Chapter 7 Hanna
HANNA
The basket appeared one cold morning.
Hanna discovered it as she emerged from the cottage to fetch water, nearly tripping over the woven willow at the doorstep. She looked around, but the lane was empty, the pre-dawn darkness barely touched by the first grey light.
Hanna bent to examine her mysterious gift. Inside were two dressed rabbits, still slightly warm to the touch, and a small jar of honey sealed with wax.
No note. No explanation.
Her heart hammered as she carried the basket inside, glancing over her shoulder as if she might catch sight of whoever had left it. But there was nothing. No one.
"What's that, then?" Her father's gruff voice startled her as he descended the stairs.
"I... found it at the door. Rabbits and honey."
Johan Weatley grunted, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Someone's guilty conscience, maybe. Or charity from the church." He shrugged. "Don't matter, we will eat them nonetheless."
But Hanna knew it wasn't charity from the church. Reverend Michaels had made his opinion of her quite clear when her condition became apparent.
This was something else. Perhaps a someone else.
She thought of tawny eyes watching her from the shadows of the trees.
Of the gamekeeper who seemed to appear when she was in trouble.
But that was ridiculous… Why would Alaric Wolff care enough to leave gifts at her father's door?
The next morning, there was firewood, expertly cut and stacked beside the workshop door. Her father was pleased with that, at least, though he grumbled about accepting charity and how Hanna shouldn’t get used to being idle.
The morning after that brought a wool shawl, finer than anything Hanna had owned since her dismissal from the manor. It was draped over the garden gate, wrapped in oilcloth to protect it from the dew.
Hanna held the soft fabric to her cheek, breathing in the faint scent of woodsmoke and pine. Her eyes stung with tears she refused to shed.
This wasn’t food or some practical help, this was a gift.
She should refuse the shawl. Return them somehow or at least leave them where they appeared. It wasn't proper to accept such things from... from whoever was leaving them.
Nothing comes for free, and you know who it is, her thoughts whispered insistently. You've felt his eyes on you. You felt his presence.
And she had. Over the past weeks, she'd caught glimpses of a tall figure in the forest, always at a distance, always watching. At first, she'd been both confused and a bit frightened. But he never came close, he never scared her the way others did.
And the gifts spoke of care, not menace.
At least that's what she told herself.
James needed food. Winter was coming. And she was so desperately tired of being cold and hungry and afraid.
Hanna bundled the shawl in her arms and carried it inside, hiding it inside the small chest beside her pallet.
She could never wear it, her father would immediately suspect something if she did that.
But she would know it was there.
That evening, as she walked the familiar path home from Maria's cottage, Hanna finally gathered her courage. The sun was setting, painting the forest in shades of amber and shadow. She could feel him there, somewhere in the trees, keeping pace with her.
She stopped at the edge of the woods, lifted her chin and called out, her voice stronger than she felt: "I know you're there, Mr Wolff. Please, come out."
For a long moment, there was nothing but the whisper of wind through leaves. Then the shadows shifted, and he stepped into view.
Alaric Wolff emerged from behind an ancient oak as if he'd been waiting for her invitation. He moved with the fluid grace of a predator, utterly silent, utterly confident. The dying light caught the sharp planes of his face, turning his eyes to burnished gold.
"Alaric," he corrected, his voice low and rough. "And you'll call me by name, Hanna, since I mean to provide for you."
Her breath caught at his presumption. "Excuse me? I don’t know what-”"
"You kept the gifts." He moved closer, and Hanna's feet felt rooted to the ground. "You accepted my care. That's answer enough."
"That's not..." She struggled to find words. "You can't just... I don't understand what you want from me."
Something flickered in his eyes, but he stepped back, tipping his hat to her as he turned away.
Her mind spun with confusion and something else. Something that made her pulse race and her skin flush.
"I thank you,” she stammered to his retreating form, standing on tiptoes to see which way he took between the trees.
Then, her heart pounding, the basket clutched to her chest, she hurried home.