Table of Contents
Title Page
Praise for Marin McGinnis
Secret Promise
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Author’s Note
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
“What’s the matter? Other than the obvious, of course.”
Edward snorted with little humor and did not look at her. “The obvious. Shouldn’t that be enough to make me cry into my bitter?”
“A different man, maybe. Not you.” She thought for a minute as she gazed at him. He was older, certainly; they both were. He was harder, more…careworn, she supposed, although the scar added an air of devilishness she had to admit was really quite appealing.
She reached out and traced the mark with her index finger before she could stop herself, feeling the warm flush of his skin. Edward barely stirred, just eyed her from beneath his impossibly long, dark lashes.
“But you’re not the same man you were when you left, are you?”
“No. And you aren’t the same woman, I imagine.” He grabbed her hand to keep it still. She could feel the beat of his heart racing through her fingertips. Hers was not far behind.
She pulled her hand away before she rushed headlong into something she wasn’t sure she was ready to do, and changed the subject. “You never did tell me how you got that scar.”
Edward rose from his stool, tossed a coin onto the bar. “No, I didn’t.” In a single movement, he pulled her to him, pressing his lips to hers. She closed her eyes, tasting. He was the same as he had been on the cliff top, or at least the way she remembered him. Salty, sweet, the slightest bit sour from his last drink, all mixed together with something that was uniquely Edward.
Praise for Marin McGinnis
“With danger, passion, and gripping characters, STIRRING UP THE VISCOUNT by Marin McGinnis is a brilliant read…”
~Fresh Fiction
Secret Promise
by
Marin McGinnis
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Secret Promise
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Marin Ritter
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by RJ Morris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Tea Rose Edition, 2015
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0327-7
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0328-4
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Karl.
Acknowledgments
No book is completed by the writer alone, and I do have a number of people who are owed my thanks in helping bring this one to life:
My editor, Allison Byers, for her meticulous attention to every single word. One day you will break me of my infatuation with the word “that,” I have no doubt.
My critique partners, Susan Jessen, Kym Lucas, and IreAnne Chambers, for their helpful suggestions and gushing in all the right places.
The lovely and talented Passionate Critters, who always know just the right thing to say when I get stuck or I doubt myself, and they totally rock at blurbs.
The garden of wonderful authors and staff at The Wild Rose Press.
The gifted and always supportive members of NEORWA, who once again helped me celebrate the end of a book.
My family and friends, who never stopped telling me to hurry up and finish this book so they could read it already.
And my husband and son, who now seem to take my ignoring them in favor of writing as a matter of course. I adore you both.
Chapter One
England 1867
Edward Mason leaned back against the railing, gazing up at the chalky cliffs as the ship passed Dover and sailed toward the mouth of the Thames. The white of the rock contrasted sharply with the sky, a dark, swirling mass of clouds that was almost painfully reminiscent of his last day with Anna. He could almost imagine the couple they had been, perched on the top of the cliffs in Berwick, swearing their grown-up oaths to love and cherish each other in childish voices. His gut clenched with a mixture of emotions as he drew closer to his homeland. He remained lost in memory as the cliffs disappeared from sight.
After what seemed an interminable wait, Edward collected his final pay from the captain and disembarked, on English soil for the first time in the better part of a decade. He was tempted to fall upon the ground and kiss it, but noticing the filth in the street, he thought better of the impulse. He clutched his last letter from his sister Theodora, so often read that it was coming apart at the creases. Although he had never particularly liked the man she married, Theodora had obviously been besotted. She had been so deliriously happy then, on her honeymoon to the Continent. He hoped she was still happy, but in seven years, he had never received another letter. He absently stroked the scar on his cheek, reminding himself that no letter had come because she hadn’t thought to look for him in an American prison, not because she hadn’t bothered.
Making his way from the docks to Christopher Street took hours on foot, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being cooped up in a hansom cab after so long at sea. The city was bustling, far busier than he remembered it, hawkers calling out the news of the day, the smells of food carts wafting on the air. It reminded him of Boston, of Shanghai, of Tokyo, but only slightly; London had an atmosphere all its own. He turned the corner onto Theodora’s street, then stopped short at the sight of what was before him. He looked at the address Theodora had written in her letter and then at the houses to the left and the right of where he stood. What should have been a stylish London townhome was a mass of bricks and scaffolding.
He looked around, wondering whom he could ask about the house, and spotted a boy watching him. He pulled a coin from his pocket and gestured to the boy, who scampered over.
“Do you know what happened here?” Edward asked.
“O’course. The ’ouse burned down,” the boy answered matter-of-factly.
Edward tamped down his impatience and smiled in what he hoped was a non-threatening manner. “I can see that. What happened to the people who lived here?”
The boy cocked his head, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “’Oo wants to know?”
“My name is Edward Mason. Mrs. Ravens
dale is my sister.”
“Hmph,” the boy grunted. “’Ow come you don’t know what ’appened, iffen she’s your sister?” His eyes narrowed as he waited for Edward’s reply.
“Because I have been away for a long time. I’ve just gotten off the boat.”
The boy sniffed and eyed Edward skeptically. Then he shrugged. “Well, you do look sorta like ’er, and you do smell like fish. So I guess you must be all right.”
Edward chuckled. “I’m delighted you think so.”
The boy ignored the sarcasm, if he noticed it at all, and continued with a blithe air. “The missus disappeared on the night of the fire. ’Imself thought she died, but I saw ’er leave. ’Eard tell she went north, and ’imself died.” He leaned in conspiratorially, and Edward was unable to stop himself from bending over to hear the boy better. “Some say she killed ’im—reckon ’e deserved it.” The boy straightened and shrugged. “Land was for sale for a while after that, but some American gent just bought it.”
Edward’s gut clenched with worry. He didn’t know which part of this wild tale to approach first, so he chose the part that most concerned him. “‘He deserved it?”
“Yes sir. ’E used to beat ’er, and never let ’er out o’ the ’ouse.”
Edward’s fists curled, and he silently seethed. If the man weren’t dead already, he would have done the deed himself. “Do you know where she is now?”
“Up north, somewhere. Never came back ’ere. I liked ’er. She gave me pastries.” The boy’s face lit up with a gap-toothed grin. Edward could see why Theodora would have taken to this boy.
“What’s your name?”
“John, sir.” John looked at him expectantly, so Edward gave him the coin he’d been holding and fished another out of his pocket.
“Thank you for the information, John. When I find her, should I say hello?”
John beamed proudly. “Tell ’er I learnt to read. She’ll like that.”
Edward smiled and put a hand on the boy’s bony shoulder. “She certainly will. Goodbye, John.”
“’Bye!” The boy scampered off, clutching the coins in his grimy fist.
Edward watched him go. It had never occurred to him that his sister wouldn’t be where he left her, or that her life would be anything but happy and settled, with a passel of children to call him uncle. Instead, he found she’d been beaten, her husband was dead, and he had no idea where she might be, other than “up north.”
She must have gone home. He did wonder why his parents had done nothing to help her, but perhaps they had, and Ravensdale had died trying to get her back.
He looked down at his clothes and sniffed. Wrinkling his nose, he decided he did indeed smell like fish, and one day would make little difference after so many years. He was in rather desperate need of a bath.
****
Edward boarded a train the next morning, after his first comfortable night’s sleep in several years, in a hotel which hadn’t existed when he was last in London. He had purchased new clothing, then burned the clothes he had been wearing in the grate in his room. Although still not quite presentable, given his scar, at least he wouldn’t terrify Anna when he saw her. As Edward watched the country he loved pass by the windows of the train, he reflected on Anna. He had written to her, too, but transatlantic post, especially when one of the correspondents was in prison in a country at war with itself, was unreliable, to say the least. Edward had not received a single letter from her and wondered whether she had waited for him. He hoped so, but it was not reasonable to expect. She was young and beautiful. He pulled the battered picture of her out of his pocket and ran his finger over her face, recalling the way her eyes lit up when she laughed. Edward swallowed hard, the ache in his chest so fierce he could scarcely breathe. So beautiful.
Arriving in North Shields late at night, Edward walked the mile from the station to his childhood home, grateful for the sea air to clear his head. Perched on the coast, the house had always seemed to him a welcoming beacon, candles flickering merrily in its many windows. Now as he approached, he saw nothing but blackness. No windows, no candlelight, no structure at all between the sky and the sea below.
Panic lodged in his belly as he drew closer. As the moon came out from behind a cloud, he gasped. What the hell was going on? First London, now here.
A few beams remained, jutting skyward, but the bulk of his home was a blackened pit. He ran toward it, the lump of fear moving from his gut to lodge in his throat.
Rounding the corner, he realized that part of the house was still intact. The north wing, where the kitchen was located and the servants had resided, rose above the charred remains of the rest of the structure. Light flickered in the window, and hope flared. He went around to the kitchen door and was about to open it when it occurred to him that whoever was inside might be startled, to say the least, if he just barged in. He did not want to admit there was a possibility his family was no longer in residence, but he was nothing if not practical.
A short, buxom woman with rosy cheeks opened the door at his rather desperate knock. “Such a racket! What do you want, this time o’ night?” Her eyes rose up to his face, and she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “My word! Master Edward!”
She launched her stout form at him, and he barely managed to keep from toppling over. She enveloped him in a strong embrace, tears streaking her now pale face.
“Well, Mrs. Graham, I will admit I am surprised to see you here,” he managed once he could breathe again.
“And where else would I be, lad?” She wiped her eyes on her apron. “I knew you’d come home when you’d a mind to.” She flashed him a grin and bundled him into the kitchen, warm and welcoming.
Looking around he could imagine that nothing had changed. He was seventeen, and Mrs. Graham was spoiling him as she had always done.
“I was just dishing up some soup for Mr. Graham. Plenty for you as well. Sit, sit, lad. You are skin and bones.” She put on a pair of spectacles that had been dangling from a chain around her neck and peered at him. “And a scar! You look like a pirate, you do.”
“I have plenty of tales to tell you, Mrs. Graham.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Turn your hair gray, they will.”
She laughed and swatted him with her strong, little hand. “Oh, go on with you. Me hair is gray already.” She dished up a bowl of fragrant soup and set it in front of him. “Here you are, lad. Eat while it’s hot. I’ll just go and fetch Mr. Graham.”
She bustled out of the room, and he was left alone. He inhaled the steam from the soup, remembering. It was fragrant with garlic, onions, chicken, carrots, potatoes, and some unknown herb she would never disclose, though Theodora had tried to get it out of her many times. He and his sister had snuck out of the house early one morning to follow Mrs. Graham as she gathered herbs in the kitchen garden, but she had caught them, and they never had discovered what it was. She said it was her secret, and she’d whisper it to them on her deathbed, not a day before. He chuckled to himself and sipped slowly, savoring every mouthful. He’d subsisted on hard tack and other horrid food for so long it was a wonder he was still alive.
Mrs. Graham returned with her husband in tow, a funny little smirk on her face. Graham had been the Masons’ butler for more years than Edward had been alive. He was now stooped with age, but still as tall and lean as his wife was short and stout. They had always reminded him of the nursery rhyme, but it was more than his life was worth to say so.
Mrs. Graham had apparently not mentioned to her husband that he was here, because when the poor man spied Edward, he looked as if he’d seen a ghost and sat heavily in the nearest chair.
Once he had caught his breath, he said, “Master Edward! The missus always said you’d come home, but I confess I didn’t quite believe it.”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying, Graham. But it’s good to be home now.”
Mrs. Graham said she’d get a room ready for him, and bustled off. Edward finished his soup and watched the older man eat
until he could work up the courage to ask his question. Finally, Mr. Graham wiped his mouth on his napkin and settled back in his chair.
“What happened? Where are my parents? My sister?”
“You don’t know, lad?” The older man regarded him with the same critical eye he had given Edward for any number of youthful transgressions.
“No,” Edward said. “No, I don’t. I went to London first, and Dora…”
“I don’t know where she is, lad, I’m sorry to say,” Mr. Graham said. “She ran away from her husband, and I heard she was involved in his death but don’t know what happened to her after that.”
“What?” Edward said. “But, how…”
“That’s a conversation for another day, my boy.” Mr. Graham pulled a packet of tobacco and a pipe out of his pocket and proceeded to fill it. “For now you need to know about your parents.”
His expression darkened with an emotion Edward thought was grief. He steeled himself for what was to come. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”
“Yes, lad,” Graham said softly. “There was a fire here at the manor, not long after they returned from London.”
“From London? Why were they in London?”
Mr. Graham gave him a strange look. “For Miss Theodora’s wedding, of course.”
“They’ve been dead for seven years?” Edward asked incredulously. “Why did no one write to me?”
Mr. Graham raised his thin brows in disapproval. “We did, lad. There was no reply. Miss Theodora was gone, too, on her honeymoon. There were no bodies to bury, in any event.”
Edward stared at the man. Seven years? “What happened?”
“’Twere a fire in the main part of the house. Inspectors thought it started in the library, perhaps a spark from the hearth. You know how your da liked to read in there, in the evenings. The missus and I had retired for the night. By the time we smelled the smoke, the main wing of the house was engulfed in flames. We could do nothing, except try to save this half of the house.”
Edward was still, numbed by grief and surprise.
Mr. Graham said quietly, “I’m sorry, my boy. Truly sorry.”
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