“I understand. But he doesn’t look too bad. Bruises and cuts on his face, head, and hands, but most of his injuries are internal.”
Was she only reluctant to see his injuries, or was it something more? Sir John had never hurt her, had he? Then why was she afraid?
The doctor took her good arm and helped her rise. The room swam and tilted and she leaned against him for support.
“Dizzy?”
“Yes,” she panted.
Mrs. Turrill came in with her sewing basket and tut-tutted. “She is not ready to be up and about yet, doctor.”
“So I see. I was only going to take her across the corridor to see Sir John. But I think we shall wait a day or two.”
“I should say so. Besides, I’ll want to brush her hair and get her dressed proper before she visits him.”
“I’m afraid he shan’t notice at the moment.”
“Perhaps not,” she said. “But a woman likes to feel pretty when she sees the man she loves.”
Together they helped her back into bed.
She knew they referred to Sir John, but another face shimmered before her mind’s eye. Settling under the bedclothes, she pushed away thoughts of Sir John, and tried to focus on the faint image of sparkling blue eyes and an affectionate smile. But other images kept pushing his face aside—a red cloak floating on the tide, a hand slipping from hers. . . . Had she only dreamt it, or was she remembering something that had actually happened?
CHAPTER 3
That next afternoon, Dr. Parrish came in and sat at her bedside. “And how are you feeling today, my lady?”
“Better, I think.”
“Everyone treating you well?”
She nodded. “Mrs. Turrill is very kind.”
He beamed. “I am happy to hear it. Sally Turrill is my cousin and I recommended her for the position myself. Though not everyone was in favor of the arrangement.”
“I am grateful you did.”
“You don’t know how that pleases me. Men love to be right, you know.” He winked at her. He then went on to explain that Mrs. Turrill had prepared the house for their arrival and, after the accident, had offered to serve as her nurse and lady’s maid, as well as cook-housekeeper. He said, “Apparently, Sir John asked Edgar to engage minimal staff, but planned to select the rest of the servants after you arrived. But, well, as it is . . .” He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “Sally has hired a young manservant and a kitchen maid. Otherwise, she has been making do.”
“I hope it isn’t too much for her,” she said.
“I’ve not heard a single word of complaint from her. Likes to be busy, Sally does.”
His smile dimmed then. He clasped his hands over his knee and cleared his throat. “Now, um, there is something I need to tell you . . .”
A woman passed by the open door, and, seeing the two of them together, paused in its threshold. Sir John’s chamber nurse, she believed, though she wasn’t sure of her name.
The woman frowned at them. “It must be grand to sit and talk while others change bedding and bandages, and feed and tend your patients. I’ve had more than enough for one day, doctor. It’s your turn.”
The woman stalked away, her heels echoing down the corridor and clumping down the stairs.
When they were alone again she asked, “Is that Sir John’s nurse?”
“Em, no.” He gave a lame little chuckle. “My wife.”
“Oh! I’m sorry. That is, I did not realize. . . .”
He lifted a hand to stem her apology. “Understandable misapprehension,” he consoled. “Mrs. Parrish has, um, kindly agreed to act as chamber nurse. She tends Sir John during my absences, while I call on other patients. It’s only temporary, until the nurse I usually employ finishes with her current patient.”
“Ah, I see.”
He rose. “Well, I had better go and look in on Sir John. We shall finish our talk later, all right?”
After several minutes had passed, Mrs. Turrill entered wearing an apron over a simple frock as usual, and carrying a dinner tray. “Hello, my lady. How are you feeling?”
“Better, I think. Thank you. Dr. Parrish and I were just speaking of you.”
“Were you indeed? That explains the itch in my ear. Well, George is a good man, but if he tells you any tales about my wild younger days, I shall have to return the favor!” She grinned. “Known him since a lad, I have. What a scamp he was, too.”
“But your accent is . . . familiar.”
“You’ve a good ear, my lady! I was born in this parish, like George, but was in service in Bristol for many a year.”
“Ah.”
Mrs. Turrill helped her sit up in bed, propped with pillows. She laid a linen cloth over the bedclothes and helped her eat soup and sip tea.
Afterward, the housekeeper reached into her apron pocket. “Edgar has been digging through the wreckage to see what might be salvaged.” She extracted a black glove and held it near.
“Probably Sir John’s,” she said, and instinctively reached for it. She laid it on her lap and smoothed the soft leather. She felt her cheeks warm to see a man’s glove on her leg, even if that part of her was covered in bedclothes. Silly creature, she told herself. She held the glove instead and tried to remember if she’d ever held Sir John’s hand in hers.
A flare of memory flashed through her brain. Sir John taking her hand, almost roughly. She blinked. That couldn’t be right. Oh, when would her brain cease its scattered state?
Mrs. Turrill searched in her pocket for another small object. “Do you recognize this?”
She held out a small piece of jewelry—a brooch. The pin bore a tiny painting of someone’s eye under glass and framed by gems.
Mrs. Turrill said, “It’s one of them lover’s eyes. Popular tokens, I understand. I thought it might be yours, seeing as it’s set in garnets—red for love and all that. Sir John’s eye, is it?”
Was it? She didn’t recall wearing it, yet she recalled so little. She had seen it before, she thought. The thickness of the eyebrow suggested a man’s eye, with a brown iris. She pressed her own eyes closed, trying to recall the color and shape of Sir John’s eyes. She’d thought they were bluish grey. Was her memory still so faulty, or had the miniaturist got it wrong somehow? Or was this image not of Sir John’s eye at all, but rather a lover’s, as the name suggested?
Had she a lover? Was she that sort of woman? Heaven help her if her father found out.
“I . . . don’t know,” she murmured, feeling frustrated and confused.
Mrs. Turrill patted her hand. “Don’t worry, my lady. It will all come back to you eventually.”
The housekeeper gathered up the dishes. “When I have time, I shall try to find a few more things of yours, my lady. Might help you remember. And perhaps something of that poor girl’s to send to her family.”
“Yes . . . Poor girl.” She echoed sympathetically. The young woman’s smiling face shimmered in her mind a moment, then faded away. She was too embarrassed to admit that at the moment, she did not recall her name.
—
That evening, she was still sitting propped up in bed when Dr. Parrish returned to her room.
“How good to see you sitting up, my lady.” He smiled at her, then announced, “I have taken the liberty of borrowing a wheeled chair we might use. Edgar is waiting downstairs to help carry it up if you are willing to give it a go. I thought we might use it to convey you to Sir John’s room, as you are no doubt anxious to see him.”
“I . . .” She licked dry lips. “I should like to see him, yes.” She forced a smile for the kind man’s benefit, unsure why her stomach twisted at the thought.
A few minutes later, father and son returned to her door, a wicker-backed invalid chair between them. The doctor puffed at the exertion, while his strapping son looked unaffected.
She
smiled at the young man. “Thank you, Edgar.”
“My lady.” He shyly tipped his hat and took his leave.
The doctor rolled the chair into the room and positioned it near the bed. Then he took her good arm and helped her rise. Again, the room swam and she leaned against him for support.
He looked at her in concern. “Still dizzy?”
She nodded, and settled with relief into the chair.
“Then we won’t stay long and tire you out.” He wheeled her through the door and across the paneled passageway. When they reached a door across the landing, Dr. Parrish stepped around the chair to open it, then eased her over the threshold.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn. An oil lamp burned on the side table.
Damp hands clasped in her lap, she looked toward the bed. Sir John lay there unnaturally still, fierce eyes closed, temple bruised, cheekbone swollen, mouth slack. So different than when she had last seen him, pugnaciously refusing to yield. He wore a simple nightshirt, open at the throat, instead of his usual elegantly tied cravat. His exposed neck lay bare, specked with new whiskers. How vulnerable he looked. How weak.
She whispered, “Will he live?”
The physician hesitated. “Only God knows. I have done all I can for him. Set and bandaged his broken ankle. Wrapped his cracked clavicle and ribs. I pray there is no internal bleeding.” Dr. Parrish grimaced. “His head injury is what concerns me the most. I’ve sent for a surgeon from Barnstaple to give his opinion. He should be here tomorrow.”
She nodded her understanding. She felt pity for Sir John. Perhaps even grief. But beyond that, she wasn’t sure what she felt. She stared at the broken man before her, her emotions a confusing jumble. Did she love him? He didn’t love her, she didn’t think. She pressed her eyes shut, willing herself to remember a wedding, or a wedding night. Nothing.
Then . . . fragments of memory spotted her vision. Buttons and hairpins falling to the floor. Cool rain on her skin. Warm hands. A man sweeping her up into his arms. But in the memory the man had no face. Was it Sir John? She couldn’t be sure.
The memory faded. A wedding would have pleased her father. Though it would have disappointed the other man. For there had been someone else, had there not? Again she winced and tried to remember, but could not.
Instead, she saw another scene in passing, as though she walked through a theatre and out again mid-performance. . . .
There she was, sitting awkwardly in the morning room of the Bristol house.
Sir John stood, arms crossed, looking not at her but out the window. “So, what do you think of the arrangement?” he asked. “Are you willing?”
“Yes,” she replied, knowing her father would approve.
He winced and shook his head. “But . . . should I agree to it?”
“Only if you wish to.”
“My wishes?” He barked a dry little laugh. “God doesn’t often grant me what I wish for, I find.”
“Then perhaps you wish for the wrong things.”
He looked at her then, and his flinty eyes held hers. “You may be right. And what is it you wish for?”
The scene faded. Had it been real or mere fancy? She could not have said how she’d answered his question or even if she had. Nor did she recall the specifics of their arrangement.
She did remember what a tall, commanding presence he had been. But the figure shrouded in bedclothes before her seemed sadly diminished. She wondered what Sir John had wished for so earnestly. It seemed unlikely that it would be granted now. For certainly no one would have wished for a fate like this.
CHAPTER 4
The next day, Dr. Parrish and Mrs. Turrill came into her bedchamber together, bringing unusual tension with them. Something had happened, she thought. Or was about to.
“What is it?” she asked. “Is it Sir John?”
“No. His condition has not changed,” the doctor assured her, without his customary smile. He sat at her bedside, asked how she was feeling, and then looked significantly at his cousin.
Mrs. Turrill turned to her and began, “Edgar has brought up a few more things from the wreckage, and I think we’ve found something of yours, my lady.”
“Oh?” She looked at the woman with interest. “What is it?”
She held up an embroidered bag. “He found this among the rocks. It’s a needlework bag, apparently.”
Mrs. Turrill opened wide the bag’s cinched neck and extracted a ball of wool, and thin wooden needles still attached to a wad of knitting. She pulled it flat. “It’s a baby’s cap, I think,” the housekeeper said. “Did you make it?”
She accepted the damp, lopsided half circle and studied its loose, uneven stitches. “I don’t . . . think so.” She wondered if it had belonged to the poor woman in the carriage.
Dr. Parrish glanced at Mrs. Turrill again, then tentatively began, “You see, Sir John mentioned you were with child when he wrote, but—”
“Did he?” she interrupted in surprise.
The doctor exchanged an awkward look with his cousin, then continued, “But when I examined you, I . . .” he paused, apparently struggling to find the right words.
But she wasn’t really listening. She was staring at the small, knitted cap. She didn’t recognize it, and yet—looking at it filled her with a panicky dread.
Had she been knitting that cap? Was she expecting a child? How could she have forgotten something as life-changing as that? What was wrong with her—was her brain damaged? Instinctively, she laid her hand on her abdomen. So flat. Too flat.
The doctor cleared his throat and continued, “I’m afraid I discovered you’ve . . . lost the child.”
She stared at the man. “Lost him?”
With sad eyes, the doctor nodded and pressed her hand.
Grief pierced her, a dozen jabs with an icy knife of dread, deflating her heart, sending her soul into a dark well of pain. She forgot to breathe. Then—lungs searing hot—she opened her mouth and sucked in a sob-shaken breath.
She bit back the cry she longed to exhale, but there was no stopping the tears that spilled forth in its place.
Mrs. Turrill reached over and brushed a damp strand of hair from her face. “I am so sorry, my lady. It’s a great loss, to be sure. I’ve lost a child of my own, and know the pain you must feel. But praise God, you and Sir John survived and may yet have other children.”
She was vaguely aware of the doctor sending the woman a cautioning look, warning her not to raise her hopes, but she ignored it. Instead she recalled the dream—the baby in a basket, floating away from her. Had she lost her child? Lost him before he’d ever breathed? Then why did the sound of a baby’s cry ring in her memory as familiar as her own voice?
Her mind whirled, set free like a globe knocked from its stand and sent spinning across the room.
Her tears stopped flowing then, and in their place pellets of memory fell like sleet—one stinging shard after another. She gasped aloud, relief and new pain enveloping her. She had lost her child. But that did not mean he was dead, did it? Dear God, no.
“My lady . . . ?” Mrs. Turrill asked, eyes wide and worried.
“I . . . I am all right,” she managed. “Or at least I—we—shall be. I hope.”
Footfalls hammered up the stairs and Edgar Parrish lurched through the open door.
“Pa, come quick,” he panted. “The Dirksen boy took a bad fall from the tree in the churchyard.”
Dr. Parrish stood immediately. “I’ll get my bag. Have you alerted your mother?”
Edgar nodded. “She’s in the gig already.” The young man glanced at her sheepishly, his face reddening. “Sorry to interrupt, your ladyship.”
She squinted up at him, confusion returning. “Not at all . . .”
The doctor turned to Mrs. Turrill. “Please look in on Sir John for me.”
“Of course.”
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He looked at her and patted her hand. “Now. You just rest, my lady. Mrs. Turrill will look after you and your husband until we return.”
She nodded vaguely as he turned away. Watching them all go, her mind silently echoed, husband . . . ? She had no husband.
She felt her brow knit and her whirling thoughts snag and snarl at the doctor’s words. Her muddled brain had refused to take it in before. His words, Edgar’s, Mrs. Turrill’s had all seemed like nonsense. As if they were addressing someone else behind her, just out of view. Now her brain abruptly quit spinning and their words, their deferential manner, the fine room, snapped into place in her mind. They thought she was Lady Mayfield. That she, Hannah Rogers, was Sir John’s wife.
—
That night, Hannah tossed and turned for hours, trying to figure out how the misunderstanding had first arisen and how best to break the news. She dreaded to think how these respectable people would react when they learned the truth.
When she finally fell asleep, the dream revisited her. Her baby in a basket on shore. She’d meant to return for him directly, but instead lay there, unable to move. The tide was coming in. Closer and closer, lapping at the sides of the basket. A hand reached toward the basket—Lady Mayfield’s hand. But how could that be? Lady Mayfield was in the water, the tide pulling her, dragging her away, her waterlogged gown and cloak weighing her down. Hannah grasped her hand, trying to save her, but the woman’s fingers slipped from hers. Remembering her son, Hannah turned in alarm, but it was too late. The basket was already bobbing away across the channel.
The dream changed then—fearful imaginings replaced by fearful memory—a scene that was all too real. . . .
Hannah hurried to the old Trim Street terrace house where she’d spent her lying-in, and knocked on the door until the skin of her knuckles scraped raw. Finally, a narrow slit opened and a pair of irritated eyes appeared.
“Please, Mrs. Beech,” Hannah said. “I need to see him.”