A Promised Heart

by Kate Marie Clark

  Regina’s lips lifted. “Not any of those men, actually. The perfume was a gift from a secret admirer.”

  Hattie’s eyes widened. “A fourth admirer? Regina, you have to do something about all these men. They are liable to discover one another, and that would not bode well for you.”

  Regina shrugged. Her dark eyes fluttered closed. “I doubt anything could worsen my chances at happiness.”

  Hattie winced. She had not meant to bring up anything associated with Regina’s past. “The perfume is lovely.”

  Regina’s eyes flickered open, and she made an attempt at smiling. “I agree. Now, I must get to the kitchens. Cook will have my head if I do not help with the biscuits.”

  Hattie nodded.

  The hotel was more than a landing place for passengers. Hattie was learning that each of the waitresses and employees of Mr. Brody came with their own set of problems and worries and, more often than not, a secretive past. The mansion acted as a haven for the troubled.

  Hattie followed Regina down the stairs, stopping on the second floor when she realized a string from the cuff of her dress tangled in the bannister. She pulled at the thread, until it ripped, sending a button down the hall. She chased the small disc as it rolled and bumped along the floorboards, ending up on all fours to retrieve it beneath the crack of a door.

  She held up the button to the light. Such a small, disaster-inducing notion. Hattie dreaded sewing buttons; her attempts resembled the handiwork of a child. She cringed. Perhaps Eleanor or Josie would assist her; Miss Torman was much better with such things.

  The door above her swung open, and Hattie inhaled sharply.

  Standing square above her was the man Hattie had wished to avoid—Mr. Ellison. One of his brows lifted, and a sly smile appeared on his perfect jaw. “Miss Carlson?”

  Horror struck her for the second time since his arrival, and she swallowed more than once in an attempt to remain calm. “Forgive me,” she said, standing straightaway. She held up the offending notion. “My button dropped, Mr. Ellison. Please do not tell Mr. Brody.”

  He laughed, and the sound was irrefutably lovely—deep and rolling, yet somehow gentle. “I would not wish to tattle. Now, have you a needle and thread? I am quite nimble with one.”

  Hattie’s throat closed. “You—you wish to sew my button?”

  He nodded. “I don’t mind saving you the trouble. I doubt you have time to return to your quarters, and seeing how the button is missing from your right cuff, I wonder how skilled you are at sewing left-handedly?”

  Drat. He was perceptive. She had hoped to find her fiancé utterly boring. Hattie clicked her tongue. “So you are right, but I must return to my room to sew the culprit myself. You are kind to offer, but—”

  “You do not keep a needle and thread in the rooms?” Mr. Ellison asked, glancing behind him.

  “Certainly we do in the night table, but I could not ask—”

  “Think nothing of it. I’ll retrieve it now,” he said.

  Mr. Ellison disappeared for a moment, returning to the hall with a threaded needle. He was without his suitcoat, and his vest and white shirt beneath was rather flattering to his muscular physique. “My mother demanded I learn to sew buttons. She did not want me to depend upon women for every detail and for my whole life, you see.”

  The edges of her lips tugged. Hattie wished her mother had provided such a service, but then, her mother did little without the assistance of a maid or butler, and Hattie’s mother had died so long ago. “Then you are fortunate to have such a lady in your life.”

  He laughed once more, and his light eyes glistened. “I did not think so as a young man, sewing buttons on a scrap of fabric, but I suppose I shall thank her, now that her teaching has allowed me to rescue you in this hour of need.”

  Hattie smiled. Mr. Ellison seemed to grow handsomer with every word he spoke. Charm had a habit of doing that to a person. Hattie held up her hand.

  Mr. Ellison surveyed her cuff. “Just this last button? An easy enough fix.”

  Hattie’s hand shook each time his fingers grazed the edge of her wrist. His act was nothing more than kindness, but she could not forget reality. What had she done? The man standing in front of her might have been her fiancé, if she had not run away. And now, Hattie was ashamed to admit she rather liked him. He was handsome, yes, but also kind and careful.

  “There,” he said, knotting off his final effort. He held up her wrist to the light, inspecting his work. He glanced down at her, and the warmth in his gaze startled her. “Will that do until you have a chance to fix it?”

  Hattie was ashamed to admit his skills with thread far surpassed her own. She almost laughed thinking about it. “You have done an excellent job, Mr. Ellison. Thank you. Now, I must get to work.”

  Callie passed by them, and Hattie exhaled. Thank goodness Callie was quiet; Hattie would be humiliated if Mr. Brody found out a customer had assisted her with the button.

  “Please, think nothing of it. Good day, Miss Carlson. Perhaps I shall see you later, in the dining room?” His voice lifted. “Maybe by then you will have found a better seamstress to repair the damage.”

  Hattie dropped her hands to her side, pressing her fingers into the button he had just repaired. How many meetings with this man would she be forced to endure? Already, Hattie felt an aching sensation starting in her throat. “Perhaps. Good day, Mr. Ellison.”

  When he closed his door, Hattie turned on her heels, marching back to the stairs and down, until she found herself in the dining room scrubbing the tables with even more vigor than usual. She washed down the chairs too, wishing her work did more than distract her fidgety hands.

  “Miss Carlson, you seem to be in better spirits this morning,” Mr. Brody said, leaning over her current table. He held a cup of coffee and smiled. “I am glad to see you’re better. Tell me, have you seen Eleanor this morning? Tom was to go to town and retrieve a special order at noon, but he had to attend to that finnicky stove again. I know how Eleanor loves the horses and thought to ask her in his place.”

  Hattie’s eyes widened. The idea of escaping another encounter with Mr. Ellison seemed impossible to pass by. “Will you send me in his place? I can drive a wagon just as well as Tom.”

  “You?” Mr. Brody chuckled and took a swig of his coffee. “Well, I suppose the shipment doesn’t include any heavy lifting.” He leaned forward and whispered, “I wanted to surprise Elizabeth with a new brooch for New Year’s.”

  Hattie smiled. Mr. Brody was an even kinder husband than he was employer. “I would be happy to attend to the errand.”

  He nodded. “And I ordered a few things from the mercantile, just to throw off her scent.”

  Hattie washed the last of the tables and looked his way once more. “Noon—I will remember.”

  The pocket of Charlie’s coat weighed far heavier than the letters it carried; disappointing news always did. No leads. No clues. No guiding plan.

  Charlie might as well return to San Francisco.

  He kicked at a patch of snow beside the hotel stable. The sun shone particularly warm for December, and the snow reflected light in a thousand sparkles. After months of a hopeless pursuit, Charlie had boarded a train at random, convinced he’d have more luck in finding his fiancé if he left his efforts to chance. Twelve hours later, Charlie landed in Topeka, Kansas.

  A lot of good impulse had done him. Already, Mr. Brody informed him that Topeka’s male population outnumbered the female by a ratio of eight to one. Ladies of refinement were even more difficult to come by.

  Charlie’s last hope lay in the batch of letters Mr. Montgomery promised to send. As soon as Charlie telegrammed the address, he could expect the letters in a matter of a week.

  The stable door screeched open, and Charlie jumped to avoid the flinging door. A woman in a dark coat and hat stood, with her back toward Charlie, near the horse and wagon.

  “Pardon me,” Charlie said, squinting into the shadowed stable.

  She wh
ipped around, and her lips parted.

  Charlie felt his cheeks color. “Miss Carlson.”

  He had hoped for another meeting, despite his better judgment. Their encounter that morning had only reaffirmed Charlie’s worries; she was exceptionally lovely—lovely enough that he forgot about Miss Montgomery in Miss Carlson’s presence.

  “Mr. Ellison,” she said, taking a step backward. Her cheeks and nose were pink from the chill, and her brown eyes glowed when she stepped into the sunlight. “What are you doing here?”

  Charlie smiled. “Mr. Brody offered me a ride to town with Tom because of the slick conditions of the road.”

  Her mouth dropped. “Tom is detained. Please forgive Mr. Brody. He could not have foreseen the matter.” She turned and climbed onto the wagon.

  Was that her way of politely declining his company? Charlie walked in front of the horse. “And why can’t you offer me a place in the wagon? Surely you do not think me a threat?”

  She bit the edge of her lower lip. Her eyes lowered. “No, not a threat.” She laughed in seemingly unease. “But, a lady cannot be too careful.”

  “And what of the snow drifts? Are you prepared to navigate them in a wagon? I have heard of many a wagon getting stuck in similar conditions. I would never forgive myself if you were to get stranded.” Charlie moved to the side of the wagon, hoping his entreaty softened her resolve.

  But her eyes narrowed, and she almost appeared…angry.

  Charlie’s stomach dropped. “Miss Carlson,” he said, “I have a telegram I must send. Please, will you allow me to ride with you?”

  She fidgeted with the reins, and after a minute of uncomfortable silence, she nodded. “If you must.”

  “Have I done something wrong?” he asked, hesitating to climb into the wagon.

  What could he have possibly done to offend this woman? Perhaps he had been too forward with his offering to sew the button…or maybe Miss Carlson was already attached to another. Charlie was engaged too after all, or at least duty-bound to find Miss Montgomery and ask her.

  Miss Carlson’s shoulders caved forward. She sighed, and a cloud of fog appeared at her seeming agitation. “Not at all, Mr. Ellison. On the contrary, you have been everything polite and pleasant.”

  Charlie swallowed. “But you do not wish for me to accompany you to town?”

  She shook her head, exhaling once again. She was breathtaking, even in a moment of sadness—or whatever ailed her. “I am happy to offer you a seat in the wagon. Pay no attention to me. The past couple days have been wrought with personal difficulties.”

  “Yes, I understand that better than you might imagine.” Charlie climbed to her side.

  “You do?” she asked, furrowing her brows.

  He laughed. What was it about this woman that captured his attentions so fully? “I have been leading a fruitless pursuit, the results of which will bring pain to multiple parties.”

  She smiled, as if he had told a joke. “And I can understand that better than you might imagine. Does this have to do with the missing woman you were speaking about yesterday?”

  Charlie sighed. He did not want to talk about Miss Montgomery right now. “Yes, but none of that should concern you. Tell me something about your troubles.”

  She flicked the reins, bringing the horses to a nice trot down the lane. The wind slapped at their faces, but Miss Carlson did not seem to mind—or notice. “My troubles?” She laughed and cleared her throat. “I cannot seem to shake away a dreadful feeling that I have made a wrong choice.”

  “What kind of choice?” Charlie asked, inching closer.

  “My family wished a certain life for me, but I chose the hotel. Do not mistake me; I am grateful for Mr. and Mrs. Brody. They are good and generous people. I am happy here, but I might have been too hasty in my decision to leave home.”

  “And that decision is what troubles you?” He studied her expression, and it held steady, but Charlie still detected there was much more she was not saying. “Tell me, what would your ideal life look like?”

  She laughed. “Ideal? I am much too practical for dreaming, Mr. Ellison.”

  His lips tugged. “Everyone must dream, even if they are practical, Miss Carlson. What type of life did you wish to lead as a child?”

  “A happy one, of course—a life full of friends and family, a life filled with purpose. And, I am happy. But my work leaves little time for friends, family, or purpose.” She bit her lip. “I have said too much. We hardly know each other.”

  “But we are friends, I hope?” Charlie tilted his face towards her.

  Miss Carlson’s brows rose, and her lips seemed to threaten a smile. “Friends? Three encounters hardly make a friendship, and as you are a guest, I think our acquaintance will only last another week at most. Are you not planning to leave Topeka by the week’s end?”

  For the first time in months, Charlie had almost forgotten about San Francisco—his home. “Well, yes. But friendships can be enduring, even given distance and time. Don’t you agree?”

  “Mmm.” She readjusted her hat with one hand. “I have not had gentlemen friends, Mr. Ellison, so I cannot answer that question. Perhaps you have had more experience. Do you keep in contact with all your female friends?”

  Charlie shook with laughter. Her teasing caught him by surprise. “Oh, yes, all of them.”

  She scowled. “I cannot trust a man that keeps so many female friends. My mother taught me the dangers of entertaining cads.”

  Charlie was anything but experienced when it came to women; on the contrary, he had scarcely spoken to more than ten in his life. His betrothal had prohibited such behavior. Entertaining the idea of another woman had always been…ridiculous. His heart was promised to Miss Montgomery. Yet, here Charlie sat, gazing into the most charming face he had ever seen.

  Her wit propelled him forward, against his better judgment. “Your mother did you a disservice then, for cads are the best type of men to entertain.”

  Miss Carlson smiled.

  His heart pounded. That smile might be his undoing. “If we are to be friends, you should call me by my first name, Charlie.”

  She pulled the horses to a halt and clicked her tongue. “I should not, and besides, I saw your name written in the ledger. Mr. Anthony Ellison.”

  So she had checked the ledger? Charlie chuckled. “Yes, Anthony is my given name—the name of my father too. But like the rest of my father’s world, I find the name suffocating and stiff. Charlie suits me much better.”

  “Yes, I think you are right. At least on that account.” Miss Carlson cleared her throat and pointed across the street from where they sat. “The post office, Mr. Ellison. I shall attend to Mr. Brody’s errand in the meantime. You may expect me no later than two o’clock. Will that suffice?”

  Charlie nodded and climbed off the wagon. “I look forward to another discussion, Miss Carlson.”

  She smiled and flicked the reins.

  He shook his head to himself. Charlie hadn’t the least idea how to reverse his growing attraction to Miss Carlson. He turned on his heels, determined to turn his attention to the more pressing matter—Miss Montgomery.

  Chapter 5

  Hattie ran a finger across a light blue ribbon and sighed. She took her time, perusing the new shipment from the mercantile. The elegance of the new fabric and notions reminded her of balls and dancing… and Mr. Ellison.

  Her head spun.

  Aunt May used to speak of regret. Hattie’s aunt had a lifetime of the cankering baggage. Usually, May played the victim, blaming her parents, her brother, or even Hattie for her misfortunes...

  If only my parents hadn’t insisted I refuse Mr. Kline’s offer, I might have my own household; Mr. Kline did very well for himself.

  If it weren’t for that stubborn brother of mine, I might have had more inheritance; Father loved him more.

  My parents never treated me to the sea; my lungs never functioned properly which is why I cannot walk without pausing every step to breathe.<
br />
  I cannot abide fish, thanks to Hattie’s fascination with the pond as a child.

  The list never ended.

  May’s profound disappointment with life had been a daily discussion, and on particularly rare occasions, Hattie witnessed May speak of her own mistakes…

  If I could go back, I would have married. I should not have heeded my father’s council on that occasion.

  I might have found a way to the sea. I should have travelled there myself; I live so close.

  My deteriorating health is unpardonable. I should have taken care.

  There were so many I should have’s and I might have’s, enough to fill volumes—perhaps shelves—of books. Regret was a dark abyss, a downward spiral to constant disappointment. Regret led to pain; pain led to paralysis, at least in May’s example. She seemed incapable of moving forward and remained fixed on the past.

  Hattie promised herself, as a young girl, that she would never make the mistake of a May-filled life. Instead, Hattie determined to live with gladness and purpose. This determination had persuaded Hattie to flee to Topeka in order to escape her betrothal to Mr. Ellison.

  And yet…her stomach knotted, so tightly that Hattie feared she might never feel well again. Her throat ran dry. Her heart beat strangely irregularly—uncharacteristically slow in one moment, only to clamor against her chest in a race of hammerings the next.

  The sensations and emotions stabbed at her, refusing to leave her alone for even a moment. Regret had come, despite her efforts.

  Why did Mr. Ellison have to be so kind and elegant? Why was he so pleasant and handsome and irresistibly charming? Hattie had not—could not—envision a more suitable choice for a husband. And this conclusion came after only one day of knowing the man.

  She made the mistake of imagining she had continued on to San Francisco after Aunt May’s passing. Their meeting would have been awkward and stiff, but given time, Hattie was sure conversation would have come. Attraction would have—guaranteed.

  Startled, Hattie dropped the ribbon to the ground.