Hannah's Promise

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Now, where to find this evidence? Hannah turned her head, catching sight of Uncle Cyrus’s office door. If other evidence existed, it would be in that room. A grin born of pure calculation stole over her features. Before she could lose her nerve, she skittered back down the hall, sliding to a silent, shoeless stop as she grabbed for the doorknob. Darting a quick look to her left and right, and seeing no one, she inched the door open and slipped inside.

  Turning her back to the room, which smelled of stale tobacco smoke and stuffy volumes, she soundlessly edged the door closed. Letting out her held breath, she turned around to face the office. Her gaze immediately lit on the desk that dominated the middle of the room. Quickly she went to it and began opening drawer after drawer, filtering through each one’s contents as she searched for … something, anything she could use against Uncle Cyrus and Aunt Patien—

  The door opened. Hannah jerked upright, staring. “Aunt Patience!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Hannah!”

  That one word was all she said. But it was enough, Hannah judged. She watched her aunt standing across the room from her, one blue-veined hand on the doorknob, her other to her chest as her darting gaze slipped from Hannah’s face to the open desk drawers and back to Hannah’s face.

  When the accusing silence descended like a pall, Hannah blurted out, “I’m looking for … for some writing material.”

  “Oh?” With that, Aunt Patience pointed to the letterhead stationery and pen-and-ink stand clearly visible on the desktop. “Were these not satisfactory?”

  Hannah stared at the blasted items and felt a guilty flush creeping up her neck and cheeks. She shifted her gaze to Aunt Patience’s face and made a self-deprecating gesture as she forced a smile, hoping it wasn’t as sickly as she felt. “Why, silly me. I completely overlooked them. What was I thinking?”

  Aunt Patience didn’t even blink. “I’d like to know that myself. But, tell me, Hannah dear, to whom are you going to write? Not your parents?”

  Hannah’s eyes widened as she suddenly recalled her own story of being estranged from her family. “No. No, of course not. I wish to write my…”—her gaze darted about as she thought desperately—“my friend. Yes, that’s it. My friend. I’m going to write my friend.”

  “Your friend. I see. Well, take the materials with you, but perhaps tomorrow would be a better time to write. It’s nearly time to dress for tonight’s event. Which is in your honor, if you recall. Your uncle and I have gone to tremendous trouble and expense to make you feel welcome here. I hope our confidence in you isn’t misplaced.”

  Hannah was certain she could feel herself shrinking in stature. “I assure you, Aunt Patience, it’s not.”

  The blueblood Brahmin nodded her head slowly. “Good. Then we’ll not speak of this incident to your uncle. It would only distress him terribly. And I know you wouldn’t want to do that. Would you?”

  “No, Aunt Patience.” Hannah forced herself to hold her aunt’s steady gaze. The threats implicit in Patience’s words were not lost on her. But the room’s sudden stuffiness seemed to make Hannah’s heart beat thunderously, and brought her near to begging. “May I be excused now? As you said, I need to dress for this evening.”

  Aunt Patience let go of the knob, stepping aside. “Certainly. And I do believe you’ll find a surprise waiting for you in your room. So, go. Certainly, no one is forcing you to be in here against your will.”

  Another wrench of guilt lowered Hannah’s gaze to her stocking feet. Taking a deep breath for courage, she raised her head and put one foot in front of the other. When she drew even with Aunt Patience, the older woman snaked her hand out and grasped Hannah’s arm in a surprisingly strong grip. Despite her best effort not to, Hannah gasped. Staring down at the small woman who frightened her so, peering into her birdlike, sharp eyes, Hannah could only wait for her to speak.

  “You forgot what you came in here for, dear.”

  A frown marred Hannah’s features. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The writing materials. Surely you still want to write your friend?”

  * * *

  Hannah dashed back up the stairs, this time using the elegant central stairway. She no longer had the stomach for stealth. In her hands were the pen, ink, and paper that she had no use for, since she already had the same things in her room. They’d been thoughtfully placed in the small secretary there. And of course, as her hostess, Aunt Patience would know that.

  With each unladylike leap up the stairs, Hannah berated herself soundly. What could possibly be more humiliating and damaging than the scene she’d just created? Now she’d raised Aunt Patience’s suspicions and, worse, now she would have to produce a letter tomorrow for posting to some imaginary friend. Too bad she couldn’t just hand over the one she’d written Jacey and Glory. But she didn’t dare, not knowing if it would be read by prying eyes here and never sent. Hannah huffed out a frustrated noise as she gained the second-floor landing. How in the world could things get any worse than they were right now?

  Her answer awaited her on the other side of her bedroom door, which she opened with the sense of gaining a haven. But the feeling left her in a whoosh of breath as she stopped suddenly, clutched the writing materials to her bosom, and surveyed the scene before her. This was Aunt Patience’s surprise? She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Moving with stiff, mechanical motions brought on by her mounting confusion and disbelief, she took in the open doors of her now-empty armoire and the open drawers of her equally empty chest of drawers.

  What was going on? But she thought she knew, as she approached her bed. Or tried to. Her way was blocked by box after piled-high box after spilled-over box. Hatboxes. Dress boxes. Shoe boxes. Boxes overflowing with thin tissue paper and dainty unmentionables.

  Who? What? Without taking her eyes off her bed, Hannah dropped the pen, ink, and paper on the secretary. Then, she just stood there, as suspicious as she was mesmerized. Surely, Aunt Patience and Uncle Cyrus hadn’t—No. Hannah refused to believe that. Because if they’d done this, if they’d gifted her with a completely new wardrobe, then they just had to be innocent of the deeds she thought them capable of. Why would they go to the tremendous trouble and expense of providing all these clothes, if they meant to kill her? So, if indeed they had done this, that made her a despicable person and a dastardly niece.

  Spying a card on her pillow, Hannah stared at it as if it might come alive and spring at her with bared teeth. But finally, curiosity got the better of her, and she stepped over and around the stacks and piles until she laid her hand on the card. Opening it, she read, For you, my little country mouse. Slade Garrett. Stunned, Hannah looked up at nothing in particular, even as her arm dropped to her side. Slade Garrett did this? And he thought of her as a country mouse? The man’s gall was not to be believed.

  But still, she wondered what his taste was like. Flipping the card back onto the bed, Hannah reached for a closed box. But just as quickly pulled back. She couldn’t. It would be wrong. So very wrong. Biting at her bottom lip, she looked all around her. She was all alone. So what would be the harm? One tiny peek wouldn’t hurt anything.

  Within moments, Hannah’s one tiny peek became a firestorm of openings and unwrappings and oohs and aahs of delight. Seated amongst and surrounded by elegant female frippery and petticoats and stockings and shoes and day dresses and traveling costumes and unmentionables and silk evening dresses and satin opera dresses and—oh, an entire wardrobe, for heaven’s sake—Hannah tore through each one, eagerly opening them all.

  Well, she assuaged her screaming conscience, it isn’t as if I can return any of these things. All my old clothes are gone.

  A fresh fit of wonder assailed her as she lifted a particularly fetching aquamarine gown out of its box and stood to hold it up to herself. The gown was exquisite—lavish material, simple lines. She looked for the card in the box. All the other boxes had cards from him in them, so why shouldn’t this one?

  Spying it, she lifted
it out and pushed aside the fabric mountain on her bed, making space for herself. Acknowledging a sense of shy hesitancy in her actions, she bit at her bottom lip and sat down to read his words. He wrote that the gown was like her eyes, that the fabric too changed color with every movement, every emotion. He asked her to wear it that night. She reread the card, sitting very still now and staring at Slade Garrett’s handwriting. The man was clearly trying to seduce her.

  Hannah took a deep breath. Then, draping the gown over her arm, she ran a finger over his words, noting their formation and forcing her mind on to practical considerations. His was a firm hand, straightforward lettering, no fancy scrolls. And it wasn’t the same as the handwriting on the Wilton-Humes letterhead she’d found in the grate at home.

  Feeling her throat close around that truth, and refusing to name it relief, Hannah carefully replaced the card in the empty box. What in the world was she going to do about Slade Garrett? Her posture slumped. What could she do about him? Could she beat him at his own game … whatever it was?

  Her thoughts contorting her lips into twisting peaks and valleys, Hannah looked down to see her hand smoothing the gown’s folds. Feminine curiosity got the better of her. Leaping up, the gown in her arms, she flew to the cheval glass. Holding the gown to her waist and with a hand flaring out the skirt, she posed for the mirror, turning this way and that, until she decided he was right. The gown did do nice things for her eyes.

  Without thinking, she began humming a tune and took a mincing dance step or two. It was only when she caught sight of her dreamy expression in the mirror, and realized she was fantasizing about dancing with him, that she pulled up short and let go of the dress as if it were hot. The dress puffed out and slowly pooled in folds around her ankles.

  “Here now, miss. Have you no manners? That’s no way to treat such a lovely gown.”

  Hannah whipped around. Holding a smallish rectangular black box and what looked to be a notecard, Mrs. Wells was just coming back into the room. Hannah pronounced the lady’s maid a snotty old ass.

  Making an awful face at the woman’s back when she turned to the bedside table, Hannah nevertheless bent over and picked up the lovely gown, walking with it to her bed. She carelessly flopped it on top of the expensive pile. “My manners are not in question here. Mr. Garrett’s are. What type of man has a lady’s wardrobe discarded and then replaces her belongings with this?” She plucked a scandalously sheer bedgown out of a box and held it up.

  Ha, that got her. Mrs. Wells pinched up her unpleasingly plump face. “Mr. Garrett is the best of gentlemen, young lady. And he’s done you a tremendous honor in purchasing these costumes for you. Why, he had to’ve spent an entire day at the shops. And you’re that ungrateful. He merely means to avoid having you be an embarrassment to the Wilton-Humeses.”

  “Embarrassment?” Feeling the rising heat in her veins that surely colored her warming face, Hannah rounded on the servant who’d done nothing, from day one, but make openly rude statements about her shortcomings. “I’ve plenty of clothes that are good enough. Or I would have, if they hadn’t all vanished.”

  Mrs. Wells plopped the box and the notecard on the bedside table. “Are you accusing me of stealing, Miss Lawless?”

  “You?” Hannah gave the hateful hag her best imperious look—down the end of her nose, and hopefully in a fair imitation of the way Aunt Patience looked at everyone. “Despite the evidence of your snooping through my belongings, I hardly think you’d risk your station here by taking any of my inferior clothing. Let’s just say, I know you do nothing on your own. You obey orders and report what you find.”

  Mrs. Wells’s mouth worked furiously. “If you’d been in your room earlier, as you were supposed to be, young lady, you’d have seen nothing so damning as me performing my duties. I merely gathered up your things and took them downstairs to the laundry for a proper washing.”

  “A proper washing? Is that what you said?” Hannah smiled, hoping it conveyed even one tenth of the contempt she felt for this mean-spirited woman. First Slade Garrett’s impertinences, and now this woman’s. Too bad for the maid that she was someone Hannah could do something about.

  “I’m going to count to five, Mrs. Wells. One.” She walked over to the nightstand and opened the drawer. Reaching in, she pulled out her pocket revolver, a Smith & Wesson .32. “Two.” She turned back around and leveled it on the astonished lady’s maid. “Three. And if you’re not out of this room by the time I reach five—”

  The woman fled. Hannah smiled at the empty space where the maid’s bulk had been. She lowered her arm and stared at her weapon, smiling. Shrugging, she replaced it in the drawer and turned to look at the mess in her room. Putting her hands to her waist, she told the room at large, “It appears I need a new lady’s maid.”

  One who had the run of the place, someone with more freedom to come and go than she had. Someone she could trust. Hannah stepped up to the bed and felt the letter to her sisters in her pocket. Of course—Olivia. Now she remembered. This gave her the perfect excuse to ask for the girl. She walked to the bellpull and gave it a tug, wondering who would show up. It sure as shooting wouldn’t be Mrs. Wells.

  While she waited, and in high humor now, Hannah turned her attention to the black velvet box and the notecard on the nightstand. Opening the envelope first, she inhaled sharply when she recognized the handwriting. Slade Garrett’s again. What now? Hannah flipped open the card. Two words. “For you.” And then his signature. “Slade.”

  Tapping the card absently against her jaw, she stared at the velvet box, narrowing her eyes as if it were a scorpion in her path. Then, calling herself silly—it was just a box—she laid the card down and snatched up his latest gift. She opened it, gasped, and almost dropped it.

  “I take it that means you like them?”

  She whipped around, sending the sparkling jewels flying about the room. Slade Garrett. A hand to her floundering heart, she gave vent to her startlement. “Do you live here? You seem to just … pop up at the oddest moments.”

  “Some would say in a puff of smoke, no doubt. But no, I most certainly do not live here. And believe it or not, I gained entrance in the most conventional of ways—I knocked on the front door.” With that, he entered her bedroom and immediately set about searching for the far-flung jewels. Bending over with athletic grace to retrieve a huge emerald set in heavy gold whenever he encountered one, he finally held them all. Looking from them to her, he asked, “Are these not suitable?”

  “No. I mean yes. They’re beautiful. But I—” Flustered, Hannah sent the empty box sailing onto the bed. Calling upon her Lawless temper, she raised her chin and put her fisted hands to her hips. “I have no use for your gifts.”

  She nearly ate those words when, in three long strides, he stood in front of her. His mouth a grim line, he unceremoniously grasped her wrist, forcing her arm out and her palm up. Into it he dropped the oval earrings, bracelet, and matching necklace. By their sheer weight, Hannah was forced to cup both hands around them.

  Garrett cupped his long-fingered hands around hers. Hannah tried to wrench her hands from his grip, only to have him tighten his hold until the jewels poked hard against her flesh. Hannah glared up at him. To no avail. He grinned like a wolf. “Perhaps you would have preferred opals?”

  Then he slid his hands off hers and stepped back. Hannah blinked, lowering her gaze to the fortune in gems that spilled through her fingers. She ought to throw them at him. But admitted she didn’t have the courage. So, she stood there, lost in indecision as to what her next move should be. Maybe he’d think she was suddenly fascinated with the jewels’ sparkle.

  But in truth, she was making mental connections. The clothes. The jewelry. His constant attention. Her aunt and uncle. The proper people of Boston. Even the answers she needed. This one man appeared to possess all those. And now, he sought to possess her. For revenge.

  Feeling him awaiting her reply, Hannah hefted the emeralds again, running a finger over their facets.
Then, so be it. Perhaps she’d allow him to possess her. To a point. He meant to use her, and he made no secret of that. Well, two could play this game. She’d use him for her own ends, but unlike him, she’d do it secretly. And just like him, she wouldn’t involve her heart.

  A slow smile marched across her features, putting the cap on her decision. Lifting her head, she adjusted her smile to one of maidenly appreciation. “I apologize for my silence. I find I’m simply overwhelmed, Mr. Garrett—”

  “Slade.”

  She simpered prettily. “Slade, then. I feel complimented that a man like you would notice me. What have I done to deserve such attention?”

  Looking askance at her, he backed up another space and shifted his weight as he crossed his arms over his chest. He stared at her in dark contemplation for a moment or two. Then, an amused light twinkled in his eyes, even as his eyebrows arched. “Hannah Lawless, I expected better than that from you.”

  Hannah fought to maintain her pretty smile. She batted her eyelashes at him … until it became painful to continue. Forced to relax her facial muscles, or risk developing a tic, she frowned up at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

  He burst out laughing. No one had to tell her that his hilarity was at her expense. Yet, when he was in better control of himself, he apparently felt compelled to do just that. He wiped at his eyes and insulted her. “You’re not very good at that, are you?”

  “At what? I have no idea what you mean.”

  “The devil you don’t. Flirting and affecting pretty pouts. That awful face. I thought some flux had seized you.”

  Beyond mortified but affecting outrage, Hannah leaned toward him. “You are the most insulting and ornery man I have ever met.”

  “I am all that and much worse. But I think I’m also the only man you’ve ever met.” He paused, considering her. “Perhaps that’s it.” His expression softened, became openly sensual. “Or at least the only man you’ve allowed this close to you. Am I right?”