Lady Maybe

by Julie Klassen

  “Have you got the money?”

  “Not yet. But I will have.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “You told me that yesterday and the day before, and the day before that.”

  Hannah strived to keep her voice calm. “I know. I’m sorry. Please—”

  “I’m out of patience. When you pay me what’s owed, you may see him. But not before.”

  “You can’t do that. I’m his mother. I need—”

  “And I need what’s due me. This is not a charity, girl. I’ve learnt how to deal with chits like you. Mercy gets me nowhere. It’s a hard line that speaks to girls used to gettin’ their way, wheedling another coin from some weak parent or sweetheart. Well I ain’t your mother nor your sweetheart. Give me what’s mine and I shall give you what’s yours.”

  “But, you have no right—”

  “I have every right.” The eyes flashed. “Don’t believe me? Go to the constable if you like. Tell him I’m holding your child and tell him why. Mr. Green has no sympathy for those who don’t pay what they owe. See if you don’t end up at the workhouse yet. Or debtor’s prison.”

  Hannah gasped. “You wouldn’t. . . .”

  “Wouldn’t I? I don’t keep brats whose way ain’t paid. And what would become of your wee babe then?”

  Terror shot through Hannah. What was she threatening to do? Hannah could hardly believe this woman was the same benevolent matron who had received her so kindly only months before. She rushed on desperately, “I have a new situation, but I won’t receive my allowance until quarter’s end. What would you suggest I do—beg in the streets?”

  “No. Nothing so unprofitable. I am a businesswoman after all. Do what most girls in your situation do.”

  Hannah shivered. “I would never do such a thing, Mrs. Beech. Whatever you might think of me.”

  “Evidence to the contrary, perhaps now is the time to start. Tom Simpkins would set you up in no time, no doubt.”

  “Tom Simpkins is a—”

  “Tom Simpkins is my brother, girl. Careful what you say.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Beech. But please—”

  The eyes moved away from the slit. “Come back when you’ve got the money.”

  She called after the woman, “Who is nursing him?”

  “Becky.”

  Becky? Sweet, simple, unstable Becky.

  Hannah swallowed. “I will get the money, I will. Every last shilling. But promise me you’ll take care of him until I return. Please—it isn’t his fault. Take good care of him, I beg of you.”

  “Every day you leave him here is another shilling. The rate goes up when you’re in arrears.” The slit shut with a metallic click. How very final it sounded.

  Hannah winced. A shilling a day? It was practically all she earned. She would never catch up. She stood there on the stoop, frozen in dread. Her breasts stung with pinpricks of milk. She had wrapped her bosom when she took the new situation—sneaking away to nurse her son once a day and twice on Sundays. Her milk had already diminished, yet the build-up still ached. But that was nothing to the pain in her heart. . . .

  With a start, Hannah opened her eyes. She drew in a long breath and blinked at her surroundings. Where was Danny? She looked to the right and to the left, pulse pounding. Then she recalled with a heavy heart that her baby was not with her. He was at Mrs. Beech’s, out of reach.

  Becky will look out for him, she told herself. Becky will make sure he doesn’t go hungry.

  Then Hannah remembered Becky’s trembling hands, pale face, and wide vacant eyes when she’d first seen the bereaved girl wandering the streets of Bath, looking for her own child, forgetting or unwilling to accept that her infant daughter had died.

  Her precious son’s well-being was in this girl’s hands? Oh, God in heaven, protect him! Keep him in your safekeeping until I can return for him.

  Return. She had to return to him. Now. What had she been thinking to leave him? Had she any idea the Mayfields meant to go so far, she never would have agreed. And now with Sir John lying near death and his wife drowned, she wouldn’t even receive the generous allowance Lady Mayfield had promised her. How then would she redeem her son?

  Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, down her temples and into her hair. She raised a hand to brush the tears away—a hand that bore a large ring. A gold band, amethyst and purple sapphires.

  She recognized it again, only now she remembered why—Marianna almost always wore it. How had Lady Mayfield’s ring ended on her hand? Fragments of memory tried to reassert themselves, but she saw only jumbled pieces through wavy, clouded glass. She had thought it only a dream. But had it really happened? Had she been sensible enough to grasp Lady Mayfield’s hand before the woman was pulled out by the receding tide—and weak as she was, ended up with only her ring?

  She blinked and blinked again. It didn’t seem right. What a frightening, unsettling feeling, not being able to sift reality from dream.

  But one thing she did remember and knew with all certainty. She needed to find a way to return to Bath as soon as possible, and with enough money to pay her ever-mounting debt to the matron who held her son’s life in her hands. Though in reality both heartless Mrs. Beech and troubled Becky frightened her.

  The gems of the ring caught the sunlight slicing through the window, sending shafts of colored light dancing on the ceiling.

  A sign, or a temptation?

  Surely a ring like this was worth a great deal. A ring Sir John, if he lived, would believe consigned to the tides, lost forever with his wife.

  Dare she?

  A short while later, Dr. Parrish and his wife stopped by to check on her. He cheerfully reported that the little boy who’d fallen from the tree was recovering nicely. “Little scamp dislocated his collarbone, but I’ve set it back in place. He’ll be right as a trivet in no time.”

  “If his poor harried mamma can somehow keep him quiet in bed for a few days,” Mrs. Parrish added doubtfully.

  Hannah formed a faint, dutiful smile, though her thoughts and stomach churned.

  Tentatively, she began, “May I ask, Dr. Parrish. Are you . . . well acquainted with Sir John?”

  He sat in the armchair nearby, clearly happy to stay and talk. His wife lingered in the doorway.

  “Not at all,” Dr. Parrish said. “Only by letters. Never met the man before and I suppose I still haven’t. Not really.”

  “But—” She frowned in concentration. “I thought you said your son . . . ?”

  He nodded. “Edgar met him when Sir John came out to look at the place a few months ago.”

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Parrish added. “Dr. Parrish and I were away delivering twins at the time.”

  “Sir John came alone?”

  “Had a man with him, Edgar said. A man of business, I think, though I don’t exactly recall.” The doctor’s eyes sparkled. “But you were not with him, my lady. Edgar made no mention of the charming Lady Mayfield. That I would recall.”

  Mrs. Parrish frowned and crossed her arms.

  Hannah opened her mouth to correct him, then stopped. The fact that a lady’s companion would be sent packing once there was no lady in the house gave her pause. The valuable ring gave her pause. The very notion gave her pause. But her conscience rose up, urging her to tell the truth and find a way to redeem Danny honestly.

  She asked, “Dr. Parrish, can you tell me how soon I will be well enough to travel?”

  His eyes widened. “Travel? But you have only just arrived.”

  “I know. But I need to return to Bath as soon as possible.”

  Mrs. Parrish’s frown deepened. “Why, if I may ask? If you forgot something, perhaps we might send for it.”

  Hannah shook her head. “I didn’t forget anything.” She winced at the irony of those words. “But I have left
someone extremely important in Bath and I must return for him.”

  They both looked at her expectantly, awaiting an explanation.

  She swallowed. “My son. I am ashamed to say I forgot him for a time.”

  The doctor’s eyes widened once more. “Good heavens! When I examined you, I assumed you’d miscarried the child. Though considering, well, several things, I should have known you’d already delivered. I am so sorry I blundered in saying you’d lost the child. How incompetent you must think me!”

  “Not at all,” Hannah mumbled. “Remind me. How did you even know there was a child?”

  “Sir John mentioned his wife was expecting in one of his letters.”

  “Ah.” She lifted her chin in understanding, but inwardly her thoughts rebelled. How had she not noticed Marianna was in the family way?

  “Praise God, you did not bring the child with you,” Dr. Parrish continued. “I shudder at the thought of a wee one in that wreck. A son, you said?”

  “Yes. I . . . left him with his nurse.”

  “Until you were settled and had readied the house?” Mrs. Parrish asked. “There is no proper nursery as yet. I’m surprised Sir John did not ask Edgar to have one fitted up for your arrival.”

  Hannah had no idea how to answer that. She had been about to tell the truth about her child and situation, only to find the Parrishes already quite aware “Lady Mayfield” had been expecting a child, though not this soon. Now her emotions were in turmoil, and indecision plagued her. . . . If it meant being able to rescue her son, dare she allow them to continue believing she was Lady Mayfield—just for a little while? Just long enough to have her baby boy back in her arms?

  She faltered. “I . . . don’t know why. All I know is that I need to return to my son.”

  The doctor nodded. “And bring him here as soon as may be. Yes, what a comfort he shall be to you in these uncertain days.”

  “A great comfort,” she agreed.

  “As eager as you are, I must insist you wait a few more days before undertaking such a journey. Allow that head wound to heal a bit more. I’ve set your arm with splints and soaked bandages. But the starch solution requires several days to dry thoroughly enough to immobilize the bone. If you rush things, it won’t heal properly. You don’t want to risk the use of the arm.”

  No, she could not afford to lose the use of her arm. How then would she be able to work to support herself and her son?

  What if she allowed the misapprehension to continue for just a few more days? Then she would leave, sell the ring if she had to, collect Danny, and disappear, never to return.

  Would God forgive such a deception? There was only one thing that would cause her to stoop to such a ruse—the well-being of her son. She would do anything—well, almost anything—to rescue him.

  —

  “Good morning, my lady,” Mrs. Turrill greeted as she carried in the breakfast tray the next day. It was her customary greeting, but the words, the title, sounded suddenly jarring in Hannah’s ears.

  Today Mrs. Turrill wore a long-sleeved frock of deep plum, a ruffled neck scarf, and a long apron. She set the tray on a side table, then turned to her. “Shall we try sitting in an armchair today, my lady? If you feel up to it, that is.”

  Her voice was musical, with a broad range of tones depending on her mood. Hearing it made Hannah feel homesick. For while her mother had spoken with an upper-class accent and her father had lived in Oxford in his years as tutor and curate, most of her neighbors and childhood friends sounded like Mrs. Turrill. She wondered how long the woman had lived in Bristol, why she had returned, and about the child she mentioned she’d lost. But Hannah didn’t ask. She did not want to compound her sins by forming friendships—or tempt the woman to ask personal questions in return.

  So instead, Hannah managed a wan smile and said, “Yes, I think I can manage that.”

  Mrs. Turrill helped her from the bed and into an armchair, and there Hannah began her breakfast, Mrs. Turrill chatting cheerfully all the while.

  How Hannah wished she might feign sleep and the insensibility that excused her falseness. But she had to prove herself recovering and well enough to travel as soon as possible.

  Later that morning, Hannah was still sitting in the chair and staring out the window when Dr. Parrish stopped by her room with his medical bag.

  He beamed at her. “How good to see you out of that bed.”

  He examined her head wound, declared it was healing well, and decided it was time to remove the stitches. Hannah bit the inside of her cheek to keep tears at bay during the unpleasant procedure, and exhaled in relief when he’d finished.

  He patted her hand. “Well done, brave lady.” He put his implements away, then asked, “Shall we try walking once more, my lady? I imagine you are anxious to see your husband again.”

  Hannah’s throat tightened. “I don’t know. Do you think it would be . . . safe?”

  “Safe?”

  She thought quickly. “With my arm, I mean.”

  “Yes, I think so. We’ll take it slow, and be careful not to jostle your arm.”

  There was no graceful way to refuse to see her “husband,” so she whispered, “Very well.”

  The doctor helped her rise. As usual, the room swam, and her legs felt weak and unstable.

  He tightened his grip on her good arm. “Dizziness or weakness?”

  She forced a smile. “A little of both.”

  “Then perhaps we should wait until tomorrow,” he suggested. “Or we could use the wheeled chair again . . . ?”

  She was tempted to claim fatigue and put off the visit to Sir John’s bedside altogether. But she firmed her resolve, knowing the sooner she proved herself sufficiently recovered, the sooner she could leave.

  “Just give me a moment.” She inhaled deeply. “Yes, there. The dizziness is passing.”

  He waited patiently, studying her face. What did he see? Was he thinking to himself that he’d imagined a “lady” to be more beautiful? More genteel? She took a deep breath, then another. “All right. I am ready.”

  He cupped her elbow to support her and gently led her across the room and out into the passage. Hannah’s heart rate accelerated with each step. The nearer they drew to Sir John’s bedchamber, the more her nerves jangled. She didn’t know which she dreaded more: seeing the man broken and bruised and lying near death, or that he might regain his senses, open his eyes, and declare her a fraud.

  When they reached the bedchamber door, Dr. Parrish opened it and ushered her inside.

  The doctor’s sharp-featured wife sat in a chair near the foot of the bed, knitting wool and needles in her lap, keeping watch over her husband’s patient.

  “Any change, Mrs. Parrish?”

  “No change, Dr. Parrish.”

  Knowing it was expected of her, Hannah turned toward the bed, pressing her good hand to her abdomen. How cold, she thought, to be glad the man was insensible. He lay still as before, eyes closed. The bruises on his face were beginning to change color, his cheekbone perhaps a little less swollen, his mouth still slack. No one had shaved him, and whiskers darkened the lower half of his face in colors of bronze and silver. She had always thought him young for his age, but now he looked older than his forty years. Only his hair seemed the same—thick and brown with a faint silvering at his side-whiskers.

  She was aware of the doctor beside her. Sensed his wife’s expectant air. Having no idea what to say, Hannah mumbled, “He looks . . . different.”

  The physician nodded. “I imagine he does.”

  She whispered, “What did the surgeon say?”

  Dr. Parrish regretfully shook his head. “He isn’t keen on operating at present. He isn’t convinced Sir John’s brain has swelled to a dangerous degree. I am afraid he doesn’t think your husband would survive an operation, even if he thought one necessary. He is too weak.
”

  Sadness swept over her. “I see.”

  Mrs. Parrish tipped her head to one side. “Strange that he was so severely injured, while you were not, my lady. I suspect his body cushioned yours against the first violent impact before the carriage rolled.”

  Hannah recalled waking to find Sir John sprawled across her body. But if the woman’s theory was correct, she felt grateful, and a little guilty, for escaping relatively unscathed.

  Mrs. Parrish added, “The vicar has been here to see him. I hope you don’t mind my asking him?”

  “Of course not,” Hannah whispered.

  “He prayed over you as well.”

  Hannah’s head jerked up. “Did he? I don’t remember.”

  “You were asleep. We didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Oh.” An uncomfortable feeling snaked up her spine at the thought.

  Dr. Parrish said gently, “You may touch him, if you like, my lady. You shan’t hurt him.”

  Hannah swallowed. She supposed a wife would want to touch her husband, smooth the hair from his brow. Squeeze his hand. Whisper in his ear that she loved him. But she was not his wife. And Hannah knew that Lady Mayfield herself would likely not do so either, had she been there. Besides, Hannah was reluctant to touch him under the watchful eyes of doctor and wife. It would be taking her “role” too far. Would they remember she had taken such a liberty after she left—after the truth was known?

  As she stood there thinking, not moving, not touching, she felt Mrs. Parrish’s frowning gaze on her profile.

  Hannah bit her lip, stepped forward, and reached out a tentative hand. Would they notice it trembling? She touched Sir John’s arm, lightly, afraid to wake him, before quickly stepping back.

  Dr. Parrish stood beside her. “I hope and pray he will recover in time.”

  “As do I,” Hannah said solemnly. And she sincerely meant it, though she planned to be well away before then.

  CHAPTER 5

  The next morning, Hannah announced to Mrs. Turrill that she would like to dress for the day, rather than remain in nightdress and wrapper. The woman smiled and said she thought that an excellent notion. The dress Hannah had been wearing the day of the wreck had been torn and stained, and she didn’t see her own valise among the luggage piled in the corner. It had apparently been lost to the tide. Only her reticule on the bedside table had remained with her after the crash—its ribbons tied to her wrist. So Hannah asked the housekeeper to help her into one of Marianna’s older day dresses of loose, stretchy muslin, which could easily be slipped over her wrapped arm. She did not want to wear any of Marianna’s finer, fitted gowns, which would likely hang on her. And how presumptuous she would feel to do so.