After a time, Dr. Parrish stepped back and collected his bag. “Well, you have the way of it now. I shall leave you to it.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
She continued kneading Sir John’s calf muscle, feeling warm and self-conscious. She reminded herself she was acting as anurse, a medical “rubber,” and tried not to focus on the fact that her hand was on Sir John Mayfield’s leg.
As she stood there, the sight spurred a long-forgotten memory....
She and Lady Mayfield had been out walking through Bristol and had visited a millinery. On their way home, Marianna suggested an alternate route and led the way. They strolled past brick buildings and shops that catered to gentlemen—tobacconists, newsagents, barbers, and a fencing club.
When Marianna stopped walking, Hannah turned to see what had arrested her attention. The muffled clang of metal striking metal drew her gaze to the windows of a nearby building. Inside, two men fenced back and forth.
Marianna grinned. “This is Sir John’s fencing club. Let’s go in and take a peek.”
“No, my lady,” Hannah hissed. “The sign says,Gentlemen Only.”
Marianna huffed. “You are a spoilsport, Hannah. Just like Sir John.” She sniffed and stepped nearer the windows.
Hannah crept to her side, feeling self-conscious and hoping no one of their acquaintance would pass by and see them there—especially not her father.
The men inside wore fencing costumes—padded linen jackets, leather gloves on thrusting hands, and wire mesh masks concealing their faces. The competitors advanced and retreated, lunging and striking again and again at a grueling pace. They were so focused on their bout that they remained unaware of their audience.
Hannah admired their skill and agility, and the way their leg muscles strained against snug white pantaloons with each low lunge. Hannah had once heard Sir John say that fencing helped him stay strong and vent his frustrations. Standing there, she could understand how it might do so.
The taller man scored a hit, acknowledged by the other, and the bout ended. The men saluted one another, shook hands, and removed their masks. Hannah felt her lips part in surprise. The taller man was Sir John Mayfield. He was breathing hard and perspiring, but he looked young and masculine and strong. His opponent stepped away, while Sir John remained, unfastening and removing his jacket, revealing a damp white shirt beneath. The second man tossed Sir John a towel, and with it he wiped his face and neck. Hannah could not help but stare at Sir John’s muscular chest, abdomen, and shoulders, evident through the thin shirt. She hoped Lady Mayfield could not read her thoughts.
Beside her, Marianna breathed, “Isn’t he something?”
Hannah was surprised to hear the admiration in her voice, though she silently agreed. But when she glanced over, she found Marianna’s gaze glued not on Sir John, but rather on his opponent....
Memory fading, Hannah replaced the bedclothes over Sir John’s leg. No wonder he had fenced so often, she thought. He’d had a great deal of frustration to vent.
On his way to the morning room the next day, James hesitated outside the threshold of the drawing room. He heard Marianna Mayfield within, cooing softly to the little boy—Anthony Fontaine’s little boy?
“Ah, my dear one. Mamma loves you. Yes, she does.”
He glanced around the doorframe. She sat in a chair with the child on her lap, his head on her knees, his legs straight up, gently clapping his feet together. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man. Bake me a cake as fast as you can. Pat it and prick it and mark it with a D. And put it in the oven for Danny and me.”
He stepped inside. “I wonder, my lady. Would you dote on him so were he Sir John’s son?”
Her head snapped toward him, clearly startled by his presence and his words.
“And a good morning to you too, Mr. Lowden.” With a defensive little lift of her chin, she added, “And, yes. I would.” Her face flushed.
He was surprised to see his words had embarrassed her. Was she admitting the child was not Sir John’s? That surprised him as well.
She looked back at the little boy. “Uh-oh. Someone’s wet and needs a change.” And instead of calling for a servant, she rose and carried the child upstairs to tend him herself. Or perhaps, simply to get away from her husband’s mean-spirited solicitor.
He knew she employed a wet nurse, but evidently Lady Mayfield often changed and coddled the child herself. Which was the real Lady Mayfield? The unfaithful wife or the devoted mother?
Apparently, it was quite possible to be both.
Chapter12
At dinner that evening, James Lowden again sat at table with his client’s wife. It was rather awkward, just the two of them, yet he looked forward to another opportunity to speak with her alone. Of course, a servant or two would be on hand to lay the courses, but even so, he would have her undivided attention. He relished the notion. For he had a few more questions he wished to put to her.
Lady Mayfield had dressed for dinner in a gown of emerald green with ribbon trim at its high waist and sleeves. She looked reserved and dignified. Her hair was pinned at the back of her head as usual, but tonight there were curls at each temple. The effect softened Lady Mayfield’s features. And the green color must flatter her complexion, for she looked quite pretty tonight. Or perhaps it was the glass of Madeira he’d helped himself to before dinner.
After they had finished their soup and begun the fish course, he asked, “What can you tell me about your companion who died?”
