Hannah’s heart slammed against her breastbone.
“Dr. Parrish is in with him now. Talking quite well he is, too. He wishes you to join them.”
Mrs. Turrill watched her closely. “He also asked that you bring Danny.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, though he referred to him as ‘the child,’ not by name. . . .”
How concerned the woman looked. Had she guessed the truth?
Hannah forced a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Turrill. Just give me a few minutes to freshen up.”
Five minutes later, Hannah set her packed valise beside her door and went up to the nursery for Daniel. Over her day dress she wore Marianna’s long pelisse, since her own had not survived the accident.
She dressed Danny in the small clothes she had purchased during the journey, and a wool jumper Mrs. Turrill had knit for him. She left all the baby things the Parrishes had loaned her—clean and pressed—in the nursery. Becky, napping peacefully on her small bed, slept on, undisturbed.
Hannah had decided to leave Becky at Clifton, knowing how attached she had become to Mrs. Turrill and Mrs. Turrill to her. She knew the troubled young woman would be in better hands with the kindly housekeeper than with her. Danny would have to be weaned more abruptly than she’d like. But thankfully, he’d already begun taking a bit of thin gruel and mashed fruit. Becky continued to nurse him, but Hannah had noticed that the nursings did not last as long, and that Danny grew restless and popped off her breast more quickly than before. Yes, the end was near. In more ways than one.
Hannah returned to her room for her valise. She would have to hold it in her good hand and Danny in the crook of her bandaged arm. It couldn’t be helped. She would simply walk downstairs, out the side door, and to the nearest coaching inn. There, using the money she had left from the trip to Bath, she would put as much distance between herself and Clifton as she could.
She stepped across the threshold. But to leave with no word of explanation or apology? She hesitated in the passage, pulse pounding. On the left, the stairs and freedom. To the right, Sir John’s bedchamber.
Face him, a quiet voice whispered in her mind. Her own voice, God’s, or the devil’s, she couldn’t be certain.
I am afraid, Hannah thought in reply.
As well she should be.
Freed of indecision, she set down the valise and shifted Danny to her other arm. She turned not to unknown freedom but across the landing to Sir John’s bedchamber, to sure condemnation.
She heard their voices before she reached the door, left ajar. Sir John’s low raspy voice now and again responding to Dr. Parrish’s loquacious one. Were they talking about her? Had Sir John already told him?
Dr. Parrish turned when she entered. His face lit up at the sight of them. “Ah, here is your family now. Your lovely wife and fine healthy son.”
Clearly, Sir John had yet to disillusion him.
Hannah swallowed. “Dr. Parrish. I am glad you are here. There is something—”
“Always glad to be of service, especially to my neighbors,” the doctor went on. “And I’ve grown quite fond of this lad, I don’t mind telling you. Just look at him. My goodness, what a resemblance.”
“Resemblance to whom?” Sir John asked, voice scratchy from disuse.
Dr. Parrish’s brows shot up. “To whom! That’s a good one, sir. To you, of course. Mayfield nose and all.”
“That’s not who I see.”
It was now or never, Hannah realized. To explain her side, to apologize. Better to confess voluntarily than to wait to be exposed and then try to defend herself afterward.
She began hurriedly, “You see, Dr. Parrish. When you found us in the wrecked carriage and saw only the two of us within, you quite naturally assumed that we were . . . that I was—”
“What a sight it was, too,” Dr. Parrish interjected. “I shall never forget it. What a picture of tenderness amidst tragedy. For even though the both of you were injured and insensible, your wife tenderly cradled your head in her lap.”
Why must the man always interrupt? Hannah took a breath and pushed on. “Dr. Parrish, you are very kind. But it was only the way the carriage landed, the positions the fall thrust us into.”
“The positions fate thrust you into!” he insisted. “Do you think such things happen by chance?”
“Fate? Tenderness?” Hannah shook her head, incredulous. “I don’t know how you could find such a scene anything but horrid.”
The doctor sighed. “Well, I had not yet come upon the coachman, who was thrown some distance from the wreck. Nor had we spied the poor creature carried away on the tide.”
Sir John winced. He murmured through a crackling throat, “My fault. All mine.”
Dr. Parrish said, “And your wife suffered her injuries, too, but look how well she has recovered. Her head injury—show him, my lady, if you would. There. I put in the stitches myself and later removed them. I’m no surgeon mind, but there isn’t one for miles, so the missus and I did our best. There will be a scar I fear, but nothing a little carefully arranged hair cannot conceal. And her arm is knitting nicely. She needs to regain the strength of it, just as you will need to regain the use and strength of your limbs.”
Hannah squeezed her eyes shut. It was so tempting not to go on. Not to admit the truth. She exhaled an angst-ridden sigh. “Dr. Parrish, please let me finish. I need to apologize. You misunderstood the situation and I allowed that misapprehension to continue. I am not—”
“My lady,” Sir John slanted her a look. “Are you not well?” He turned toward Dr. Parrish. “Doctor, might her head wound have left her confused? For my wife does not seem herself.”
Hannah stared at him, feeling her mouth sag open. She glanced over her shoulder. Had Marianna miraculously appeared? Was he seeing an apparition? She turned back and met his unwavering gaze. Had his head wound left him confused, or . . .? Or what? My wife does not seem herself. What did that mean? Was he blind, or off in his attic? But the eyes that locked on hers held a disconcerting, knowing glint. Was he telling her not to reveal her identity to Dr. Parrish? Why should he?
As though for clarification, Sir John asked, “The poor creature carried away on the tide . . .?”
Dr. Parrish replied, “Your wife’s companion. Hannah Rogers.”
Hannah had mentioned the death before, though she wasn’t sure how much he’d comprehended.
Sir John lifted his chin in understanding. “Ah. Of course.”
Dr. Parrish added, “And as sad as that is, we can at least be thankful that you and Lady Mayfield were spared.”
Hannah opened her mouth in one last attempt, but the words evaporated under the intensity of Sir John’s gaze. He reached out and grasped her free hand. It likely appeared a comforting gesture, but to Hannah it felt like a warning.
As if sensing her unease, Danny began to whine and chafe, kicking painfully against her arm.
Sir John said with a casual air Hannah found unsettling, “The child is restless, my dear. Perhaps you ought to lay him down and get some rest yourself. But do come and see me again in an hour or so.”
He wanted to speak to her alone, was that it? To avoid scandal to the Mayfield name? And no doubt to tell her exactly what he thought of her in private.
She returned in an hour’s time as bid, curious to learn why Sir John had not exposed her, even as she feared it. Surely he would not knowingly cover for her, would he? No, she was foolish to hope. But when she peeked in at the door, she saw that the man was asleep in his bed and hadn’t the heart—nor the courage—to wake him.
She thought back to their first private meeting, the one in which they had discussed the terms of her employment as lady’s companion. Sir John offered a generous allowance, though he clearly had reservations about engaging a companion for his wife in the first place. She recalled sitting awkwardly in the morning roo
m of the Mayfields’ Bristol house, while Sir John stood across the room, looking not at her but out the window. “Are you willing?”
“Yes,” she replied.
He winced, indicating her reply didn’t please him, though she wasn’t sure why. He said, as if to himself, “But . . . should I agree to it?”
“Only if you wish to.”
“My wishes?” He barked a dry laugh that sounded anything but jovial. “God doesn’t often grant me what I wish for, I find.”
She said earnestly, “Then perhaps you wish for the wrong things.”
He looked at her then, as though for the first time. “You may be right. And what is it you wish for?”
Challenge lit his silvery blue eyes and for a moment she sank into them, feeling tongue-tied and intimidated.
Before she could fashion a suitable reply, he crossed his arms and continued, “It would be unfair to ask you to report where Lady Mayfield goes and whom she meets, but I can at least hope you will be a good influence on her.” He added dryly, “Unlike most of the company she keeps.”
She lifted her chin. “You’re right, sir. I cannot be her companion and your spy. But I will offer friendly advice when I can to keep her from harming her own reputation or her marriage.”
“Ha,” he’d scoffed, his cool eyes icing over. “Too late.”
If she’d known everything that would happen in that house, would she have agreed to the arrangement? How naïve she had been to think she could curb Marianna’s behavior with men. She had not even succeeded in controlling her own.
—
Curiosity piqued, Hannah decided not to leave until she heard what Sir John wanted to say to her in private.
The next evening, Hannah quietly slipped into Sir John’s bedchamber while Dr. Parrish repacked his medical bag. He lifted a hand to acknowledge her presence, then returned to his task. She sat stiffly in the chair she had occupied to read to Sir John, but did not pick up the book. Instead she clasped nervous hands in her lap and wondered what awaited her. Sir John wore a fine dressing gown over his nightshirt and his hair was combed. He had likely been blond in his youth, but now at forty his hair was light brown and at the moment, in need of a good cutting.
He flicked a peevish look in her direction. “I asked you to return last night.”
“I did. You were asleep.”
Not appearing convinced, he turned his calculating gaze to the doctor. “The, em, medical rubbing my kind wife has been performing so ably . . . Is there any reason not to continue with that?”
Hannah cringed at the biting irony in his voice, but the good doctor did not seem to notice.
He shook his head. “None at all. Not until you are on your feet and taking exercise on your own.”
“Excellent.” Sir John sent her a challenging look. “And doctor, one more thing?”
“Yes?”
“Any reason I cannot resume my . . . conjugal duties . . . with my wife?”
Hannah gasped and ducked her head, cheeks flaming.
The doctor’s mouth parted, clearly taken aback. He glanced from one to the other, then fiddled with his case. He ended with an indulgent dimple. “Sir John, you jest, I think. You enjoy teasing Lady Mayfield, I see. But you have embarrassed her, my good sir, and must endeavor to be more discreet in future.”
Sir John did not return the man’s grin. “I am not jesting. I am in earnest.”
Hannah’s mind whirled. What was Sir John doing? Embarrassing her as a form of punishment for her deception? It was not like him. Had the crash damaged his mind and character as well as his body? Did he somehow really believe her to be his wife?
The doctor faltered, “Well. I . . . that being the case, I would prefer to speak in private about such matters.”
“Why? Does your answer not affect her as much as it does me?”
Dr. Parrish frowned. “Not exactly, no. For she is all but recovered and you are not, though you progress daily. I think with your ribs and that ankle of yours, any . . . strenuous . . . activity will be quite uncomfortable at present. Painful even.” He shook his head. “No, in my professional opinion, it is not advisable at present.”
“No? Pity. What about sharing my bed. For simple comfort and affection? Is there any harm in that?”
“Sir John!” Hannah protested. “You push too far.”
Sir John coolly studied her face. “Apparently, Lady Mayfield is concerned she would injure me in the night.”
She recognized the sarcasm in his tone even if the physician did not. Dr. Parrish pursed his lips in thought.
Please say no, Hannah silently pled. Even if she had admired Sir John in the past, at the moment all she felt was fear and mortification. He had never spoken to her so coarsely nor been so cavalier.
“If she is careful not to jostle you too much, I see no harm,” the doctor decided. “And no doubt it would be a welcome change for both of you after such a long parting. Yes, I think that would be all right.”
Hannah sputtered, “But, I—I can’t.”
Both men turned to stare at her.
She faltered, “I mean . . . What will Mrs. Turrill say? She will know I have not slept in my own bed and—”
Dr. Parrish interrupted gently, “My dear lady. We are not such proper city folk. Here in the West Country, a man and wife may share a bed without raising eyebrows, I assure you.”
“Ah, what a relief,” Sir John said with a patronizing smile. “There, my lady, those objections dealt with and the matter settled.”
“But Sir John—” she began.
He cut her off once more. “Thank you so much, Dr. Parrish. You have earned your stipend today indeed.”
The trusting man looked from one to the other with some bemusement, perhaps noticing Sir John’s sarcasm at last, but unsure of its cause or meaning. He was clearly aware of “Lady Mayfield’s” discomfort, but likely assumed it was due to modesty and not any real unease or fear of her changeable husband.
When Dr. Parrish had taken his leave, Sir John said archly, “I’m sure you will want to change into your nightclothes.”
She slowly shook her head. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because my memory is beginning to return. And with it my imagination.” His sardonic tone followed her out the door. “Don’t be long, wife.”
She walked stiffly from the room and forced her legs down the passage. How had it come to this? What was she to do—refuse and cause a scene? Gather up Danny and walk out the door as darkness began to fall? Surely, he did not really expect her to share his bed. Had seeing Danny and realizing she’d had a child out of wedlock given him ideas? Just because she had fallen in that way once before did not mean she would do so again.
For several minutes, Hannah stood in her bedchamber, uncertain. Then a quiet knock pulled her around.
There stood Mrs. Turrill, questions in her eyes. “I hope you don’t mind, but Dr. Parrish mentioned Sir John’s request. I thought you might like me to help you change.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Turrill.” The kind woman helped her into her nightclothes and brushed her hair.
“Are you certain you will be all right?” The light in the woman’s eyes, her cautious expression, made Hannah wonder just what she was asking. Just what she knew. Or suspected.
Hannah forced a smile. “Yes, of course.” I will just sleep in the upholstered chair near the fire, she told herself. In the same room, to appease Dr. Parrish. Near enough to Sir John, she hoped, to appease him and whatever strange test he was giving her. If he wanted to provoke her into confessing who she was, why had he not simply allowed her to do so before? Was he trying to force her to blurt out the truth, and bolt?
She was tempted to do just that.
But where would that leave Danny?
When she entered Sir John’s room, she noticed he had slid himself over—or Mrs
. Turrill had helped him—leaving space for her in bed. Yet, she did not miss the surprise flash in his eyes when she returned in her nightclothes. Apparently, he had not expected her to agree.
But a moment later his expression hardened once more, and he patted the bed beside him. “Come, wife.”
“Sir John . . .” She ducked her chin in reproof.
“You’re the one who started this. If you prefer to leave, go. It’s not as though I could chase you.”
His eyes flickered over her nightdress and wrapper. She expected a leer or amorous glance but she was mistaken, for he winced as though in pain.
“Those are Marianna’s, are they not?”
So he did remember his wife after all.
Hannah looked down at the ivory lawn with its pink ribbon trim. All of Marianna’s nightclothes had pink trim, she recalled. She’d insisted upon it.
“Yes. I’m sorry, but my things were lost in the accident.”
He turned his face, looking up at the ceiling instead of her. His lips pressed together, working. “So much lost.”
Her heart unexpectedly lurched for him. He had shown no grief over Marianna before now. She had begun to believe he didn’t feel any. She had been wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, the words heavy with new meaning.
She saw tears brighten his eyes before he blinked them away.
His voice hoarse, he asked, “Is she really gone?”
Hannah whispered, “Yes.”
“Gone . . . or dead?”
She looked at him sharply, stunned by the question.
He glanced over, before returning his gaze to the ceiling above. “Come now. You cannot pretend to know she was daily hoping for a way to be rid of me. A chance to leave me and return to her lover.” He spat out the final word like spoiled meat. “How the two of you must have mocked me, laughing behind your hands at the honored knight whose own wife was repulsed by him.”
Hannah shook her head. “I never mocked you, sir.”
“Tell me the truth,” he went on. “Did you help her plan her escape? Apparently you at least went along with it, since you are here, pretending to be her.”