“Yes.” She hesitated. How was she? It was a complicated question, considering Marianna was back in Sir John’s life, while Mr. Lowden was apparently out of hers. But the lengthy truth could wait for another day.
Instead she smiled and said, “I am . . . well. And how are you? Your cart looks dashing. New paint?” She walked over to it, away from his too direct gaze.
He gathered the reins and set the hand brake. “It is, yes.”
“And how goes your route? Business good?”
“Very well. Or, well enough. Han—”
“Oh. I wasn’t hinting or anything like that,” Hannah hurried to say. “Truly. I just wondered . . . hoped it was going well for you.”
His hound-dog eyes turned downward. “Hannah. I know better than to hope. Though the offer still stands. So tell me, what it is you want? Why did you come to see me?”
“Dear Freddie.” She swallowed. “I wanted to let you know I was back. And to ask about my father. How he fares . . . ?” To herself she added, What he knows.
“He seems all right. Sad of course, but he’s in good health, if that’s what you mean. He told me Mayfield’s solicitor came to see him as he did me.”
“May I ask what you told my father?”
Fred shrugged. “I’ve told him nothing since I saw you in Devon. You asked me to let it lie.”
“I know I did. Though now I think it’s time I faced the truth. Confessed everything. But I’m scared, Freddie.”
“As well you should be.”
“Freddie!”
“I’m sorry, Han. But it’s true. It’s a deep pit you’ve dug for yourself.”
She bit her lip and asked tentatively, “I don’t suppose you’d help me out of it?”
“You don’t want my help.”
“I just meant, ease the way for me. Let him know that the newspaper had it wrong, and I’m still alive. And . . . have a child. And I am here in Bristol if he wants to see me. I’m staying in Mrs. Hurst’s lodging house, in Little King Street.”
“I don’t know, Han.”
She recalled Mrs. Turrill’s words, “But nothing is too big for God. No pit we dig for ourselves too deep. He is already reachin’ a hand down to you, ready to pull you up. . . .”
Silently, Hannah prayed, God, will you help me?
She looked at Fred and suddenly straightened with resolve. “You know what—you’re right. I will go and see him myself.”
His brows rose. “Now?”
Fear flooded Hannah at the thought. “Oh. Um. Not this moment, but very soon.” After I find the courage, she thought. If only she had thought to pack some.
Hannah pressed her friend’s arm. “Thank you, Freddie.”
“I did nothing.”
“That’s not true. You gave me just what I needed.”
—
On Sunday, Hannah stood outside the Bristol church where her father served as underpaid curate. He had not the connections to bring him a good living as rector or vicar. The humble life suited him, he had always insisted. Though it had meant his sons had to be sent to sea quite young, and his daughter had needed to seek a paid position to support herself.
From outside the ancient grey stone building, she heard the low drone of her father’s voice, delivering his sermon. Followed by the reedy voices of the elderly congregation, singing a solemn hymn.
She did not intend to enter. Nor interrupt. She would wait until she could greet him alone, in private. But knowing he was occupied inside, Hannah felt at her ease to meander through the churchyard and gain her bearings. Oh, the hours she’d spent there as a girl.
Seeing the gnarled yew tree in the corner, Hannah walked toward it to visit her mother’s grave. As she neared, she suddenly stopped and stared, craning her head forward even as her feet felt rooted to the mossy ground. There was a new grave beside her mother’s. And the name on the headstone . . .
It was her name.
She stepped forward and melted to her knees before the modest headstone.
IN MEMORY
HANNAH ROGERS
BELOVED DAUGHTER
1796–1819
Tears flooded her eyes. Had he really? Had her father, with his threadbare stockings, worn-out shoes, and watered-down soups, actually spent such a sum? To memorialize her life and death, when there had not even been a body to bury? She would never have thought it. Not in a hundred years. The man would burn only a single tallow candle to read by or compose his sermons by, only when the window stubbornly refused to provide sufficient light for his ever-weakening eyes. He had spent such a sum on her?
Seeing the headstone made her sick with regret. She felt she would lose her meager breakfast then and there. It stole her courage, even as “beloved daughter” ought to have bolstered it. How doubly sorry he would be to have spent his modest savings on such a stone, when she had been alive all along. Alive and living a lie in the bargain. How sorry he would be to have memorialized her as beloved daughter, once he had learned of her many sins.
She ran gloved fingers over the carved letters of her name.
That Hannah Rogers—cherished, blameless daughter—had died. Had died more than a year before. And there would be no resurrecting her now.
—
Hannah returned to the lodging house without seeing her father. She could not face him after that. She would write a letter and invite him to call on her if he wished.
Thoughts of a letter reminded her of Sir John’s admonition to keep Mr. Lowden apprised of her whereabouts. So, Hannah sent a note to his offices with the direction of the lodging house.
Then, she waited. Several days came and went. And with each passing hour her nerves and fears escalated. She had written to him and told him they had been apart too long. She wanted to see him again and proposed a meeting. But did he want to see her, after the way she had left him? She didn’t know.
Mrs. Turrill had advised her to meet him on neutral ground. Away from his usual territory. So, she waited in the lodging house’s private sitting room, which she had let for an extra half-crown for the occasion. The proposed meeting time came and went. Tea waited and grew strong then cold. Cool cucumber sandwiches wilted and Hannah began to lose heart. And courage.
She paced the room again, wringing her hands. Practicing what she would say. Becky and Danny napped in their room above. Hannah wanted to see him alone first—wanted their reunion to be a private one. But would he even come?
Another half an hour passed. Tears threatened and she blinked them back, refusing to give in to them. She and Danny were managing on their own. She reminded herself that they had each other. They had friends in Mrs. Turrill, Becky, and Fred. They didn’t need—
A knock sounded and Hannah froze. Her heartbeat seemed louder than the distant knock. Footsteps followed—thump, thump, thump. The owner of the lodging house going to the front door in her heavy-heeled shoes. Muffled voices and then two pairs of shoes crossing the entry hall. Hannah’s pulse accelerated with each approaching step. A single knock on the sitting room door, the hinge creaking open, footsteps entering. Hannah took a deep breath, wiped her damp palms on her handkerchief, and turned.
There he was.
Mrs. Hurst nodded solemnly and shut the door behind her visitor. Hannah’s heart squeezed to see him again. He stood stiffly, wearing neither coat nor hat. Mrs. Hurst must have polished her manners and taken them. Could she not have taken his grim expression as well?
She reminded herself to breathe. To hold herself erect. To pray . . .
“Hello. Thank you for coming. Please, won’t you be seated?”
Her father stared at her a moment, but remained where he was.
Nerves quaking, she gestured toward the tray. “Tea?”
He shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Her father’s voice. Ah, what memories it evoked. He looked
older, even thinner than she recalled.
She was strangely relieved to allow the tea she had paid for to go to waste. She was sure her hands would tremble if she tried to pour.
She decided she would not presume to call him “Papa” as she used to do. She cleared her throat and began. “Father, I have asked you here to seek your advice.”
“Oh?” Wary reserve steeled his expression. “You did not see fit to seek it before.”
“No, I did not. That was just one of my many mistakes. But I am asking now.”
He crossed his arms over his thin chest. “I am listening.”
“I have many decisions before me. Decisions that affect my future and that of my son. Yes, I have a son now.”
He nodded. “Fred told me a few days ago—even before I received your letter. He came to let me know you were alive. Why did you not tell me yourself?”
So dear Fred had broken the news after all. She said, “Because I knew my fall from grace would cast a shadow on your reputation, perhaps even cost you the curacy. Don’t worry. I have not come to ask for money or help. Only for advice and . . . perhaps, forgiveness. I have no wish to be a financial burden, nor a burden of any kind. But I do long for your forgiveness.”
He had been staring down at his hands during this, her practiced speech, but now he looked up at her. “You assume I care more for my reputation than my daughter’s well-being?”
“Well, you cannot help but be concerned about it, and I don’t blame you.”
“You thought I wouldn’t forgive you?”
“Will you? I am so sorry, Papa. For everything.” There. It slipped out.
He looked down at his hands once more. “Do you know how I worried? How devastated I was when I heard that you had died? I would have given up a hundred curacies to have you back.”
Hannah’s chest ached. Tears filled her eyes. “And when you learned I was alive?”
“I was relieved, and yet angry. Why did you not come to me yourself? Tell me what was going on? I might have helped you.”
“Forgive me, Papa, but I know you well. You would not have easily forgiven my being with child, nor bringing shame upon you. In all honesty, I thought it would be better for you if I had died.”
He gaped at her. “Are you so new at being a parent? Yes, you’re right—I would have been greatly disappointed, shocked, embarrassed, everything. I might have even asked you to go away somewhere and have the child in secret. But I would never, ever, wish you dead.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“So am I,” he said, voice low and gravelly. The voice she had often heard when he prayed over a dying child or a favorite old parishioner. He stepped closer, and she noticed tears in his eyes, too. “And, yes, I forgive you.”
He reached out and took her hand, and she squeezed his in reply. For a moment they stood that way, in thick silence, eyes damp.
Then he tucked his chin and looked up at her. “Now. Do I get to meet this grandchild of mine or not?”
CHAPTER 28
The next day, her father surprised her by sending over a few of her finer gowns from those she’d left behind when setting off as lady’s companion. What a pleasure to wear something of her own.
Becky helped her into a lovely walking dress of jaconet muslin trimmed in white lace. Over this, she wore a wine-colored velvet spencer and a matching bonnet—its upturned brim lined in pleated white satin. She tied the ribbons beneath her chin, thanked Becky, kissed Danny, and left the room. Reticule dangling from her wrist, she started down the stairs, intent on a few errands.
Below, the lodging house door opened and James Lowden stepped inside. Hannah halted on the half landing, a storm of conflicting emotions flooding her. She glanced nervously about, relieved not to see Mrs. Hurst, who had strict rules about gentlemen callers. Had her landlady mentioned this was her afternoon to play whist at a friend’s house? Hannah hoped so.
“Mr. Lowden.”
His head snapped up and he spotted her there on the landing. His gaze swept her person, head to toe, and back again. “You look . . . well,” he breathed. But his eyes said “beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She was relieved to be dressed in a becoming gown, her freckles lightly powdered for good measure. James looked handsome as well, and cut a dashing figure in frock coat, snowy cravat, and patterned waistcoat. He removed his hat, and continued to watch her.
She self-consciously descended the remaining stairs.
“Perhaps you would step into the sitting room, Mr. Lowden?” she suggested, errands forgotten. “We may talk there.”
He gestured for her to precede him, set his hat on the sideboard inside, and with a meaningful look at her, slowly closed the door behind them.
Hannah removed her bonnet, pulse racing. His compliment and warm look were a relief after their cool parting. After she had turned him down. Followed by that mortifying hearing. She was pleased James still could—would—speak kindly to her. For a moment she felt a flicker of disloyalty. Then she reminded herself that despite her long-held affection for Sir John, her chance with him was lost now that Marianna had returned. Like it or not, he was a married man, and she herself had urged him not to pursue divorce.
James slowly crossed the room to her, his eager gaze locking on hers. Her breath hitched. Might there be a future for them yet? Could James help heal her heart?
The blacks of his eyes dilated, nearly eclipsing the green irises. His nostrils flared. “Hannah . . .” He drew out the syllables in breathy longing.
“I’m . . . here,” she faltered, and waited for him to kiss her.
He raised his hand, gently stroking her cheek. “Darling Hannah,” he murmured, yet remained where he was.
Why did he hesitate? she wondered.
James dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “Before we say or . . . do . . . anything else, I need to tell you something.”
But inhaling the smell of his cologne, and focused on the grooves carved alongside his mouth, Hannah barely heard his demur, his words, whatever they were. She didn’t want to talk. She wanted to forget. All her fear and humiliation of the last weeks. All her conflicted feelings for a man who would never be hers.
“Hush,” she whispered, running a finger over his lips and then along one of those appealing grooves.
Instantly, James bridged the gap between them and pressed his mouth to hers. He gathered her in his arms and held her close. Angling his head, he deepened the kiss. Warm, passionate, intense. His hands bracketed her waist, pulling her more tightly against him.
He broke their kiss and trailed his lips over her cheek, her neck, her ear. “Marry me,” he whispered.
A shiver passed over her, and she drew in a shaky breath. But then she thought again of Sir John and her chest tightened.
“James, wait—”
Hannah pushed away. “I’m sorry. I thought, perhaps, but . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t. Not now. Too much has happened.”
He grimaced as though in pain, and pressed his forehead to hers. “I know.” He panted, catching his breath. “Forgive me. I got carried away.”
James released her, took a step back, and blew out a ragged exhale. “I came here determined to keep my distance. At least until I had told what I need to tell you.”
She looked up at him in concern. “What is it?”
He looked at her warily. Pursed his lips, then began. “I have learned that Sir John was never legally married to Marianna Spencer.”
“What?” Hannah frowned in confusion. She must have heard wrong.
“You remember Sir John sent me to find evidence against Mr. Fontaine—about the affair?”
She nodded.
“Instead, when I returned to Bristol, I discovered that she had eloped with Anthony Fontaine before she wed Sir John.”
Hannah gaped. “You can’t be ser
ious.”
“I am—unfortunately. Her father wanted her to marry Sir John. He was outraged and refused to acknowledge the elopement as legal. So he covered it up. Paid the parson, the coachman, etc. to keep it quiet. To pretend it never happened.”
“And Mr. Fontaine?”
“Quite willing to go along with the scheme, for a price of course. Apparently he and Marianna never had any intention of ending their relationship.”
“I can’t believe it. What a risk!”
“Yes. A gamble that could cost her dearly in the end. Bigamy can be a hanging offense, you know.”
“Surely it won’t come to that.”
“I doubt it, but it is possible.”
Hannah felt as though someone had let the air from her lungs like a punctured balloon. She weakly lowered herself onto a chair. The warmth of desire evaporated into a chill.
She closed her eyes and murmured a mournful, “Oh, Sir John . . .”
James rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes. Even I feel sorry for him.”
“What does he plan to do?”
“He is seeking a decree of nullity on the grounds of fraud.”
“Will he succeed?”
Mouth tight, James turned away. “With both Fontaine and the coachman willing to testify, I think it a foregone conclusion.”
She looked at his tense profile, his averted eyes, and said quietly, “No wonder you didn’t wish to tell me. . . .”
“I did try—”
She held up a placating palm. “I know you did. I don’t blame you for . . . anything.” She forced a feeble chuckle. “I am rather surprised you told me at all.”
“I admit I was tempted to wait. Perhaps even to suggest an elopement of our own, before you heard the news from someone else. But I—”
“You are too honorable for that,” she finished for him.
“Am I?” He took her hand. “In any case, I am still tempted to press my suit. But I will give you time to absorb the news first. May I call again?”