The Price of Hannah Blake

by Donway, Walter

  So, when two men, refined in dress and speech, with horses no one in the village could afford, rode up to the cottage when she was home alone, Hannah’s mother listened to their unctuous persuasion, their “pitch,” only until she got the point. Hannah was a beauty, a fine girl who could have a career in London, where there was education and opportunity—perhaps big opportunity at the court, in the theater, who knew? Very sympathetic to the situation of Hannah’s mother, they seemed, knowing she had lost her husband, had seven children, must be hard pressed… So, to make it right, with her, for losing Hannah’s help, they were prepared to pay—they named a sum so huge that Hannah’s mother almost laughed aloud—to secure the family forever.

  Hannah’s mother could not read much, but, like Hannah, her mind drove at the meaning of things and she was not naïve. She was not, she said to herself, now, a stupid wench for men to trick. These men were offering to buy Hannah—and not because they were eager to provide her with “opportunity.” If her husband were here, she thought, he would throw them out, literally; but now that was up to her.

  She stood straight, staring with blue eyes gone cold, and said: “I do not sell my daughters to brothels! Nor does England buy and sell women any longer—not even the Africans! I understand that our Queen, and Parliament, too, are cleaning the shit—she came down hard on the word—from the East End. Find yourselves another line of work. The days of whoremongers are at an end! Good day, gentlemen.” Long before she finished, the two were protesting, raising their hands to fend off this dreadful misconception. They were shocked that anyone could so mistake their motives, and…

  “Good day, gentlemen!” The three words rang with the ferocity of a battle cry and vehemence of a curse. They stepped back and she advanced. One said, later, describing the incident, that when he saw her face, impassioned in emotion, her flashing blue eyes, and, above all, the breasts heaving with anger, he wondered if the duke might prefer the mother to the daughter. The other said she seemed to reach toward the hearth where hung a heavy cast-iron ladle.

  She should have told Hannah. Those bitter words she repeated again and again—but only later, not when the two had turned and half-stumbled through the low doorway, mounted their fine horses, and rode straight out of the village. Then, she had nodded to herself, bosom still heaving with emotion, and said, aloud, “Can you fathom it? In this time, in England!”

  She should have told Hannah—to warn her. Should not have mugged so proudly at her little victory. Should have warned Hannah that these men had come to buy her like a prime heifer at fair. But she did not. She had thought that to tell Hannah of this satanic bargain—her virtue, her soul, for the salvation of her family—might leave Hannah to wonder if her mother had been tempted. Or leave her to watch, if it came to that, the starvation of her brothers, her sisters, and to imagine herself responsible.

  But she should have told Hannah. If she had, Hannah might be here today, with her… But she was not. She was gone, and to what fate her mother thought she knew—and the price had not even been paid. That final thought left her feeling wicked, almost an accomplice in what had happened to her beautiful daughter.

  Chapter 3

  “This Is Wicked…”

  They took Hannah toward dusk as she hurried home from Torridge market, reproaching herself for having accepted an alcohol drink from admiring young men. She wished she could forget; she had laughed too loudly, preened herself, even fleetingly touched the arm of one handsome young man. She walked faster; she would arrive home with some bacon the young men had given her, even a small jar of jam, and the family would be excited. But still…

  The black “growler” rattled up behind her on a bleak stretch of road, the two horses at a trot. She had to move to the side. But suddenly there were horsemen, too. Didn’t they see her? They were riding too close! A fierce grip was on her upper arm, a hand wrapped in her long hair, hurting her, and two men were dismounting. She screamed, but, even as she did, felt herself lifted; her precious basket of delicacies fell, spilling into the ditch.

  “No!” she cried, and kicked at the figure—huge, dim in the twilight—who held her arms. He merely slipped his other arm under her thighs, as well. Now, she cried out in terror. The carriage door swung open and she was half-pushed, half-thrown to the floor. Behind her, the door banged shut. Sprawled on the floor, dazed from slamming into the far side of the carriage, she twisted, got her hands beneath her, and tried to rise. She was gasping like a sprinter. But as she pushed herself up, she felt a counter pressure on her shoulders; she sank back to the floor. “No!” she cried, “Let me…”

  “Sit still.” The voice held no urgency, no sense of struggle. It was calmness itself. “Sit still and no one will harm you, girl. There is nothing for you to do. Nothing.”

  Hannah jerked up her head, staring. The woman on the seat appeared massive, dressed in black, even a black hood about her face. Hannah thought first of the nuns who occasionally passed through the village. And then she thought of a great raven seizing her in its talons. Could her heart fly out through her chest, so wildly it bounded within her? She managed to say, “This is wicked”—the strongest denunciation she knew.

  “Sit on the seat when you are ready,” said the raven. Hannah rose slowly; the hands did not press her down. She slid onto the seat facing the woman. The carriage rattled and swayed; they were moving fast—carrying her away. With that thought, she panicked. “I shall fling open the door and cry for help!”

  The raven said nothing. Hannah seized the handle of the door and shook it violently. Nothing happened. She seized the shutters on the windows with her fingers and pulled at them. And then she burst into tears.

  She demanded, “Tell me where we are going, or I shall cry for help.”

  The raven said, “If you scream, I must gag you.”

  Hannah did not scream; she settled back in the seat, put her hands to her face, and wept. The raven watched her and no expression passed over her face.

  How long could she weep? She raised her face and examined the woman, the carriage, the darkness created by the closed shutters. No one outside could see inside; perhaps, with the rattle of the wheels, the clatter of the team, no one could hear her. She said, in a more controlled voice, “Why am I taken? My mother expects me. I had food for dinner.” She added, “I have young ones, waiting for their dinner. They are hungry, now.”

  When there was no answer, she asked; “May I know where I am taken?”

  “You speak well for a country girl,” said the raven, as though posing a question.

  “The school taught me,” said Hannah. “Just a few years.”

  “I am Cara,” said the raven. “It means ‘face,’ in the Spanish tongue. I once had a lovely face. No more.”

  Hannah tried to discern the woman’s face. There was little light. She began gingerly, as though on tiptoe, “Cara…”

  “Yes?”

  “Why is this happening to me? Can you tell me?”

  The shrouded head moved back and forth?

  Hannah knew little of the world—nothing, really. What could she have done? Some violation, some defiance of power? She asked, “Am I taken to prison?”

  “You will know nothing until we arrive. All that you learn, you will discover for yourself.”

  It was a long declaration for the raven. Hannah was encouraged. She ventured, “Cara, do you not understand what you are doing to me? My little ones, my mother?” And she added, “Can I escape?”

  “If you escape, I will be punished, punished severely.”

  Again, the raven was silent, and Hannah’s mind explored what terrible thing might be in store for her—and yet there was a place her mind would not go. Again, she grasped for some alternative. “Cara, do you mean you would be punished in prison?”

  The words came from Cara like the snaps of a whip. “I would be stripped naked. I would be hung by my arms, with no shred to cover me. I would be flogged with the cat—20, 30, 50 times. Who knows? If those who whipped me sti
ll found my body desirable, I would be violated, over and over. And whipped again.”

  And Hannah’s mind no long could veer away from that forbidden thought. She was a woman desired by men. Desired in ways she could not imagine, except that it meant sin, the forbidden things. She said, her voice breaking, “Then I am to be used by men?”

  “As I was once, a girl like you,” said Cara. “Catholic, a girl of the Church of Rome. A novice of the blessed sisters of the Virgin.”

  Hannah whispered, “A sister of the Church?”

  “Yes.” It was said tonelessly.

  Hannah forced herself to say, “And there is no escape, even in death?”

  “None,” said Cara. And all at once, Hannah was exhausted, so overcome that the only luxury seemed sleep. She said, “I must sleep, now.”

  Cara’s voice became soft, even tender. “That is best,” she said. “There is escape in sleep, unless you hang from the triangle. Then, there is no sleep—only the pain.”

  Hannah carefully rolled to her side, lifting her legs and hips onto the wide seat that smelled of leather. How wonderful it felt. A little smile came to her lips. She still had a choice, a remnant of control. “I will sleep, now,” she announced.

  When Hannah did not return that day, a search was made or, rather, a young fellow from the village set off on the road to Torridge. For several days, much was made of her disappearance. Such disappearances were unusual, in Devon, though in London they were a fact of daily life. For Hannah’s mother, it was agony. Tell the constable of the two men, the brazen offer—and let all the countryside know that her daughter, her beautiful daughter, had been seized for a brothel? To what purpose? She must be in London, and no one could hope to do anything in that citadel of unimaginable power. What happened there might as well be in Heaven—or Hell.

  Chapter 4

  “We Must See All of You…”

  She couldn’t weep anymore. She sat on the edge of the bed, an unimaginable four-poster of fine dark wood, with sheets—oh the satin sheets! She could look out the window through glass as clear as air to the garden, the woods, and, far beyond the high wall, the sea. She never had seen it; her daddy had said he would take her to Portsmouth, but then he was gone. Now, she saw tiny ships, like pictures in books, distant on the water.

  When they had left her and shut the door, she had rushed to it. It was locked, immoveable. Another exit here? A closet. She paused, staring. There were more garments, and such garments: raiment of a princess, more than she had seen in all her life. In spite of herself, she reached out. Some silk, it seemed, taffeta. A dozen pairs of shoes and boots; she stooped to touch them—leather. Here was a fortune her whole village could not afford. It terrified her. She closed the door as on a grinning, dangling skeleton.

  And on the table: brushes, hair nets, powders, and bottles of cut glass. Dishes of wax, silver scissors. All of it reflected in a great mirror. In all her life, she and her mother had only slivers of mirrors, chipped, darkened. This mirror was almost at tall as she was. She stood before it, but did not see a tall, slender, beautiful young woman. She saw a soiled, tear-stained, shrinking little girl with wild hair. She looked at the girl, delivered to evil. What power could have created this wealth—and why should it be here, for her? She reached out and picked up a silver brush and drew it through her hair. Then, she began to weep, again.

  Finally, it was dark. She saw lights on the walls, gaslights such as were in the finest pub in her village. She didn’t know how to light them. Instead, she threw herself, totally dressed, onto the vast bed, exhausted. She did not wake when the moon rose in the window, the moon over the sea, and lighted her face. It was a young, innocent, and peaceful face, beautiful in serene composure. The heavy door cracked open and a face peered in, a woman’s face, expressionless. For a few moments it gazed at the bed, waiting to adjust to the light. Then, the head nodded and the door closed noiselessly.

  Harsh sunlight was on her face; she squinted. Gradually, the room came into focus; the dream had not gone away. It was a huge, dark-paneled room, something she might have imagined in a grand manor, a palace. And then, she realized what had wakened her, sat up with a cry, and turned to the door. It was Cara, the dark cloak and hood gone. Instead, the face with the black eyes and red lips was framed in long, dark hair—a Spanish face out of a book, except that it was there, in the doorway of this palace of evil imagination, and it said, “They will see you.”

  Hannah rolled to sit on the edge of the bed. Then, she slipped to the floor and followed her. First, Cara led her to a place she could relieve herself; she had not realized how desperately she needed to do so. “Two minutes,” Cara announced. “They will not wait.” Nor did Cara move, or look away, as Hannah did what she must.

  Then, down a stairway, along a corridor—a larger building than Hannah ever had entered. She struggled to comprehend. The castle of a dark prince as in tales she had read. And she would be ruined—have no life, no future, no husband, no children. But why Hannah? She was desirable; men wanted something; and now they would take it.

  Around a corner, they came to a large, high-ceiled hall filled with long tables. Seated at them, or swarming around them, were young men and women. They all talked at once, or shouted, or sat eating. Some laughed or called out. They were dressed the same—in white, a loose-fitting blouse and pants. Most of the girls had long hair, pulled back and tied. Hannah had halted, but Cara’s hand was on her back, pushing her forward.

  “Eat,” said Cara, pushing her. “Twenty minutes. They will not wait.” She raised an arm, pointing: “Food is there. Whatever you want, as much.”

  Hannah approached as though mesmerized. On the table was bread—but what bread! And cheese, more cheese and more kinds than she ever saw. And meat. It didn’t look like pork, but she could not be sure. But eggs, she recognized, except there were piles of them that a hundred hens could not lay in a week. What must she pay for this? Ruin. But she realized she had not eaten in almost 24 hours; she shook with hunger at the smells. Even cakes, jam, honey, butter, milk…

  “Go,” said Cara, pushing her. “Take what you want.” But Hannah was looking at the others. Beautiful! All beautiful! Like gods and goddesses. Tall, handsome, with perfect skin, luxurious hair. They moved gracefully, lightly.

  “Take the food,” said Cara behind her, and Hannah picked up a plate. China, she thought; she never had touched it, but she had heard of it. What if she dropped it? She reached out and took bread, even jam—but not very much. “Take all you want,” said Cara, behind her.

  Hannah reached for the hill of eggs. She turned to Cara, questioning. “As much as you want. Anything.”

  Hannah put a small serving on her sparking white plate. “You must hurry, they won’t wait.” Then Cara took the plate from here; she moved quickly, piling on bacon, more eggs, some kind of fruit in thick syrup, jam, butter. Hannah reached out for the plate, but Cara held it. She pushed Hannah toward a chair at a deserted table. “Sit and eat.”

  She sat, lifted a forkful of egg—but a silver fork! She looked up at the others at nearby tables. Now, they began to notice her, too. Quickly, by jabs, whispers, and gestures the word rippled along the tables till many were staring at her. It made her long to fold her arms over her chest. Instead, she ate, quickly, greedily; she had never tasted such food.

  A boy as alluring as a painting in a chapel was staring at her. Hannah looked down at her food, but, when she glanced up, again, he still stared. He was more handsome, and bolder, than any man she ever encountered. She grew angry, then alarmed. His wide brown eyes were arrogant, possessive, insufferable. Hannah looked elsewhere, but there were girls who had ceased eating and gazed at her. They looked at her in a way that terrified her. They were goddesses, with long hair, perfect skin—and they had no modesty, none at all. For a moment, she felt like a rabbit, a very small rabbit, among snakes.

  Cara returned. Another large, silver plate with rolls and cakes, berries and cream, from the windows of bakeries Hannah never v
entured to enter. All on silver, like candelabra in church, silver from which to eat! The wonderful smells made her stomach churn with fear. She passed her hand across her forehead.

  “Eat,” said Cara, a touch more gently. “You don’t look well. This is not what will hurt you.” Hannah tried: bit, chewed, swallowed. She risked at glance at the others, now eating lustily. Cara had not eaten. Hannah selected a bun, the nicest, and held it out to her. “You eat, too.” She smiled. “I am not permitted. More will be waiting for me, but not food like this.”

  A bell (a church bell?) chimed three times right in the building, almost overhead. Hannah started. The others hastily rose, crowding toward the exit. Hannah started to rise, too, but Cara said, “Not today. Finish, today.”

  Hannah couldn’t resist. “Where are they going?” Cara shook her head and jabbed toward Hannah’s plate.

  “Why am I here?” Cara was silent.

  Hannah forced down the food, dry in her mouth. Cara handed her a glass of milk—enough for her whole family for two days. She never had a better meal or a worse one. Finally, she gave up, setting down the silver fork. “Come, then,” said Cara. It was less a command than a sad beckoning.

  Down corridors, across courtyards with flowers and fountains, up to a dark-paneled door, and suddenly Hannah remembered: “They will see you…” and panic sat in the pit of her stomach. Cara knocked lightly and someone inside seemed to reply. The door opened and standing there was a woman in a skin-tight, unimaginably lascivious black garment. The woman stepped back, now, and pulled the door wider. Cara’s hand was on Hannah’s back. If only Cara would come with her! Cara was real, human—from the other world, world gone.