He tipped his hat. “My pleasure.”
Chapter10
The next morning, Hannah rose early, dressed with Mrs. Turrill’s help, and slipped downstairs to the dining parlor, hoping to eat her breakfast alone before Mr. Lowden came down. But she had barely helped herself to coffee and toast from the sideboard when their houseguest entered, newspaper tucked under his arm.
“Mr. Lowden, good morning.” She forced a smile. “I trust you slept well?”
“Perfectly well as always. But then, I have the benefit of a clear conscience.”
Hannah’s smile stiffened.
He filled his own plate and cup and sat down. The two ate in awkward silence, every replaced lid and scrape of cutlery seeming as loud as a clanging cymbal. He refilled his coffee cup and unfolded the newspaper, sipping while he read.
“Perhaps you might use the morning room as your office while you’re here,” she offered, hoping he would take the hint and retreat there now. Instead, Hannah waited impatiently for Mr. Lowden to finish his third cup of coffee, ready to make her escape as soon as politeness allowed.
Dr. Parrish appeared in the threshold, and Hannah sighed in relief.
“Sorry to disturb your meal,” he began.
“Not at all. We have just finished. May I offer you something?”
“No, thank you.” He raised a small stack of letters. “I have taken the liberty of collecting your post while I was in Lynmouth. Mr. Mason was reluctant to hand it over. According to him, when Sir John visited before the move, he requested that all post be held for him. He asked that it not be delivered to the house, but said he would collect it himself, in person. But after I explained Sir John’s condition, he begrudgingly gave way. Extremely dedicated, our postmaster.” He extended the letters. “Here you are, my la—”
Mr. Lowden interrupted him. “Since Sir John obviously had reservations about whose hand the post ended up in, perhaps I, as his solicitor, should peruse it first.”
Dr. Parrish frowned. “I didn’t read it, if that’s what you’re thinking. I imagine Sir John only wanted his post held until his family was in residence. Surely her ladyship can give you anything she thinks Sir John would want you to take care of.”
“But what ifsheis the person he did not want reading his post?”
The doctor frowned. “His wife? Really, Mr. Lowden. That is unkind.” With a defensive glare at the newcomer, he handed her the letters.
Mr. Lowden craned his neck to view them. “The one on top is from me to Sir John. There is nothing in it you need see.”
Ignoring his outstretched hand, Hannah slid it to the bottom of the pile. She flipped past the next letter, and with a jolt recognized the handwriting of the third, before sliding all the letters into her lap.
She smiled at their neighbor. “Thank you, Dr. Parrish. I greatly appreciate your help.”
Hannah excused herself from a glowering Mr. Lowden and accompanied Dr. Parrish upstairs to look in on Sir John.
“That man seems to have taken against you,” he said.
“You noticed that, too? I find it strange. Especially as I never met him before he came here.”
In the bedchamber, Sir John slept deeply and turned his head away from the doctor’s attempts to rouse him. “Even that is a response, my lady. Another good sign.”
He greeted the nurse, then went on to explain that Mrs. Weaver had begun a regimen of massage and stretching to keep Sir John’s muscles from becoming atrophied while lying abed night and day. The treatment seemed to render him more responsive overall.
“About that, Doctor,” Mrs. Weaver interrupted gently. “May I have a private word before you take your leave?”
“Of course.”
Hannah excused herself to give the two privacy and slipped into her room to read the post. She first opened the letter in the familiar hand, fingers trembling. How in the world had Freddie learned even this much of their direction? It was addressed to Sir John Mayfield, Lynmouth Post Office, Devon.
Dear Sir,
I read in the newspaper an account of the death of one Hannah Rogers. The news report said only: “A maid, Hannah Rogers, lately of Bath, drowned. Anyone knowing the whereabouts of her next of kin, please write in care of the Lynmouth Post Office.”
I could not rest without telling you. Hannah Rogers was more than a maid, sir. And more than a lady’s companion. She was a dear friend. A clever, educated young woman. The daughter of a parson and a gentlewoman. The owner of a lovely singing voice. A kind neighbor, a loyal friend, and a loving mother. Describing her as merelya “maid” does not do her justice. She will be missed not because she is not there to tote and carry for your wife, sir, but because the world is a darker place without her, the future no longer full of hope.
