Hannah's Promise

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Olivia smiled and nodded as she started for the door of Hannah’s bedroom at the brownstone, but Hannah snapped her fingers at her next thought. “Wait. I nearly forgot.”

  She rushed over to the mahogany chest of drawers and opened the top drawer. Reaching in, she lifted out a tissue-wrapped package and spun around, going hurriedly back to Olivia. She shoved the package into the girl’s hands. “Here. Mrs. Garrett had Rigby stop yesterday at a little shop, so we could get this for Colette.”

  Olivia stared in silence at the gay little package in her hands. When she raised her eyes, unshed tears filled them. “I’ve never had a gift for Colette.”

  A fierce sympathy tugged at Hannah’s heart, but she said nothing as the young mother looked down again, smoothing a hand reverently over the paper, eliciting a soft crinkle from its crisp texture. A tear fell on her hand. She looked up and blinked. “Thank you, miss. I’m most grateful.”

  Hannah smiled and briskly played down her generosity. “It’s nothing. Neither one of us was very anxious to get to Mrs. Ames’s. She thinks I’m a saint now that young Mr. Ames and Miss Wannamaker have announced their engagement. We were glad for the delaying stop.” She then turned the girl toward the door. “You take that and enjoy your afternoon with Colette and your mother.” Her smile faded. “How is your mother, Olivia?”

  A gray cloud settled over the girl’s face. “I don’t think she’ll be with me much longer, miss.”

  Hannah’s hand went to her heart. “I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to lose your mother.” She then put her hand on the girl’s sleeve. “Perhaps I can come help you?”

  Olivia shook her head, dislodging her hood. “Oh, no, miss. That’d only make Mr. Wilton-Humes more suspicious than he already is about your being here and not at Woodbridge Pond. Besides, it’s enough what Mr. Garrett’s done for me and Mum.”

  The name hung in the air between them. Hannah withdrew her hand to knot it with her other one. “Mr. Garrett? What’s he done?”

  “He didn’t tell you? Oh, I’m sorry, miss. I forgot.”

  Her heart stinging, Hannah raised her head a notch. She hadn’t seen or talked to Slade in five days. “It’s all right. It’s not your fault. What did he do?”

  An eagerness to tell replaced her hesitancy. “For me pretending to be spying on you, he moved in the nicest couple upstairs from Mum—name of Hill—to look after her and Colette. And he’s paying for everything. What’s more, he put in two men across the hall to keep an eye out. So, everything looks normal, what with me working my regular hours.” Olivia then sobered, speaking as if in defense of the man. “Mr. Garrett’s a good man, miss.”

  Looking into Olivia’s brown eyes, Hannah accepted the censure of the girl’s last words. “Yes, he is. You’d better go now.”

  “Yes, miss.” Olivia pulled her hood back up over her braids, tucked the gift into her pocket, and turned to leave the room. But she immediately spun back to Hannah and grabbed her in a fierce hug. “Thank you for the present. I love you,” she whispered and then turned and ran out of the room.

  Hannah stood where she was, fingernails digging into her palms. She bit at the inside of her cheek until she no longer felt like crying. One drop of excess emotion and she would crack, crumble, and collapse. Taking deep breath after deep breath, she finally squared her shoulders. She had to get out of this house. She was suffocating.

  Perhaps a trip across the street to the Public Garden was what she needed. The flowers weren’t in bloom and the trees were bare. But it didn’t matter. The garden was outside, and that was all that mattered. Besides, no less than four of Slade’s men would follow her. What could go wrong? Hannah set off for the hallway, realizing she’d better tell Hammonds. No sense having the disapproving butler sound an alarm at her absence.

  Now there was an odd one, that Hammonds. He had the strange habit of staring at portraits when he was talking to her. On the first floor now, she went in search of the little man who’d reduced her, more than once, to staring at the same portrait he did when she spoke with him. Hannah walked into the parlor. No Hammonds. But feeling the tug of the outdoors, she went to the window and pulled the lace sheer aside. And smiled.

  “There it is,” she said softly, but still aloud, “the outdoors. Oops. There he is, too, across the street. Jones—my square, silent guard. What’s he posing as today? Looks like … hmmm—a lazy man sitting on a park bench staring at this house. That’s original. Wonder how he likes city life over Woodbridge Pond?”

  “Did you say something, Mrs. Garrett?”

  Crying out, Hannah spun around, nearly bringing the lace sheer with her. Hammonds was in the doorway, staring at the portrait on the far wall. Hannah put a hand to her thumping heart. “Yes. I mean, no. Um, Hammonds, I was looking for you.”

  He cut his gaze over to her. “You thought I was outside, madam?”

  A scorching heat flamed up her cheeks. “No, of course not. I’ll be going out and will need my cloak.”

  “Outside, madam?”

  Was that all he could say? “Yes, Hammonds. Outside. Surely you know it—all the world that isn’t inside?”

  Nose in the air, arms stiffly at his sides, he addressed the portrait. “I’m not sure that Mr. Garrett will approve.”

  “Well, then, we just won’t tell him, will we? My cloak, please.”

  “Yes, madam.” He bowed to the portrait and left the room.

  Hannah turned back to the window, again pulling the sheer aside. In a wistful mood, she watched the passing pageant of people going about their lives. Would hers ever be normal again? Facing away from the scene, she hugged her arms to herself. Her mouth frowned in self-pity. Married, alone, in a strange city, Mama and Papa dead, Glory and Jacey and Biddy so far away, her life in danger. And all she wanted was a walk in the fresh air. Funny, how life came down to moments.

  Hammonds came back into the room with her lined and hooded cloak draped over his arm. “I’ve alerted the … gentlemen as to your intentions, madam. They’re most concerned.”

  Gentlemen, indeed. Her keepers, he meant. Hannah put her fisted hands to her hips. “Are they? Well, they’re also about to be most cold.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Hannah held out her hand for her cloak. It remained empty because Hammonds kept his eyes on that dead person in the portrait. Sighing, she stomped over to the rigid man. Tugging her wrap away from him, she flung it around her shoulders as he bowed and left the room. Waiting a moment until she no longer heard his footsteps, Hannah bolted across the parlor. Maybe she could get out before her keepers had time to be ready.

  A smile already forming at that thought, she rounded the corner. And stopped suddenly. And sighed. There stood Hammonds, his hand on the front door’s heavy knob. And with him stood three tall, beefy, serious men, all coated and hatted. They stared wordlessly at her. Bottom lip poked out, Hannah silently walked through their parting ranks. Hammonds opened the door, bowing her out. She deigned to nod her head at him. Then, over her shoulder, she said, “Last one out is a damned Yankee.”

  She stepped onto the stoop and lifted her nose to the air. Glorious, cold, and fresh. And skipped down the ten or so steps of the front stoop to the sidewalk below. Turning around, she smiled at the straight-faced damned Yankees who ambled with brute confidence down the steps after her, their hands in their coat pockets. No doubt those pockets held guns. Well, so did hers.

  Hannah turned back to the street, waiting at the curb for a lull in the traffic, so she could cross. Sensing she wasn’t alone, she looked up and around her. One on her left. One on her right. One at her back. Like huge elms around a sapling. Just then, the men on her left and right boldly stepped into the street, stopping the carriages and wagons with no more than a raised hand.

  Hannah’s eyes widened at that sight, but not so much as they did when the man behind her stepped to her right, took her elbow, and escorted her safely across the street to the park. Slightly intimidated, she kept her gaze on his craggy, impass
ive face all the way over. And pronounced herself glad these men were on her side.

  When the man let go of her and stepped back, Hannah blinked at him and his two cronies who flowed into the crowd around her, no more detectable than one blade of grass from another. Public Garden stretched before her. Here was freedom. She smiled at the trees, at the benches, at the Bostonians, at the dogs, at the horses, at the children. Her smile faded. She tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth and eyed a group of running, playing children.

  Suddenly she straightened up, clamping her hands over her mouth one half-second ahead of a loud cry. She watched the children, heard their happy shrieks of laughter. A baby. What would Slade do if she told him…?

  * * *

  Patience Wilton-Humes gasped and sat forward in the carriage. Without looking away from the figure in Public Garden, she reached behind her, roughly grasping at Cyrus’s sleeve. “Cyrus, look there! I believe it’s Hannah. Way over there. See her? By those children. And she’s alone.”

  She scooted over, giving her place to Cyrus. Perching on the edge of the narrow leather seat, he looked this way and that and then turned to his wife. “Are you sure? Because she wouldn’t be alone. She has those damned men surrounding her everywhere she goes.”

  Damned fool couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. “Of course I’m sure. Those idiot men are probably lurking close by. Now, move out of my way.” She yanked at Cyrus’s coat, roughly dislodging him. “Tell Hankins to pull over. I don’t want to lose her. Mrs. Wells can just wait for us a bit longer. That stupid Olivia’s probably not on time, anyway.”

  She grabbed his coat again, this time pulling him toward her. “Cyrus, this could be the chance we’ve been waiting for. A nice, public accident. Runaway horses and all. Just the thing. Now, hurry it up—get Hankins to stop.”

  When she pushed him back again, Cyrus scrambled to tap at the small trapdoor set in the roof. It opened immediately. He told their driver to pull over. Patience leaned forward to peer out the window. A squawk of glee escaped her when she spied her great-niece strolling through the bare gardens. Patience sat back, a smug smile lighting her face. The meddlesome chit would pay dearly for her accusations.

  The carriage slowly worked its way out of traffic and stopped alongside the park. Patience folded her hands in her lap and glanced up to be sure the trapdoor was now closed. She then cocked her head at the expression on her husband’s face. “Are you scared, Cyrus?”

  Cyrus’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he shook his head no. “It’s not that. We just need to consider those men with her. Should we try to run Hannah over, they’re bound to recognize our carriage.”

  Patience stared. The man was pathetic. She huffed out her breath, closed her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose with her gloved index finger and thumb. Opening her eyes again, she exhibited the quality of her name by patiently explaining, “Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus. We won’t run over her. We will hire some ruffian to do it for us and tell him that if Hannah’s guards interfere, they’re to die right along with her.”

  “They are? What about our man?”

  “Jones?” Patience waved her hand in dismissal. “He’ll have a care for his own skin. But if he’s so unfortunate as to be in the way? Well, it would be just as well if he did meet his end with Hannah. Prices himself and his information very highly, he does.”

  She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “If that damned Olivia weren’t relaying false information to us, we’d have no need of Jones’s services. But, oh-ho, that one—she’ll pay dearly for her betrayal.” Patience then dug through her handbag, coming up with three coins. “Here. This ought to be enough. These low-class beggars hold life cheaply enough.”

  Cyrus took the coins, greedily pocketing them. His face eager now, he whispered, “Let’s have Hankins hire someone. That way no one can point a finger at us. He’s the one I had tamper with Hamilton’s carriage the day of their accident. If he’d do that for us, he’ll do this, too.”

  Patience gave her husband a look that bordered on motherly pride. “Cyrus Wilton-Humes, just when I think you’re a hopeless idiot, you come up with something brilliant.” Then she put her finger to her chin in a thoughtful attitude. “Of course, we’ll have to rid ourselves of Hankins afterward. The man knows far too much.”

  “Rid ourselves of Hankins? We can’t do that, my dear.”

  Patience’s beaky face hardened. She sighed out her irritation. “What now? An attack of morals, my husband?”

  “Not at all, my wife. If we do away with Hankins, then we’d have to hire a new driver. Hankins may know too much, but he does keep his mouth shut. A new man might not.”

  Patience raised an eyebrow in admiration of Cyrus’s devious intuition. “Sometimes you surprise me, Cyrus.”

  He met her look for look. “Yes. Don’t I?” With that, he reached up and tapped again on the trapdoor. When it opened and Hankins’s pocked and pointed face appeared in the small opening, Cyrus held the three coins up to him. “Hankins, I want you to take this money and pay some ruffian…”

  * * *

  Ensconced in Isabel’s ancient carriage, Slade cursed. No one escaped his tirade. Not the slow-moving traffic around Public Garden for boxing him in. Not Isabel and her entire staff of ancient domestics for their reproachful looks. Not Esmerelda for chewing up his boot—and his glove. Not Dudley for being respectable. Not Hannah for being … Hannah. And most of all, not himself for being on his way to his … her brownstone.

  Now, what was it he’d come up with? Oh, yes, important papers. Damned important business papers. Locked in the desk. Well, it was enough to get him in the door. He looked out the carriage window at the smiling, strolling citizens and hordes of laughing children, imagining he could see his destination. He’d get there quicker by walking. He could cut across the pathways in a direct line, instead of being subjected to all this roundabout.

  Walk. Yes. He reached up and tapped on the trapdoor. A moment later it opened and in peered Sedgewick, Isabel’s balding, nodding, decrepit driver, pressed into service what with Rigby trailing Olivia. “Yes, Mr. Garrett?”

  “Pull over, Sedgewick. I’m going to walk.”

  “Walk, sir?”

  “Yes. One foot in front of the other. After you let me off, continue on to my … um, Mrs. Garrett’s brownstone and wait for me there.”

  “Yes, sir.” The trapdoor closed and the carriage moved painfully, slowly over to the curb nearest the green expanse of the lawns.

  The second Sedgewick reined the bays to a stop, and being too impatient to wait for the old man to take ten minutes dismounting the driver’s box and another ten minutes to shuffle around to the side to fumble with the latch, Slade opened the door himself and neatly hopped out.

  He tapped on the carriage to get the stiffly rising old man’s attention. “No need, Sedgewick. Stay where you are. No, over here, old boy. Yes. I know I’m already out. Go on, then. Have a cup of tea with Hammonds. And while you’re at it, ask him why he talks to my ancestor’s portrait instead of me, will you?”

  The doddering little man nodded. Or maybe that was just his normal tremor. At any rate, he agreed. “Yes, sir.” And took his seat again, handled the reins, and jiggled them over the well-behaved horses’ backs.

  His heart in his throat, Slade watched the carriage pull into the traffic. Good thing there were drivers more alert than Sedgewick who could rein and draw aside at the man’s incautious, unyielding maneuvers as he … merged with the flow. Wincing in relief that there was no accident, Slade turned and set off, with a jaunty, long-legged stride, down the tree-lined, shrubbery-edged pathway.

  Tipping his hat to the giggling, simpering ladies he passed, stopping for or dodging around playful children, and nodding his greeting to the men he knew, Slade suddenly wondered why he didn’t walk more. The air was briskly cool and smelled of coming cold, but the wind was mercifully light. The sun’s warmth felt good on his face. The exercise was invigorating. His fellow Bostonians we
re in good cheer. And Hannah was alone and coming toward him.

  Slade stopped cold, his smile of well-being fading into a grim line. Hannah was alone and coming toward him? What the devil! Bolting off to one side of the crowded pathway, he put his hands to his waist. No, she wasn’t just coming toward him. She was ambling along, not a care in the world, smiling as she watched a group of toddlers being tended by their nurses. She hadn’t seen him yet. But in a few more steps she’d hear his heart pounding for her.

  Jerking at that thought, Slade cut his gaze to points all around her slender, cloaked self. And relaxed. Temple, Hardy, and Cates were no more than ten steps from her, but may as well have been a continent away for all the apparent attention they paid her. Jones probably still lounged somewhere close to the brownstone to keep an eye out for skulkers. Slade smiled at his men’s well-paid devotion and then frowned, telling himself his dour expression was for Hannah’s selfish endangerment of her guards. No doubt she’d poked that lip out—and her gun, to get her way. Otherwise, these men knew better and had other orders.

  Well, he’d take Miss to task right now over that very point. Because here she came. Excited by this legitimate reason to confront her, he also decided to teach her a lesson. So, staying to the side of the path, he caught his men’s alert gazes. A nod from him toward the unsuspecting Hannah was sufficient.

  Anticipating her surprised response when he reached out to grab her, a rare stomach-rippling giddiness seized Slade. When he realized he was grinning like a jackass and his pulse was wildly erratic, the closer she came, he insisted to himself that his symptoms had to do with the impending upbraiding he was going to give his errant wife.

  Slade stepped onto the pathway and grabbed Hannah’s arm. He yanked his wide-eyed, gasping wife around and pulled her into a leafy bower just off the walkway. Immediately, the three guards formed a loose, lounging semicircle in front of their boss and his lady, forestalling the notice of even the closest passerby to the woman-napping that had just occurred.