She rang the bell and was relieved when Hopkins, the elderly butler, opened the door.
“Good day, Mr. 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 dirty baby cloths” 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 on the threshold. She’d forgotten she’d left the door open.
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 set down his hat and 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 Lynmouth, 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.”
