Lady Maybe

by Julie Klassen

  Hannah ducked her head, not meeting his eyes. “I will come,” she said. She accepted, though not for the reasons either of them probably thought.

  Hannah had her own motives for getting out of town, away from the eyes of people who knew her best. But she wouldn’t be able to stay with the Mayfields forever. Her loose, high-waisted gowns would conceal her secret for several months. Maybe longer, since Sir John now avoided looking at her, and Lady Mayfield was self-absorbed. But eventually Hannah knew she would have to leave them, before they discovered the truth. . . .

  And several months later, her small savings in hand, Hannah did leave them. And tried to leave behind those memories, those feelings, and that vain hope. . . Now it all came flooding back. Did she have to lock it all away in the hidden trunk of her mind where she usually kept it? Or could she finally lay it all it to rest . . . along with Marianna Mayfield?

  CHAPTER 21

  The next day Mr. Lowden rode again to Barnstaple on business for Sir John, and some of the tension in the house departed with him.

  But not all.

  To thank his neighbors for all they had done for him and his “family,” Sir John had invited the Parrishes to dinner, and it was too late to rescind the invitation now.

  Mrs. Turrill had hired extra kitchen staff and two footmen for the day, and oversaw the preparation of a fine meal, sure to impress even her cousin-in-law, Mrs. Parrish.

  Hannah gave in to Mrs. Turrill’s urgings and wore one of Marianna’s prettiest gowns—an evening dress of white gauze striped with blue, pinned and tacked-in at the bodice to better fit her for the occasion. She also asked Kitty to curl and arrange her hair.

  It would be the first time Sir John would walk downstairs and preside over his own dining table. He left the invalid chair behind, trapped above stairs as he had once been, and made his way downstairs with Ben’s help. Sir John wore evening clothes that now hung loosely on him. But he looked elegant even so, in Hannah’s estimation.

  At the appointed hour, he stood at the door, leaning on his cane, to welcome his guests. Hannah saw the strain in his tight jaw and knew he was in pain.

  Mrs. Parrish entered, wearing a matronly, dark blue evening gown snug at bosom and upper arms and somewhat creased, as if she had not worn it in a long while. Nancy looked pretty in a dress of gossamer net over a pink satin, white flowers pinned in her hair. The doctor and Edgar wore Sunday best.

  Greetings were exchanged, wraps taken, and everyone moved into the dining parlor.

  “May I offer you something, Dr. Parrish?” Sir John indicated the decanter on the sideboard.

  The doctor patted his chest as though for answers. “I . . . well yes, I think I will. Just a spot. Special occasion and all.”

  Sir John poured a small glass, and Hannah noticed his hand was not quite steady.

  “Come, Sir John. Let the footmen do their work,” she said gently, taking his arm. “Your place at the head of the table awaits.”

  “Quite right, my lady.” Dr. Parrish nodded, sending her a look of understanding. “A place that has been empty too long, I’d say. I thank God you sit among us tonight, sir. Cause for celebration indeed.”

  “Here, here,” Edgar echoed.

  The six of them took their seats at the table. Mr. Lowden was not due back from Barnstaple until quite late, which, Hannah thought, was just as well. She was anxious enough as it was, sitting there at the foot of the table, facing Sir John at its head as though she really were mistress of the house, as though she really were Lady Mayfield. Nerves prickled through her and when she lifted her glass, her hands were not quite steady, either.

  They began the first course of oxtail soup and red mullet. As Hannah dipped her spoon, she noticed Becky standing just outside the door, Danny in her arms. The baby—two fingers in his mouth and drooling away as usual—seemed content, so why had Becky brought him down? But the girl’s eyes were not seeking hers out. Rather they seemed fastened on Edgar Parrish, a dreamy smile on her impish face. Edgar did not seem to notice, his attention fully engaged by Mrs. Turrill’s excellent soup. But Nancy noticed. And frowned.

  Oh, dear. Inwardly, Hannah sighed.

  She tried to catch the girl’s eye. And when Becky finally glanced her way, Hannah gave a little jerk of her head, signaling—she hoped—for the girl to move away from the door and stop ogling another woman’s man. Not that she had never done the same . . . Instead one of the eager new footmen mistook it as his cue to lay the next course, though most were still spooning their soup. As the young man reached for Sir John’s bowl, Hannah quickly lifted a hand to forestall him, sending him an apologetic smile for good measure. Not a promising beginning.

  Across the table, Mrs. Parrish smirked at her. Or perhaps Hannah was being overly sensitive.

  To cover the mistake, Hannah opened the conversation, as perhaps Sir John should have done as host. She looked at Edgar and Nancy and asked brightly, “So, you two. What are your plans?”

  It was the wrong question, evidently. Nancy turned to Edgar, who glanced at his mother. Seeing her dark expression, he looked into his soup. “Ah, we . . . No specific plans at present. I have my hands full managing the properties and putting money aside, and . . .”

  “Really, Lady Mayfield,” Mrs. Parrish said. “Don’t go putting ideas into their heads. They are still so young.”

  “Don’t forget, my dear,” Dr. Parrish spoke up. “You married me when you were only a slip of a girl. Barely eighteen.”

  Mrs. Parrish gave him a sour look. “I was too young to know my own mind. Just because my parents allowed me to rush headlong into marriage does not mean I must encourage my one and only son to follow the same, rash course.”

  Sheepish looks were exchanged, followed by silence as thick as clotted cream.

  Nancy looked up first, her brave smile belying tear-bright eyes. “And what about you, Lady Mayfield? Why do you not tell us how you met Sir John and about your courtship and wedding?” She gazed at Hannah hopefully.

  Hannah appreciated the girl’s tact in trying to rescue the conversation, but she did not appreciate the specific question.

  “Ah. Well.” She darted at glance at Sir John, hoping he might rescue her. He coolly met her gaze from the head of the table. Apparently not. “I . . . am afraid there is not much to tell.”

  “Come, my dear,” Sir John said. “If you won’t tell, then I shall have to do the honors.”

  Did she hear gallantry in his tone, or threat?

  When she said nothing, he began, “We met at a public ball in the Bristol assembly rooms.”

  Then he did remember, Hannah realized. It was not a flattering memory for either of them, so they had never spoken of it.

  Picking up the story, Hannah said lightly, “He refused to dance with me. Or at least ignored the extremely overt hint that he should do so, from the man who introduced us.”

  Sir John shrugged. “I never cared for dancing. Good thing.” He tapped his cane on the floor for emphasis and grinned wryly. “I suppose that’s one benefit of being lame—I shall finally have an excuse to decline that amusement.”

  “Oh now, Sir John.” The doctor tucked his chin in gentle chastisement. “One never knows. With God and plenty of exercise . . .”

  Nancy interrupted eagerly. “Did you know right away he was the one for you? Did he sweep you off your feet?”

  “Oh, em . . . Not then, no.”

  From the vestibule came the sound of the front door opening and closing. Everyone turned to look. A moment later James Lowden passed by the dining parlor on his way through the house.

  He drew up short at the sight of the well-lit and crowded room. “Oh. Sorry to interrupt. I forgot the dinner was tonight. You all go on with your meal.”

  “You’re back early,” Hannah said.

  “Yes. We concluded our transactions more quickly than anticipated.”
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br />   Hannah glanced at Sir John’s placid expression, then smiled politely at the newcomer. “You must join us, Mr. Lowden. I am sure there is room for another place. Is that not right, Mrs. Turrill?”

  Mrs. Turrill hesitated. “If you wish it, of course, my lady. And plenty of food.”

  James waved a dismissive hand. “That’s all right. I’ll have something later. I need to wash and change after being on the road.”

  Sir John looked from her to his solicitor. “Come, Lowden. Join us. You may even sit by Lady Mayfield if you like.”

  “Yes, do tell us the news from Barnstaple, Mr. Lowden,” Mrs. Parrish urged. “I don’t get there as often as I should like.”

  James surveyed their expectant faces. “Very well, if you insist. But only if you promise not to delay courses on my account. I don’t want Mrs. Turrill’s excellent cooking to go cold. You proceed and I shall join you in a few minutes. . . .”

  He returned a short while later, having changed and combed his windblown hair. He sat down in time for the main course—croquettes of chicken, boiled tongue, and vegetables.

  He picked up his table napkin and smiled at the cook-housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Turrill. Looks delicious.”

  “And what took you to Barnstaple, Mr. Lowden?” Mrs. Parrish asked from across the table, forking an asparagus spear into her mouth.

  He answered pleasantly, “Just some business for Sir John.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Parrish leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “What sort of business? Must have been important for you to undertake such a journey again so soon.”

  He glanced at his employer, then away. “Not especially, Mrs. Parrish, just banking and the like—too tedious for dinner conversation.”

  “If you say so.” The doctor’s wife lifted a heaping spoon from her saltcellar and sprinkled it liberally over her entire plate. Then she glanced at Mrs. Turrill, quietly directing the footmen near the sideboard. “Mr. Turrill’s business often took him to Barnstaple as well, I believe. Did it not, Mrs. Turrill?”

  Hannah looked over and saw the housekeeper’s face grow rigid—it was the first time Hannah had heard a Mr. Turrill mentioned.

  “Yes,” the housekeeper agreed with a brittle smile. “As well you know.”

  Mrs. Parrish returned her focus to the solicitor. “At least you returned from Barnstaple, Mr. Lowden. Not all men do.”

  The doctor’s mouth fell ajar. “Mrs. Parrish . . .” he breathed, sending a concerned look at his cousin.

  “I am only making conversation,” she insisted, sending a veiled glance toward her hostess. “It is the polite thing to do. And what was the news in Barnstaple, Mr. Lowden?” she went on, unaffected by her husband’s tone or the tension in the room.

  “Nothing much,” James replied. “High prices bemoaned, the summer fair anticipated. The usual sort of talk.” He glanced at George Parrish. “I brought those things you wanted from the apothecary, doctor. Don’t let me forget to give them to you after dinner.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lowden. Saved me a trip.”

  Mrs. Parrish sawed at a slice of boiled tongue with exaggerated effort and then chewed it laboriously. She said with philosophic air, “Tongue that is boiled too long always tends to be tough. So difficult to time it correctly.”

  Sir John regarded the woman evenly. When he spoke, the glint in his eye belied his pleasant voice. “One can learn to bite any tongue, Mrs. Parrish, no matter how tough or bitter, if one tries.”

  James bit back a grin and lifted a forkful of meat in salute. “Better a boiled tongue than a loose one, I always say.”

  Mrs. Parrish formed a feline smile and countered, “And either one is preferable to a forked tongue.” She gave Hannah a pointed look.

  Around the table, uneasy looks were shared—or avoided.

  From the sideboard, Mrs. Turrill abruptly announced, “Now who is ready for their desserts?”

  The dinner continued and with it the stilted conversation. Hannah sat there, barely tasting Mrs. Turrill’s lovely strawberry tartlets or orange jelly. The evening had clearly demonstrated to Hannah what life would be like if they allowed the deception to go on. It would mean continuing to lie to dear people like Dr. Parrish and Mrs. Turrill. And increasing her chances of discovery by people like Mrs. Parrish.

  No. James was right; it could not be borne. Or risked.

  She would have to gather her courage and talk to Sir John about ending the ruse. Danny didn’t need to be his heir. His protection, and hopefully someday his love, would be enough. Would Sir John bear the scandal and offer to marry her? If not, would James still want her? She doubted it.

  With a heavy heart, she realized she would probably lose them both.

  —

  The next day Hannah gathered her courage and took herself to Sir John’s bedchamber to discuss the matter.

  Mrs. Turrill was just coming out, men’s shaving kit in hand, and greeted her warmly. “Ah, my lady. You’re just in time. Sir John just asked me to find you.”

  “Did he? Well . . . good,” Hannah murmured, even as her palms perspired.

  Mrs. Turrill’s eyes twinkled. “Wait ’til you see him—some of my best work, if I do say so myself.” She grinned and walked away.

  Hannah crossed the threshold and drew up short, arrested by his appearance.

  Sir John Mayfield sat in a regular chair at his desk, his wheeled chair left in the corner. He was fully dressed in shoes, trousers, waistcoat, frockcoat, and cravat, hair groomed and face clean-shaven. He looked younger without the beard—handsome, serious, and masculine. She could hardly believe this was the same man who’d lain bedridden for weeks. He looked far more like the man who had once swept her into his arms and into his bed. She drew a shaky breath, and tried to blink the memory away.

  A sheaf of papers lay on the desk. He raised a hand and gestured toward the chair on its other side.

  Hannah walked forward, hands nervously clasped together, and sat down. “Before you say anything,” she began. “I need you to know that after last night, I have decided we cannot go on as we are. I will not continue to lie to everyone. Or to myself.”

  “I thought you might say that.” He bowed his head, inhaling deeply. “In time, I could try to have Marianna declared dead. But it seems premature at present.”

  She pursed her lip in surprise. “Because you would need the Parrishes to testify, and they think the woman they saw floating away was me?”

  “Not only that. Though that will pose a problem.”

  She frowned. “Then why—because her body has not been found?”

  “Oh, I doubt she will ever be found.” A strange light shone in his eyes. “But we cannot be certain.” He held her gaze. “Will you wait? Remain here with me until we can sort this out one way or another?”

  Why did he want to wait, Hannah wondered, and what exactly was he asking of her? He had not come out and asked her to marry him nor, she reminded herself, had he ever told her he loved her. Did he want her as a lover but not a wife? Or dread marrying a woman enmeshed in scandal?

  Once, she had wanted nothing more than to live as husband and wife with the father of her child. To know she and Danny would be taken care of. But that was before. In those old unspoken dreams, she had not tainted her chances by assuming Marianna’s identity, nor had she met James Lowden. . . .

  She faltered. “I . . . don’t know that I should stay that long.”

  Disappointment flitted across his face, but he didn’t press her. Instead he opened a desk drawer and extracted his leather purse, and from it drew out several bank notes.

  She watched his actions warily. “What are you doing?”

  “Here is enough money to set yourself up—you, Danny, and Becky—in a place of your own while you figure out what you wish to do next.”

  She stared at him, not reaching for the notes. She whispered, “Y
ou want us to leave?”

  He shrugged. “You will leave anyway, eventually. Why extend the charade any longer than necessary?” He laid the money on the table between them.

  She whispered, “The charade of being Lady Mayfield, you mean?”

  His eyes glinted. “The charade of caring for me.”

  “I . . . do care. And I don’t want your money.” She pushed the notes away. “Not like this. It feels like . . . a bribe to ease your conscience.”

  “And what if it is?”

  “Then I think you truly cruel . . . and not merely callous and cynical as you pretend.”

  “Ah, Hannah. You are the cruel one. Raising my hopes when I knew better.”

  “How did I?”

  “I thought I had finally found a woman who actually wanted to be my wife.”

  She stared at him, stunned by the open vulnerability in his eyes. Again she felt the stir of feelings she’d long ago laid to rest as futile and wrong. “Sir John, I—”

  Then his eyes shuttered and his mouth hardened. “Never mind. We all know what a poor judge of character I am where women are concerned.”

  Hannah felt as though she’d been slapped.

  He glanced at her, and sighed. “Forgive me. It’s only that I am well aware money is all I have to offer. I am a broken-down man who can barely walk. Why else would you want to stay?”

  Again, he held up a hand. “No. Don’t answer that. I am not fishing for compliments.” He turned to the sheaf of papers and briskly pulled forth several bound pages. “I have asked Mr. Lowden, against his better judgment and adamant counsel, to draw up a legal document—a trust for Daniel to provide for his needs and future education. I guessed you would not accept money for yourself. But I hope you will not refuse for Danny’s sake.”

  She stared at the legal document and the generous figure, speechless.

  Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now that your son is provided for, Miss Rogers, what do you want for yourself?”