James wondered what the Mayfields would do now—rebuke and rage at one other? Attempt some civil, stilted domestic scene? James found he could not stand the prospect of either. As tempted as he was to keep silent, it was time to put an end to this sham once and for all.
“Sir John,” James began. “Do you honestly plan to live with this woman?” He flicked a glance at Marianna, who was staring down into her drink as though for answers.
“You are the one who counseled me against divorce,” Sir John said dully. “Unless—have you found the evidence we’d need?”
“Not exactly. But I have discovered something that bears on your situation.”
Sir John’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”
“As you and I have discussed before, divorce is nearly impossible to achieve, scandalous, and typically unconscionable. But there is little typical about your case. Because you were never legally married to Marianna Spencer in the first place.”
Marianna’s head snapped up.
Sir John frowned thunderously. “What?”
James continued, “You are only too aware of Marianna’s longtime lover. But Anthony Fontaine is not only her lover—he is her husband.”
“Ha!” Marianna blurted. “I wish!”
Sir John scowled. “What are you talking about?”
James glanced at the woman—saw her dark look—but addressed his client as though she were not present. “Marianna Spencer eloped with Anthony Fontaine before her marriage to you. Her father found the wayward couple in Scotland a few days later and, knowing any attempt he made to publically annul the marriage would end in scandal and ruination for his daughter, he instead bribed Fontaine to hide the elopement and not object to Marianna’s marriage to you. A marriage that would bring his daughter not only the advantages of title and situation, but wealth as well. Wealth that would benefit all three of them.”
Marianna scoffed. “That is preposterous!”
Sir John ignored her. “After everything else we’ve been through today . . . You have got to be joking.”
“No. I am perfectly serious.”
“But that’s impossible,” Sir John said. “I heard nothing of any elopement. And why would Fontaine go along with such a scheme?”
“I imagine Marianna assured him that her marriage to you would be a marriage in name only and would not hinder them from being together.”
Sir John ran a hand through his hair. “Can you prove any of this?”
Marianna’s lip curled. “Of course he can’t.”
“I can actually,” James said. “All of it. I have the testimony of the coachman who drove them to Gretna Green, a certificate attesting to the marriage, and—”
Marianna protested, “No such evidence exists!”
James looked at her. “You mean, because the coachman burned it? He only pretended to—burnt a stage bill or some such in its stead.”
Marianna stiffened in her chair, white-faced, but met his gaze straight on. “Any certificate you have is a forgery, no doubt.”
“Oh, I think you will find it all too real,” James said. “As would a judge and jury.” He then again focused on his employer.
Sir John’s eyes pierced his. “How long have you known?”
James took a deep breath. “I learned of it just before I received your urgent letter summoning me here.”
“But you didn’t think it worth mentioning at the hearing?”
“Not really, no. If your marriage is to be annulled, that is for an ecclesiastical court to decide. Besides, I was not sure you would wish it aired in public. And . . .”
The taller man’s eyes glinted. “And you didn’t wish to reveal it for personal reasons.”
“I cannot deny it hindered me for a time, yes.”
Sir John crossed his arms. “Then why tell me now?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do. And I wouldn’t want Miss Rogers to . . . regret any decision she might make, without knowing all the facts.” Sir John met and held his gaze. Eyes keen with understanding.
Marianna lifted her chin.“I have done nothing illegal. It was all my father’s doing.”
James shook his head. “I disagree. I think you are guilty of the very charges you tried to lay at Miss Rogers’s door. And worse. For you entered a second marriage contract, knowing you were already legally bound to another man. That is bigamy as well as fraud.” James’s ears picked up the sound of stealthy footsteps entering the room.
“Do you not concur, Mr. Fontaine?”
Anthony Fontaine stepped into the room and leaned against the doorjamb. “Indeed, I do.”
Sir John rose to his feet. “How dare you enter my house?”
Fontaine’s eyes flashed. “How dare you marry my wife?”
Sir John threw up his hands. “Can this day get any worse?” He shot Marianna a thunderous look before turning back to Fontaine. “I had no idea she was married to you, if that is indeed true. While apparently you have known all along and have never bothered to protest before—our engagement or wedding. Why start now?”
“Revenge, I suppose.” Fontaine casually crossed his arms. “I thought to myself, what is good for the goose must be good for the gander. But when Marianna heard that I was wooing an heiress, she quickly squashed that relationship by sending an anonymous letter to the girl, letting her know I was already married. The girl cried off, taking her money with her.” He shook his head and tsked. “And after I’d been so understanding about Marianna and her knight.”
“Understanding?” Marianna sneered. “You were the first to agree when Papa proposed the scheme. I would never have gone along with it, had you not persuaded me to do so. How I longed for you to throw Papa’s plan back in his face and tell him no one would have me, save you. I would have defied him, had you stood by me. But you never could say no to money.”
Fontaine shrugged and gave them a self-satisfied smile. “I can’t deny it. It’s part of my charm apparently.”
James shook his head in disgust. Anthony Fontaine had initially been reluctant to accompany him to Devonshire, but finding the threatening letter he’d sent to Sir John in the solicitor’s possession had convinced him. Now, James Lowden looked from the smirking dandy to the vain adulteress and thought they made a well-matched pair. For the first time, he felt true sympathy for his client. And he was glad he’d uncovered the truth at last. . . .
James had waited in the dim parlor of the Red Lion, with its smoky fire and men in low conversation all around him. Right on schedule, the coachman, Tim Banks, appeared. James bought the man a pint and the two found a quiet corner.
Banks took a long drink, then began. “I was there, see, the night Mr. Spencer realized his daughter had up and left his house. He guessed straight away which way the wind blew, and lost no time in calling for his traveling coach and fastest horses. It was me at the reins, and the groom, Joe, alongside. We heard the old man swearing and shouting orders and had little doubt what had happened—his daughter, the spoiled Marianna—had gone off and eloped with her young man, against her father’s express orders to stop seeing him and marry the man he had chosen for her.”
“Sir John.”
“Right. So with Mr. Spencer and his spinster aunt in tow, we went charging out of the city on a direct course for Scotland. We drove day and night, only stopping to change horses. Joe and I took turns driving while the other tried to get a bit of sleep without being tossed to the ground.”
“When we finally crossed the border and reached Gretna Green, we stopped at the blacksmith’s shop. Mr. Spencer, his aunt beside him, asked where they might find a man who performed marriages. I was supposed to wait with the coach, but I left Joe with the horses and went to listen at the blacksmith’s door. I was curious. After all, had I not just ridden head over tails and barely slept for days to do whatever it was Mr. Spencer was determined to see done?”<
br />
The coachman took another drink of his ale. “The parson was called for and soon arrived. At least he called himself a parson, but didn’t look like no parson I’d ever seen. You know in Scotland, any adult can set ’imself up as a minister of weddings. No bans required, no license. Only two witnesses. Had himself a tidy little business from the looks of things. Even kept a room in a nearby inn they called ‘the nuptial chamber’ where couples might consummate their marriage quick afterward, to deter an angry father who might otherwise try to undo the marriage. Mr. Spencer asked the man if he kept any record of the marriages he performed, or sent any notice to the registrar. The man said he kept a book for his own records, but did not feel bound to notify the parish, since so many of the couples he wed lived elsewhere. He did say he provided any couple who wanted one—and had a shilling to pay—with a certificate of their marriage.”
The coachman slowly shook his head.
“Then I heard Mr. Spencer tell the supposed parson a tale of woe as I’ve never heard! Why I barely recognized my master’s voice, so grieved was he. Would the man not spare the reputation, nay the life, of his one and only daughter? She and the young man had realized the folly of their ways, he declared. And, filled with remorse, the repentant children had not even consummated the marriage after they’d said their vows. Could the good man not see his way clear to rubbing out that entry in his records . . . a spill of ink would do the trick and no one would be the wiser. Might a donation to his ‘ministry’ be unwelcome?
“I was nearly sick to hear him. Especially since we had not yet even found Marianna yet. And even if Mr. Spencer succeeded in having the record blotted out, there was no erasing the fact that the couple had been alone together—first in a post-chaise, then at an inn—for two or three days. And nights.” Again Banks shook his head. “The parson agreed out of the vast goodness of his heart—and Mr. Spencer’s purse.
“Afterward we went to the inn. When we arrived, Mr. Spencer bade me come in with him, with a blunderbuss in hand, in case Mr. Fontaine raised a violent objection. We found the happy couple, there, lodging under an assumed name. The picture of connubial bliss, I might add. How Mr. Spencer shouted. Marianna shouted back, waving the marriage certificate in her father’s face. He grabbed it from her, crumpled it, and flung it out the window. But then he thought the better of it and sent me to collect it so he could dispose of it more permanent-like. I ran down and collected the crumpled thing. When I returned, Mr. Spencer told me to toss it into the fire. Then he told me to wait outside. I left, hearing his voice change from shouting to cajoling to wheedling, though I did not hear the details of what he said.”
Banks paused, looking up at the hop-strewn beams above them as he reviewed the memory in his mind. “An hour later Marianna emerged from the inn, dressed and pale, and stepped inside the carriage with her aunt and father. Mr. Fontaine watched her leave from the inn doorway, oddly calm about the whole affair. Which made me suppose Mr. Spencer had promised him a great deal of money to forget the thing had ever happened. Later I heard that he’d paid his aunt a handsome sum to begin spreading the tale that she had escorted Marianna on some sightseeing trip, to cover for her absence.”
The coachman cringed. “He gave Joe and me money, too. Bonuses for the long trip and for our discretion in keeping to ourselves the ‘unfortunate events’ of the previous few days ’til the grave. Joe, I know, has done so. For he has a wife and five children to support and couldn’t afford to lose his place.”
“And you?”
“I’m ashamed to say I’ve kept quiet, too. Had I known Mr. Spencer still planned to marry her off to Sir John, and so quickly, I might have gone to him and told him what I knew. But I only learned of the wedding after the fact, by special license, I understand. And then I figured, well, Sir John won’t welcome such news now. Not when he’s gone and married her. It would ruin his reputation as well as hers. But I should have. Now that Mr. Spencer has passed on, I don’t feel the need to keep quiet anymore. Not if I can help Sir John.”
“Can you give me the name and direction of this Scottish ‘parson’?”
The coachman looked at him and shook his head. “I can do you one better. I can give you the marriage certificate.” The coachman pulled a folded paper from his pocket, slight wrinkles remaining from its long-ago crumpling, but otherwise intact.
“I’ve kept it all these years. I only pretended to toss it on the fire, but pocketed it instead. I don’t know why. I had no specific plan, it just seemed a clever thing to do at the time.” He shrugged. “Talking to you now. Maybe it was.”
James could not believe his good fortune. Yet he felt no sense of victory. Only regret and distaste. He nearly wished he had never gone to the old Spencer house.
He roused himself from his misery and reached into his pocket. “Allow me to give you something for your help. . . .”
The coachman raised a hand, palm forward. “No, thank you, sir. I never felt right about accepting Mr. Spencer’s money to keep quiet. So I won’t take a farthing this time.”
Afterward, James had gone in search of Anthony Fontaine to confirm the story. Then he called at Sir John’s Bristol house. The butler had met him with a frown and the news that Sir John had left in haste for Devonshire. He’d handed him a letter, unsealed and clearly read by the old, trusted retainer. Sir John’s hasty scrawl explained the urgency.
Special messenger arrived from Dr. Parrish. Miss R. in dire trouble. Accused of fraud by M.S.M. Called before Shirwell, J.P. Hearing on the twelfth. Come as soon as possible. She will need a good lawyer. And our prayers.
James had left Bristol without delay. But feared it might already be too late. For him.
Standing in the Clifton drawing room now, James saw no victory on Sir John’s face, either. He wondered what his client would ask him to do next and hoped it did not involve bigamy charges. Whatever the case, James was ready to shake the Devonshire dust from his boots forever. If only Hannah would be willing to leave it all behind as well.
—
The night of the hearing, after Danny and Becky were asleep, and Martha had excused herself to prepare for bed, Hannah and Mrs. Turrill sat up late talking.
“You are very kind, Mrs. Turrill, but I can’t stay here for long. Not when everyone here knows what I’ve done and suspects me guilty of even more, at least where Sir John and Mr. Lowden are concerned. For myself I wouldn’t care so much, but I don’t want Danny growing up under a cloud of scandal. I need to go somewhere new and start fresh.”
Mrs. Turrill said gently, “But think what running from the truth has wrought, my girl. How guilty you’ve felt. Why not stay and face your past. Shine the light of truth on all them dark days?”
Hannah expelled a weary sigh. “How far back in the past would I have to go? Back to my father—tell him I’m alive, that I’ve had a child, and by whom?”
“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Turrill said, dark eyes wide and sad. “Wouldn’t he want to know?”
“It would break his heart.”
“More than thinking you dead and lost to him forever?”
Hannah nodded bleakly.
“Are you certain? Remember, ‘whoever conceals their sins shall not prosper,’” she paraphrased the Proverb, “‘but whoever confesses and forsakes them finds mercy.’”
Mercy . . . Oh, how Hannah longed for it—from God and her father. “I’m afraid to face him,” she said. “I don’t know how merciful he’ll be. And I don’t want to hurt him more than I already have.”
Mrs. Turrill squeezed her hand. “Think of how you feel about Danny. Imagine him grown. Would you love him any less if he made some big mistake? Would you wish him dead? Or, even if you were hurt and disappointed by his wrongdoing, wouldn’t you want to know he was all right? That he had made his way back to the straight path? That he still loved you?”
Hannah nodded again, tears filling her eyes. “Yes.” Her thr
oat tightened. “But my father is a clergyman.”
Mrs. Turrill brought her face near, and looked solemnly into her eyes. “Yes,” she agreed. “But the clergyman is also a father.”
CHAPTER 27
Hannah left Devonshire without speaking to James Lowden or seeing Sir John again. She decided Mrs. Turrill was right. It was time to go home and make peace with the past—and with her father. To confess all, and hope for mercy.
Hannah traveled with Becky and Danny by stagecoach to Bristol. A city she’d once doubted she would ever return to. Mrs. Turrill had insisted Hannah not travel alone. But she promised Becky she could return to her and her sister’s house whenever she wished, and had even pressed coach fare into the girl’s palm to seal the promise.
Upon arrival in Bristol, Hannah first secured a room in a respectable lodging house and, there, left their luggage. After changing and feeding Danny, they walked to the carter’s stall where Fred Bonner worked with his father. Hannah carried Danny while Becky trailed behind, gaping and craning her neck to take in the tall buildings of the unfamiliar city.
“Hannah!” Fred called when he saw her. He jumped down from his cart, reins and horses forgotten and bounded over to her like the overgrown boy he was. She was relieved to find him there on her first attempt, and not en route to Bath.
He beamed at her. “How good to see you again.”
“You, too, Freddie.” Fred seemed to have forgotten that they’d parted on bad terms when he came to Clifton. He always had been a forgiving sort.
He stooped down, hands on knees, to regard the child in her arms. “Is this little Daniel? My goodness, he’s grown.”
Hannah turned and gestured. “And this is Becky Brown, his nurse. And . . . my friend. Becky, this is my dear old friend, Fred Bonner.”
Fred tipped his cap. “Hello, miss.”
Becky bobbed a shy curtsy. “Sir.”
He found a chair for Becky and Danny several feet away and then returned to Hannah’s side, dark eyes penetrating deep. “How are you, Han—? It is Hannah now, I hope?”