Would God forgive such a deception, when she already had so much to atone for? Hannah’s father was a clergyman. She knew what she was contemplating was wrong, yet 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 sidetable, 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 during 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 to Devonshire, and about the child she had 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? 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 footof 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 shaded 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.”
