A Promised Heart
Kate Marie Clark
Copyright © 2018 Kate Marie Clark.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
Front cover design by Steven Novak
Edited by Jolene Perry
Printed by Kate Marie Clark, in the United States of America.
First printing edition 2018.
[email protected]
www.katemarieclark.com
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Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Author’s Note
This novel is part of the Kansas Crossroads series by Amelia C. Adams. If you’d like a free download of A New Beginning, the first novel in the series, just click here.
For a complete list of Kate Marie Clark’s books or to sign up for her newsletter, visit katemarieclark.com
Chapter 1
October, 1876
“Not often we get someone requesting an embalming, Miss Montgomery,” Mr. Conner said. He lifted the lid of the coffin, revealing a middle-aged woman, dressed in a starched, burgundy dress.
Aunt May had been Hattie’s last choice of chaperone across the country. In fact, Hattie had practically begged her father to send someone else, anyone else. Her aunt was much like her dress—perfectly stiff and drab. May was flawlessly groomed and mannered, at least in public. The lines near her lips were the result of a permanent scowl, and the wrinkles near her eyes from her constant narrowed glare. Hattie often thought those lines served as the only clues to May’s true disposition—disapproving and demanding.
The heart attack was so unexpected, so entirely tragic. Hattie had hardly believed her senses when she found her aunt alone in their train compartment at Cincinnati’s Plum Street Station, clutching at her chest. To die at thirty-five years old, without family besides an older brother and one niece, was dreadful. Hattie almost cried thinking of it; perhaps the heart attack was a result of loneliness.
At least that would never happen to Hattie—dying of loneliness. Not if her father had it his way, and certainly not if Aunt May had accompanied Hattie the length of the entire train ride to her designated fiancé.
The sickening truth was that Aunt May’s death almost came as a relief. Hattie winced. Because of her aunt’s tragic end, Hattie’s father would have Hattie return to Philadelphia, possibly buying her more time. She did not wish to marry a stranger.
Guilt stabbed at Hattie’s chest, and she took a shaky breath. “My father requested my aunt’s body be preserved. He’s part of the appointed pastoral council at the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul, and I am certain my father intends to hold services there.”
“Is that so?” the man said, closing the coffin. “Your father must be well-to-do if he can request such a fine service and burial. What is it he does?”
Hattie swallowed. Explaining her father’s business ventures was complicated, as was his wealth. Family money was passed down a line of succession and was hardly earned. Her own fortune, passed from her mother’s side, was just as undeserved, and Hattie often felt the unfairness of her good fortune, no matter how grateful she was to have it. “He is involved with trade, Mr. Conner.”
The coroner’s chin lifted, and his dark eyes met Hattie’s. “You say trade? Can you guarantee the payment?”
“Certainly. I have payment enough on my person.” Hattie pulled open her purse and set the agreed upon amount atop the coffin. “Now, I must return to the post office, where I will await further instructions from my father. You can expect to ship the…” She stopped. The word body felt so cold, so disconnected. “My aunt will most likely take the first train headed east tomorrow.”
Mr. Conner counted the money and lifted his bushy brows. “Transport will cost you extra, Miss Montgomery. The trains don’t like the smell of the dead.”
She cringed at the way he spoke. If he did his job correctly, her aunt’s body would not stink. Hattie bit back a retort and forced a smile. “I have already accounted for such things, and with your expert job in preparing the body, the passengers will not catch a whiff of any unpleasant aromas. At least not on my aunt’s account.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, pushing the payment into his vest pocket. “Good day to you.”
Hattie left the funeral home in search of the post office. Returning home was an unexpected delight. Two days more, and Hattie would step foot in her favorite parlors once more, surrounded by her close friends. She had detested the idea of riding clear across the country to San Francisco where the mysterious Mr. Anthony Ellison laid wait, ready to marry her.
The pair had exchanged two letters, and neither of Mr. Ellison’s correspondences proved informative nor hopeful. Hattie’s supposed fiancé seemed to dread the arrangement just as much as she did, but he, unlike Hattie, seemed intent on fulfilling his father’s wishes.
Mr. Ellison never expressed his dread—not directly anyway. But the pages of perfect penmanship might as well have been blank. The words told nothing of his interests nor his feelings. The sentences were rigid and hollow, the result of a highly disciplined and unaffected man. If Mr. Ellison did not dread the marriage, he was certain to be dreadful himself.
She reached the post office, just as the mail carrier flew out the open door.
The young man halted at the sight of Hattie, and his mouth parted. His mousey brown hair was slicked to one side, but a few strands in the back rebelled and stuck on end. “Miss Montgomery? I was just heading to the funeral home. We’ve just received a telegram from your father.”
“Just what I was hoping for, Mr. Hart,” she said, taking the paper from him. They had become acquainted fairly well over the past three days. “Thank you.”
She paced to the edge of the walk and inhaled, running her fingers across the slip of paper. Hattie could almost hear her father’s strong voice, urging her to return home.
But then her eyes widened, and she nearly dropped the paper to the ground.
Send May’s body home. Continue to San Francisco according to plan.
Hattie blinked furiously, attempting to clear her suddenly clouded vision. He could not be serious. To expect her, after witnessing her aunt’s death, to continue westward—and without a chaperone—was ruthless and improper and everything outrageous. Tears collected on her lower lashes, and Hattie sniffled. Her stomach coiled into a knot.
Betrothals were inhumane; marrying Mr. Ellison went against all her wishes. She had indulged her father by agreeing to meet her supposed fiancé and his family, but she never agreed to go through with the marriage. The contract—for that is what she considered it, a financial arrangement to secure both families’ future wealth—was made by her father and the elder Mr. Ellison.
Not Hattie.
She clung to the nearest post outside the mercantile and labored to keep the tears at bay. She refused to continue to San Francisco, but how could she return to her father? An ache pulsed through her throat. For all her fortune and friendships, she hadn
’t a place to go.
Only one friend came to mind—Miss Lilly Ackerman. If their fathers were not so well acquainted, Hattie might have entreated her for help.
“Fancy a paper, Miss?” a boy asked, holding out a rolled stack of newsletter.
Hattie sniffled and smiled, taking out a coin from her purse. “I believe I do.”
He handed her the paper in exchange for the coin and was gone without another word.
She strolled the boarded walk for a few blocks, until she found a lovely little park, lined with large trees, all of which were sprinkled in orange and red leaves. Her favorite season was autumn, and she felt it a shame that this particular year was accompanied by such a disastrous situation.
There was no coming out of this situation unscathed. Hattie would lose, either her father’s respect or her freedom. Neither outcome enticed her.
The newspaper in her hands called to her—or so she imagined. Perhaps she craved distraction; troubled minds often do. Hattie flipped to the advertisements at the end, and her eyes landed on one in the middle column.
Mr. Adam Brody seeks bright, energetic, single young ladies from good families to attend to the Brody Hotel and restaurant. Inquire in person. Topeka, Kansas. $14/wk.
Her breath hitched, and her pulse doubled. Perhaps there was a third option—one that kept her freedom whilst avoiding the disappointment of her father. Hattie could very well disappear. She had heard stories of women and men that did.
Kansas seemed to Hattie a wasteland of plains. She did not know of anyone that actually lived there; most only travelled through on their way westward. Hattie was a city girl, through and through, accustomed to luxury and high society. She attended plays and operas regularly, danced at balls, and shopped at the finest stores in Philadelphia. Topeka had little to recommend itself.
A slow smile stretched across her cheeks, until her chest lifted and soft laughter slipped from her lips. Topeka, Kansas was perfect. If her father did indeed look for her—which she suspected he would—Topeka, Kansas would never make his list of possible destinations.
Hattie Montgomery, future waitress and hotel maid.
No, no, no. She could never use her own name. Hattie closed her eyes, summoning the first name that came to her.
Adele Carlson.
Hattie laughed once more. The idea was ridiculous—to leave her father and friends behind, to travel to a place she had never set foot in, and to work under Mr. Brody’s employ… She had never as much as scrubbed the floor.
Yet, something in Hattie’s heart fluttered. Freedom beckoned. Possibilities flashed across her mind.
She would go to Topeka, but first she needed to reply to her father’s letter. Leaving him without a single word was beneath her. Though her father was stern and impersonal, Hattie was grateful for him. She loved him. His disappointment would be unbearable. Thank goodness she would not be there to see it. She hurried to her boarding house where she penned a short letter.
Father,
I am sending Aunt May home. Please accept my condolences.
After receiving your latest telegram, I feel it my duty to inform you of my intentions. I will not be returning to Philadelphia, nor will I be continuing to San Francisco as you hoped.
I have never wished to marry a man I have never met. I hardly know if I want to marry at all. Mr. Anthony Ellison, though a good sort of man by all accounts, is a stranger. I cannot believe he would wish the marriage any more than I do.
I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me for failing to fulfill what you have repeatedly expressed as my obligation. Please do not mistake my actions as ingratitude; that could not be further from the truth. I am grateful for all you have done to secure my future.
But I long to chart my own destiny, one that does not involve a marriage of companies and wealth. Where I go and how long is yet to be decided. Do not worry on my account. I shall have more than enough funds for my needs (thanks to Mama’s fortune), I will take the necessary precautions to maintain my security, and I shall write when given the occasion.
I pray that if or when the time comes for me to return to Philadelphia, your anger will have softened.
All my love,
Hattie
She sealed the envelope and sighed. Such a small note carried enormous importance. Freedom was worth more than any amount of wealth. Hattie’s heart leapt with each step she took toward the post office. There was no going back once the letter was posted. And she would post it.
On to Topeka.
Chapter 2
November, 1876
Anthony Charles Ellison, the third, had never been a patient man. When given the choice of calling on another for assistance or rolling up his sleeves and getting to work, he always chose the latter. But rationalizing his results-driven behavior sometimes fell flat.
The large office grew stifling silent, and he worried he might suffocate. The golden-papered walls, lined with bookshelf after bookshelf, threatened to close in on the pair of them. His father detested the idea of his traveling eastward.
“Anthony, you cannot go about the country, searching for Miss Montgomery. She does not wish to be found. Her father, I am told, has already hired two separate investigators to locate her. What more can you do?”
The name Anthony grated on Charlie’s ears. His round shoulders fell forward. “How many times have I told you to call me Charlie, Father?”
“Charlie?” the elder Mr. Ellison asked, chuckling. His brown hair, peppered in gray, was opposite Charlie’s blond. “You sound no better than a boxing man at the club with a name like that. Anthony will do wonderfully, especially in the world of trade. Now, as I was asking. What more can you do?”
Charlie clasped his hands together and knocked them against the desk. He had already explained his reasoning, three separate times. “I cannot help feeling partially responsible for the disappearance of Miss Montgomery. Her distress on being made to marry me caused her to desert her family and all she knows. I do not claim to have greater powers than an investigator, but my conscience dictates I do my part.”
“Any woman that would refuse marrying you deserves to disappear.”
Charlie folded his arms. He sensed his father’s hardening resolve. “Father, you cannot mean that. Mr. Montgomery is your friend. How could you say such a thing?”
The elder Mr. Ellison stood from his chair, flinging his arms around sporadically as he grunted. His graying brows wiggled up and down as he seemed to face an internal battle. “I only care about you, son. But you are right. I worry for the girl. I hope that she will turn up—the sooner the better.”
“Then will you give me your blessing before I leave?” Charlie asked.
His father exhaled slowly, and a pained expression overtook his sharp features. “Is there no changing your mind? I fear the endeavor will be fruitless and discouraging. But if you must, Anthony—”
“Charlie.”
“Charlie.” Mr. Ellison shook his head, and his lids lowered. “I expect you will write and inform me and Mr. Montgomery if you are to find any clue to her whereabouts? You have the portrait on you?”
“Yes, to both of your questions,” Charlie said, pushing his hand into his pocket.
Miss Montgomery had sent a photograph of her profile with her last letter. The image was small and cloudy but favorable and feminine. He could hardly imagine such a lady on her own. If harm had not already befallen such a woman, Charlie feared it would soon. An heiress was the target of scoundrels as it was, but a woman with her looks? Miss Montgomery was in for trouble.
Mr. Ellison strode to Charlie’s chair and placed his thin hands against the back. “Where will you head first?”
Charlie had contemplated his route over and over. He would start in Denver, heading east as he eliminated possible locations. Miss Montgomery would most likely stick to the larger cities—Chicago, Cincinnati, Boston, New York. Just thinking of the chase caused an ache to pulse through his forehead. He massaged his temples. “De
nver. I am afraid I have only intuition to guide me.”
“Then by all means, try to return by next New Year.”
“Next New Year?” Charlie rolled his eyes despite a sinking feeling. He hoped the search took no longer than a few months at most. Each day that passed left an ever-shrinking possibility of finding Miss Montgomery well. “I shall return by this New Year, Father. That, you may rely on.”
His father stroked the cuff of his sleeve. He was wearing his new suit, as was often the case. The elder Mr. Ellison had a closet full of suits—all different, yet all the same. “I hope you are right. Now, depart and find your fiancé.”
Fiancé. The word sounded stiff and hollow. If Miss Montgomery was found, Charlie doubted she would marry him. But being free of that weight would be more relieving than he dared to imagine. He had never wanted to marry Miss Montgomery, no matter how pretty a profile she possessed. Her wealth meant even less to Charlie.
Honor—and honor alone—had kept him bound to the arrangement. Refusing a lady of upbringing and social standing went against all his teachings, scholarly and religious. No, he would never have gone against the betrothal.
Guilt knocked against his chest, and a wave of heat encompassed him. He pressed his sweaty palms against his pants. If Charlie had been less honorable, perhaps even selfish, and broken off the engagement, Miss Montgomery never would have run away. She would have been happy and just as relieved as Charlie. They both would have found suitable matches and been all the better off.
“Charlie?” Mr. Ellison asked, bending closer.
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