The physician nodded. “I imagine he does.”
She whispered, “What did the surgeon say?”
Dr. Parrish shook his head regretfully. “He isn’t keen on operating at present. He isn’t convinced Sir John’s brain has swelled to a dangerous degree. I am afraid he doesn’t think your husband would survive an operation, even if he thought one necessary. He is too weak.”
Sadness swept over her. “I see.”
Mrs. Parrish tipped her head to one side. “Strange that he was so severely injured, while you were not, my lady. I suspect his body cushioned yours against the first violent impact before the carriage rolled.”
Hannah recalled waking to find Sir John sprawled across her body. But if the woman’s theory was correct, she felt grateful, and a little guilty, for escaping relatively unscathed.
Mrs. Parrish added, “The vicar has been here to see him. I hope you don’t mind my asking him?”
“Of course not,” Hannah whispered.
“He prayed over you as well.”
Hannah’s head jerked up. “Did he? I don’t remember.”
“You were asleep. We didn’t want to wake you.”
“Oh.” An uncomfortable feeling snaked up her spine at the thought.
Dr. Parrish said gently, “You may touch him if you like, my lady. You shan’t hurt him.”
Hannah swallowed. She supposed a wife would want to touch her husband, smooth the hair from his brow. Squeeze his hand. Whisper in his ear that she loved him. But she was not his wife. And Hannah knew that Lady Mayfield herself would probably not do so either, had she been there. Besides, Hannah was reluctant to touch him under the watchful eyes of doctor and wife. It would be taking her “role” too far. Would they remember she had taken such a liberty after she left—after the truth was known?
As she stood there thinking, not moving, not touching, she felt Mrs. Parrish’s frowning gaze on her profile.
Hannah bit her lip, stepped forward, and reached out a tentative hand. Would they notice it trembling? She touched Sir John’s arm, lightly, afraid to wake him, before quickly stepping back.
Dr. Parrish stood beside her. “I hope and pray he will recover in time.”
“As do I,” Hannah said solemnly. And she sincerely meant it, though she planned to be well away before then.
Chapter5
The next morning, Hannah announced to Mrs. Turrill that she would like to dress for the day, rather than remain in her nightclothes. The woman smiled and said she thought that an excellent notion. The dress Hannah had been wearing the day of the wreck had been torn and stained, and she didn’t see her own valise among the baggage piled in the corner. It had apparently been lost to the tide. Only her reticule on the bedside table had remained with her after the crash—its ribbons tied to her wrist. So, Hannah asked the housekeeper to help her into one of Marianna’s older morning dresses of loose, stretchy muslin, which could easily be slipped over her wrapped arm. She did not want to wear any of Marianna’s finer, fitted gowns, which would likely hang on her. And how presumptuous she would feel to do so.
She sat on a padded stool while the woman helped her on with stockings. Then Mrs. Turrill picked out a pair of pointy-toe leather slippers with small heels. Hannah sucked in a breath. “Um. Perhaps my half boots instead? The ones I wore when we ... arrived?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “Oh no. Those were all but ruined in the channel, my lady. Salt water is so hard on leather.”
She knelt before her and tried to wedge the shoe onto her foot but it was too tight. Hannah held her breath, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Was she to be exposed already?
Mrs. Turrill bit her lip, staring down at the obstinate appendage. “Your feet must be swollen, my lady. From the accident or lying abed, I’d wager. Shall I send these to the cobbler for a stretch?”
Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, please.”
In the meantime, Mrs. Turrill loosened the laces of a pair of satin slippers and worked those onto her feet instead.
Then Hannah asked if she might go downstairs for breakfast. She was no longer an invalid, she asserted, who required a tray delivered to her bedchamber.
Mrs. Turrill said she was happy to oblige and to see the sunny dining parlor put to use at last. She insisted, however, on taking her arm and helping her down the stairs.
A week had passed since the accident, and this was the first time Hannah had seen the ground floor of Clifton House. She admired the open, two-story staircase hall, and peeked into the green-and-white drawing room and mahogany-paneled morning room as they passed.
In the dining parlor, Mrs. Turrill pulled back a chair for her and introduced her to Ben Jones, a young manservant of perhaps seventeen, who opened the shutters and laid a fire in the hearth to dispel the lingering chill.
