“Who made it, do you know?”
“I don’t.”
Mrs. Barton said, “Wouldn’t that be something if it were made by this same John Ebsworth of London?”
“I suppose there are many similar rings about the country,” Hannah said lightly, faking a sip of tea.
Mrs. Parrish frowned in thought. “Was that the ring Dr. Parrish found in your hand after the accident?”
“Yes. He put it on my finger so it wouldn’t get lost.”
“Odd that it was in your hand and not on your finger already.” Mrs. Parrish eyed her speculatively.
Hannah shrugged, squirming under the women’s scrutiny. “I recall so little of the wreck.”
When the uncomfortable visit finally concluded, Hannah went upstairs to her room and retrieved the ring from a little box in her valise. Standing next to the window to capture the sunlight she read the fine, tiny engraving inside the band. Her heart lurched. John Ebsworth, London. No doubt just a coincidence. Surely no one had reported this particular ring lost. Many such rings were likely made. Hadn’t she said as much to her guests?
—
While the lady of the house entertained visitors, James took the day’s correspondence up to Sir John’s room. There he found the man sitting in a wheeled chair, reading.
James handed him a letter from Mr. Ward, his secretary, keeping him abreast of the household accounts at the Bristol property, and requesting a bank draft to cover a few unforeseen expenses. “Shall I take care of that, sir?” James offered.
“Yes, if you would. Thank you.”
James hesitated. “Are you ready to talk about your will?” The reason you brought me out here in the first place, he thought to himself.
“If we must. I have decided not to change it.”
“You no longer wish to disinherit your wife beyond the marriage settlement?”
“I do not.”
“But—” James turned away and ran a hand through his hair. He went to the door, made sure no one was loitering about, and shut it once again.
“Sir John. I think I should tell you that I know the young woman in this house is not Marianna Mayfield. She is Hannah Rogers, your wife’s former companion. I suspected something was amiss when last I was here, and have taken it upon myself to look into the matter. I spoke to her friends and to her father in Bristol. I’ve heard her described in great detail—from her slender figure to her freckles.”
James took a deep breath, then continued, “Her father knows nothing of the child, and nor did I tell him. The two had become estranged and apparently Miss Rogers kept the news of her pregnancy and birth from him, for obvious reasons.”
Sir John said nothing, but James saw a pulse tick in his jaw. James went on, “And while I can understand why she might pass herself off as Lady Mayfield to secure shelter for herself and her son, I cannot in good conscience allow it to go on.”
Sir John frowned. “Who asked you to ‘look into’ these matters, as though they are any of your concern?”
James felt his defenses rise. “You wrote and asked my father to look into her whereabouts after she left your employ,” James said. “And now, as your solicitor—”
“That was nearly a year ago,” Sir John said. “And only to learn what had become of her. Not to ferret out information better left buried.”
James reeled back, flummoxed. “Does she have some sort of hold on you, sir? For you to go along with this? Is she extorting money from you somehow, or . . . ?”
“Heavens, no. What an imagination you have, Mr. Lowden. And how you do see criminal intent where none exists. Perhaps you missed your calling. A career as a runner or perhaps judge and jury might have better suited you.”
“Sir. I don’t know what to say. You know she is not your wife.”
“Of course I know she is not Marianna Mayfield. I am not blind, nor insane.”
“Well, you were out of your senses for quite some time, so I thought—”
“You thought wrong. It was Dr. Parrish who assumed Miss Rogers was Lady Mayfield when he found us alone in the wrecked carriage. And she allowed the misapprehension to continue only because she was concerned about how she would support her young son.”
“And she could think of no way beyond impersonating her dead mistress?”
Sir John winced. “You exaggerate, Lowden. It wasn’t as bad as all that.”
James shook his head. “I don’t understand you, sir.”
“I’m not paying you to understand me. As I said, let’s leave the will for now.”
“But what about the child?”
“Good point—include the child as well.”
James fisted his hands. What was the man playing at? Was he really willing to risk this woman’s illegitimate child becoming heir to his estate? “But you said it yourself, Sir John. You see no resemblance between yourself and the boy.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Who told you that?”
“His mother told me herself. I gather she heard you say as much to both Mrs. Turrill and Dr. Parrish.”
“That’s true, I did.”
James felt as though he were repeating things to a young child . . . or a simpleton. “You admit he looks nothing like you, Sir John. That’s because he—”
“Yes, but he looks a great deal like someone I once knew.”
“Mr. Fontaine?” The words were out of James’s mouth before he could think the better of them.
Sir John scowled at him. “No. Not Fontaine.”
Seeing the anger in Sir John’s expression, James thought it wiser not to hazard another ill-advised guess.
—
Dr. Parrish found Hannah in the nursery and asked her to assist him in Sir John’s bedchamber. “Today is the day, my lady. Sir John is going to attempt his first steps!”
Mixed emotions filled her. Would he be able to walk, she wondered, after lying in bed for so many weeks? She and Dr. Parrish, along with nurse Weaver, had tried to maintain some level of strength and agility in his legs—especially the one with the sound ankle. But the other? She hoped he would not be disappointed.
When she arrived, Sir John slid himself to the edge of his bed. Dr. Parrish took one arm, and looked at her expectantly. “My lady?”
“Oh, of course.” Hannah stepped to Sir John’s other side and grasped Sir John’s elbow.
“All right, Sir John. Whenever you are ready. We’re here to help steady you. We’ll expect no dashes, sir. Just a simple stand-up is our only goal for today. Are you ready?”
Sir John gritted his teeth, sliding himself farther forward, and spacing his feet shoulder-width apart. “Ready.”
“On three. One, two, three . . .”
Together, she and the physician helped Sir John rise. Hannah felt a tremor pass all the way up his body and through the arm she held. Hannah repositioned her own weight to strengthen her hold, thinking, Please, God, help him stand.
“You’ve done it, Sir John!” Dr. Parrish enthused, and he and Hannah shared a private smile. “How is the ankle—does it hurt?”
“Not bad,” he gritted out. Then his legs began to tremble violently.
“There now, sit down. Easy does it.”
“I want to walk.”
“Tomorrow is another day, Sir John. Mustn’t rush things.”
“Must she be here?” He jerked his head toward her.
“Your wife? I would think you would want her here to support you.”
“I . . . don’t like her seeing me like this. So cursed weak.”
“Weak? Why the injuries you suffered would have been the end of many a man half your age. I see nothing weak in you, sir. Do you, my lady?”
“No. Nothing. Sir John has always been a strong man. Physically and otherwise. And will be so again.”
For a moment Sir John’s eyes met hers. And she was touched b
y the vulnerability there as he gauged her sincerity. She squeezed his hand. “I am proud of you.”
His eyes shone with something else then. Something deep and arresting. Hannah looked away first.
—
From a deep sleep, James woke abruptly, startled by a rapping on his door. His room was still dead-of-night dark. Alarmed, he threw back the bedclothes and climbed from bed. Before he could retrieve his dressing gown, the door creaked open and a figure appeared carrying a candle.
“Mr. Lowden?”
Miss Rogers stood in his threshold, clad in nightdress and shawl, hair in a thick plait over her shoulder. His heart leapt. For one illogical moment desire flared. But a closer look at her pale, wide-eyed face told him this was no amorous visit—something was wrong.
“I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s Danny. And Becky. They’re both terribly hot and restless. Becky has grasped onto Mrs. Turrill in a panic and won’t let go. I’ve sent Kitty for cool cloths, but I hoped you might—”
He grabbed his dressing gown from the back of a chair. “Shall I run for Dr. Parrish?”
“Please. I hate to leave Danny for another moment.”
“I understand. Go back to him. I’ll bring the doctor as soon as may be.”
“Thank you.” In the flickering candlelight, her earnest eyes held his. Then she turned and disappeared from view, the patter of her bare feet quickly treading up the stairs.
He pulled on a pair of trousers and shoes. Wrestling a coat over his nightshirt, he hurried downstairs, out the side door, and ran to the Grange.
Ten minutes later, Hannah sat in the rocking chair, a whining Danny in her arms. She dabbed a damp cloth to his face and neck, trying in vain to cool and comfort him. Across the room, Mrs. Turrill administered the same treatment to Becky, praying over the girl in low tones as she did so. Kitty, having delivered the cloths, stood helplessly by, twisting her apron in her hands.
Hannah hoped Dr. Parrish would hurry. Surely he would know what to do. Her fears rose, jumbling her innards and tormenting her imagination. What if there was nothing he could do? Might Danny succumb like those poor children at Mrs. Beech’s? Was this the same fever—had it somehow lay dormant in Danny and Becky, only to strike now when she had thought them well and truly free of the effects of that place?
She heard footsteps clumping up the passage and relief filled her. One set of footsteps. Had Mr. Lowden returned to his room once he’d summoned Dr. Parrish?
But it was Mr. Lowden himself who knocked and then let himself into the nursery.
“Where is Dr. Parrish?” Hannah asked, alarmed. “Is he coming?”
Mr. Lowden grimly shook his head. “He and Mrs. Parrish have been gone all night, attending a difficult birth. Edgar Parrish has gone on horseback to bring him back or at least his instructions until he can come himself.”
“Oh, no.”
Mr. Lowden knelt before the rocking chair. He laid his wrist on Danny’s little forehead and frowned.
“He’s too hot. Get that blanket off of him.” He rose. “And let’s open some windows.” He shrugged off his greatcoat and began throwing back shutters. He was dressed in only trousers and shirtsleeves, his hair tousled.
Mrs. Turrill spoke up from Becky’s bedside. “Won’t they take a chill?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that we need to get their fevers down.”
He surveyed the room until his eyes landed on the housemaid, standing huddled in the corner.
“Bring all the cold water you can carry. Is there any ice remaining?”
“Maybe a little, sir. Mostly straw by now.”
“If there is any, bring it quickly.”
Kitty scuttled off to do his bidding. He returned and knelt once more before Hannah’s chair. This time he lifted his hand toward her. She recoiled in surprise before she realized his intention. His mouth tightened but he made no comment as he laid cool fingers on her brow.
“You are overly warm yourself. Not a fever, I don’t think, but overheated from nerves no doubt. You will only make him warmer.”
“What do you suggest?”
“A cold bath. He shan’t like it, but it will help him.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been down this path before, I’m sorry to say.”
“Oh?”
“My younger sister.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“I don’t. Not any longer. We learned only after the fact what we should have done.”
“I am sorry,” Hannah whispered.
“So am I.”
For a moment their gazes locked in fearful empathy.
From the bed, Becky groaned and cried out, “Hannah, Oh, Miss Hannah. It’s the fever!”
Mrs. Turrill, sitting on the edge of the cot, looked across the room at her mistress, her eyes glistening in confusion and pity.
Hannah soothed, “Shhh . . . there now, Becky. It’s only the fever talking. You’re all right.”
Mrs. Turrill picked up the thread. “That’s right, Becky dear. Mrs. Turrill is here with you. Nothin’ to fear. There now, sip this.” She lifted a cup to the girl’s lips.
Hannah felt Mr. Lowden’s knowing look on her profile but avoided his gaze.
She peeled the blanket off Danny, and then pulled his small fists through the sleeves of his nightdress.
Becky thrashed side to side. “It’s the fever what took the Jones boy and little Molly. We’ve got to get out of here.”
He asked softly, “Where does she think she is?”
“The place where her own child died.”
Hannah dipped the cloth once more into the basin of tepid water, wishing the maid would hurry with the ice. If Becky kept this up, Mrs. Turrill would realize who she really was, as Mr. Lowden had. Maybe she already knew. But at the moment all Hannah cared about was helping Danny. She hoped God would not strike him down as punishment for her many sins.
Again Mrs. Turrill’s troubled gaze met hers, then moved to the solicitor. “Mr. Lowden. Perhaps you would be so good as to ride to my sister’s in Lynmouth? The little yellow cottage at the bottom of the hill past the livery? I just remembered she might have some fever powder, left over from our mother’s last illness.”
“Does she?” He straightened. “Excellent. I shall go directly.”
He turned without another word, grabbed his coat, and hastened from the room. Hannah looked at Mrs. Turrill and their gazes locked as the closing of the door reverberated through the room. If the woman now knew or guessed the truth, she didn’t say a word.
“Thank you,” Hannah whispered. And she was thanking her for far more than medicine.
—
Morning dawned bright and clear, and with it Hannah’s mood. Mr. Lowden had delivered the fever powder, which they gave to Becky but hesitated to give it to Danny, not knowing how it might affect his small body. Instead, she had taken Mr. Lowden’s advice and subjected the miserable little boy to brief submersions in the tin tub of cool water, which made him howl, but eventually lowered his fever.
When both patients progressed from sweating to shaking, Mr. Lowden had closed the windows and brought up wood and coals with Ben’s help, stoking the fire with rolled-up shirtsleeves as though he were a manservant himself.
Mr. Lowden and Ben had left to retrieve more wood when Dr. Parrish finally jogged into the nursery huffing and puffing, red-faced and dog-tired. Even so, he ably took the situation in hand, affirming their actions so far, and recommending liquids and another dose of a fever powder of his own concoction.
Hannah breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, relieved to place Danny and Becky in the doctor’s capable hands.
Leaving the room for a brief respite, she found Mr. Lowden sitting in a chair in the passage, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
He rose when she
stepped out. “Is Daniel all right?”
“He will be, yes.”
Mr. Lowden exhaled a relieved breath. “Thank God.”
The concern on his face, the kindness and help he’d delivered, weakened Hannah’s reserve. Tears filled her eyes.
Instantly, his hands cupped her shoulders and his eyes searched hers. “What is it? Are you all right?”
She nodded, tears running in hot trails down her cheeks. “I was so afraid.”
And then his arms were around her, holding her close in a comforting embrace.
“I know. So was I.”
For several moments Hannah stood there, pressed to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of his body beneath her cheek. Savoring the feel of his arms around her, gathering her close. She wanted to stand there forever.
Instead, she stepped back, and wiped at her eyes. Her voice tremulous she said, “Thank you, Mr. Lowden. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
But she knew all too well she would soon have to figure out how to do just that.
—
James Lowden returned to his bed, feeling torn and unsettled. He was surprised at himself. He had not meant to take Miss Rogers in his arms. He’d been surprised, too, at the surge of tenderness that had swept over him, the desire to protect her and comfort her. A few weeks ago, he would have declared such feelings inconceivable. He reminded himself that even though the woman he’d met at Clifton was not Marianna, unfaithful wife, Hannah Rogers was no bastion of virtue herself. She was apparently just as willing and able to deceive as her mistress had been. He could not and should not trust her. Or get too close.
He still wasn’t completely sure why he was attracted to her. She had lovely thick hair and striking eyes, yes. But her nose was too long, her mouth too wide. And then there were her freckles. . . . But when he remembered how it had felt to hold her in his arms, he was almost ready to throw both logic and caution to the wind. He could still feel her slender figure through the nightdress, the marked curve of her waist, the press of her small bosom.
Stop it, he told himself.
He flinched to recall the foolish nurse moaning about “Miss Hannah” and whatever wretched place they had come from. He’d seen the suspicious look on the housekeeper’s face. It was only a matter of time before she realized who Miss Rogers really was and that she had lied to them all. Did he really want to be mixed up in all of that? What would happen if people learned that he had known the truth yet remained silent? Would he be complicit in her fraud? What would that do to his legal practice and reputation?