Hannah's Promise

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  “No, miss. It’s not Serafina. It’s … it’s me—Olivia.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Hannah jerked the door open, hugging the girl to her. “Olivia! I’ve missed you so much. I’ve been worried sick.” She drew back and held the girl at arm’s length. “How’s … um—Colette, wasn’t it? Is she better now? Oh, I’m so glad to see you. Slade is impossible as a lady’s maid. Did you even know we’re married? You couldn’t have picked a better day to return. I’ll need your help right away—Isabel says we’re to expect hordes of callers.”

  When the girl’s eyes brimmed with tears and her chin dimpled, Hannah’s expression wilted into a mask of sympathy. “Olivia, what’s wrong?”

  She put her arm around the silent girl and led her to a grouping of delicate chairs around the fireplace. Hannah sat on the edge of her chair, soberly noting several things at once. If it were possible, the girl was even thinner. Her brown hair hung in strands around her face. There was no color in her cheeks. Neither was she in uniform. She wore a faded blue, very worn wool skirt and basque, and scuffed boots. Hannah looked deeper. The child’s face was … careworn, drawn. And she kept her gaze centered on her lap.

  A tenderness piercing her heart, Hannah reached over and clasped Olivia’s thin, cold hands. “Olivia, look at me.” When she did, it was with more of a skittering, sliding glance than a direct stare. “Whatever it is, Olivia, we’ll help you. I mean that.”

  Olivia finally settled her gaze on Hannah. Who nearly gasped at the flatness that pervaded the little maid’s brown eyes. “There’s nothing wrong, miss. I’m just tired, is all. And … and glad to be back.” She looked down at her lap again.

  Hannah sat back in her chair. The girl obviously didn’t want to talk. Hannah knew she could make her, being her employer, but she wasn’t the heartless sort. Perhaps some cheeriness and pampering from the Garrett domestics would bring her around. Maybe Olivia’d talk to one of them. “I’m glad you’re back, too. I’ve missed having you to talk to. Remember, you’re one of the few people I can trust.”

  Olivia flinched visibly and looked up, shaking her head vigorously. “No, miss—I mean, madam. I don’t think you should talk to me. Or tell me things. It ain’t fittin’ for—for your new station.” She stood up. “If that’s all, I’d like to go to my room and get into my uniform. And then I’ll come back and help you dress.”

  Smarting more than a little bit from Olivia’s chastisement of her, Hannah spoke quietly. “All right, Olivia. Thank you.” The girl remained silent. Hannah sighed deeply. “That will be all, then.”

  Olivia nodded and made as if to leave, but then she hesitated and shot Hannah a glance. She looked on the verge of saying something, but then she paled and dipped into a curtsy—the first one Hannah’d ever seen her execute.

  Hannah dipped her head in acknowledgment and watched Olivia walk out of the room. The girl’s shoulders sagged with the weight of the world. Once Olivia closed the door behind her, Hannah turned back in her chair and stared at the empty fireplace. Thinking back over the past few minutes, she realized that Olivia hadn’t answered a single one of her questions.

  That brought her to the edge of her seat. Clapping her hands on her knees, she turned to stare at her rumpled bed. A smile came to her face. Maybe Olivia hadn’t answered her, but she knew someone who had promised to get her those answers.

  * * *

  Never should have left her alone. His heart in his throat over Hannah’s cryptic message, Slade yanked the carriage door open, left Dudley in his wake, and bounded up the wide steps of Woodbridge Pond’s front entrance—almost before Rigby could bring the brougham’s team to a halt in the circular drive. “Send Jonathan to the club to get Champion for me,” he called over his shoulder to his bruised driver.

  Slade grabbed the door’s handle, depressing the latch as he threw his weight and momentum into expecting it to open. It didn’t. He slammed into the unforgiving wood, very nearly dislocating his shoulder. He bellowed out as he clutched at his numbed arm and danced around in agony.

  “I say, that looks painful. Teach you to be in such a hurry that you won’t allow Rigby to drive around to the porte cochere.”

  Slade glared at the cheerful Dudley, who stood next to and dwarfed a huge flower urn on the ornamental landing. The senator’s son nonchalantly removed his gloves, slapping them against his other palm while he considered Slade with an arched auburn brow.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Ames?” Slade neither expected nor got a response from his gloating friend. The guttersnipe loved catching him in a mishmash of emotions over a woman. Still, Slade was in no mood for his friend’s taunting attitude. “Don’t help me. Just stand there like the bastard you are.”

  Dudley chuckled out loud. “As you wish.” And remained standing there, like the bastard he was. He whistled a jaunty tune and reached up to remove his top hat, so he could scratch at his scalp. The sun’s rays glinted off his unruly thatch of kinky-curly, carrot-red hair, creating the effect of his head being aflame. Suddenly he turned to Slade, wearing a mock-injured expression. “By the bye, I am telling Mother what you said about me being a bastard. That doesn’t speak well of her morals.”

  “Tell her. I still say it would explain a lot. And put your hat on before a passing fire brigade throws water on you.” With that, and still holding his stinging, tingling arm hard against his side, Slade stalked back to the door and kicked out a knocking tattoo with his booted foot.

  The retaliation against the door seemed to ease his pain. But not to bring Pemberton. However, following his kicking with a substantial amount of voluble cursing, coupled with banging on the door with his one viable fist, finally brought the old man around. The sounds of the lock being worked from the inside … and worked and worked … caused Slade to exchange glances with Dudley. His own, fatalistic. Dudley’s, amused. The door at long last opened.

  Pemberton, all starch and polish, and with a gravy-stained napkin tucked into the too-big collar of his shirt, squinted into the bright sunlight and looked down his long, thin nose at the interlopers. “I’m sorry, sirs. But the Garretts are not receiving guests at the moment. They’ve had quite a full morning and are now taking their luncheon.”

  Muscles bunched to barge in, but stopped by this bit of unexpectedness, and by twenty-five years of minding Pemberton, Slade stood rooted to the landing of his family’s estate. He shot Dudley another look. Then, working the last vestiges of numbness out of his arm, Slade turned to the butler, who effectively blocked the entry with all ninety pounds of himself. “Pemberton, you old caution, it’s me—Slade Franklin Garrett.”

  Pemberton blinked, lowered his head, and shaded his watery blue eyes with a brown-spotted hand. He frowned as much as he peered at the face before him. In a moment, his face lit with recognition. “I say, sir. You’re absolutely right. You are the young Mr. Garrett.” He then immediately reverted back to his butler pose, formally intoning, “One would therefore think you’d be aware of the visiting hours. The family is having luncheon. You’ll have to come back later.” He started to close the door.

  Slade wedged his foot in the jamb and nearly got it smashed for his efforts. “Ouch. Dammit, man, I live here. Now move aside.” Slade wedged a shoulder around the old man and carefully pushed by him, stalking across the black-and-white marble-tiled entryway. “Where’s Mrs. Garrett, Pemberton?”

  “Which one, sir? And who shall I say is calling?”

  Slade stopped in his tracks and turned around—again to stare in disbelief at Dudley. That reprobate grinned a big-toothed smile and encouraged, “Well, don’t just stand there, Garrett. Tell him who’s calling. Can’t you see the man is trying to have his luncheon?”

  Slade got no further than poking his index finger at his friend before feminine steps, accompanied by the one voice in all the world that could make his heart skip and stutter, echoed behind him.

  “Pemberton, what is all the fuss? Is that Mr. Garrett at long last?”

&
nbsp; Slade pivoted. And caught his breath at the sight of her. How could he have ever thought he’d simply marry her and ignore her? The Lawlesses had the last laugh again on the Garretts. For if she ever knew how gut-wrenching her effect on him was, he was doomed to a life of dancing attendance on her and being very foolish with his time and money. Somewhat like now.

  But not allowing one trace of lovesickness to shade his manner, he affected a stiff posture and an instant scowl. “At long last, is it? I came as soon as I received your note, madam. And all the fuss, as you say, is due to me rushing home from the club, thinking you’re injured or dead, only to find you happily engaged in luncheon.”

  “Happily engaged? I’ve been receiving callers all morning who’ve all wanted ‘all the details,’ as they put it, and I’ve been dealing with a fortune in arriving gifts. And where have you been, sir? Gone, that’s where, leaving me to fend for myself—all while being exhausted from a sleepless night last night—” Her eyes went wide and her face colored prettily.

  Slade grinned evilly. “A sleepless night last night? How so?” Putting his hands to his waist, he watched her color deepen and her mouth open and close in embarrassment. Until her gaze shifted just to his right, her eyes narrowed, and her attention stayed focused there. Slade turned, too.

  Dudley and Pemberton stood side by side, looking like an advertisement for a circus sideshow, what with the disparity in their sizes. Dudley’s orange and brown plaid suit next to Pemberton’s black clothes and dirty napkin only intensified the effect. Slade cringed with Dudley at Hannah’s sweetly sarcastic greeting to the senator’s son. “Why, there he is—my husband’s best man. So nice to see you on your feet and aware of your surroundings, Mr. Ames.”

  Mr. Ames turned bright red and belatedly yanked his top hat off. “Good day to you, Mrs. Garrett. May I say you look especially fetching in that watered silk?”

  Slade rolled his eyes. “No, you may not, you fool.” You look especially fetching in that watered silk, he mimicked in his head. His terse words garnered for him Hannah’s renewed attention. Her beautiful Madonna face glowed with an inner light all its own—in Slade’s suddenly poetic estimation.

  “You shouldn’t insult your friend, Mr. Garrett.”

  “I assure you, I’ve said worse to him—and only a moment ago on the front landing. Now, tell me about your note.”

  She twisted her fingers together and cut her gaze from him to the two men behind him, and then back to him. “Can we speak alone, please?”

  “Certainly.” His stomach tightened. But now that he knew this woman was safe, he could handle—and gladly—whatever might be awry in her world. He turned to the butler and his friend. “Pemberton, take Mr. Ames to the dining room and have Rowena fix him a plate. I trust Grandmother is still at table?”

  Pemberton managed a stiff bow—with Dudley snaking a hand out to steady him—and then straightened up. “One doesn’t trust the elder Mrs. Garrett to be anywhere, when she’s out of one’s sight.” He turned to Dudley, again bowing dangerously. “This way, sir.”

  Dudley waved the butler ahead of him, following him like a giant, ungainly puppy. “What has Mrs. Edgars cooked up for the menu today, old boy?”

  “Some sort of charred animal carcass, surrounded by the fruit of the land.”

  “Oh, bully! What rare luck—my favorite. I only hope it’s not Esmerelda. And for dessert, we’re having…?”

  The two wandered off down the hallway, leaving Slade and Hannah to stare after them. But Slade ended up staring at Hannah, as always. He took a deep breath. She was more intoxicating than any liquor. With her deep-dark and shiny hair piled high on her head in thick ringlets, her sweet, creamy neck was exposed and needed kissing. She turned then, catching him.

  He immediately scowled, widening his stance and punctuating his feigned displeasure with her by crossing his arms over his chest. “Now, then, what is the meaning of all this? First you push me out of bed and tell me to go away—on only our second day of marriage. Highly irregular. But I nevertheless go away.

  “Then, when I’m pleasantly engaged in occupying my time—again, at your urging—you send an urgent message with Rigby telling me to come home. Which I did—pell-mell and leaving Champion hitched at the club, I might add. Only to have you chastise me for being gone. So, what in the name of all that is holy is going on?”

  “Are you quite finished?” She poked her bottom lip out, which only accentuated its sensual fullness.

  “No, actually, I’m not.” With his arms still crossed, Slade frowned down at her, surreptitiously clutching at his own coat’s fabric to keep from grabbing her right here—in the foyer, in broad daylight—and having her on that damned table in the center of the room. One day, he would. “I find I have one more thing to say to you. Dudley’s right. You look lovely in that watered silk. The fabric’s turned your eyes a deep green that I find … arousing.”

  He watched her pinken. When she looked up at him, innocently provocative with her mouth open and her wide eyes glittering, he frowned fiercely, barely maintaining his stern pose. “Well, madam? I’m waiting.”

  He watched his wife make two attempts to speak, and fail. Immediately alarmed, Slade dropped his pose, lowering his arms to his sides in an attitude of readiness. When her expression clouded and her eyes teared, he unraveled, as surely as any ball of yarn in a kitten’s clutches. He reached her in one step and held her by her arms. “For God’s sake, what is it, Hannah?”

  She put trembling hands to her mouth and sniffed. “Oh, Slade. I’m so glad you’re here. It’s just been awful.” She took a deep shuddering breath, releasing it in a rush with her next words. “Olivia is back.”

  “Olivia is back?” Slade repeated stupidly. He looked askance at this emotionally overwrought woman in his arms. And admitted to himself that he had no idea how these lovely creatures worked.

  He did know that he’d slay dragons for her. Fight armies single-handedly and unarmed, one hand tied behind his back and blindfolded, if she asked him to. He’d even figure out this lady’s-maid dilemma for her … if he could begin to understand it. He shook his head, thinking that nothing in his previous experience in life had prepared him for Hannah Wilton Lawless … now Garrett. “But aren’t you happy about that?”

  She nodded vigorously, loosing a long chocolate curl to trail over her shoulder. “I was,” she sobbed, turning a frowning mouth and quivering chin up to him. “But she’s changed. She … she doesn’t like me anymore and says nothing’s wrong and she won’t smile or chat on or race about the place and not even Esmerelda can get a rise out of her and she’s so thin and she looks so sad and then I saw Rigby and he’s been beaten by someone and is all sullen too and I just don’t know what to make of it all.”

  Was that all? And all in one impressive breath, too. Blinking, relieved to his toes, he told her, “Rigby, that young cuss, got himself beat up getting his horse back from some street toughs. His pride is more bruised than his face.”

  Slade relaxed. There was nothing wrong here that he couldn’t fix for her. But even more importantly, instead of acting rashly on her own, instead of dashing off headlong into danger with that little peashooter of hers, she’d sent for him. Her husband. She’d placed her problems in his hands to be solved.

  She wanted, even needed his help. To Slade, it meant she trusted him. Finally. He was trusted and, yes, loved. She’d already told him that. A chip of armor flaked away from his heart. A tiny door opened. This woman loved and trusted him.

  “Well, I feel better about Rigby, at least. But what about Olivia?”

  He started to smile, but the new-husband voice in his head warned him that would be a big mistake. So he became appropriately serious and head-of-the-household authoritative, striving to show that her concerns were serious and important to him. “I’ll get to the bottom of this for you, Hannah. Don’t you worry.”

  She firmed up her chin and shook her head at him. “You don’t understand. Something is very wrong. Very. I wrote
Glory—”

  “Glory?”

  “My baby sister. I wrote Glory and Jacey a—”

  “Oh, yes. Now I remember.”

  Her voice rose impatiently. “Quit interrupting me, Slade. This is important.” To prove it, she looked all around them and then clutched at his sleeve, dragging him into the privacy of the small family salon and closing the door after them.

  Slade’s eyes popped open wide at the mountain of wrapped and unwrapped gifts claiming every surface in the room. He made a sweeping gesture with a pointed finger. “All this came this morning?”

  Hannah turned to him. Gone were the tears and the uncertainty. Back was his pistol-packing spitfire. “This and more. The formal parlor is full, too. I told you it’s been loco here.” Then she poked a finger at his chest, speaking in low conspirator’s tones. “Now, listen to me about Olivia. I wrote my sisters a letter this morning and asked Olivia to post it. When she left to do that, I came downstairs to help Isabel with her plans for that dinner ball—”

  “Aha! I knew it. You couldn’t stop her, either, could you? And here you were ready to leave over it last night. Now you’re helping her.”

  Her chin came up. “I just happen to think it makes sense today.” That settled, she launched into her story again. “At any rate, I was in the sewing room with Isabel, working on the menu for the party, when I got a chill. So, with Olivia on an errand, and me not wanting poor Serafina or Rowena to walk up all those stairs … They’re so old and their knees aren’t what they used to be. Besides, fetching for me isn’t really part of their duties. So I—”

  Why do women have to give all the details and the emotions involved and every person in the house’s ailments and duties and whereabouts? Why don’t they just spit it out? Oh, well, at least I can enjoy myself watching her talk. So, with stance firm, arms crossed, Slade nodded at the appropriate moments and battered his will into forming an expression of rapt attention to her words and not her person. If Hannah ever lied, he’d know it in a moment. Her face gave her away. She wore every emotion on the perfect oval of her sweet face.