Yesterday's Promise

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Never again would she waltz in a beautiful gown on the polished floor the way she had done one Christmas with Rogan at Rookswood. Crutches were a part of her life now, and crutches were not romantic. If Rogan were to see her now—

  No, no, never. Her pride insisted that she must not suffer such humiliation.

  For weeks she wrestled with her uncertain future. This couldn’t be happening to her. How could she live with the reproach of deformity? Rogan was perfectly handsome, rugged, confident. But even if he should suddenly return to London, she would not meet with him. It was too late for that. He would show pity, and the very thought caused her to lift her chin. She wanted no pity, especially from him.

  She was strong enough to get outdoors now. With early spring upon them, she would sometimes venture out with Mrs. Croft to one of the nearby parks or public gardens to sit on one of the benches and enjoy the fresh air. But she found the crutches awkward, especially when she needed to carry something or get in or out of the coach, and using them in public made her self-conscious. She imagined the stares of young women looking in pity, relieved they had been spared such uncomeliness, and the embarrassed glances of men meeting her eye, then looking quickly away.

  “Horsefeathers! You imagine it,” Mrs. Croft said. “I haven’t seen a man yet, be he young or old, looking at you any differently than they ever did. Why, anyone could sprain an ankle or break a leg and look the same way as yourself.”

  Perhaps Mrs. Croft was right, but Evy’s feelings were too raw to see things that airily. Besides, a sprained ankle usually healed, and since she was painfully aware of the seriousness of her injury, perhaps others could sense it in her eyes.

  “You’ll get stronger, Evy,” Mrs. Croft encouraged. “The doctor says you may need only a cane later on. The stronger you get, the more you’ll see it’s so.”

  “Maybe, Mrs. Croft. But I’ll always feel odd around people. I’m different now.”

  “No you aren’t, child. If anything, you’re even more unique. Always thought so anyway. As for that no-account Rogan Chantry, I wouldn’t be wasting my tears on the likes of him.”

  “Who says I’m shedding any tears over him?”

  Mrs. Croft paid no mind to her defensive tone.

  “His running off the way he did to live among natives, promising you he’d write and never taking the time. He’s no better than that rebel Derwent, going off to hunt for gold, when his father, the good Vicar Brown, wanted him to enter the church and marry you. Alice Tisdale…poppycock. I’ll wager he’s groaning about the whole thing by now.”

  Mrs. Croft had never trusted Rogan, even when he was a boy, and she was still miffed that Derwent had married Dr. Tisdale’s daughter. Evy loved Derwent as a Christian friend, nothing more, so she could smile over Mrs. Croft’s loyalty to her in thinking he’d jilted her, but Evy felt no consolation over Rogan.

  “I don’t want to talk about Rogan, Mrs. Croft.”

  “And it’s no wonder.”

  Night was the worst time for fears and disappointments to loom large as mountains. It was then, alone in her room, unable to sleep, or waking at odd hours in the long night and being unable to return to sleep, when she knew that if she wasn’t vigilant, her imagination would run astray. Feelings of isolation threatened to engulf her. Her new sense of weakness would sometimes drift toward panic, so that she would need to sit up and light the bedstand lamp.

  During such times she discovered she could bring her spiritual struggles into subjection by filling her mind with the Scriptures she’d memorized since childhood.

  Vicar and Mrs. Osgood came to call on her a few weeks after she’d left the hospital for Chantry Townhouse.

  “We brought the things you wanted from the cottage, dear,” Mrs. Osgood said when the doorman hauled in a trunk.

  “The piano, and your aunt and uncle’s trunks in the attic, we left until you’re sure of your plans,” the vicar said kindly. “Sir Lyle and I thought it best to just lock up the cottage for now.”

  Evy shuddered at the idea of returning to the cottage alone. The mere thought of it brought back fears of that terrible night of the thunderstorm…and the stranger.

  Mrs. Osgood looked about the room, clasping her thin, veined hands together in unselfish delight. “I’m so pleased you’re here at Chantry Townhouse, Evy dear. Lord Brewster is such a fine man to have arranged it all.”

  Anthony had remained in London, where he was dealing with problems in the family diamond business. Evy was expecting him for luncheon tomorrow, when he would explain her financial situation. His motives remained unclear, and that worried her. Lord Brewster had assumed a protective attitude that seemed odd, considering she hardly knew him. His explanation was simple enough, though—he was carrying out the wishes of the family patriarch, Sir Julien Bley.

  Lord Brewster treated her kindly, and though she was cautious, she rather enjoyed the long chats with him about her music. He was nothing like Uncle Edmund Havering, with whom she’d enjoyed a warm relationship while growing up in the rectory. Anthony Brewster was sophisticated, yet he was awkwardly kind to her.

  So far, she had not dared tell him about the ugly incident at the cottage, afraid he would think her too imaginative. Everyone continued to assume she had fallen, but no one had bothered to ask why it happened or observed that such a fall might be unusual for her. “It was a wicked storm, all right, all that thunder and lightning,” was all Mrs. Croft had said when Evy had once broken her silence on the subject and suggested that her fall was a bit strange.

  Later in the afternoon, outside in the Chantry garden, Evy poured tea for the vicar and Mrs. Osgood. The song sparrows trilled in the garden trees, and the London sky was blue for a change, without a trace of gray mist anywhere.

  Mrs. Osgood chatted about the village news. “Lady Patricia Bancroft left Rookswood and returned to Heathfriar, her father’s estate.” Evy remembered how much time Rogan and his brother, Parnell, had spent there during their school years in London, horseback riding and attending all the elite socials.

  “You mean she didn’t sail for Capetown?”

  “No, she hasn’t left yet. Very disappointed too, poor dear. She was quite morose when she left Rookswood with Lord Brewster.”

  “Lord Brewster?”

  “Oh yes, he brought her home here to London, or hereabouts. I’m not sure where Lord Bancroft’s estate is located… Anyway, Sir Julien Bley postponed her going out to Capetown for as much as another year.”

  Another year—that would be enough to infuriate Patricia. Evy almost felt sorry for her. Even with all her prestige and family money, she was having a difficult time capturing Rogan Chantry.

  “It’s the new colony,” Vicar Osgood commented over his tea, “the one Cecil Rhodes has a Royal Charter to create in the Zambezi. It seems a woman won’t be safe out there for some time. So Lord Bancroft finally agreed with Sir Julien that it was best for her to wait.”

  Evy wondered about her childhood friend. She knew Arcilla well, and Arcilla would have loathed the hardship of trekking into Africa to start a colony. Her marriage to Peter Bartley had been arranged against her will by her family, with Sir Julien pressuring Lyle to choose Peter. The marriage needed much prayer, and Evy worried about their future together. Sometimes it helped that the dignified Peter was ten years Arcilla’s senior, but in other ways it proved harmful. Peter was not the sort of man who enjoyed being married to an immature girl. Would the wilds of Africa eventually tear them apart?

  “And what of you, Evy? How are you adjusting to changes?”

  The vicar’s logical question, asked calmly, without clerical pressure, helped her to relax and express her genuine feelings. She was not doing well. The struggles were continual, almost unbearable some days.

  “Sometimes I feel angry,” she confessed. “Angry that God took both Uncle Edmund and Aunt Grace, leaving me alone just when the real trials in my life started. Grace Havering was a relatively young woman… Why did she need to become ill with her lun
gs and die so early? And now this. “She glared at the crutches leaning against the tree. She wanted to add, And now I’ve lost Rogan, too.

  Vicar Osgood didn’t answer, and for a moment she felt the heat of shame steal into her cheeks, thinking she had shown herself a faithless creature, and that her honesty had offended him and Martha. But Martha looked calm, sipping her tea as the vicar munched thoughtfully on his crumpet, in no apparent hurry to counter her thoughts.

  Evy hastened, “I know God is good and all-wise, and He doesn’t make mistakes…only…well, I just don’t like what He allowed to happen to me.”

  Vicar Osgood finished his crumpet and wiped his fingers on the snowy napkin, then drank his cup of tea. He cleared his throat and, as though he hadn’t heard a word she’d said, pointed toward a small garden tree that had blown down, its roots clearly displayed.

  “What happened to it?” he asked indifferently.

  “What? Oh, that.” Evy felt nettled. She had bared her heart while he seemed only to have gone off in another direction, more interested in botany.

  “The wind blew it down in the last winter storm,” Evy stated. “I understand it wasn’t doing well, anyway. The gardener hadn’t planted it correctly. You can see the roots never went deeply into the soil, so its growth was stilted.”

  The vicar nodded in hearty agreement. “Exactly so. A root problem. That’s why it blew down. We noticed many trees that survived the winter storms coming up on the train. Didn’t we, Martha?”

  “Oh yes, dear, many, standing tall and strong. Now the storms have passed, and spring brings out new leaves. It’s marvelous.”

  “An object lesson, Evy. Those with deep roots survived the winter gales, but the shallow-rooted trees blew down. The survivors remain tall and grow still stronger.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Martha said, nodding emphatically.

  “So it is with us when the winds of adversity buffet our lives,” the vicar said, pouring more tea into his cup. “How we respond to trouble often decides the direction our lives will take. If we surrender to bitterness, it can harm us far more than the trial. But if adversity causes us to run to our heavenly Father, we can profit spiritually from a far deeper relationship with Him.” He reached over and laid a hand atop his wife’s. They looked at each other lovingly, as though Evy were not there. Despite their silver hair and the lines of time in their faces, it was clear that they cared as much for each other now in the sunset of life as they had when the glow of youth shone in their faces.

  “Adversity knocks on all our doors at different times in our lives.”

  Martha nodded. “Like when Billy died. I watched him fall into a lake and drown before I could reach him… He was our one and only baby, just three years old.”

  “That was thirty years ago,” her husband said and glanced from the small dead tree to the blue sky. A calm, confident smile touched his mouth. “Thirty years since our baby first saw Jesus.”

  Martha nodded. “The winds of disappointment and loss can blow very strongly. For a time after Billy’s drowning, I could find no words to describe my pain and disillusionment. My heart was like a grave. But God has power over the grave. Adversity is a challenge, but with it, God gives us opportunity.”

  Vicar Osgood looked across the table at Evy. His eyes were sober, but she saw some of God’s compassion in the depths.

  “Don’t listen, Evy, to false expectations promising that His children are to be exempt from suffering. Search the Scriptures and see what God did in the lives of the saints in the Bible. Some of His greatest servants advanced spiritually not through good health and prosperity, but through adversity. Why should we be any different?”

  Mrs. Osgood nodded her gray head. “At first I looked for someone else to blame for my loss. Then I went into denial. But my faith has now grown deeper and stronger all these years.”

  “The same as that tree, Evy,” the vicar said quietly, “and those dead, dry, shriveled roots. Some of us, sadly, when trouble knocks us down, are not deeply rooted in Scripture, so it’s easy for doubt, depression, and hopelessness to defeat us.”

  Quite casually he reached over and took Evy’s hand into his. Martha laid her wrinkled hand on his, so that the three of them were holding hands.

  “Surrender your will to Him, Evy dear. He can build strong roots in your life. Yield all your dreams and tomorrows, pray for understanding, and then rest in His trustworthiness to see you through your valley.”

  Yes, she must accept loss and disappointment or grow lukewarm and shrivel, bearing no eternal fruit.

  Martha reached down into a large straw handbag and handed her husband his Bible.

  He patted his frock coat, looking for something. Martha handed him his spectacles. He placed them on his nose and opened the Book.

  “Habakkuk chapter three, verses seventeen through nineteen: ‘Though the fig tree may not blossom, nor fruit be on the vines; though the labor of the olive may fail, and the fields yield no food; though the flock may be cut off from the fold, and there be no herd in the stalls—yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will joy in the God of my salvation. The LORD God is my strength; He will make my feet like deer’s feet, and He will make me walk on my high hills.’”

  He closed the Bible and bowed his head and prayed for Evy.

  Afterward, Evy was silent. She had heard every word. Like seed falling upon the soil of her hurting heart, God’s Word would take root. A little sunshine, a little rain, and the seed would germinate and grow.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bulawayo, South Africa

  Soon after leaving Lobengula, the Company entourage rode into their small camp about a mile away. The Bantu were waiting nervously under a mimosa tree, watching them ride in, no doubt curious about how the meeting with the feared king of the Ndebele had gone.

  Thompson had the shakes the whole time they rode back. Rogan didn’t blame him, considering how they’d brutally killed his father. When they reached camp, Thompson dismounted and removed a flask of liquor from the satchel near his bedroll. His hand trembled as he drank. Rogan, even with his .45 pistol belted in place, had felt like a skinned rabbit on a spit, walking into Lobengula’s kraal.

  Dr. Jameson had taken refuge from the sun under a makeshift awning that had been set up earlier. He was conferring with Peter, who at the moment stood looking down at him with a tense face while the doctor sorted through his satchel.

  Rogan leaned against the mimosa tree, watching Jameson thoughtfully. The doctor was acting discreetly, talking in a low voice. Whatever he was planning, Rogan didn’t want to be a part of it.

  Peter filled his pipe as he walked over to where Rogan leaned against the tree, drinking from his canteen.

  “Jameson and Thompson are sure they can reason with the king. We need more time, is all. Lobengula will send for us again, probably tomorrow.” He looked toward the bright sun in the azure sky, wiping his forehead with a white handkerchief.

  Rogan noticed it was monogrammed. It was like Peter to have such a handkerchief hundreds of miles from civilization.

  “What’s Jameson got planned?”

  Peter looked at him, enjoying his pipe. “What do you mean?”

  “I noticed you just now when he was fussing in his bag. You didn’t look exactly pleased.”

  Peter’s brows pulled together, and his eyes sparked. “You think we’re planning to poison him? Absurd, none of us would even make it out of here alive. They’d find us a week later hanging from a tree with our bellies slit wide open.”

  “Don’t pretend with me, Peter. I’m not talking poison, and I think you know it. We both know Jameson’s up to something. How often does he come here to relieve Lobengula’s gout pain?”

  Peter looked at him hard for a moment. The silence grew between them, then Peter turned abruptly and strode away.

  It was toward sunset. Rogan stood off by himself when he heard a soft shuffle of dried grass. Alert, he moved back for cover by the mimosa tree. His hand drifted toward his gunbelt
.

  From out of the long shadows, a dark form emerged wearing a leopard-skin tunic over muscled shoulders. The induna stood with several impis in an arc behind him, fully armed.

  It was the same induna that Rogan had noticed watching him at the kraal. How to communicate?

  Surprisingly, the induna spoke some English. “I see you. I am Jube.”

  “And I see you, Jube. I am Chantry.”

  “You are a lone spirit. You are not close with the other lying white men. You watch and listen. I will call you Hawk.”

  Rogan nodded. “You are right. I am alone.”

  “I remember another Chantry. His name was Henry.”

  Stunned, Rogan couldn’t speak for a moment.

  “How did you meet my uncle?”

  “Many years ago now. I was young. I saw him in Capetown.”

  Rogan wanted to ask more questions, but Jube would not discuss more.

  “Our king calls for the white doctor tonight, the one named Jameson. He is to come now. The king groans.”

  “I will tell Dr. Jameson.”

  “That one is like hyena. He laughs, his laughs fill the air with poison. No one else laugh before Lobengula. No one else stand in the presence of Lobengula.”

  Now, what would give him so much confidence in the Ndebele king’s presence?

  “Lobengula is like serpent upon his blanket,” said Jube.

  “I will call for the white doctor.”

  The induna turned and walked back into the deepening twilight, disappearing as silently as he had come.

  Other footsteps sounded. “Thought I heard you talking to someone, Mr. Rogan. The others are all accounted for, so thought I’d check.”

  It was Derwent Brown, carrying a mug of coffee in one hand and his Winchester in the other. Rogan noticed he looked uneasy. Derwent handed Rogan the mug.

  “Thanks, Derwent.”

  “That was one of the Ndebele chiefs, wasn’t it? The one we saw looking at you earlier.”