The doctor frowned. “His wife? Really, Mr. Lowden. That is unkind.” With a defensive glare at the newcomer, he handed her the letters.
Mr. Lowden craned his neck to see them. “The one on top is from me to Sir John. There is nothing in it you need see.”
Ignoring his outstretched hand, Hannah slid it to the bottom of the pile. She flipped past the next letter, and with a jolt recognized the handwriting of the third, before sliding all the letters into her lap.
She smiled at their neighbor. “Thank you, Dr. Parrish. I greatly appreciate your help.”
Hannah excused herself from a glowering Mr. Lowden and accompanied Dr. Parrish upstairs to check on Sir John.
“That man seems to have taken against you.”
“You noticed that, too? I find it strange. Especially as I never met him before he came here.”
In the bedchamber, Sir John slept deeply and turned his head away from the doctor’s attempts to rouse him. “Even that is a response, my lady. Another good sign.”
He greeted the nurse then went on to explain that Mrs. Weaver had begun a regimen of massage and stretching to keep Sir John’s muscles from becoming atrophied while lying abed night and day. The treatment seemed to render him more responsive overall.
“About that, doctor,” Mrs. Weaver interrupted gently. “May I have a private word before you take your leave?”
“Of course.”
Hannah excused herself to give the two privacy and slipped into her room to read the post. She first opened the letter in the familiar hand, fingers trembling. How in the world had Freddie learned even this much of their direction? It was addressed to Sir John Mayfield, Lynton Post Office, Devon.
Dear Sir,
I read in the newspaper an account of the death of one Hannah Rogers. The news report said only: “A maid, Hannah Rogers, lately of Bath, drowned. Anyone knowing the whereabouts of her next of kin, please write in care of the Lynton Post Office.”
I could not rest without telling you. Hannah Rogers was more than a maid, sir. And more than a lady’s companion. She was a dear friend. A clever, educated young woman. The daughter of a parson and a gentlewoman. The owner of a lovely singing voice. A kind neighbor, a loyal friend, and a loving mother. Describing her as merely a “maid” does not do her justice. She will be missed not because she is not there to tote and carry for your wife, sir. No offense. But because the world is a darker place without her, the future no longer full of hope.
I have hand-delivered the news to her father in Bristol, who received it with much distress and grief. If Hannah left any belongings, please forward them to Mr. Thomas Rogers, 37 Hill Street, Bristol.
Sincerely,
Fred Bonner
Oh, Freddie . . . Tears blurred her vision. Poor man. She had not stopped to consider how the news of her “death” would affect him—nor anticipated that he would take the news to her father. Poor Fred. He did not know it wasn’t true. How could he? Of course he had told her father, thinking he would want to know, even though they were estranged. Had her father really been distressed and grieved? Her eyes filled anew at the thought.
For the truth of her situation would bring him little comfort.
She next eyed Mr. Lowden’s letter. Should she return it to him unopened? Or place it in Sir John’s bedchamber for when . . . if . . . he fully regained his senses? Then she recalled the solicitor’s discomfort at seeing the letter in her hands. What had he written that he didn’t want Lady Mayfield to read? Swallowing sour guilt, she pried up the seal and read.
My dear sir,
I am in receipt of your letter and accept your commission with gratitude. I appreciate the confidence you place in me based on my father’s recommendation when we are so little acquainted.
I will travel into Devonshire at my first opportunity, which is unlikely to occur before the end of the month. I’m afraid there is a great deal to do in arranging my father’s affairs, both personally and professionally. Your condolences and understanding mean a great deal to me at this time.
My father was very careful about client privacy and had not shared with me any details about the situation you mentioned in your letter. However, since you asked me to assume the management of your affairs, I have taken the liberty of reviewing the files and the past correspondence between yourself and Mr. Lowden, senior. I am sorry the situation has so deteriorated, as are you no doubt, and of course will do everything in my power to assist and protect you and your estate should the worst happen as you fear.
Thank you for the offer of accommodation whilst I visit Lynton. I will look forward to deepening our acquaintance.
I am,
Yours sincerely,
James Lowden
Hannah rubbed her eyelids with forefinger and thumb. At least the man had told the truth about Sir John’s offer of a room. It wasn’t so much that she hadn’t believed him; she simply had not wanted him there. She read in the veiled, tactful words that Mr. Lowden had been apprised of Lady Mayfield’s . . . proclivities. She felt shame tingle along her spine and heat her cheeks and had to remind herself again that Marianna’s shame was not hers. She had her own to bear.
She opened the last letter, also addressed to Sir John Mayfield, and posted quite recently.
Sir John,
I come to your house in Devonshire and Miss Rogers tells me Lady Mayfield has perished. But I have seen no announcement of her death in the Bristol or London newspapers. Are you waiting to recover her body, or have I been lied to? You may think me a fool, but you, sir, are the fool if you think to put me off so easily. I will discover the truth. And if I find you are to blame for any harm that has befallen her, I will kill you myself. As I should have done long before now.
A. Fontaine
Goodness. How rash he was. And to put such a threat in writing! She recalled how devastated Mr. Fontaine had been when she’d told him the news. Now he had grasped on to a branch of hope . . . and was eager to bludgeon Sir John with it.
What if Mr. Lowden had read this letter? She’d be bound for jail in no time. What should she do—burn it? She was sorely tempted. But for some reason she hesitated. The threat seemed important . . . perhaps evidence against the man should he return and attempt to harm Sir John, or saw the same notice Freddie had seen in the Bath newspaper, and tried to use it against her. She would have to hide it carefully. But where could she hide it that no one cleaning—or searching—the room might stumble upon it? Her bedchamber seemed the safest place, near at hand and in a room no man should enter, save her “husband,” who was currently bedridden.
She considered the books in the bookcase—too few, too easy to flip through and find. The urn atop the dressing chest . . . too obvious. Between the tick and bed ropes . . . too easily found while changing the bed linens. Perhaps inside Lady Mayfield’s bandboxes? She rose and went to the stack of hatboxes beside the wardrobe. She opened the middle one and extracted a hat with a tall crown circled with wide ribbon. Yes . . . She slid the folded letter beneath the wide band, repositioned a hat pin through it and regarded the hat from all angles. Yes, someone might look in the box and inside the hat and not notice a thing. It would do.
The letter from Fred was less incriminating—quite flattering actually. Though her ears burned in shame to think of the high regard in which he held her compared to her current deception. She deserved not his fair praise in life nor in “death.” Still, she did not want Mr. Lowden to have her father’s address. So this letter she tucked beneath her underthings in her dressing chest.
She contemplated the one from Mr. Lowden. . . . She didn’t want Mrs. Turrill or the new maid to read it and think the worst of Lady Mayfield, to look upon her with a jaundiced eye. She was guilty of her own immorality, yes, but did not relish taking on Marianna’s as well. This letter she would put with Sir John’s things in his room.
When she returned to his bedch
amber to do so, she was surprised to find Dr. Parrish still there, quietly conversing with the chamber nurse.
“Ah, my lady.” Dr. Parrish looked up and gave her an apologetic smile. “I am afraid Mrs. Weaver has had to give notice. She will be leaving us at the end of the week.”
The woman went on to explain that her daughter was nearing the end of her confinement and she wanted to be on hand for the birth of her first grandchild.
“I understand,” Hannah said. “Though of course we shall be sorry to see you go.” She thanked Mrs. Weaver for everything and wondered uneasily who would take over her duties. Would Mrs. Parrish return, or would she be expected to do so herself? Hannah quailed at the thought.
Hannah went back downstairs and found Mr. Lowden at the desk in the morning room, bent over a sheaf of papers. He had obviously lost no time in making himself at home there.
He smirked up at her. “Anything interesting in the post?”
She met his challenging look with a cold one of her own. “Not especially, no.”
“And my letter?”
“I have left it in Sir John’s room.”
“You read it?”
“I did.”
“And the others?”
“Nothing to concern you.” But was that really true? Hannah turned to leave the room, her conscience plaguing her. For had a man not threatened Mr. Lowden’s client?
“Love letters from Mr. Fontaine, I suppose?” he called after her.
She whirled back around. So much for veiled tact.
“I assure you there were no love letters.”
“You know Sir John hoped to keep Fontaine from discovering where you had gone.”
Dare she tell him? “Then his plan was unsuccessful, sir, for Mr. Fontaine has already been here.”
His eyes flashed. “Has he indeed? And I wonder how he found you so quickly.”
“I have no idea.”
The man scoffed. “Right. And what was the outcome of his visit?”
“He left. Disappointed.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Or is he merely . . . waiting?” he asked, his green eyes glinting like fish scales in sunlight.
“Waiting?”
“Now that Sir John’s fate is uncertain. Why rush off without a penny, when one believes an inheritance awaits if only one is patient?” His lip curled in disdain.
She stared at him, slowly shaking her head in disbelief.
He asked, “Do you know what Sir John has asked me to do?”
“You have yet to tell me.”
“He asked me to change his will.”
Hannah shrugged. “What is that to me?”
“Everything.”
Perhaps to Marianna but not to her. Oh, why had she stayed?
She asked, “Change it how?”
“I imagine to exclude you from it. To eliminate any benefit to you were he to suddenly perish through accidental means.”
“You are not suggesting I would do anything to harm Sir John?”
“Can you deny you have hurt him gravely already?”
“Not physically. Never that. You cannot believe . . . anyone . . . would do such a thing.”
“I think he believed it possible. Perhaps even feared that very thing. That you or Mr. Fontaine would be tempted to rid the world of the only man who stood between you.”
She stared at him, thinking of Mr. Fontaine’s threatening letter. Was it possible? Had Mr. Fontaine and Marianna contemplated such a thing? Surely no one could have manipulated that carriage crash.
“I don’t believe it,” she murmured.
“Here. Read Sir John’s letter yourself.”
Curious, she accepted the letter, carrying it to the window to read in better light.
Dear Mr. Lowden,
Allow me to express my deepest condolences on your father’s passing. He was the best of men and it was my privilege to call him advisor and friend these many years. You and I are not well acquainted, but your father had every confidence in your abilities, and therefore, so have I. I hope you will carry on as my solicitor in his stead.
There are a few matters I wish to discuss with you. Unfortunately, circumstances are such that I have decided we must quit Bath immediately and cannot come to your offices before we depart. I hope you will do me the honor of traveling to see me at your convenience once your own affairs—and your father’s—are settled and your deepest mourning past. I have told no one else where we are going and of course Lady Mayfield does not know for reasons that should be evident if your father apprised you of my situation. If he has not, suffice it to say, my wife has carried on a relationship with a Mr. Anthony Fontaine, a bad connection which was, to my grief, not severed at our marriage nor when we moved from Bristol to Bath. The man has followed and I know full well, will try to follow again. To complicate matters, Lady Mayfield is expecting a child.
For the time being, we shall relocate to Clifton, a house I inherited but have never before occupied. I’m sure all the details are in your father’s records, but in simple terms, the property is located in Devonshire, 12 miles west of Porlock, between Countisbury and the twin villages of Lynton & Lynmouth. The house is just south of the Cliff Road before the descent into Lynmouth. If you have any trouble, note that we are neighbors to a well-known physician, Dr. George Parrish. Inquiring of his residence will lead you to ours.
To keep our destination quiet, I have decided not to bring along any of our present servants, who might understandably wish to allow relatives and friends to know where they were going. We shall hire new staff in Devonshire. The property manager, our neighbor’s grown son, will engage minimal staff to sufficiently ready the house for our arrival.
When you come, I wish to revise my will, among other things, so please bring along whatever documents are necessary to accomplish this. Of course, I will compensate you for your time and reimburse your traveling expenses. Do not consider lodging. The house has several spare rooms and you are more than welcome to stay with us during your visit.
Until then, I depend upon your discretion and remain,
Sir John Mayfield, KCB
“He says nothing about fearing for his life,” Hannah observed. “What a vile imagination you have.”
Though what Sir John had written was condemning enough, Hannah secretly allowed. No wonder James Lowden looked at her the way he did. She had to remind herself he did not see her, he saw or thought he saw Marianna—unfaithful, manipulative, selfish Marianna. The woman who broke his client’s heart and perhaps, intended to do him some fatal harm, though Hannah doubted the woman capable of such evil. Mr. Fontaine? She did not know him well enough to judge. Yet, had not desire and jealousy driven men to violent acts throughout history? Oh yes.
She detested the thought of Mr. Lowden holding such a low opinion of her. But what could she do? Was the truth of who she was and what she had done any better?
Mrs. Turrill came down the stairs, Danny in her arms and a doting smile on her face.
“Here’s your mamma, little man.”
Handing the letter back to Mr. Lowden, Hannah crossed the room to take Danny. The housekeeper settled the child in the crook of her good arm.
Mrs. Turrill whispered, “Hope you don’t mind. Becky is not herself this morning. Has awful cramps. I’ve got her bundled up in bed with a hot-water bottle.”
“That’s fine, Mrs. Turrill. I never mind having Danny with me.”
“That’s what I thought. You’re a good mother you are, my lady.” She said this with a pointed glance at the solicitor, before retreating belowstairs.
Mr. Lowden rose and took a few steps nearer. “This is your son?”
“Yes. This is Daniel.”
He studied the little face with a critical eye. “He looks like you.” Mr. Lowden sent her a side
long glance. “Does he also look like his father?”
She weighed the implications of the question, but thought it wisest to say nothing.
Mr. Lowden resumed his seat. “I still don’t understand why Sir John did not mention in his letter that his wife was to deliver a child so soon.”
“Perhaps he was mistaken or unaware of the child’s due date.”
“Had you some reason to mislead him in that?”
She frowned at him. “You are very rude, Mr. Lowden. How did your mother raise you?”
For a moment he seemed taken aback. Then his eyes narrowed. “My mother was a good and godly person. She cared little for appearances. She did not raise me to pretend to approve of someone when I did not.”
“You judge someone you have never met, never spoken to, never even seen?”
“Did I need to? When my client has made it clear he does not trust his wife. That he has reason to believe the child his wife carried was not his own?”
Hannah stilled. Was it true? Was Marianna carrying Anthony Fontaine’s child? If so, did Mr. Fontaine know? She wondered briefly if and how Sir John knew for certain, but guessed she knew the answer.
CHAPTER 11
James Lowden was not certain what to think or what to do. It was a condition he rarely found himself in and did not like it. He was usually a man of sharp judgment, of accurate first impressions, and of swift action. Now he felt off-balance, strangely unsettled and unsure how to proceed. He had traveled to Devonshire with a clear idea of what was expected of him: come to the aid of the betrayed husband, take legal steps to assure she and her lover gained nothing by his future death, beyond the jointure agreed to in the original marriage settlement. Of course he had never expected to find Sir John lying insensible and close to death already. Even if he drafted a new will for him, Sir John could not sign it, nor could he honestly say his client was presently of sound mind. Yes, he had Sir John’s letter in which his intention to otherwise disinherit his unfaithful wife seemed clear. But the man had written with a modicum of discretion, to protect himself from more scandal should the letter be misdirected, James supposed. Such a letter could be presented to a judge in court, but it was unlikely to take precedence over Sir John’s last signed will and testament. Especially when so much money was at stake. Sir John Mayfield was a wealthy man. He had formerly been in trade in Bristol, where he had made his fortune and been granted the honor of knighthood by the king.