A Promised Heart

by Kate Marie Clark

  “Mr. Ellison will come to. Do not hesitate to call. We’ll be back to check on him in the morning,” came a feminine voice.

  His head. The wagon. Miss Carlson. Last he remembered, Charlie had been walking back to the hotel with her. She had been speaking…

  The memory was a blur.

  “He’ll need another dose of the tonic before I leave,” the deep voice said.

  A pair of soft hands cupped the back of his neck, lifting his head upright. Pain shot through Charlie’s skull, reverberating in excruciating strength. He wanted to cry out, but his lips were not yet in his control. A cold metal spoon touched his lips, and the sensation of liquid draining down his throat seemed to awaken his senses.

  His eyes fluttered open, landing on a blonde woman holding a spoon. She smiled. “He’s awake.”

  A dark-haired man came into vision. His mustache ticked with each of his words. “Wonderful, Jeanette.” He tapped Charlie’s arm. “You’ve had a terrible tumble from the wagon. Do you remember, Mr. Ellison?”

  Charlie dipped his chin. The effort took all his strength.

  “Good. Now, I’ve stitched the wound up, and you might feel tenderness for a few days. Mr. Brody and his staff have been well instructed on your care. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The doctor and his nurse, or wife from what Charlie gathered, left his room.

  Mr. Brody remained at Charlie’s side. His arms were folded across his chest, and he looked paler than usual. “I’m terribly sorry about the wagon and your head. I will do my utmost to ensure your recovery. If you are in need of anything, you will have to let me know. For now, rest, Mr. Ellison. I’ve asked Miss Carlson to sit with you. She was quite rattled by your condition.”

  Charlie moved his gaze across the room, landing upon Miss Carlson. She sat on his other side. She smiled when their eyes met, and she stood, taking his hand in her own.

  Charlie’s head buzzed, but not from pain. Her touch was warm and gentle. Her hand was soft, and he was tempted to kiss it. At least his lack of strength prevented him from making such a silly mistake.

  Mr. Brody walked to the door but paused. “Well, I will leave you to your rest, Mr. Ellison. Miss Carlson?”

  She dropped Charlie’s hand.

  “Let me know if his condition changes.”

  “Of course,” she said, looking back at Charlie. Mr. Brody shut the door, and Miss Carlson fell back to the chair. “You gave me quite the scare. One moment you were saving me from falling and walking beside me…and then…you weren’t.”

  Her lip quivered, and Charlie hated himself for fainting. Loss of blood or not. He forced a smile. The effort stung. “I am well enough.” His voice came out as a whisper—utterly unconvincing.

  She lifted a brow and placed her hands on her hips. “I do not believe you in the slightest.”

  Charlie might have laughed if the idea wasn’t enough to exhaust him. She was challenging him even as he lay on his sick bed. “Really, a day of rest and I will be restored.”

  “Then rest.” Miss Carlson smiled, but there was no mistaking the command in her voice.

  She was ordering him now, and he didn’t mind. In fact, he rather enjoyed the sound of her concern. “Did Tom tend to the wagon?”

  She nodded. “Yes. The wagon and horses and everything else is well taken care of. Shall I write to your family for you?”

  “No.” Troubling his father with news of injuries and broken wagon wheels would only cause drama. Charlie was certain he would recover in a few days’ time. “But there is something I would like to see to. I am expecting a parcel by mail in the next week. I put the hotel’s address in my telegram.”

  Miss Carlson smiled. “I will alert you as soon as it arrives.”

  She was lovely when she smiled. Charlie exhaled. She was lovely no matter what she did. He wanted to reach for her hand, to feel her touch once more. He cleared his throat, attempting to control his thoughts. “Before I fell…”

  “Yes?”

  “You were beginning to tell me something.”

  Miss Carlson bit the edge of her bottom lip. Her eyes fell to the ground. “I hardly remember…and you need to rest anyway.”

  Disappointment filled his chest. He had hoped she would remember. He wanted to ask her so many things. Charlie could not recall a time her felt more curious about a person. Nor could he recall a time he felt such attraction. “Sleep? Haven’t I been sleeping for hours already?” He tried to turn to the window.

  “Twelve actually.”

  Charlie flinched.

  Miss Carlson stood once more and stepped closer. She surveyed his head, and then met his gaze. “After you fainted, the doctor gave you a tonic to keep you relaxed while he attended to your wound. And then, well, you slept on and on.” She reached her hand forward but stopped midair. “Does the wound hurt terribly?”

  Charlie fought the urge to take her hand in his own. He knew nothing of this woman; they barely met two days ago. Yet, something deep within himself recognized her; she was the woman he was made to love. The idea spun around his head like a wobbly toy top. Charlie had laughed at the notion of a ‘one and only’ many times, but the idea didn’t seem silly anymore.

  Miss Carlson remained at his side. “Is the pain that bad?”

  “No more than I can handle.” Charlie gave into his impulse and took her hand. His injury served as excuse enough, but the tonic furthered his courage. “Thank you for seeing to my care.”

  She blushed. “Think nothing of it. Now, Mr. Brody has instructed me to do so. As I said a moment ago, you are to rest, Mr. Ellison, and that is the end of the discussion.”

  If he were to be honest, Charlie wanted sleep. His head throbbed. Sleep might be his only reprieve—other than Miss Carlson. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

  Chapter 7

  “Pardon me,” Hattie said, rushing forward to wipe up the water.

  The customer smiled, not seeming to mind. “Never you mind,” the woman said, wafting a hand. A diamond on her left hand sparkled, and her voice held a southern twang. “I can’t tell you how happy I was to hear I could get a warm plate before my next train.”

  That was the third glass of water Hattie had overfilled that evening. Thoughts of Mr. Ellison filled her mind, distracting her to no end. Four days of working the restaurant and sitting at his bedside and fighting guilt had caught up with her. She wanted to tell him the truth, but she struggled to find the strength.

  Then there was the matter of the brooch. Mr. Brody told Hattie not to worry. Mr. Ellison’s recovery was his greatest concern.

  But Hattie did worry. She did not want Mr. Brody to think her dishonest or neglectful. The wagon accident was no excuse for her losing the expensive piece. She had walked the path too many times to count, hoping to find the small package to no avail.

  “Tell me about the fried chicken?” the woman asked, tending to her small child.

  Hattie struggled to return her attention to the customer in front of her. “Delicious. Cook makes the finest meals in all of Topeka,” she said. Would Mr. Ellison be willing to forgive her?

  The woman tapped her fingers across the table. “Then I’ll take a plate of that, and a bowl of soup for the child.”

  “Will you be wanting any pie, or perhaps cornbread, with your dinner?” Hattie balanced the pitcher of water in her arms, still contemplating whether or not she should speak to Mr. Ellison. He was faring much better today. “I recommend apple.”

  “I’ll have a scone.”

  The dining hall was more crowded than usual, and Hattie hurried to her next two tables before putting the orders in with the cook. The last two days had been much the same as this one—fast-paced. From the moment she awoke, Hattie worked. She scrubbed the floors, laundered sheets and napkins and towels, attended to customers at the restaurant, and finished the day at Mr. Ellison’s bedside.

  Hattie only wished her mind had been as preoccupied.

  Each time she visited Mr. Ellison, she promised
herself she would tell him the truth. But then he would smile at her, speak with her, laugh with her, and Hattie would forget everything else. He had a way with words. His stories captivated her, and he never ceased to surprise her.

  And his voice, his deep and gentle voice. Hattie’s lips parted into a smile. Mr. Ellison was, more than any other quality, kind. The button on her cuff served as a constant reminder, but his voice served as a second. The warmth of his words, and his expression each time he addressed her or comforted her.

  What would he think when, or if, he found out the truth? Would he understand her reasons, or would he feel betrayed?

  Her shift at the restaurant ended, and Hattie trudged to the front desk. Elizabeth was there again, holding Rose at her side. The baby was just eighteen-months old, and her round eyes widened at the sight of Hattie.

  “Del,” the baby said, clapping her hands.

  Hattie laughed. She would have gladly changed her named to Adele forever, if it meant Rose continued to call her Del. Hattie reached out her arms, and Elizabeth set the baby to the ground. Rose’s steps were wobbly and uneven, but she walked to Hattie.

  “Good evening,” Hattie said, picking up Rose. She ran her fingers through the little girl’s curls and down her chubby cheek.

  “It’s past Rose’s bedtime, but I I needed to finish these ledgers…” Elizabeth’s voice trailed into silence, and then she laughed. “Eleanor managed the desk the other day, and I cannot read her writing.”

  Hattie kissed Rose’s forehead, rocking her back and forth against her hip. “Have you received any letters for Mr. Ellison?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, an entire bundle of letters actually. I had Eleanor deliver them earlier.”

  Hattie’s mouth went dry. She set Rose in Elizabeth’s lap. “An entire bundle?”

  A crooked smile stretched across Elizabeth’s cheeks. “You have taken a special interest in Mr. Ellison, haven’t you?”

  There was so much Hattie wanted to say. Mr. Ellison is my betrothed, the man I ran away from. If I had been a more dutiful daughter, I might be married to him. I might have enjoyed being his wife. I have not told him the truth, and I need to. If Hattie were to confide in Elizabeth, perhaps her heavy heart would be lighter. Guilt craved a voice; worry begged companionship.

  But secrets were like chains, binding Hattie’s lips. She took a shaky breath. “I am thankful he continues to heal.”

  “You are only concerned about his healing?” Elizabeth asked, squinting.

  Elizabeth knew of Hattie’s past but without the details—details like the name of her betrothed, Hattie’s true identity, the location of her home, her fortune, and why Hattie felt the need to run. Several details were easy to fill in; Elizabeth surmised Hattie had come from the East; no lady wished to marry a stranger.

  Rose rested her head against her mother’s chest, yawning.

  Elizabeth rocked back and forth, still studying Hattie. “You know, admiring a man of Mr. Ellison’s station is not wrong. Times have changed, and many men of his fortune would consider the likes of a waitress, if he were to admire her in return. Adam did. I was a destitute widow when I began working here, caring for Rose and my mother. He did not mind. A true gentleman never does.”

  Unshed tears gathered behind Hattie’s eyes. She would have welcomed such a worry, but her fears ran deeper. “You seem to have made an incorrect assumption. I do not care for Mr. Ellison like that.”

  Elizabeth’s brows rose, and she looked down at her baby. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Adele. I only care about you. Adam tells me how Mr. Ellison asks about you when you aren’t beside him. I thought the admiration was mutual.”

  Hattie shook her head. “He does not admire me. He is only kind.”

  Lies. He did show a preference to her. Much of Hattie’s guilt stemmed from the fact that Mr. Ellison paid special attention to her. He seemed to save his most charming smile for only her. He laughed in her presence, and sometimes, Hattie thought she sensed tenderness in his glance. And then there was the matter of his touch. More than twice, Mr. Ellison had taken her hand in his to thank her. His fingers lingered near hers, and the sensation left her speechless.

  Elizabeth shrugged. “Are you to sit with him tonight?”

  A choked sob caught in her throat, and her voice came no louder than a whisper. “Not tonight. He is much better, and I think the doctor would agree. He does not need a nurse anymore. Goodnight, Elizabeth.”

  Charlie buttoned his coat and closed the door. For five days, he had been confined to his room, except for a few trips down the hall to the washroom each day and one climb down and up the stairs again.

  He jumped at the doctor’s suggestion that he return to his daily tasks. Charlie’s head still ached, and the suture bothered him at times—but being confined to a hotel room? That was hardly a way to ring in the new year.

  When Charlie had first set off to find Miss Montgomery, he had promised his father he would return to San Francisco by the New Year. But then his search had come to nothing, and Charlie’s honor—or desperation—had propelled him onward. Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve, a night he usually spent in his home.

  The elder Mr. Ellison entertained often, but his favorite holiday was New Year’s, and Charlie’s childhood home filled with candles, music, friends, and celebration each December thirty-first.

  Charlie could use a new beginning, one without the shame of failure he felt. The bundle of Miss Montgomery’s letters had arrived the previous day, and Charlie had spent the entire evening reading them when Miss Carlson did not come.

  Ten letters total, but not much information to go by. There was the seal—a bouquet of three flowers in a red-wax circle—but Charlie guessed the stamp could be purchased at any general store in the country. Flowers were a common enough seal.

  Only a few phrases stuck out from the bunch of letters.

  You mustn’t search for me, Father. I have chosen my destination at random.

  Perhaps Miss Montgomery had chosen her destination with as little idea as Charlie had, stepping onto the next available train. The phrase brought little hope of finding her, and, even more so, hinted at his fiancé’s desire to stay hidden.

  As for my wellbeing, take comfort in the fact that I spend my days helping others. My new work brings me joy, and you would be surprised to learn how very capable I have become.

  She was working, most likely under a different name. This information served to discourage Charlie even more.

  The search would end. As much as the decision pained him, he could not go on, knowing this woman was happy in her hiding. As long as letters continued to arrive in a weekly fashion, which they had, Miss Montgomery was safe. Charlie would have to wait until she returned home on her own accord and freed him from their betrothal.

  He had written to Mr. Montgomery a day after his accident, telling him of the futility of his search, and urging Mr. Montgomery to look into other avenues—starting with the letters. Charlie suggested Mr. Montgomery see if his daughter’s acquaintances offered any clues.

  Charlie reached the hotel foyer, nearly bumping into Mr. Brody.

  The hotel owner stepped to the side, smiling. “Pardon me. Mr. Ellison, you’re up and about. How are you feeling?”

  “Better, now that I’m not in bed.” Charlie shook Mr. Brody’s hand. “I wanted to catch some fresh air.”

  Mr. Brody inhaled. “By yourself?”

  Charlie nodded. “I’ve bothered you and your staff enough. If I don’t return in an hour, send Tom to look after me.”

  “An hour.” Mr. Brody tapped his pocket watch. “Take care.”

  Besides the front desk and receptionist, the lobby was empty. At only seven in the morning, most of the staff was still in their rooms and the restaurant was closed. His eyes scanned the empty dining room and long hallway. She was not there. A familiar disappointment stabbed at Charlie. He recognized the feeling from the previous night, when Miss Carlson failed to show up to his room.

>   He did not need someone to watch over him; he hadn’t even at the beginning, but he had enjoyed the excuse to spend time with Miss Carlson. The past few evenings were spent in pleasant discussions, all of which allowed him to get to know her better.

  A constant struggle played across his mind. Mostly, Charlie felt drawn to Miss Carlson, and he caught himself repeatedly wishing to court her. Her touch, constrained to discreet instances when he was recovering, brought a rush of excitement. His chest pounded and his head buzzed just thinking of her. But then, Charlie’s heart was not free…at least not yet.

  Miss Carlson had been a model of manners, hardly questioning his errand of finding Miss Montgomery. He had not even had to lie to Miss Carlson. Still, not telling her the truth about his situation felt like a lie. He needed to tell her he was not free, but that idea made his head throb worse than any physical wound.

  He stepped onto the hotel porch and inhaled the frigid air. Much of the snow had cleared, though locals warned there was more to come. The trees, however, were coated in a recent frost and resembled the illustrations of Charlie’s favorite edition of Charles Dicken’s Christmas Carol—icy, sparkling, and breathtakingly beautiful.

  The street was much like the lobby—sleepy and still. The only sound to rival the noise of his boots crunching against the frozen ground was the wind. The icy gusts blasted against his cheeks. Charlie sank deeper into his collar and pulled his hat lower.

  How he missed San Francisco’s sun. His childhood home sat near the ocean, and Charlie spent many evenings walking up and down the beach, watching as the waves rolled in and out.

  A soft grunt awakened Charlie from his reverie, stopping him in his tracks. A woman was bent at the side of the road, digging through the dirt and remainder of snow.

  “Are you all right, Miss?” Charlie asked. He crouched beside her. “Have you lost something.”

  A dirt-streaked face turned toward him, and the woman’s cheeks reddened at the sight of Charlie.

  Laughter threatened. “Miss Carlson?”