Hannah's Promise

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Slade grinned and took a sip of his whiskey. “Not really. Besides, it’s her idea … after a fashion.”

  Dudley slid forward again in a wreath of hazy smoke and jerked his cigar out of his mouth. “Now I’ve seen the elephant. Her idea? Since when?”

  “Since two days ago. She begged me to marry her and get her with my child.”

  Dudley flung himself back into his chair. “What a load of horse apples. You think me a fool—of course, Mother would agree—but I wasn’t born yesterday. Tell me why she would do that. Hannah, I mean. Not Mother. I know why she thinks I’m a fool.”

  Slade shrugged, enjoying this banter with Dudley. It felt good to be with men again and not in the company of ancient servants, his crafty little grandmother, and the about-to-be-very-surprised, yet still irresistible Hannah. “Simple. She’s found herself totally in love with me and must have me.”

  “Bullsh—” Dudley cut off his epithet at the gasps and shocked stares of the older members. “Pardon,” he excused himself to them. He turned back to Slade, whispering. “She’s not the first young lady to profess those sentiments to you, if she did at all. And no one leads you around by your—um, nose. So it’s the other way around, isn’t it, you old sock?”

  Slade leaned forward, also whispering. “I admit to nothing. Let’s just say I see the sense in her plan. With my own added twist, of course.”

  His cigar held between his fingers, Dudley slammed his hamlike hand down onto the soft leather of the armrest. “Then, bully for you! And for her!” Again, he was forced to turn to the richly paneled room’s aghast company. “Once more, I beg pardon.” Turning back to Slade, he eagerly sipped at his drink and then clenched his cigar between his big teeth as he grinned in open curiosity. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What’s this plan of hers? And when did this all happen? But first, I almost forgot—you’ve been notably absent from society for the past weeks. Which has been duly remarked upon, I must add, by more than one brokenhearted young lady. Respectable and otherwise.”

  “Give them all my sincere apologies. Especially the otherwise ones. And tell them I regret that I won’t be back in their arms—er, their society—anytime soon. If at all.” Slade grinned at his friend’s rapidly changing expression.

  “If at all? Now, dammit, Garrett, this is serious. Something’s afoot, and you’re going to tell me what it is. No hedging, now—I’ve always been able to best you with my fists.”

  Slade remembered anew why he liked this senator’s son. Such bravado for someone who made a good-natured mess of everything he attempted. “First of all, Dudley, you’re about to spill your ash down the front of your shirt. And second, her plan is to seduce me. That will gain for me an heir. And for herself—her great-grandmother’s money and the chance to kill her great-uncle and then leave for home on the next train out of town, once all that is accomplished.”

  Slack-jawed, cigar tipping out precariously from between his lips, Dudley stared blankly at him.

  Slade arched an eyebrow. “That particular expression of yours is my favorite, Ames. It speaks so well of your intelligence.”

  Dudley clamped his jaws shut and bit clean through the butt end of his cigar, sending it tumbling down his front to land lit-end on his crotch. He didn’t seem to notice—not for several … long … moments.

  But Slade couldn’t take his eyes off the smoldering tobacco. “Dudley, you might want to—”

  A screech tore out of Dudley. “Great jumping Jehoshaphat!” He jerked up and out of the chair in a flurry of arms and legs, sent his drink flying, and—amid the shouted protests of the other members—began to dance around in a circle and beat at himself. In the process, he managed also to crush the errant cigar into the thick maroon carpet. Finally, he stopped his stampeding about to look down at himself. “I nearly burned the damned thing off before I ever got to put it to legitimate use.”

  He thrust his hips forward obscenely, took hold of his pants, and then fanned the general area. Finally, he turned an appalled expression on Slade, who simply stared at him, one corner of his mouth quirked up. Dudley, hands to his waist as his pants smoked and smelled up the room, burst out laughing.

  Within moments, Slade found himself out on Beacon Street with Dudley, who was gainfully occupied in buttoning his chesterfield over his ruined attire. Slade held on to his friend’s shoulder for support as he bellowed out his laughter. “Dudley, old man, this is a new record for us. In and out in less than an hour.”

  “I’ve been thrown out of better,” Dudley fumed. But then his face lit up. “Now there’s an idea—let’s try our luck at my dear father’s country club.” He then slipped a hand under the overlapping fold of his coat to unabashedly fumble around and once again assure himself of his member’s well-being. “I could’ve gelded myself.”

  “What, and deprive your mother of the pleasure?” Slade turned to signal to Rigby to follow them with the brougham as they walked in the crisp autumn air of late afternoon. He turned back to Dudley. “You are such an ungrateful son.”

  Dudley grinned at Slade. “Oh, you’ve been visiting Mother, have you?”

  “No. Actually, she was visiting Isabel and Hannah when I left.”

  Dudley feigned horror. “She’s been loosed on the unsuspecting population? What a nightmare for your household.”

  “More for her, I’d say. Esmerelda dragged in a dead rat and deposited it at your mother’s very proper feet.”

  Dudley’s broad-boned face lit up with beatific glee. “God love that huge horse of a dog. I knew we were doing the right thing when we imported her from jolly old England.” His expression then sobered some. “Now, back to this Hannah thing. As I understand it, she’s simply going to become the next Mrs. Garrett, obligingly supply you with an heir, and then promptly leave?”

  Slade nodded. “That’s the public version, yes.”

  “The public version. I see. Now, we’re talking about a year’s time, at the least, for all this to occur—given Mother Nature’s requirements for the actual conceiving and producing of a born child, whether it be an heir or not. And we’re assuming that the virile husband can get her with child on, say, the first outing. Here now. Wait a moment. If your lady is in such a tear to leave your company, then why would she get herself…?” With his hand, he indicated a very rounded belly. Then he went on, happily considering all the details.

  “First of all, I don’t see the law looking the other way—your wife or not—if she succeeds in cold-bloodedly killing the very deserving Cyrus. But, that problem aside, neither do I see a mother leaving her infant child behind, never to see it again. Nor do I see you allowing her to return to that savage-plagued prairie with your heir in tow.”

  Slade clapped Dudley on his impressively wide back. “Ames, if only you could order your own affairs as neatly as you do mine. Let me assure you, none of your concerns are going to transpire.”

  Dudley stopped in the middle of the street. “The devil you say.”

  “I do. Hannah’s going nowhere. She’s not going to kill anyone, but she will marry me in a scandalously short time and produce my heir. But neither she nor my child is leaving here. Ever.”

  Dudley shoved at Slade’s shoulder. “Go on with you. Does she know any of this?”

  “Of course … not. Not really. No, not like she thinks. Oh, the hell with it—it’s a surprise.” Slade stopped short when Dudley did. “Stow it, Ames, I swear it. Now listen, I’ve just had a brilliant idea.”

  Dudley’s face outdid his voice for drollness as he clapped his hand over his heart. “God save us all.”

  Slade grinned. “Are you game for a little adventure?”

  “No. The last two times you asked me that and I agreed, I found myself rowing the tiniest little craft as an oarsman for Harvard—and promptly swamped the damned thing. Then, the next time, I was your victim on the tennis courts. But wait—there was a third. And a fourth. Suffice it to say I like neither guns nor archery as a result.”<
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  “Are you quite done?”

  Dudley feigned giving Slade’s question deep thought. Then, he nodded. “I believe I am.”

  “Good. So, are you game for a little adventure?”

  “Of course,” Dudley pronounced cheerfully. “What are we about?”

  Slade put his arm around Dudley’s shoulder. “My friend, we’re about to get rip-roaring drunk. And then we’re about to get me married.”

  “You’re not serious!”

  “I am. Til-death-do-us-part serious, my friend.”

  * * *

  “See? Right there. By next April, we’ll have the most beautiful lilacs where that bare patch is—Oh, for evermore, Esmerelda! Get out of that flower bed and go bury your rat elsewhere! You’ve already scared everyone you can with it. Poor Mrs. Ames lay on the fainting couch for thirty minutes. And it’s all your fault. You ought to be ashamed, you great cow of a dog.” Done with upbraiding the bounding-about mastiff, she turned to Hannah, a delighted smile lighting her tiny features. “She’s not the least bit sorry, you know.”

  “I believe you’re right.” Hannah smiled, more at Isabel’s unflappability than at the mastiff’s far-off antics in the afternoon’s freshness. “I can picture them now, Isabel—the lilacs, I mean.”

  “Wait until you can smell them, come next spring. They’re quite fragrant.”

  Next spring? She wouldn’t be here then. A pang lanced through her as Isabel slipped a child-sized hand under Hannah’s elbow. Then, the little bird of a woman at her side peeked back over her shoulder. Hannah grinned. Isabel loved to bedevil their guard. The square, dour man shadowed their every move outside the manor, so she knew without looking what Isabel would see.

  Isabel finally turned her highly rouged face up to Hannah and whispered, “That Jones is still back there. Slade’s always said I need a keeper.” Her black and twinkling eyes attested to her opinion of that. Then, right out of the blue, she raised her voice and changed the subject. “Are you enjoying your stay here, Hannah?”

  “Certainly,” Hannah rushed to assure her hostess. “I feel very welcome at Woodbridge Pond. I think I could come to love it.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  Hannah glanced down at Isabel’s softly smiling face as that one kept a watchful eye on Esmerelda. Hiding both a frown and a smile, Hannah reminded herself that—make no mistake—a sharp and calculating mind lurked inside that head. And missed nothing.

  With her free hand, Hannah pulled her shawl around her shoulders. Walking quietly beside Isabel, enjoying the cool, windless day, she cast her gaze over the winter-readied formal gardens through which they walked. The sculpted greenery stretched from the mansion itself and ran to the high hedges this side of the pond. Was she already coming to love this place?

  “You’re awfully quiet, Hannah. Are you worried about your little Olivia?”

  Glad Isabel hadn’t divined her true thoughts, Hannah nodded. “Yes. Very much. Not one word from her, and tomorrow will be three days. I miss her chattering, cheerful presence. If I knew where she was, I’d go get her myself.”

  “Oh, I don’t imagine that great, frowning man back there—or my great, frowning grandson—would like that.”

  Hannah huffed out a scoffing noise at that notion. “I don’t care what either of them likes. I do as I please.”

  Isabel cackled and patted Hannah’s shoulder. “You’re quite his match, you know. You two should make very lovely children. The Good Lord knows we need the healing sounds of laughing and running children through this house.” She pulled back, the better to eye Hannah. “And I just can’t believe it’s you—a Wilton-Humes and a Lawless.”

  Hannah clamped her teeth together and managed a smile. She’d almost blurted out that there would be no children … not really. Slade was right—her charade was going to break Isabel’s heart. She was completely convinced that a marriage between the two children, as she called them, was exactly what they both wanted and needed. And she felt it was her God-given duty to bring them together. Why, she’d even told Dudley’s mother to expect an announcement.

  Her conscience roiling now as much as her stomach, Hannah changed the subject. “Isabel, tell me about Slade’s childhood. I’m sorry to say, but from what little bit I know, it doesn’t sound like a very happy one. What I mean is, I understand his strong feelings regarding the Wilton-Humeses, but not regarding my father.”

  “Ahh. I suppose I brought that up, didn’t I? Well, obviously your mother never told you.”

  Hannah stopped, looking down pointedly at Isabel. There it was again—that sense of some mystery that only she knew nothing of. “Told me what?”

  Isabel raised a brown-spotted, thin-veined hand to her brow, using it to shade her eyes from the sun as she squinted up at Hannah. “That many years ago our families were to have been so much more than mere neighbors.”

  Hannah’s heart thumped, warning of bad news yet to come. “How do you mean?”

  Isabel considered Hannah a moment and then tugged on her arm. “Come, we’d best sit down. There’s a nice bench by the pond where we can visit and keep an eye on Esmerelda, lest she dig up the summer cottage itself.”

  With Isabel directing, they walked in silence to the other side of the tall shrubs. Hannah helped the winded grandmother to settle herself and then sat down beside her. The continued crunching of the gravel behind them told of the guard’s approach. Jones came into view, making his presence conspicuous on the other side of the walk from them. He remained unobtrusively silent.

  Sighing at the need for such measures, Hannah then looked around until she spied Esmerelda careening joyfully around the pond’s perimeter, the dead rat’s fat and nasty, long-tailed body still clutched in her jaws. A purely feminine shudder rippled over her.

  Isabel drew Hannah’s attention back to her when she spoke. “Esmerelda is quite the handful. Just like Slade.”

  Hannah laughed with her. “Yes, I’ve noticed—on both scores.” Her laugh subsided to a smile and then gentled into an open, neutral expression as she looked out over the calm water. And waited for Isabel’s explanations.

  “Quite simply,” Isabel began abruptly, bringing Hannah’s gaze to her face, “your mother was supposed to marry my son, John.”

  The air left Hannah’s lungs as if lightning had flashed out of the clear, blue sky and struck her. She put a hand to her heart, not certain that it still beat. Or that her blood hadn’t congealed in her veins. “Your son—Slade’s father—and my mother were to marry? My mother?”

  Isabel nodded, looking far off, over the pond’s waters. “Yes, they were. Ironic, isn’t it?” She turned now to Hannah. “I’ve always prayed for healing in my family, Hannah. And perhaps now, with you and Slade, that healing can begin.” She stopped, putting a knobby-knuckled hand to her lined cheek. “But what am I saying? Neither you nor Slade would have been born, if events had turned out differently. And I suppose I’d be sitting here by myself.”

  Staggered, Hannah could only frown and make a helpless gesture. “Mother never said anything. Why didn’t they marry, Isabel? What happened?”

  “It’s all so sad.” Isabel shook her head, as if a great burden weighed her soul down. Sighing, she surprised Hannah by reaching for her hand, holding on to it as she spoke. “You look so much like your mother that I … Well, it doesn’t matter. I believe your mother saw a bad something in my John that none of us did for a number of years. A weakness. Or a coldness or cruelty. Something like that.”

  When Isabel didn’t say anything else, Hannah stroked the older woman’s fragile-boned hand and broke into her thoughts. “Your hand is awfully cold. Do you want to go back inside?”

  Isabel shook her head. “No. It’s the memories, not the weather.” She was silent another moment, but then launched into her story. “John and Catherine were childhood playmates. Then, they became betrothed after your mother’s coming-out season. The happy date was set for the following year.”

  She turned now to look at H
annah. “We were quite good friends back then with your family. But it wasn’t to be. You see—Catherine never would say why—but she very suddenly just broke it off. And, I’m sorry to say, John didn’t take it so well. He began drinking and raging about. Nothing Herbert—my late husband—and I said or did seemed to help him. Or to stop him. Especially on … that night.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A clammy coldness seized Hannah. “What night, Isabel? And stop him from what?”

  “That slipped out. I wasn’t going to tell you, but perhaps it’s time someone knew. Promise me you won’t tell Slade. It’s so shameful, and it happened before he was born, so I never told him. Do you promise, Hannah?”

  Hannah looked into the old woman’s anguished face. “I promise.”

  Isabel let out her breath and withdrew her hand. “Thank you. Late one terrible night, John apparently worked himself up into a particularly drunken rage. Herbert and I’d already retired for the night, so we knew nothing of what was afoot. But John’s brooding turned violent. He tore out of the house, fought his way through the hedges, ran to a rear door, and stormed up the servants’ stairs … to your mother’s room and—” Isabel stopped on a ragged breath. “I’m sorry. Give me a moment.” She lowered her head to look at her lap.

  Hannah’s heart pounded faster. Her poor, sweet mother. “Did he—?”

  Isabel jerked her head up. Tears stood in her eyes as she shook her head. “No, but very nearly. Your grandfather heard her screams and came running to trounce John good and send him packing, as Hamilton had every right to do. The next day … that very fence there began going up.”

  Hannah turned to stare with Isabel at the fence. When the grand old lady again took up her story, she spoke with a briskness that suggested she wished to be done with the topic. “Servants talked, the word spread quickly, and an awful scandal followed. Within mere days, Catherine was sent away with her lady’s maid. They left with the Foster girl and her family on an extended grand tour through the West. We never saw her again.”