“Yes. I think it’s best, don’t you?”
He slowly shook his head, eyes glinting. “I don’t think you want to hear my answer to that.”
Hannah found herself singing to Danny the next morning, feeling the closest thing to happiness she had felt in a long while. As she looked into her son’s precious face, irrational hope rose in her heart, and she found herself entertaining an unrealistic dream.
Later, she left Danny in Becky’s care and went downstairs to find a children’s book to read to him, as well as a simplebook for Becky, who had confided that she didn’t know how to read. Hannah would have liked to go outside and pick some flowers to brighten the nursery and Sir John’s room, but at the moment, rain fell steadily outside.
She was passing the vestibule when someone knocked at the front entrance, so she answered it herself. She opened the door and stared, her vision and mind not connecting for a moment. She’d forgotten how tall he was. How strange, how surreal to see him here, out of his usual element. He was from her past life—how had he managed to step onto the stage of her present one?
“Hannah,” Fred breathed, eyes wide. “I knew it. I knew you could not be dead.”
“Shh, Freddie. Not here. Let’s go out into the garden.”
He hesitated, mouth parted. “It’s raining.”
“I know, but ... we used to like the rain, remember?”
“We were children then, Han.”
She grabbed an oilskin coat from a peg near the door and swung it around her shoulders. Rangy, dark-haired Fred turned up his collar, replaced his hat, and followed her back outside.
She led the way along the stone path, stopping beneath the arched, vine-covered trellis—a doorway of sorts between Clifton and the garden, with a path to the Grange beyond. The thick, interwoven vines and leaves protected them from the worst of the rain.
“What happened, Han?” he asked. “Why are you here? You do know they put it about that you had died. It was in the newspaper.”
“I know. I received your letter.”
“Youreceived the letter? But I wrote to Sir John....”
She explained about the crash, the drowning, Sir John’s injuries and her own, and the doctor’s assumption that she was Lady Mayfield.
He stared at her in disbelief, dark eyes pained. “And you letthem go on believing it? And let me go on believing you were dead? I told your father you died! How could you do that, Han?”
“I needed a way to get Danny back. I could think of nothing else to do.”
“Nothing?” His eyes flashed. “Nothing but lying and pretending to be dead? Deceiving people into believing you are another woman—another man’s wife?” Incredulity warred with the anger in his voice.
“What should I have done, Freddie?” Her voice rose. “You could not help me. I would never have been able to earn enough on my own, and especially not while my arm was broken.”
“What about your father?” he challenged. “He would have helped you.”
“Would he? Even if he had the money, would he really? Once he knew everything?”
Fred considered, then his gaze skittered away. “He might.”
For a moment they stood there in uncomfortable silence, the rain pattering against the glossy leaves of the trellis.
Finally, Fred asked, “Is Danny all right? I didn’t know if you’d taken him with you or not. I was so worried when I went to that house in Trim Street and found no children there.”
“Yes, he is with me and well, thank God.”
“What will you do when Sir John wakes and realizes what you’ve done?”
“He has regained his senses. And he has not exposed me.”
“What? Why on earth not?” Suddenly Fred’s mouth tightened, and his eyes dulled. “I don’t think I want to know.”
“It’s not like that,” she said, hoping it was true. Sir John’s acceptance of her charade felt almost ... protective. Might it mean more? She gripped her old friend’s arm. “Look. I am sorry, Freddie. For all of it. But it has gone too far. I know I cannot pretend to be Marianna for much longer, but I can’t just walk away. Not yet. Not until I learn Sir John’s intentions, and how to provide for Danny.”
