Chapter 4 - The Threat of the Whitlocks
By the next morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the grounds of the Carver estate draped in a thick, silver mist.
Hannah woke up to the smell of fresh lavender and warm chicken broth. She was still in Daniel’s massive bed, the heavy silk sheets pulled up to her chin. The IV line had been removed, leaving only a small bandage on the back of her hand.
Beside the bed, young Ben sat on a small wooden stool, his chin resting in his hands as he watched her.
“You’re awake,” Ben said, his eyes lighting up. “Mr. Hale said I couldn’t wake you, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Hannah smiled faintly, reaching out to pat his arm. “I’m okay, Ben. Just a little tired.”
“Mr. Carver’s jacket is still on the chair,” Ben whispered, pointing to the charcoal suit jacket draped over the armchair. “He stayed here all night, Hannah. He sat in that chair and didn’t sleep at all. He just watched the door.”
Hannah’s heart gave a strange, painful thrum. She looked at the jacket, remembering the warmth of it around her shoulders the night before, the way Daniel’s presence had shielded her from the cruel laughter of the crowd.
The door opened, and Martin entered, carrying a silver tray with a bowl of oatmeal, fresh fruit, and a cup of herbal tea.
“Good morning, Hannah,” Martin said, his gray eyes filled with a warm, fatherly concern. “Ben, go help Mr. Carver’s driver with the luggage. We have guests arriving later.”
Ben nodded and scurried out of the room.
Martin set the tray down on her lap. “Dr. Sterling said you must eat every bite, Hannah. Mr. Carver’s orders.”
“Where is he?” Hannah asked, her voice soft.
“He’s in the study with Marcus,” Martin said. “They’ve been there since dawn. The Whitlocks have already begun their move, Hannah. They’ve frozen the union accounts at the north port, and Arthur has called an emergency meeting of the Providence commission for Friday night.”
Hannah pushed the tray aside, her hands trembling. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t come here, if I hadn’t searched those files—”
“No,” Martin interrupted gently but firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “This has been building for years, Hannah. The Whitlocks have been looking for an excuse to push Daniel out of the waterfront. They used your husband’s death to cover their own theft, and they would have found another way to strike if you weren't here. Daniel knows this.”
He looked toward the window, his expression troubled. “But there is something else you need to know. Claire Whitlock has hired a private investigator. They are looking into your past, Hannah. They are looking into the timeline of your marriage to Aaron.”
Hannah felt the blood drain from her face. She pulled the covers tighter around her chest.
“They... they know?” she whispered.
“They suspect,” Martin said quietly. “Aaron was away on a shipping run to Boston during the entire month of February last year. He didn't return until March. If Claire’s investigators look at the medical records, they will realize that Aaron could not have been the father of your child.”
“I married Aaron because I was terrified,” Hannah sobbed, her voice breaking. “He knew the baby wasn't his, Martin. He knew Caleb had gone missing, and he wanted to protect me. He said... he said if the Whitlocks thought the baby was his, they wouldn't look too closely at me. He was trying to save us.”
The door to the bedroom opened slowly.
Daniel stood in the doorway, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his expression unreadable. He had heard every word.
Martin quietly picked up the tray and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Daniel walked over to the bed, his gray eyes fixed on her face. He did not look angry; he looked like a man who had finally found the missing piece of a puzzle he had been trying to solve for a lifetime.
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He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to touch the jagged edge of her hair.
“Why didn't you tell me, Hannah?” he asked, his voice cracking with a rare, raw emotion. “Why didn't you tell me the baby was mine?”
