Hannah stared at him, incredulous. “No ... I can’t believe Sir John would expose her so publicly.” Queasy disappointment churned within her at the thought. “In his letter, he said he would not seek punishment.”
“Sir John did not. Mr. Fontaine himself was the plaintiff, the ‘injured party,’ whose wife married another man.”
“Unbelievable...” Hannah slowly shook her head. “Marianna must be livid. Did Sir John testify?”
James nodded. “He was summoned, so yes, he did. But reluctantly.”
Sir John was here in Bristol, Hannah realized, and yet he had neither called on her nor visited Danny. Feeling suddenly weary, she lowered herself into a chair.
Mr. Lowden continued, “Marianna got off lightly, considering the charge. She managed to lay most of the blame at her father’s door—her father who is conveniently dead. She isn’t to be transported or even imprisoned—”
“Thank God,” Hannah interjected.
“Only to sit in the Redcliff Hill stocks for three hours.”
Shock washed over Hannah. “The stocks? Marianna?”
“Yes. I thought you’d be glad.”
Hannah shook her head. She felt no such vindication. Did he know her so little? “Glad? Never. Poor Marianna.”
“Poor Marianna? After what she tried to do to you?”
“I know, but...” Her words trailed away as the image of pampered, beautiful Marianna formed in her mind—sitting in the stocks in one of her fine gowns. Alone. The object of scorn and humiliation.
James unfurled his pocket watch. “In fact, she should be placed in the stocks about now.” He clicked his watch shut and asked, “You do realize what this means?”
Hannah rose suddenly to her feet. “It means I must go to her.”
“What? No. I meant, what it means for Sir John.”
But Hannah’s mind was not on Sir John. It was on Marianna. “Please let Becky know I’ll return when I can.”
She rushed from the house. Vaguely, she heard James calling for her to stop, or at least let him hail a hansom cab for her, but Hannah paid him no heed. She ran past Queen’s Square, crossed the bridge, and made haste up Redcliff Hill. By then, her sides ached and she panted with exertion.
She passed St. Mary’s, its churchyard enclosed by a thick hedge, and there, just outside its gate, the stocks. Double stocks, but only one occupant. Hannah’s heart twisted at the sight. Lady Mayfield—or was it Mrs. Fontaine?—sat on the muddy ground, ankles pinned in the low stocks, scuffed slippers listing on her small feet. She stared blindly ahead as passersby gawked or hurried their children away.
A small crowd began to gather, jeer, and taunt, and Marianna scowled, snapping at them with words Hannah was too far away to hear and likely better off spared.
As she walked closer, a boy of nine or ten reeled back with a rotten apple and took aim. Noticing, Marianna covered her face with her hands.
Hannah lunged forward and grabbed the boy’s arm. “No! Remember, let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
“Ain’t no stone, miss. It’s an apple.”
“Don’t.” Hannah held his gaze, then released him. She lifted her skirts and tiptoed through the mire left by last night’s rains. Marianna had yet to see her, but Hannah was close enough now to hear her quiet sobbing.
Hannah rounded the stocks, accidentally kicking one end as she stepped behind them. The reverberation startled Marianna and her eyes darted open. Her arms shot up to ward off a projectile or a blow. For a moment she gaped at Hannah, a frown line between her brows.
Hannah tensed, imagining the proud woman would rebuff her.
“Come to gloat?” Marianna asked.
“No.”
“Whyareyou here, then?”
Hannah swept her skirts to one side and sat on the ground beside Marianna, aligned with the second set of holes.
