Hannah's Promise

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Overcome with a sudden shyness, Hannah looked down at her shoes. When she next lifted her head, she stared not at him, but straight ahead at the grayness outside. “I can’t. Because it would mean we—I don’t—” Frustrated with her own babbling, she took a deep breath and started over. “You’ve been calling me Hannah since the moment we…” Again her voice trailed off.

  “Ye-es-s?” Drawing the word out, he leaned over until he’d poked his face into her line of vision.

  Fighting a sudden giggle, Hannah stepped back, swatting at him. “Stop that. I don’t like it.”

  He sat up obediently enough, but arched his eyebrows at her. “I think you do, Hannah.”

  A rising heat in her veins dried her humor. She raised her head a regal notch. “I’ll thank you not to tell me what I like and don’t like.”

  Slade laughed out loud, startling her into dropping her pose. “Stubborn spitfire to the end, aren’t you?”

  Heat suffused over her cheeks before she could think up some tart comeback. But instinct warned her not to spar with this man. So Hannah simply changed the subject. Maybe she could distract him from his continued staring at her. Pointing to the window off to her left, she asked, “What are those trees out there? We don’t have any like them at home.”

  It didn’t work. He never looked away from her face. “You mean ‘What are those trees out there, Slade?,’ don’t you?”

  Peevishness quirked her mouth up. The man worried a subject like a bobcat with a field mouse. “All right, then. What are those trees over there … Slade?”

  He grinned hugely, still not looking away from her. “Elms.”

  Hannah cried foul, poking her finger at him and raising her voice. “You didn’t even look.”

  “I don’t have to. They’re the only trees out there. And they have been since before I was born.”

  Bested, Hannah gave up her pique, sobering as she entertained another thought. “Were you born here? Is this where you lived as a boy?”

  His expression changed, too, mingling wariness with a subtle withdrawal. “Yes. To both. Why?”

  The flatness of his voice told Hannah she’d made a mistake. “No reason. I was just thinking about how beautiful it is around the pond. And the house. Well, all of the estate. It must have been wonderful growing up here.”

  “Wonderful?” He stared at her for the longest moment. Then he abruptly pushed himself off the table, landing lightly on his feet. His black eyes glinted down at her with a little boy’s pain. But his mouth twisted with a man’s hated remembrances. “It wasn’t wonderful at all. In fact, it was pure hell.”

  * * *

  “Damn all the Garretts to hell, I say!” Hands clasped behind him, Cyrus Wilton-Humes stood peering out the closed French doors which overlooked the sun-swept lawn of Cloister Point. “I only hope no one of consequence sees that … that tradesman leaving our property, Patience.”

  Outside, a cabriolet pulled away from the front door. Just the sight of it soured Cyrus’s mood further. “Why am I betrayed by my family at every turn? Is it not enough that Hannah’s public accusations sent us to Nahant for a full week? And now, on our first day home, we’re forced to sell more of my inheritance to pay off creditors. What pitiful circumstances Ardis foisted on us.”

  “As it turns out, she was hardly worth the effort of her accident, was she?”

  “Not so.” He kept his gaze trained on the departing coach. “I could have cheerfully seen to her demise all over again after the reading of her will. Only a pittance of a trust left to me. And after all our caring for her. What did Catherine ever do for her? Nothing. Or Slade Garrett? And yet she leaves everything to them—ahead of me. I, her own grandson—a distant third to inherit.”

  He turned to Patience. Seated on the medallion-backed sofa, she was counting the stack of greenbacks spread before her. Only when she finished did she look up and raise a pale eyebrow at her husband. “There’s nothing we can do about the will. But there is something we can do about Slade Garrett. He’s all that stands between us and Ardis’s fortune.”

  “And that’s what worries me. He won’t be as easy to dispose of as Catherine. Or even Hamilton and Evelyn.”

  Patience shook her head. “Poor Hamilton and Evelyn. I do miss them. But your father should’ve never left Cloister Point to both of you. It proved to be the death of the man. And his wife.” Then, with subtle malevolence reflected in her blue eyes, she smiled at Cyrus. “You’re such a wonderful husband. I don’t know of another man who’d rid himself of his own brother to provide such a lovely home for his wife.”

  Cyrus glanced at the room’s closed doors. Shaking his head, he approached the sofa. “Don’t speak so plainly, my dear. Someone could hear you. And then what would happen?”

  Patience put a beringed hand to the fine lace covering her emaciated bosom and adopted an innocent expression. “Why, I suppose the law would come for you, and then they’d hang you for murder. And leave me all alone. With the money.”

  A cold fist clutched at Cyrus’s stomach. So that was her game. “I won’t go alone, my dear. You’re in this as deeply as I am.”

  Patience pursed her thin lips and looked down, puffing her gray-blue satin skirt out around her before responding. “This is getting us nowhere, Cyrus. The fact remains that unless we take further steps—and soon—we’ll be forced into poverty. As it is, we have few servants left and only the barest of furnishings remain. Why, we’re even down to one ancient carriage and team. Where will this end? All these … tragic deaths, and we’re still not any better off.”

  Cyrus went to the sofa and sat down, turning to face her. “There, there,” he consoled, patting her shoulder but barely taking his eyes off the money that lay innocently between them. When he could no longer resist, he clutched up the thick wad of United States notes. Holding the dirty stack in one hand, he fanned the paper money with his other thumb. A bubble of greedy glee spread his lips back over his teeth. “Is it all here?”

  “Of course. Do you think I’d let that … that man leave with my jewelry, if it weren’t?”

  Detecting the catch in her voice, Cyrus tore his gaze from the money to look at his wife. He reached over to squeeze Patience’s clawlike hand. “Now, don’t fret, Patience. I know what a sacrifice you just made, parting with those pieces of Evelyn’s jewelry. Just be patient. We’ll soon have all the money we want, I promise you—once Slade Garrett is no longer an obstacle.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Withdrawing her hand from his, she pulled herself up from the sofa and paced the room as she spoke. “If word gets out of our reduced circumstances, we’ll be ruined. And I simply won’t stand for that, Cyrus. What’s worse, our dinner for Hannah—that ungrateful little wretch—drained our resources. And what did we get for our efforts? The damaging gossip among our friends. And, worst of all, not one social invitation awaiting us today upon our return. And here it is November—the very height of the season.”

  Desperate to avoid her anger, knowing what she was capable of, Cyrus said what he knew would cheer her immensely. “Well, then, my girl, since Hannah involved herself, we’ll just take care of her when we solve our problem with Garrett.”

  Patience stopped and put a hand to her bosom. A feral gleam lit her face. “Oh, do you mean it, Cyrus?”

  As always, her innate ruthlessness brought unease to Cyrus’s heart. He alone knew how deadly she was. She was like a badger that killed for the pleasure. Whereas he killed only for personal gain. “Why, of course, my pet. We’ll have to be careful, though.” He put a bony finger to his lips, tapping thoughtfully. “Perhaps we can do something like we did for Catherine. Yes, that might be the way to go. But then again … Well, there’s no way around it. They’ll be more difficult than the others and will take more time.”

  “But you will come up with a plan, won’t you, Cyrus?”

  “Of course, my pet.” Cyrus smiled, but his mind was racing. That tone was back in her voice, the one of subtle threat. The one that said if
he didn’t get her what she wanted, she’d get him … any way she could. Cyrus’s guts churned with his fear of her. “It will be brilliant. And should give you a wonderful entry for your journal of our … family deaths. Why don’t you tell me where it is, and I’ll get it for you, dear?”

  Patience’s eyes narrowed to slits. “My journal is fine where it is.”

  Damn her. She made sure he knew of the journal’s existence, but not its location. He knew in his heart she’d use it against him one day, if he failed her in any way. Cyrus decided to remind her of her own guilt. “As you wish. But you will help me—as always?”

  Patience looked him up and down. But then she smiled. “Of course. You’re my husband, aren’t you? I wouldn’t want anything to … happen to you.”

  Patience is quite mad. Why don’t you rid yourself of her, too? Shocked, Cyrus sat upright, just barely stopping himself from turning to see who’d said that. But he knew his own mind had formed the question. Just as he knew his heart was considering it. Cyrus looked down at his lap, making a show of laying the money down. In that moment’s space, he searched the darker regions of his soul. Could he actually do it? Could he kill Patience? Slowly, inexorably, the answer made itself known to him.

  He raised his head, a changed man. Smiling at his wife, he patted the sofa’s cushion, indicating for her to rejoin him. Poor dear. Forty years of marriage, and it came to this. Well, he’d be merciful and allow her to die quickly. Then, he’d search her bedroom, where she never allowed him, until he found that damning record. And then he’d destroy it. “Come sit here, and we’ll discuss what to do.”

  Patience obediently sat down, even taking his hands in hers. She was most pliant, most cheerful when plotting murder. “Good. Because I’ve thought of someone else we need to rid ourselves of. Olivia—that little turncoat of a maid Hannah took with her. Damned girl knows too much about our … special problems here. And now, surely she has everyone’s ear at Woodbridge Pond. She could be quite damaging to us.”

  Cyrus pulled back, eyeing his wife. How many deaths would be enough for her? But still, the longer he thought about it, the more he realized she may have a valid point. Her mind was, after all, diabolical. He was going to miss her when she was dead. “Brilliant, Patience. I’d quite forgotten about dear little Olivia. And, as you say, by now she’s earned everyone’s trust at Woodbridge Pond. No one would question her or suspect her for a moment.”

  Patience affected a pout. “Suspect her? I thought we were going to—”

  Cyrus withdrew a hand from hers to put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. We are. But only after we use her for our purposes.”

  “Our purposes? How do you mean?” But before Cyrus could enlighten her, her beakish features lit up and she raised her hands to stop him from answering. “How stupid of me. I see now. Very good, Cyrus. She’ll be our spy. I like it.” But then a frown of doubt turned her mouth down. “How are you going to ensure the girl doesn’t betray us?”

  Cyrus laughed. “That’s the easiest part. Surely you remember her condition a year ago when she came to our door seeking employment? And we hired her on when no one else would?”

  Patience frowned until it came to her. “I’d completely forgotten.”

  “Ahh, but I didn’t. Because I thought then her plight may prove useful to us one day. And now it has. We know her secret little shame, one that I’d wager she’s not divulged to Hannah or to Slade Garrett—who’d show her the door if he knew the sort she was.”

  Cyrus quickly outlined his scheme. “She’s got to leave Woodbridge Pond alone at some point. And when she does, I’ll be ready. A few well-chosen words with her and she’ll cooperate—gladly.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Damn them for returning so soon. Exercising his gelding, Slade reined in at the summer cottage among the elms and dismounted so he could watch the signs of renewed activity at Cloister Point. The breeze on this crisp November day carried to his ears the whinny of a horse and a man’s calling out to someone else. Just then, a trade carriage pulled away from Cloister Point. Interesting. Was Cloister Point a little barer for that visit?

  Slade frowned. Damn you, Ardis, why didn’t you just give Cyrus the money? Huffing out a disgusted breath, Slade thought of the danger the rascal next door posed to them all, but especially to Hannah. Just thinking her name conjured up a vision of that blue-green-eyed girl letting her dark hair down that rainy night at his brownstone. And this was all the provocation his pent-up, frustrated male energy needed. He was next treated to the feel of her in his arms that night he held her all night. Just held her. Again he felt her softness and her warm weight against his side. Slade ran a finger around his collar and shifted uncomfortably in his suddenly too-tight pants.

  “Mr. Garrett, where are you? Go, Esmerelda. Find him.”

  Slade turned toward the sound. Olivia. Leading Champion, he took to the path, quickly approaching the break in the hedges that allowed for the gravel walkway. But before he could call out or step into view, Esmerelda bounded around the turn, coming to a skidding stop when she saw him. Immediately she circled him and the gelding and set up a horrific baying. Startled, Champion bucked and plunged.

  Cursing the dog, calming the horse, Slade settled Champion and turned on Esmerelda, shouting, “Enough, Essie.” Essie obediantly sat down, her tongue lolling out of her grinning, slobbering mouth. Slade then rounded the corner to see the lady’s maid running full-out toward him. Her white apron flapped crazily against the outline of her thin legs under her gray wool uniform. She came to a sudden stop with a wild windmilling of arms and legs.

  Slade held up a cautionary hand. “Whoa, Olivia! What is it?”

  Olivia, red-faced and out of breath, braced her hands on her knees. “Sor-sorry, Mister … Garrett, sir. I was … I was—”

  “Running. I know. Take your time.”

  “Can’t. Some … something’s wrong … at home.”

  “At home?” Slade looked to the white-stone mansion behind the girl. “Here. Hold on to Champion.” He already had his hand out, offering her the reins. His muscles bunched for action.

  But instead of taking the reins from him, Olivia grabbed at his sleeve. She shook her head, further loosening her coronet of braids. “Not … your home. My … home.”

  Slade stared at her heaving form. He’d never thought about the private lives of his domestics. “Your home? Don’t you live here?”

  Olivia let go of him and straightened up, brushing away wisps of hair from her damp face. “Yes, sir. Most of the time. But … I got a … message.” She plunged a hand into her pocket and came up with a crumpled note, which she held out to him.

  Suddenly Slade had an image of another note, one held in the folds of a lace handkerchief and tied with ribbon. He made a mental note to get it out of the safe at his brownstone and give it back to Hannah. He’d forgotten all about it. Funny. She hadn’t mentioned it, either.

  Coming back to the present moment, Slade took the offered note and smoothed its edges so he could read it. The crude lettering told of the sickness of someone named Colette. He looked up. “Is this Colette your mother?”

  Olivia shook her head no as she took the note back from him. Strange—even though she hadn’t moved a step, she seemed to have withdrawn. Suddenly alerted by her closed-mouth attitude, so unlike her, Slade offered, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Fat tears gathered in the girl’s light brown eyes. For a moment she seemed on the verge of accepting, but then she said, “No. May I go, sir?”

  Wary now, wondering what was behind her hesitance, Slade looked her up and down. But the girl’s heart was in her eyes, and she wanted to be away. He waved his hand. “Of course. Go. Have Rigby take you home.”

  Again she shook her head no. “He’s still out with Mrs. Garrett and Miss Lawless at the shops. But I can make my own way. I’m just sorry to be ducking out on my duties like this.”

  Not liking the feel of this one bit, Slade spoke a trifle abruptly. “It ca
n’t be helped. Take as long as you need. And don’t worry about your position here. It’s secure.”

  Olivia looked at him with gratitude-widened eyes. “Thank you for your kindness, sir. You’re a rare man.” She grabbed up her skirt and apron. Esmerelda, unusually docile for the past moments, came to her feet and padded over to Olivia’s side.

  Slade stared levelly at the maid. “Hardly rare. Now, go on with you.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and watched as she and Esmerelda ran back the way they’d come and then disappeared into the house.

  Contemplating the gravel path at his feet, Slade’s thoughts brought a frown to his face. Then, his mind made up, he turned, leading Champion at a fast walk. When he neared the neat red stable, he spied one of the young stablehands and bellowed out, “Jonathan! Come take Champion. And have Rigby come to my study the minute he gets back with the ladies.”

  * * *

  Hannah, escorted by her new shadow, Esmerelda, approached the closed door to the study. She’d only just doffed her lined cloak, hat, gloves, and fitted jacket bodice after arriving home from her outing with Isabel. But the news of Olivia’s departure sent her downstairs in search of an explanation. “Well, here goes, Esmerelda.” She rapped sharply on the door.

  From the other side, male voices cut off their conversation. Hannah absently rubbed at the mastiff’s head and took a deep breath for courage. “Like confronting an old bear in its cave, heh, girl?”

  Esmerelda whuffed out her agreement and added a tail-wagging.

  “What is it?” bellowed the old bear.

  Affronted by his outburst, Hannah put her hands to her waist and bellowed right back. “I won’t shout my business through the door. Can you spare me a moment?”

  A moment’s silence from the other side was followed by the sound of bootsteps on wood floor. Readying for the sight of Slade’s commanding height, Hannah stood up straighter, only to have the door open to reveal Rigby at her eye level. The likable young man ducked his head respectfully to her and smiled. “Pardon, miss. I was just leaving.”