She glanced up from her needle, instantly wary. “Oh?”
“Yes, he invited you both to dinner, I believe, soon after your marriage.”
She looked at him, waiting for him to continue. Wondering what he was up to.
“I was in London at the time, at the company headquarters. But I seem to recall him telling me later that he had challenged you to a game of chess. And that you beat him quite handily. Is that true?”
She stared at him, thinking quickly. Dare she assent to remembering the occasion? James Lowden had not been there; it was only the hearsay of his deceased father. But then she thought again. She didn’t recall ever seeing Marianna play chess and she barely tolerated any card game that required more than luck. But . . . why would Mr. Lowden recount such a tale if it weren’t true? Was it a trick? And what if she agreed and he challenged her to a game?
She said, “I’m afraid I don’t recall that, Mr. Lowden. Perhaps your father was being overly chivalrous . . . or forgetful.”
For several ticks of the long-case clock James Lowden held her gaze. Then he replaced the piece. “Actually, I am the one being forgetful. Now that I think about it, it was another client’s wife he referred to. You don’t play chess, I take it?”
“Not well, no.”
“Ah. My mistake.”
He regarded her with a strange glint in his soft green eyes, the color of pale moss. The corner of his mouth quirked in a knowing grin that seemed to say, You have passed another test, but it shan’t be the last. The grin emphasized the deep brackets on either side of his mouth. Not dimples, but long grooves, masculine and appealing.
Stop it, Hannah, she reprimanded herself. She could not trust this man. Heaven help her if she began to admire him.
—
Hannah was massaging Sir John’s calf muscle with one hand as Dr. Parrish had instructed, when the physician came in to pay his daily call.
“Ah, how diligent you are, my lady. Well done. It will help him, you will see.”
She looked up to acknowledge his encouragement and froze. Sir John’s eyes were opened. He was staring at her. And not with the vacant look they had seen before. He was looking at her.
“Well, well!” beamed Dr. Parrish. “Look who has returned to us at last! Thank the Lord and pass the glass! Hello, Sir John.”
The patient’s gaze slowly slid toward the physician, then returned to look at her.
She self-consciously began lowering the bedclothes over his exposed leg. “He must wonder what I am doing. How strange to wake up and find someone rubbing his leg.”
“Oh, I don’t think any man would object to that!” The good doctor winked at Sir John. “Would he, sir?”
There was no change in Sir John’s expression.
“Ah! I forget you don’t know me. You may not remember meeting me earlier, but I feel as though I’ve come to know you quite well. I am George Parrish, your physician and neighbor. My son Edgar showed you about the place when you first visited.”
The barest flicker of comprehension shone in Sir John’s eyes before returning to Hannah.
The doctor gestured toward Hannah and smiled. “And you know this lovely creature, of course.”
When his patient failed to respond with word, smile, or even nod, the doctor asked him to follow his finger, to blink one for yes and two for no, or squeeze his hand.
“Now, there’s no rush, Sir John. You speak whenever you like. No hurry. You are healing nicely and no doubt will be your old self soon.”
The doctor brightened. “I know! Perhaps you would like this dear lady to read to you. She has a fine reading voice. In fact, I heard her reading to Master Daniel only last evening.” He turned to her. “Has Sir John a favorite book?”
Hannah hesitated. “I . . . shall find something.”
“I think reading to him for an hour or so each day an excellent idea. Stimulate his brain. Help him rediscover words again, which have apparently somehow left him.”
Hannah read to Sir John that very afternoon. She’d been pleased to find the first volume of The History of Sir Charles Grandison among his salvaged things. Her own copy was lost forever, along with her valise.
She sat in the armchair near his bed and began reading. Sir John opened his eyes and watched her as she did so. His bruising and swelling continued to fade, and his marled brown-and-silver beard to thicken.
Half an hour or so later, Mrs. Turrill knocked and entered with a tea tray. “Shall you have your tea here with Sir John, my lady? Ah! He is awake, bless my soul, he is.”
“Sir John, have you met Mrs. Turrill, our housekeeper?”
Mrs. Turrill dipped her head and smiled. “What a happy day this is. Well, I shall leave you. Anything else you need, my lady, you just ring, all right?”
The phrase, “my lady,” which she had begun to grow accustomed to, sounded like a trumpet blast in Sir John’s presence. She winced.
“Thank you, Mrs. Turrill.”
The housekeeper left, closing the door behind her.
For a moment, Hannah kept her gaze on the closed door, all the while feeling Sir John’s scrutiny on her profile. Slowly, resignedly, she turned. Damp hands clasped in her lap, she faced her begrudging employer, her former mistress’s husband, her first infatuation—although he’d never known it. His expression remained inscrutable.
She sighed, and quietly began, “When they found us alone together in the carriage after the accident, they assumed I was Lady Mayfield. At first I was insensible, as you have been. And when I regained my senses and realized . . . well, I should have corrected them, but I did not. I have a child to think of. And with my arm broken, there were few or no posts I would be suited for. I felt I had no choice but to remain here. With Lady Mayfield gone, who was I to be companion to? I would have no position, no place to sleep, and no way to provide for my son or myself. So I allowed the misapprehension to continue. It was wrong of me, I know. I plan to leave as soon as my arm is sufficiently healed and I might find work somewhere. In the meantime, I hope you will forgive me.”
His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, but whether his expression spoke of anger, or confusion, or deep thought, she was not certain. Did he even remember her?
Good heavens. She realized she had said, “with Lady Mayfield gone.” Was this the first he was hearing of his wife’s fate? This was not the way to break the news, bound up in her own confession. But it was too late now. And who else besides her would tell him his wife was dead?
“Yes. I am sorry to have to tell you. Lady Mayfield perished in the accident. Dr. Parrish doesn’t think she suffered.” Lacking the courage to meet his gaze, she closed the book and arose. “Well. Again, I am sorry. Sorry for your loss. For everything.”
She turned and quit the room, knowing it was only a matter of time until he regained the power of speech and ordered her to leave. Or worse.
Mr. Lowden would surely return to Bristol soon. He couldn’t abandon his practice for long. As soon as he did, she would depart as well. If she left now, the solicitor might suspect what she had done and send someone after her. She thought again of the two women they had seen in the village stocks and shivered, knowing she would pay a high price for her deceit.
—
The next day, James Lowden entered Sir John Mayfield’s bedchamber, closing the door behind him. He stepped toward his employer’s bed, not feeling as charitable toward the man as he should.
Sir John watched him approach, recognition flickering in his eyes. Apparently he was more sensible than during James’s earlier visits to his bedside.
“Hello, Sir John. How are you feeling today?”
The man lifted a limp hand in a weak, so-so gesture.
James said, “As you are not yet able to discuss your wishes regarding your will, I think I ought to return to Bristol for a few days and take care of things there. But if you
wish me to remain, I shall.”
Again the man lifted his hand, this time in an apparent wave of dismissal.
“You are . . . comfortable . . . being alone here—well, not alone exactly, but without me to watch out for you and your affairs?”
Sir John nodded.
“Of course, Dr. Parrish is here daily as is Mrs. Turrill. An excellent woman,” James said. “I have asked the good doctor to send word as soon as you regain your ability to speak or write your wishes. I will return by week’s end either way.”
Again, the slight nod.
James gave a cursory bow and turned to go. Hand on the door latch, he looked back over his shoulder. “I wish you a speedy recovery.”
It wasn’t completely true.
James had nothing against his employer, but a part of him wanted a little more time alone with Lady Mayfield. He had enjoyed their conversations in relative privacy, which would evaporate if and when her husband regained his mobility. The woman intrigued him, though she was clearly hiding something. And he wanted to figure her out, like a complicated legal case. Like a mystery.
James Lowden had never felt this way about a married woman before and didn’t like himself very much because of it. He was attracted to Lady Mayfield, even as he reminded himself again and again that she was another man’s wife—though not a faithful one. He wasn’t even sure what drew him. He had met women more beautiful, more skilled in flirtation, more tempting. Was it the challenge she represented? Did he not want to be the one man she did not flirt with? He hoped he was not so shallow.
Did he see mutual attraction mirrored in her blue-green eyes, or did he fool himself? She probably had this effect on most men, Anthony Fontaine most of all. Probably engendered such feelings to suit her ends. But she didn’t seem like that sort of woman, for all he’d heard about her.
Yes, he had some business to attend to in Bristol. But he also knew he ought to remove himself from Lady Mayfield’s presence before he said or did something stupid—something they might both regret. He also wished to find the family of the lady’s companion, Hannah Rogers. There were several nagging questions and loose ends he wished to lay to rest with her. While he was there, he might also inquire into the whereabouts of Anthony Fontaine.
James packed his things and carried his valise down to the dining parlor where Lady Mayfield sat near the window finishing her breakfast. Sunlight shone on her, bringing out the red highlights in her wavy russet hair.
She looked up when he approached. “Good morning, Mr. Lowden.” Her gaze fell to his valise and her eyes widened. “You are leaving us?”
“For a week or so. I am leaving my horse and traveling by stage. I have asked Dr. Parrish to send word if Sir John speaks and asks for me sooner.”
“I see. Apparently you don’t trust me to do so.”
He hesitated. “Not completely, no. Even so, I regret my rudeness to you and I apologize.”
She rose and stepped around the table. “I understand, Mr. Lowden. No hard feelings. And thank you again for your help in finding Danny and Becky that day.”
“I was happy to be of service.” Still he hesitated, turning his hat brim in his hands.
Abruptly, she held out her hand to him. One of his hands immediately abandoned his hat to capture the delicate fingers in his.
“Farewell, Mr. Lowden, and safe journey,” she said. “I hope your practice thrives and many new clients realize your competence and skill despite your youth. I wish you a long and happy life.”
How earnest, how sober her expression.
“My goodness,” he said with a half grin. “I am only leaving for a week. I shall see you again.”
She blushed, and ducked her head. “Of course.”
Chagrined to have embarrassed her again, he pressed her hand. “But I thank you. Your well wishes mean a great deal, especially considering we got off on the wrong foot together.”
She gave him a regretful little grin, but then lowered her eyes once more.
Unable to resist, he lifted her hand to his lips. He pressed a kiss there, lingering a second too long for propriety but not caring. What did a woman like her care about propriety anyway? Or was that only with a certain other gentleman?
“Good-bye, Mr. Lowden,” she said.
His gaze locked on hers, then she slipped her hand from his.
“We shall just say ‘until we meet again,’ all right?”
She formed an unconvincing smile.
Why did he feel that she was saying good-bye for good?
CHAPTER 14
The next day, Hannah read another chapter to Sir John. She glanced over at him, lying flat, staring at the ceiling, eyes open. Being a tall man, his heels extended past the end of the bed. He seemed to be listening, but it was difficult to gauge his reaction or how much he understood.
Did he even remember giving her this book for Christmas two years ago? The History of Sir Charles Grandison was the only gift she’d received, save a length of ribbon from Freddie. It was not unusual for an employer to give a few coins or a token gift on Boxing Day, but one so personal and thoughtful? Unusual indeed.
When she’d unwrapped it, he’d explained, “I know you enjoy novels. I don’t read many, but this is a favorite. The main character is a good, honorable man one actually admires.”
Like you, she remembered thinking at the time. But she was a clergyman’s daughter, and knew better than to covet another woman’s husband, so she had endeavored to stifle her admiration for the man. And for the most part, she had succeeded. It helped that he gave her no encouragement.
Remembering those feelings now made her feel almost disloyal to Marianna’s memory. Regardless, she still thought him a good, admirable man. Even now. After everything.
A quick knock sounded and Mrs. Turrill came into the room, Danny in her arms. Hannah laid aside her book and quickly rose to intercept her, but the housekeeper was already approaching the bed, angling Danny toward Sir John.
“Look who I have here.”
Sir John slowly turned his head toward them.
“Now, you know who this fine handsome lad is, don’t you?”
Sir John stared, slack-mouthed. His head moved left, right, in the slowest of shakes.
“Why this is Master Daniel. And if you don’t recognize him, I shouldn’t wonder, growing so fast as he is.” She looked from Sir John to the child and back again. “Is there not a marked resemblance, I ask you?”
Hannah held her breath.
Again, Sir John’s head turned side to side.
“He looks like his mother of course, but also like his father,” Mrs. Turrill persisted. “Don’t you see it?”
Here it comes. . . . Hannah thought, fidgeting nervously.
Sir John’s gaze shifted to her. He rasped out his first word since the accident. “No.”
Her heart pounded. What had she expected?
She felt Mrs. Turrill’s uncertain gaze on her profile. The woman obviously sensed something amiss. Hannah wondered if she guessed what it was. If only she could brush it off with a smile, and say easily, “Sir John has always insisted Danny takes after my side.” But she couldn’t do it. The lies she had told had begun to rot and stink and sicken, and she could not bring herself to utter another to this dear woman.
Hannah stepped near the bed and held out her hands to take Danny, but the housekeeper kept hold of him, her smile unnaturally bright. “How good to hear your voice, Sir John.”
Mrs. Turrill insisted she would take Danny back up to the nursery for his nap. “You go on with your reading. It seems to have helped Sir John already, for has he not just spoken? That is good news indeed.”
Not for me, Hannah thought. It was only a matter of time now. . . .
She stood there, uncertain what to do as Mrs. Turrill left, shutting the door behind her. Longing to flee the tension in the r
oom, Hannah turned from the bed, but Sir John snagged her arm.
She gasped and looked down at his hand on her wrist, as surprised as if a crab at the seashore had leapt onto her arm. She blinked and risked a look at Sir John’s face. His expression was turbulent, bewildered, questioning. But angry? She wasn’t sure. He stared into her eyes, and she stared back. When his grip weakened, she pulled her hand from his and hurried from the room.
Hannah avoided Sir John’s bedchamber for the rest of the day. She asked Mrs. Turrill to look in on him for her, claiming a headache—the headache was real, though not the reason she avoided Sir John. She imagined Mrs. Turrill and Dr. Parrish thought it strange and uncaring of her.
While Mrs. Turrill was busy in Sir John’s bedchamber, Hannah went upstairs to see Becky.
“Becky, quietly gather your things. I’ll gather Danny’s. It’s time for us to leave.”
“But I like it here,” Becky pouted. “And Mrs. Turrill says I’m like a daughter to her.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But Sir John is beginning to speak. Our time here is at an end. I told you we wouldn’t be staying forever.”
“But where will we go?”
“Exeter, I think. It’s a sizeable town. Lots of work there, I imagine.”
Becky’s chin trembled. “But I don’t want to go. . . .”
Hannah forced a smile and patted the girl’s arm. She couldn’t afford for Becky to erupt in a fit of pique. “There, there. Never mind, Becky,” she soothed. “You just lie down and rest, all right? We’ll talk about it another time.”
Becky nodded in relief.
Hannah left her and went down to her room to finish packing. She pulled the partially filled valise from under the bed, tucked a few more things inside, and was about to retrieve the letter hidden in the hatbox when Mrs. Turrill knocked and stuck her head in the door.
“Sir John is asking for you, my lady.”