I looked sideways at his face. So genuine. So sure. Empty of ambivalence. And I felt my arguments disintegrating, falling away, even as I framed them. There were no words to make him see, to make him understand in a moment what had taken me years to grasp.
And I knew then I could never have them both, Alfred and Hannah. That I would have to make a choice.
Cold beneath my skin. Spreading out like liquid.
I unlinked my arm from his, told him I was sorry. I’d made a mistake, I said. A terrible mistake.
And then I ran from him. Didn’t turn back, though I knew somehow he remained, unmoving, beneath the cold yellow streetlight. That he watched me as I disappeared down the darkened lane, as I waited miserably for my aunt to admit me and slipped, distraught, into the house. As I closed between us the doorway into what-might-have-been.
The trip back to London was excruciating. It was long and cold and the roads were slippery with snow. But it was the company that made it particularly painful. I was trapped with myself in the motor-car’s cabin, engaged in fruitless debate. I spent the entire journey telling myself I’d made the right choice, the only choice, to remain with Hannah as promised. And by the time the motor car pulled up at number seventeen, I had myself convinced.
I was convinced, too, that Hannah already knew of our bond. That she’d guessed, overheard folk whispering, had even been told. For surely it explained why she’d always turned to me, treated me as confidante. Since the morning I’d bumped into her in the cold alleyway of Mrs Dove’s Secretarial School.
So now we both knew.
And the secret would remain, unspoken, between us.
A silent bond of dedication and devotion.
I was relieved I hadn’t told Alfred. He wouldn’t have understood my decision to keep it to myself. Would have insisted I tell Hannah: even demanded some sort of recompense. Kind, caring though he was, he wouldn’t have perceived the importance of maintaining the status quo. Wouldn’t have seen that no one else could know. For what if Teddy were to find out? Or Deborah? Hannah would suffer, I could be let go.
No, it was better this way. There was no choice. It was the only way to proceed.
PART 4
HANNAH’S STORY
It is time now to speak of things I didn’t see. To push Grace and her concerns aside and bring Hannah to the fore. For while I was away, something had happened. I realised as soon as I laid eyes on her. Things were different. Hannah was different. Brighter. Secretive. More self- satisfied.
What had happened at number seventeen, I learned gradually, as I did so much of what went on that final year. I had my suspicions, of course, but I neither saw nor heard everything. Only Hannah knew exactly what occurred and she had never been one for fervent confessions. They were not her style; she had always preferred secrets. But after the terrible events of 1924, when we were shut up together at Riverton, she became more forthcoming. And I was a good listener. This is what she told me.
I
It was the Monday after my mother’s death. I had left for Saffron Green, Teddy was at work, and Deborah and Emmeline were lunching. Hannah was alone in the drawing room. She had intended to write correspondence but her paper box languished on the lounge. She found she had little spirit for writing copious thankyou letters to the wives of Teddy’s allies and was instead looking out over the street, guessing at the lives of the passers-by. She was so involved in her game she didn’t see him come to the front door. Didn’t hear him ring the bell. The first she knew was when Boyle knocked on the morning-room door and made his announcement.
‘A gentleman to see you, ma’am.’
‘A gentleman, Boyle?’ she said, watching as a little girl broke free from her nanny and ran into the frosty park. When was the last time she had run? Run so fast she felt the wind like a slap on her face, her heart thumping so large in her chest that she almost couldn’t breathe?
‘Says he has something belonging to you that he’d like to return, ma’am.’
How tiresome it all was. ‘Could he not leave it with you, Boyle?’
‘He says not, ma’am. Says he has to deliver it in person.’
‘I really can’t think that I’m missing anything.’ Hannah pulled her eyes reluctantly from the little girl and turned from the window. ‘I suppose you’d better show him in.’
Mr Boyle hesitated. Seemed to be on the verge of speaking.
‘Is there something else?’ said Hannah.
‘No, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Only that the gentleman… I don’t think he’s much of a gentleman, ma’am.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ said Hannah.
‘Only that he doesn’t seem entirely respectable.’
Hannah raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s not in a state of undress, is he?
‘No, ma’am, he’s dressed well enough.’
‘He’s not saying obscene things?’
‘No, ma’am,’ said Boyle. ‘He’s polite enough.’
Hannah gasped. ‘It’s not a Frenchman; short with a moustache?’
‘Oh no, Ma’am’
‘Then tell me Boyle: ‘What form does this lack of respectability take?’
Boyle frowned. ‘I couldn’t say, ma’am. Just a feeling I got.’
Hannah gave the appearance of considering Boyle’s feeling, but her interest was piqued. ‘If the gentleman says he has something belonging to me, I had best have it back. If he gives any sign of wanting respectability, Boyle, I’ll ring for you directly.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Boyle with great importance. He bowed and left the room, and Hannah straightened her dress. The door opened again and Robbie Hunter was standing before her.
