed fixed on her—or was he merely staring blindly in her direction? She wanted to move away from that disconcerting, blank gaze, but felt rooted to the spot.

  Apparently Sir John did not perform the doctor’s request.

  “That’s all right. There’s plenty of time for that later. We are very happy to see you open your eyes. You have been, shall we say, asleep, for nearly a fortnight.”

  Was that the slightest flicker of his eyes, or merely an instinctive blink?

  Hannah whispered, “Is he aware, or . . . ?”

  Dr. Parrish raised a hand and snapped his fingers before Sir John’s eyes. No reaction.

  “It doesn’t seem so. Perhaps the muscles of his eyelids simply contracted, opened, of their own accord.” As if on cue, Sir John’s eyes drifted closed once more. “Still, it is something new. A good sign, I think.”

  Dr. Parrish continued his examination, while Hannah chewed her lip . . . and her options.

  He straightened. “Well, I must go tell his nurse and Mrs. Parrish. If you wouldn’t mind sitting with him until Mrs. Weaver returns? I’ll send her up directly.” At the door, he turned back. “I’m sorry, my lady. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

  Hannah’s lips parted, then she pressed them together once more. “Um. Never mind. In light of this, it was nothing. I shall tell you later.”

  He gave her a distracted smile and hurried away.

  Hannah had lost her opportunity. And her courage.

  —

  Perhaps it was a sign, Hannah decided. A sign she should leave a letter instead of trying to tell Dr. Parrish in person.

  But first, Hannah had to face a visit with Mrs. Parrish and an introduction to the vicar’s wife. Hannah had suggested Mrs. Turrill join the ladies for tea—she was a relative after all—but Mrs. Turrill said it wasn’t her place.

  At the appointed hour, the ladies arrived and were seated in the drawing room. Mrs. Turrill quietly served the tea, ignoring Mrs. Parrish’s patronizing smile, and quickly departed.

  The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Barton, seemed a pleasant, timid little thing, Hannah decided. A perfect foil for confident and outspoken Mrs. Parrish.


  The ladies sipped tea and chewed dainty bites of butter biscuits. Then Mrs. Barton said, “My lady, may I ask which church you attended in Bath?”

  “Oh . . .” Hannah hesitated. “I . . . that is, I’m afraid we rarely attended in Bath.” Hurrying to redeem herself, she added, “But as a girl I spent a great deal of time in church in Bristol. My father was a . . .” She stopped, realizing she was about to answer as herself, and not as Marianna. “A churchgoer,” she finished lamely.

  “Ah . . .” Mrs. Barton nodded faintly, clearly unsure what to say to that.

  Mrs. Parrish rolled her eyes.

  After that, Hannah spoke as little as possible, afraid to make another mistake, no doubt disappointing her guests and proving herself a poor hostess.

  Mrs. Parrish took over the conversation, explaining that she had a few friends in Bath, and was sure Lady Mayfield must have heard of them.

  “Lady Mayfield” had not. Hannah could, at least, speak with confidence about their former life in Bristol, and the area of Bath where they had resided—the fashionable Camden Place. But could she not tell them of the previous season’s famous newcomers and social events? No, she was afraid she could not.

  After an hour of tedious conversation about her supposed life and Bath society, Hannah’s nerves were frayed and she felt exhausted. Perhaps realizing this, the vicar’s wife changed the subject, asking if she might meet her son. Relieved to oblige, Hannah brought Danny down from the nursery, and the ladies politely praised him. They soon after took their leave.

  When they had gone, Mrs. Turrill asked her, “How did it go?”

  “I failed to impress them, I’m afraid.”

  “There’s no need to impress anyone here, my lady. Just be yourself.”

  Ah. If only she could.

  Hannah went to bed early that night, suffering from her worst headache in days.

  The next morning, Hannah began her letter.

  Dear Dr. and Mrs. Parrish, and Mrs. Turrill,

  I have left Clifton and taken Danny and Becky with me. You will no doubt be surprised, but please do not be anxious. . . .

  Hannah paused. Why should they not be anxious? She was certainly anxious. She still didn’t know where they were going. Where might she find work—and work that paid enough for lodgings as well as food?

  Someone knocked sharply at her door. She jumped and quickly hid the letter under the blotter.

  “Lady Mayfield?” Dr. Parrish’s voice. “It’s Sir John. His eyes are open again. He seems more responsive.”

  Dread snaked down her spine and pooled in her stomach. Why had she not confessed to Dr. Parrish before? She stood on shaky legs and opened her door. “He’s awake?”

  “Come and see.”

  He gestured for her to precede him across the passage with such hope in his eyes. Every instinct told her to flee, to turn and run the other way. To gather Danny and Becky and leave Clifton that very moment before Sir John could denounce her. Instead she numbly allowed Dr. Parrish to usher her into the sickroom. To her unveiling.

  Again, the chamber nurse excused herself. Much as before, Sir John’s eyes were open and vaguely focused.

  “Good. His eyes are still open,” the physician began. “I am not certain if he is fully sensible or not. He has yet to speak, but he did seem agitated when I first arrived.”

  Hannah fisted her good hand, nails pricking her palm. She would have remained several feet from the bed, had Dr. Parrish not gently urged her forward.

  “Here she is, Sir John. Here is your wife. You see she is well. Nothing to worry about save getting better yourself.”

  Hannah’s throat tightened. Sir John’s eyes shifted to her, and her heart pounded in fear. She pressed a damp hand to her abdomen, and told herself to breathe.

  She would try to explain. Not to excuse herself, but to apologize . . .

  He stared at her with eyes a changeable silvery blue, like a deep, cold lake. A flicker of a frown tinged his brow, then as quickly passed. Displeasure, confusion, or both?

  She held herself stiffly, every muscle tense, waiting for him to scowl and say, “She is not my wife.”

  “Come, my lady,” Dr. Parrish urged. “Come and speak to him.”

  She faltered. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. Why does he not speak?”

  “Perhaps he cannot. His brain is not yet fully recovered. Perhaps he is still fighting to regain his memory as you did. Encourage him. Remind him who he is. Who you are.”

  What different words she would have spoken had Dr. Parrish not been standing there—confession, begging forgiveness, for secrecy until she might steal away . . .

  “You are Sir John Mayfield,” she began instead. “Lately of Bath and before that Bristol. Do you remember Bath? The lovely house in Camden Place? And Bristol—the house on Great George street? That was where I first became acquainted with your . . . household.”

  He only stared at her dully.

  “Remind him who you are,” Dr. Parrish whispered.

  She hesitated. “And of course you know me,” she uttered feebly. The words “I am your wife.” Or, “I am Marianna, Lady Mayfield,” refused to come. She felt that if she forced out those words, she would lose her breakfast in the bargain.

  Dr. Parrish leaned nearer Sir John. “And of course you know this is Lady Mayfield, your wife.”

  Sir John’s eyes moved slowly from her face to the doctor’s without change in expression.

  The doctor turned back to her. “Tell him about Danny, how he fares, that he is here. . . .”

  “Oh.” She swallowed. Must she? Sir John didn’t even know of the child. “Yes. You see, I have returned to Bath and collected little Daniel and his nurse. I was so relieved to find him.”

  She felt Dr. Parrish’s stunned gaze on her profile, and hastened to add, “In good health. To find him in good health and faring well. I am so thankful he is here with me, with us, once again. Mrs. Turrill has taken quite a liking to him, but then, you are not yet acquainted with our housekeeper, so I will say no more of her for now.”

  How inane she was! Her mind felt as unfocused as Sir John’s glassy stare.

  “Perhaps we should bring in wee Danny to see his father?”

  She hesitated once more. “Um . . . he is napping at present. Perhaps another time.”

  “Ah, yes. I’m afraid we have tired Sir John as it is.” He patted the man’s arm. “You rest now, sir. And don’t worry. The human brain is a marvelous thing and you will no doubt be right as a trivet in no time. And when you are, your wife and son will be here to welcome you back.”

  Dr. Parrish smiled up at her and Hannah forced a half smile in return. But she was quite certain neither wife nor child would be there if and when Sir John returned to himself.

  She thanked Dr. Parrish and returned to her room, trembling all over. She had escaped the noose for now. A scapegrace, by every measure. Oh, God. Will you ever forgive me? she asked silently. What shall I do? For she knew very well she wouldn’t avoid discovery much longer. Every hour she stayed, she compounded her crime and worsened the fate that awaited her.

  CHAPTER 9

  Hannah went upstairs to the nursery to talk to Becky. To begin easing the way toward their inevitable departure. But when she entered, she found Mrs. Turrill in the room as well, Danny in her arms, bouncing him gently and smiling into his face.

  Becky turned as she entered. “Hello, Miss Hannah.”

  Hannah froze. She locked stunned gazes with Becky, and the girl’s face paled.

  Mrs. Turrill turned to frown at the young nurse. Whatever she saw on Becky’s face made her frown deepen. “Why do you call Lady Mayfield ‘Miss Hannah’?”

  Becky stood there blinking, mouth ajar.

  “We don’t call our betters by their Christian names, unless we’ve been invited to do so. Besides, I believe Lad
y Mayfield’s given name is Marianna.”

  Becky faltered, “I . . . I forgot.”

  Hannah’s mind rushed to formulate a plausible explanation. “Did she say Hannah?” she asked lightly. “I thought she said, ‘Anna.’ Short for Marianna, perhaps, or . . . was Anna the name of your little girl, Becky? Is that it? Were you thinking of her and said her name by mistake?”

  Now Mrs. Turrill’s perplexed frown shifted to Hannah.

  Hannah’s pulse pounded. What a muddle.

  “Anna?” Becky murmured, as if trying the name on her tongue and seeing how it tasted. “Anna is a pretty name and would ’ave suited her. Never saw a more beautiful creature than my wee girl.”

  “And you will see her again, Becky. In heaven.” Hannah soothed. “She’s in God’s care now, healthy and happy.”

  “How can she be happy? Without me?” Becky’s chin quivered.

  Oh, dear. She had said the wrong thing. Hannah added quickly, “Because she knows she will see you again someday. How she must look forward to it.”

  “Then perhaps I should join her soon,” the girl said. “Perhaps I—”

  “No, Becky. Never say so. We need you here, Danny and I.”

  “And I,” Mrs. Turrill added earnestly. “Like my own daughter you are.”

  Becky turned to the woman, wide-eyed. “Really? How kind you are, Mrs. Turrill. Never was my own mum half so kind as you are. Though I oughtn’t to speak ill of the dead, I know.”

  “Come now, Becky dear. Let us speak of only happy things for the rest of the day, shall we?” Mrs. Turrill squeezed her arm. “And you may be the first to taste my fresh batch of toffee.”

  “May I? Oh, thank you.”

  Hannah released a ragged breath. The second noose dodged in as many days. Though the speculative look in Mrs. Turrill’s eyes had unsettled Hannah. She wasn’t sure the housekeeper had been fooled.

  Stepping from the room, Hannah nearly ran into Mrs. Parrish in the passage. Oh no. Her heart sank. How long had the woman been standing there?

  “Just letting you know I’m heading into town, if you need anything.” She glanced through the door at Becky and then back again.