Page 41 of Anastasia and the Duke
"No," Hannah laughed, her voice thick with tears, "Rather the opposite, in fact. Everyone has been most kind to me. Sit, please, Nan--we need to talk."
Nan nodded her head, but did not sit down until she had put the kettle on the stove; nothing was more important than tea in Nan's book.
"I need you to do something for me," Hannah said, as Nancy finally joined her at the table. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and extracted her coin purse, which was filled to bursting with pennies, and farthings, and even a half crown--pin money, from Lady Lansdowne.
"I want you to take this," Hannah said, thrusting the purse at Nan, "And purchase two open tickets to Bristol, they're sold at The White Horse Cellar, in Piccadilly."
Nan nodded, mumbling Hannah's words over and over to herself, in a bid to remember them.
"Then," Hannah continued, trying not to let her worry that Nan might make a muddle of things show, "I want you to pack a bag of clothes, and wait. The next time I come, you must be ready to leave at once."
"But who will do the breakfasts for the boarders?" Nan blinked in confusion, "Word will get back to Sidney and he'll be in a temper."
"Sod the borders," Hannah growled, "And sod Sidney. When we leave, Nan, we'll be leaving forever. We'll set sail for America and make a new life there."
"Right," Nan nodded, though her face was lined with worry.
"You mustn't breathe a word of this to Sidney," Hannah cautioned, for Nan was one of those people to whom the obvious should be stated, "He's not to know. Understand?"
"Don't tell Sidney, White Horse, Piccadilly," Nan repeated, before her face broke out into a smile, "Let me get my scrap book; I've been keeping tabs on you as best I could. Oh, what a fine time you've had."
Hannah watched as Nan bustled into the larder, returning with a ledger--the type clerks used in musty offices--filled with paper clippings.
"You've landed yourself a duke," Nan stated, happily, as she passed one of the clippings to Hannah to read.
Hannah frowned, glancing down at the clipping--which was grubby with fingerprints, a third-hand acquisition--and saw that it was one of the gossip columns about the duke's supposed infatuation with her.
"Imagine you, a duchess," Nan sighed happily.
"The only place I'll ever be that is in your imagination," Hannah agreed, ignoring the pang in her chest, "Dukes don't marry the likes of me."
"What do you mean?" Nan looked stricken, "The likes of you? You're a lady, Hannah, every inch a lady."
"My blood's not blue enough," Hannah smiled, wishing to put a halt to Nan's flight of fantasy, "No matter how highly you think of me, Nan, it's true. Now, let us get back to the plan."
Nan twisted her hands nervously in the lap of her skirts and began to rock backwards and forwards in her chair. Hannah frowned, anxious that Nancy's nerves were about to go. She might shake, and jabber, and cry for hours when a fit came upon her, and she was unreachable, locked in a world of pain and terror that Hannah could never understand.
Unfortunately, before Hannah could offer any words of consolation, to try drag her back to the present, they heard the front door of the boarding house open.
"Nancy," Sidney roared, and Hannah and Nan exchanged frightened glances.
"Out the back door, my dear," Nan murmured, as Hannah jumped to her seat.
"Remember the tickets," Hannah whispered, wishing she could hug her goodbye, "And be ready to leave when I come."
With that, she took off, racing through the derelict yard at the rear of the house to the alleyway beyond. She did not stop running until she reached the bustling streets of Covent Garden, where she slowed her step.
Her return journey to Grosvenor Square went by in a haze of worry; had Sidney spotted her, would Nan recall her instruction, would she even find the will to carry out the plan?
And Hawkfield--or Oliver, as he had asked to be called--was with her as he always was. His eyes, his lips, his strong arms holding her close, and his firm declaration that all he wanted in a wife was her...
Hannah snorted derisively, as she desperately tried to push away the idea that, should the truth be revealed about her, the duke would keep to his word. She was certain that if her crimes were revealed and she ended up in the stocks, that Hawkfield would be the first to hurl a rotten cabbage at her head.
Life was not a fairytale, even though it had felt like one these past few weeks. And if it was a fairytale, Hannah reminded herself, then she--thief, liar, master of deception--was not the fair princess in the story. She was the evil ogre who lived under a bridge; that was her part to play.
As she turned on to Grosvenor Square, she spotted several gentlemen outside number thirty-three, clustered around a large piece of furniture, debating loudly how they might get it up the steps.
Rats, she thought, as she quickly veered into the park, she should have come back the Audley Street way.
