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’d 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 situation 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. Yet 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 same manwho would read or compose his sermons by a single candle, and only when the waning sun through the window 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 learned of her many sins.
She ran gloved fingers over the carved letters of her name.
ThatHannah 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 also 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. When she had written to her father, she 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 extrahalf-crown for the occasion. The proposed meeting time came and went. Tea steeped, grew strong, then cold, 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?
Hannah reminded herself to breathe. To hold herself erect. To pray...
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Please, won’t you be seated?”
Her father stared at her a moment, but remained where he was.
