Lady Maybe

by Julie Klassen

  She walked to the house on Great George Street—Sir John’s Bristol residence. A place she had lived as Marianna’s companion before they’d moved to Bath. The place Danny had been conceived.

  She swallowed at the thought and hoped she would not be met by a sneering, lascivious Mr. Ward. She was thankful anew to have avoided that man’s clutches in the past.

  As she walked up the steps to the front door, she felt her palms perspiring within her gloves and prayed silently, Thy will be done . . .

  She rang the bell and was relieved when Hopkins, the elderly butler, opened the door.

  “Hello, Hopkins.”

  His snowy brows rose. “Miss Rogers. What a surprise.”

  “No doubt. I . . . was hoping to have a brief word with Sir John. Is he at home to callers?”

  “No, miss. I’m afraid not. Men from the newspapers have been hounding him since his return. He left as soon as he could after the trial.”

  “May I ask where he went?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not to say, miss.”

  Hannah felt the sting of rejection. “He told you not to tell me?”

  “No, miss. Not you specifically. He didn’t want me telling any of those newspaper men.”

  “Oh. I see. Can you tell me if he has returned to Devonshire? I promise not to tell anyone else.”

  He looked left then right, a twinkle in his old eyes. “Well, you didn’t hear it from me. But it’s a southwest wind that blows, aye.”

  Hannah walked back to the lodging house. There, she found Mrs. Hurst and paid up in full, and then returned to her room to pack the last of their things. She left the door open and cracked a window to “air the place after all them nappies,” as Mrs. Hurst had instructed.

  Becky, eager for the journey, hummed as she dressed Danny in the little wool coat and cap to protect him from the damp wind. They would go and briefly bid farewell to her father, and from there, it was only a short walk to a nearby coaching inn.

  As she tucked a pair of gloves into her valise, Hannah felt the back of her neck prickle. She started and turned.

  There stood James Lowden in the threshold. She’d forgotten she’d left the door open behind her.

  She put a hand to her heart. “James, you startled me. You’re not to be up here. My landlady has strict rules about gentlemen callers.”

  She managed a wobbly grin, but his expression remained bleak.

  “You’re packing.”

  “Yes.”

  His lips tightened. Turning to Becky, he said, “Would you mind taking Danny down to the sitting room for a few minutes, while I talk to Miss Rogers?”

  “Very well, sir.” Becky bobbed a curtsy and carried Daniel from the room. Hannah no longer worried about Becky running off. The girl was far too eager to return to Devonshire and dear Mrs. Turrill.

  When Becky’s footsteps faded down the stairs, he asked, “Are you moving to your father’s house?”

  “No.”

  He flinched. Hands fisted, he inhaled through flared nostrils, eyes squeezed tight. “You are returning to Clifton.”

  “Not to the house, but to Lynton, yes.”

  “To see Sir John.”

  “To see Mrs. Turrill,” she clarified, distractedly adding a handkerchief to her reticule. “She’s offered Becky a home with her and I promised Becky I’d escort her back as soon as I finished here.”

  “And are you . . . finished here?”

  She stilled from her nervous motions of packing and faced him. She took a deep breath and said quietly, “I think I am.”

  His mouth twisted. “You would have left without telling me? I don’t know why I’m surprised. You chose him before and I should have known you’d choose him again.”

  Hannah wistfully shook her head. “He probably wants nothing to do with me. Now that he’s free and clear of me and Marianna and the whole rotten scandal. I will likely deliver Becky and return empty-handed.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I don’t know. But if there is any chance with Sir John, I have to try.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “James, please . . .” She reached for him, but then thought the better of touching him. Of playing with fire. The embers were still there, just beneath the ashes.

  She said, “I saw you at the stocks. Your expression. Your distance. And I understood. You must avoid scandal, and that’s what I am. A child born out of wedlock. Impersonation. Bigamy.”

  “You had nothing to do with that—”

  “I know. But I am a link to all of it. You want to build your practice. Of course you do. And I cannot help you in that. I can only hurt you. If you married me, I would live to see your admiration fade into resentment and regret.”

  His face contorted in frustration, and perhaps grief. But not, she knew, denial.

  “But, Hannah,” he protested. “I want to be with you. I could not bear to never touch you again. . . .” He ran his hands up her arms, lowered his head and kissed her exposed shoulder, prickling her skin into gooseflesh. “Don’t go yet. Stay and give me a chance. Give us a chance.”

  For one moment, she considered it. But then Marianna’s duplicitous face appeared in her mind’s eye and her stomach soured.

  Drawing a deep breath, she stepped away from him. “No, James. I will not.”

  He shook his head, anger flashing in his eyes. “Tell the truth, Hannah. Your concern for my practice, or even for Daniel, is not the real reason you refuse me, is it? You prefer Sir John.”

  She allowed her silence to answer for her. She was attracted to James, it was true. But she loved Sir John and had for a long time.

  James ran an agitated hand through his hair. “Then what am I to do? Soldier on, and try to pretend there is nothing between us? Carry on as Sir John’s solicitor as though I am not aching to take you in my arms every moment?”

  She looked into his eyes, and exhaled a deep breath. “Then perhaps it is time Sir John engaged a new solicitor.”

  CHAPTER 30

  From the road, Clifton looked like a landscape painting—a turreted stone house nestled between whitebeam trees, its flower garden framed by privet hedges and an arched trellis. Or perhaps it was more like a still life—too still. Too quiet. No Mrs. Turrill waving from an open doorway. No Dr. Parrish calling out cheerful greetings from the neighboring Grange. No Sir John sitting in his chair at an upstairs window.

  She walked closer, but saw no one about the place. Where was he?

  Mrs. Turrill could not tell her for certain if Sir John was once again living in Clifton House, because she no longer worked there. She had declined to return after Hannah’s trial, and then the Mayfields had left for Bristol. She’d heard that Sir John had recently returned to the area, but didn’t know if or how long he planned to stay.

  Hannah hoped Sir John had not suffered a relapse. Is that why he had not visited her when he’d been in Bristol? Or worse, had he changed his mind about her? After all, he no longer had to settle for a woman willing to assume Marianna’s place. He was free to marry any fine lady he wished. Far finer than she could ever hope to be.

  Even so, it was good to see the place again—and see it peaceful. When she was last at Clifton, she had been under guard and then led away like a criminal. This was a better, more pleasant memory to tuck away for some lonely someday to come.

  Hannah stood at the edge of the garden a moment longer, silently bidding the house and its former inhabitant farewell. In a few minutes, she would walk back to Mrs. Turrill’s. Becky and Danny were there now, catching up on all they’d missed in each other’s lives since they had last been together. But for now, one more minute to remember . . .

  She closed her eyes and there he was. Sir John holding her hand. Pulling her onto his lap and kissing her. Taking his first steps. Saying, “You are beautiful, Hannah. Just as you are.”
Cradling Danny in his arms. Coming to her rescue. Letting her go . . .

  The sound of galloping hooves interrupted her reverie. Startled, she stepped behind a privet hedge, afraid to be found like a trespasser should it be Edgar Parrish or perhaps a prospective new tenant.

  She watched in surprise as Sir John Mayfield came cantering over the rise on a muscled bay. He sat tall and straight, the tails of his greatcoat flapping behind him, hat brim pulled low. He held the reins easily in his gloved hand. Knee-high cuffed boots in the stirrups, thighs melded to the horse’s sides. He looked strong and confident. The Sir John Mayfield of old.

  Hannah’s breath caught at the sight.

  As he neared the stables, she expected Ben or some new groom to come out to help him dismount and hand him his cane. No one came. She thought about running forward to help, but doubted he would welcome any witness to his weakness. Especially her.

  When he reined in, he did not wait for anyone to assist him, but swung his leg over and dismounted with apparent ease. He gathered the reins and patted the horse’s sleek neck. Only then did Ben jog out with a ready smile and take the horse from Sir John.

  Hannah decided she would wait where she was, and greet him there in the relative privacy of the garden on his way inside. She smoothed back her hair and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. But Sir John did not walk toward the house. Instead he snatched up a walking stick propped against the stable wall, and set off at a brisk pace away from the garden. For a moment, Hannah feared he was avoiding her, but she didn’t think he had even noticed her there. Would he be glad to see her? She wished she knew.

  Hannah followed after him. Sir John walked with a swift, sure stride toward the Cliff Road. My goodness, Hannah thought. He was not weak any longer.

  Unable to keep up with his long legs and rapid pace, she finally called out, “Sir John!”

  He looked back, and hesitated upon seeing her. Her heart sank. No welcoming smile broke across his face. Nor did he use his newfound strength to run to her. In fact, he stood there regarding her almost warily. Did he think her presumptuous for coming uninvited?

  Her confidence left her. She hesitated as well, unsure how to proceed.

  She pushed herself slowly forward, trying to catch her breath and calm herself. “Hello,” she managed.

  He nodded. “Miss Rogers.”

  So formal. After all they’d been through together.

  He laid both hands over the head of his walking stick, propped in the ground before him. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Visiting Mrs. Turrill, I assume?”

  “Yes. I’ve returned Becky to her. The dear woman has invited her to share their cottage.”

  He nodded his understanding. “How is Danny? He fares well, I trust?”

  “Yes. He is napping at Mrs. Turrill’s as we speak.”

  “Ah. Good.”

  She glanced back toward the stable. “I saw you ride in.” She shook her head in wonder. “How recovered you are. It’s amazing how you’ve regained your strength.”

  “I’ve been working at it,” he allowed. “And if you will excuse me, I will continue my walk. . . .”

  His dismissal stung, but she persisted. “You look quite fit,” she blurted, before he could turn. “I am pleased to see it.” She felt herself flush at the words.

  One brow rose. “Flattery, Miss Rogers? It isn’t like you.”

  She recognized it then. The shell of cold indifference he’d adopted when he first suspected her of helping Marianna plot her escape. A way to protect himself.

  He touched his hat brim. “And now I shall bid you good day.” He turned smartly and continued on, determined either to take exercise or to keep his distance from her.

  Hurrying to keep up with him, Hannah said, “I wonder, Sir John, if you even know what I am really like. You’ve only known me as a hired companion and an imposter.”

  “On the contrary,” he retorted. “I once thought I knew you very well.”

  This was certainly not the romantic reunion she had hoped for or imagined. She needed to do something to divert the course of this conversation and quickly.

  “Will you please slow down, so I may talk with you?”

  “You’re young. Keep up.”

  Sir John had reached the Cliff Road before she managed to overtake him. Or perhaps he had taken pity on her and slowed down.

  Hannah crossed the road and looked out at the channel, struck by the sight. She looked west toward Lynton and east toward the Countisbury church tower to gain her bearings. The wind buffeted her, threatening to yank the bonnet from her head.

  She walked several yards east, waving Sir John over. “Look.” She pointed. “That’s where the carriage crashed.”

  He followed and peered down reluctantly, as though expecting a gruesome sight or perhaps a ghost. But only one carriage wheel and a moldering velvet bench remained to mark the spot.

  His expression grew thoughtful. “That’s where my former life ended—and my new life began.”

  “Mine, too,” she whispered, the words swallowed by the wind.

  Keeping his face toward the channel, Sir John said, “Mr. Lowden is not here, if you are looking for him. He is working from his offices in Bristol.” He kept his gaze averted, as though not wishing to see her disappointment.

  “I know,” she said. “I am not looking for him.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “But you have seen him.”

  “Yes,” she replied. She took a deep breath and added, “I am afraid I dismissed him.”

  He turned to stare at her, both brows high. “Dismissed him?”

  “Yes. Will it be a terrible inconvenience to engage a new solicitor?”

  He blinked, clearly taken aback. “No . . . But, may I ask why you felt it necessary to dismiss him?”

  With relief she noticed he did not demand to know what gave her the right to do so.

  She said, “Do you need to ask why?”

  His grey-blue eyes glinted. “You thought it would be awkward to marry him were he still my solicitor?”

  She shook her head. “I do not plan to marry your solicitor.”

  “No?”

  “No. But I do think it would be awkward to be married to you were he still your solicitor.” How forward, she realized, neck heating. Would he rebuff her then and there?

  His mouth quirked. “Afraid you’ll be tempted to go astray?”

  “Not at all,” she said in her stride. “But it would be painful for him to see the two of us happy together.”

  He stilled, as though holding his breath. “And will we be happy together?”

  “I dearly hope so.”

  He studied her closely. “I already told you I will support Danny. You needn’t marry me. James Lowden is younger, good-looking, and clearly in love with you.”

  She held his gaze and took a small step closer. “Yes, Sir John, all those things are true.” She looked down and then back up. “But he is not the one I want. . . .”

  The sentence was barely out of her mouth before he hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

  “What are you trying to do to me?” he asked, voice hoarse, his breath warm at her temple.

  “I’m trying to . . . convince you.”

  He eased back just far enough to look her full in the face. With his free hand, he smoothed a lock of hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “Convince me of what, Miss Rogers?”

  His eyes sparked with challenge, as if daring her to say the words he longed to hear.

  “That I love you,” she whispered, softly but firmly, placing her hand over his heart.

  “And if I were not recovered? If I were still confined to an invalid chair?”

  She traced gentle fingers along the side of his face. “I was ready to be your wife then,
before Marianna returned. Before you could even walk. I admire you, Sir John, whether sitting or standing.”

  For several moments he simply stood there, gazing down at her. Then one corner of his mouth quirked. “Miss being Lady Mayfield, do you?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  He chuckled. “Lady Maybe, that’s what I shall call you.”

  She bit her lip and looked up from beneath her lashes. “I can think of several other endearments I would prefer.”

  “Can you?” His arm around her waist tightened. With his other hand he cupped her face, stroking her cheek in feathery caresses. He murmured, “Shall I call you . . . dear friend, desired lover, or . . . cherished wife?”

  Her heart beat hard, a bubble of hope and joy filling her chest. She smiled and whispered, “Yes, please. All of the above.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” He leaned down, his hand gently tilting her face toward his. His lips touched hers softly, sweetly, then more firmly. Her lips parted of their own accord, and he deepened the kiss, melding his mouth to hers, her body to his, until her legs felt wobbly, her mind languid.

  How had she ever doubted her feelings for this man? How foolish she had been. How blind. Sir John was handsome and passionate. Honorable and generous. He loved her and he loved her son—their son.

  So, this is what loves feels like, she thought.

  She found she liked it very much indeed.

  He broke their kiss and dragged warm lips over her cheek, her temple, her ear. In a husky voice, he asked, “Shall we go and see the parson, my love?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “As soon as possible.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I wrote the first draft of this novel before I ever visited Lynton & Lynmouth, twin villages in North Devon, England. I picked the area for its coastal setting within Exmoor National Park, and its steep cliffs along the Bristol Channel. In 2014, my old friend Sara Ring and I had the privilege of traveling there, and found the landscape, the villages, and the local people even more lovely than I’d imagined.