Hannah released a shaky breath.
“Shall I hold him for you?” Mr. Lowden asked. “How tired your arms must be from carrying him so far from the house.”
Becky’s face crumpled. “I never meant him no harm, honest I didn’t.”
“Of course not.” He gently took Danny from her. “I will be happy to carry him home for you. Perhaps you would like to sit atop my horse?”
“Your horse, sir? I ain’t never rode a horse in my life.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything. Perhaps Lady Mayfield might prefer to hold Danny and I shall lead the horse by the reins? Though you must promise to hold on tight. I shouldn’t want any harm to befall you. I know Lady Mayfield depends upon you. In fact, she was just telling me after you left, how much she and Danny need you.”
“Was she?”
Hannah walked near, brushing the dirt from her hands. She met James Lowden’s gaze, saw his subtle nod.
“That’s right, Becky,” she agreed. “We need you. You gave us such a fright when you strayed so far from the house alone. Promise me you shall never do so again. If you wish to walk in the wood, I shall be happy to accompany you in future.”
“Very well, miss—um, my lady.”
Over the girl’s head, Hannah mouthed the words “thank you” to Mr. Lowden, feeling at the moment that she would like to throw her arms around him in gratitude. However, better sense and a throbbing arm kept her from acting on the foolish impulse. She prayed she had not broken her arm all over again.
Remembering Becky’s “Ain’t Lady Mayfield’s child,” Hannah wondered if more than her arm had been damaged. Or had Mr. Lowden believed her explanation for Becky’s blunder?
When Hannah and Becky returned Danny to the nursery, Mrs. Turrill was there to meet them. She hugged Becky to herself. Then Danny in his turn.
“Sorry I’m so stupid,” Becky said, chin quivering. “I didn’t mean to scare everyone. Honest.”
Mrs. Turrill’s brow furrowed. “You’re not stupid, Becky. Whoever told you that?”
Becky shrugged. “Everybody. My mum, Mrs. Beech, and them what...” The girl’s words trailed away and a haunted look shadowed her face.
“Them ... who?” Mrs. Turrill asked, expression pained, jaw tight.
Becky looked away from the housekeeper. “Them men what...” She bit her lip. “Never mind.” She shrugged again. “I’m sure they was right.”
Mrs. Turrill shook her head, eyes glinting. “They were not right. They were wrong. Mean-spirited and wrong. You are not stupid, Becky Brown. You are intelligent and good and valuable. Do you hear me?”
“Aww...” Becky said it as though she didn’t believe the words—as though she barely heard the words, really. Like a slinking pup who recognized an encouraging voice when it had known only undeserved blows. Becky touched a finger to the woman’s cheek and whispered, “That’s why I love ya.”
Chapter13
After dinner that evening, Hannah and Mr. Lowden sat near the fire in the drawing room, somewhat more companionably than before their shared trauma. Mr. Lowden read a book by lamplight and Hannah sewed as best she could with one hand restricted by a sling. Earlier, when they’d returned from the river, Mr. Lowden had insisted Dr. Parrish reexamine her arm. The physician had done so, and applied new starched bandages as a precaution, although he assured her the bone was knitting nicely.
Now Mr. Lowden apparently grew restless, for he laid the book aside and rose. He paused beside the game table with an inlaid chessboard made from squares of oak and maple. He picked up the queen, then looked from the piece to her. “I recall my father mentioning a visit you and Sir John once paid him.”
She glanced up from her needle, instantly wary. “Oh?”
“Yes, he invited you both to dinner, I believe, soon after your marriage.”
She looked at him, waiting for him to continue. Wondering what he was up to.
“I was in London at the time, at the company headquarters. But I seem to recall him telling me later that he had challengedyou to a game of chess. And that you beat him quite handily. Is that true?”
She stared at him, thinking quickly. Dare she assent to remembering the occasion? James Lowden had not been there; it was only the hearsay of his deceased father. She thought again. She didn’t recall ever seeing Marianna play chess and she barely tolerated any card game that required more than luck. But ... why would Mr. Lowden recount such a tale if it weren’t true? Was it a trick? And what if she agreed and he challenged her to a game?
She said, “I’m afraid I don’t recall that, Mr. Lowden. Perhaps your father was being overly chivalrous ... or forgetful.”
For several ticks of the clock James Lowden held her gaze. Then he replaced the piece. “Actually, I am the one being forgetful. Now that I think about it, it was another client’s wife he referred to. You don’t play chess, I take it?”
