{"product_id":"yesterdays-promise-isbn-9780307458759","title":"Yesterday's Promise","description":"He fought to seek his fortune. \u003cbr\u003eWould he lose a greater treasure: the love he left behind? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the son of the squire of Grimston Way, aristocrat Rogan Chantry has fought hard to win his independence from Sir Julien Bley and the British South Africa Company. Now, his pursuit of a mysterious deposit of gold, marked on a map willed to him by his murdered uncle, Henry Chantry, is challenged by a new complication: the impending British colonization of South Africa. Can Sir Rogan find the gold in the midst of escalating tensions among the native tribesmen, the missionaries sent to win them, and the new colonists? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile, Evy Varley, the woman Rogan loves back in England, is headed for a brave yet dangerous confrontation with Henry’s killer–but at what price? With so much against Rogan and Evy, a reunion seems improbable, if not impossible. Can yesterday’s promise hold them faithful to the hope of future freedom and a victorious love?“Prepare for adventure, romance, and intrigue in nineteenth-century South Africa. Linda Lee Chaikin has done her homework, exploring the world of diamonds and goldmines in the land that would become Victorian Rhodesia. A page-turner of a story told by a veteran novelist.”\u003cbr\u003e–Liz Curtis Higgs, best-selling author of \u003ci\u003eThorn in My Heart\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Linda Lee Chaikin never fails to deliver a dynamite story! In \u003ci\u003eYesterday’s Promise\u003c\/i\u003e she weaves the complications of love and history into a storyline that is a sheer joy to read. I can’t wait for book three of the \u003ci\u003eEast of the Sun\u003c\/i\u003e series!” \u003cbr\u003e–Diane Noble, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003ePhoebe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“I love, love, \u003ci\u003elove\u003c\/i\u003e this series by Linda Lee Chaikin! It has everything I’m looking for right now in a good read–memorable characters, intrigue, believable romance, fascinating history.  If the third in the series was out, I wouldn’t be writing this...I’d be squirreled away, reading!”\u003cbr\u003e–Lisa Tawn Bergren, best-selling author of \u003ci\u003eChristmas Every Morning\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eLinda Lee Chaikin \u003c\/b\u003ehas written numerous best-selling and award-winning books and series, including the Silk series (Heart of India Trilogy), A Day to Remember series, \u003ci\u003eThe Empire Builders,\u003c\/i\u003e Royal Pavilion Trilogy, Arabian Winds Trilogy, The Buccaneers Trilogy, and \u003ci\u003eFor Whom the Stars Shine,\u003c\/i\u003e a finalist for the prestigious Christy Award. Chaikin also is the author of \u003ci\u003eTomorrow’s Treasure\u003c\/i\u003e, book one in the East of the Sun series. She and her husband make their home in Northern California.CHAPTER ONE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eGrimston Way, England\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e31 October 1898\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eOn the perimeter of the village green, a thick stand of ancient trees with\u003cbr\u003ehalf-clad branches trembled in the rising wind. Dark clouds obscured\u003cbr\u003ethe cheerful face of the sun, and like a harbinger of events to come, a\u003cbr\u003ethunderhead cloaked the afternoon sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first smattering of rain dribbled down branches to a crisp carpet\u003cbr\u003eof burnt-orange leaves. Though the countryside seemed draped with\u003cbr\u003ea fall gloominess, laughter still danced on the wind from children who\u003cbr\u003ejoined hands and skipped in a large circle while singing “London Bridge\u003cbr\u003eIs Falling Down” and giggling as they dropped to the damp grass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA tall white cross graced the village green near the twelfth-century\u003cbr\u003erectory of St. Graves Parish. Below the cross some of the village girls\u003cbr\u003ewere adding last-minute touches to the outdoor fall decorations. Chains\u003cbr\u003eof red pomegranates, yellow gourds, and dried cornhusks, plus bundles\u003cbr\u003eof tied grasses and bunched leaves gave a warm touch of color to the festive\u003cbr\u003egathering. This was October 31, Allhallows Eve, the yearly celebration\u003cbr\u003erecalling brave Christian heroes and heroines of the past who had\u003cbr\u003efaithfully labored for Christ. The outdoor activities in Grimston Way\u003cbr\u003ewould end at eventide with the lighting of candles, a chapel service, and\u003cbr\u003ea friendly supper inside the parish hall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvy Varley, who had grown up as the niece of the now deceased \u003cbr\u003eVicar Edmund Havering and his wife, Grace, emerged from the ancient\u003cbr\u003egnarled oak trees, where she had been gathering dried lacy moss hanging\u003cbr\u003efrom ghostly branches. She was quite accustomed to the church holidays,\u003cbr\u003espring fetes, and summer bake sales, for she’d been reared to\u003cbr\u003ebecome a vicar’s wife, but Providence, so it seemed to her, had intervened,\u003cbr\u003eand she’d been blessed to study music. She had recently graduated\u003cbr\u003efrom Parkridge Music Academy in London and, by means of a loan\u003cbr\u003efrom Rogan Chantry, had opened a small music school here in her\u003cbr\u003ehome village.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs she paused to take in the view of the village green, however, she\u003cbr\u003enow felt strangely alienated, as though she were an outsider looking\u003cbr\u003ethrough a window at a nostalgic scene. Had she been affected by the sudden\u003cbr\u003egloominess? Perhaps it was the odd restive spirit she had sensed for\u003cbr\u003ethe past few days that seemed hidden in the shadow of her subconscious.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sensation intensified to the point that Evy turned away from\u003cbr\u003ethe singing children and looked toward the fast darkening Grimston\u003cbr\u003eWoods. She suddenly remembered an incident in her girlhood—the\u003cbr\u003eday when a stranger had stood watching her from these very trees. The\u003cbr\u003eman had appeared kindly back then, even sad when he spoke to her, but\u003cbr\u003eshe now experienced less benign emotions as the dark memory clouded\u003cbr\u003eher mind. There was nothing she could describe as out of the ordinary,\u003cbr\u003eyet she remained conscious of an inexplicable unease.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe turned away and quickened her steps back toward the village\u003cbr\u003egreen, seeking the children’s laughter and their innocent faces as they\u003cbr\u003eprepared for the evening’s festivities. Perhaps her wary mood was due to\u003cbr\u003ethe season. September had been unseasonably warm and cheery, but the\u003cbr\u003einevitable cold October weather had finally arrived.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAhead, Evy heard grave voices coming from behind some old hemlock\u003cbr\u003ebushes. She recognized the voices of the twin Hooper sisters, Mary\u003cbr\u003eand Beth, who were students in her piano class. The two schoolgirls\u003cbr\u003eemerged from the bushes carrying wicker baskets filled with dried\u003cbr\u003elavender and lemon grass, and their pretty blue calico skirts flared in the\u003cbr\u003echilling breeze that sent leaves scattering about their feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey both wore spectacles and had corn-colored hair that was\u003cbr\u003ebraided and looped. The only noticeable difference between them was\u003cbr\u003ethat Mary wore a red-and-white polka-dot ribbon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith them was Wally, son of the village carpenter, a tall boy with\u003cbr\u003elong arms and big hands, which he had shoved into his too-short, faded\u003cbr\u003ebreeches. He was listening to the girls with his head bent, his longish\u003cbr\u003ebrown hair ruffling beneath a floppy hat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe three huddled together like guilty accomplices, with Mary’s\u003cbr\u003esolemn voice taking the lead, as usual. She seemed to be trying to convince\u003cbr\u003eWally of something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“…it’s got to do with murder.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvy’s fingers tightened around her basket as a chill breeze reached\u003cbr\u003ethe back of her neck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Murder runs in family blood, you know,” Mary stated matter-offactly.\u003cbr\u003e“Science says so.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Poppycock,” Wally scoffed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Science is never wrong.” Beth nodded in grave agreement, adjusting\u003cbr\u003ethe spectacles on her snub nose. “And Mary is always right.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We both are,” Mary agreed with a polite nod to her twin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvy remained still so the brittle leaves beneath her shoes would not\u003cbr\u003eannounce her presence and embarrass them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Science ain’t always godlike, and murder don’t run in the blood,\u003cbr\u003e’cept if you’re talking about sin. And sin be in the human nature of us\u003cbr\u003eall. Even the dowager, old lady Elosia Chantry. A more stuffy aristocrat\u003cbr\u003eyou never seen than her.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s what I mean, Wally. Lady Elosia’s heard how Miss Varley\u003cbr\u003ewas born out of wedlock.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You be meaning the wrong side of the blanket?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That is quite what Mary means.” Beth nodded knowingly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lady Elosia wants Master Rogan to marry a lord’s daughter, Lady\u003cbr\u003ePatricia Bancroft. That’s why Lady Patricia’s sailing to Capetown in the\u003cbr\u003espring to marry Rogan. And there’s plenty the Chantrys wish to hush\u003cbr\u003eup about their family history. Henry Chantry was Miss Varley’s father.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe brought her back from Capetown and gave her away to Vicar\u003cbr\u003eHavering.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So then, Miss Varley \u003ci\u003eis \u003c\/i\u003eMiss Chantry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, Wally!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You just said Master Henry was her father.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He and her mum weren’t \u003ci\u003emarried.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So? He’d still be her father, you silly goose.” Wally’s voice became\u003cbr\u003ewearied.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well, that may be, but the vicar and his wife took Evy in out of\u003cbr\u003ekindness.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Everyone knows that. They had Christian hearts.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But…Henry Chantry died before his time!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Uds lud!” Wally said. “Everybody in Grimston Way has heard that\u003cbr\u003eold tale. He done kilt himself in his study on the third floor at\u003cbr\u003eRookswood. Room’s haunted.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He was murdered,” Mary repeated. “And Miss Varley’s mum from\u003cbr\u003eCapetown is the murderess. Vengeance was the motive, because he\u003cbr\u003ebetrayed her.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How could she have done it if she was dead already?” Wally mocked.\u003cbr\u003e“Her ghost came and did the dark deed.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe twins nodded sagely at each other and then at Wally.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Even I know that’s impossible,” Wally scoffed. “Uds! Look, Twins,\u003cbr\u003eit’s your mum. She’s beckoning.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If she learns we’ve been playing Scotland Yard again, she’ll take\u003cbr\u003eaway our science books. Hurry, Beth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey ran across the green toward the rectory. Wally turned and\u003cbr\u003eheaded for the road, as though he knew the twins’ mum did not\u003cbr\u003eapprove of them being close friends with the carpenter’s boy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn icy gust of wind took Evy’s breath away and sent the hem of her\u003cbr\u003edark hooded cloak billowing around her ankles. She looked after them,\u003cbr\u003ea little amused by the absurdity of their reasoning, yet disturbed as well\u003cbr\u003eabout Lady Patricia Bancroft.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas it true? Was she voyaging in the spring to Capetown to become\u003cbr\u003eRogan’s bride?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe dry leaves rattled through the overhead branches, while a withering\u003cbr\u003eblast of wind swept through her lonely heart, leaving desolation in\u003cbr\u003eits wake. Rain, like cold, wet fingers, spread across her face and neck.\u003cbr\u003eDrawing up her shoulders in a little shiver, she lifted the hood of her\u003cbr\u003ecloak over her thick, tawny hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAny interest she’d had earlier in the candlelight supper at St. Graves\u003cbr\u003eparish hall was now extinguished. She must get away. She must think\u003cbr\u003ethings through. Little else would solace her spirits except retreating to\u003cbr\u003eher beloved piano to play her favorite pieces. She could lose herself in\u003cbr\u003eMozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21 in C, and her heart would stir with a\u003cbr\u003edesire to worship.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvy hurried toward the road, keeping close to the hickory trees so as\u003cbr\u003enot to be noticed. It was to her advantage that most of the folks had\u003cbr\u003edeserted the green in order to congregate in the warm parish hall.\u003cbr\u003eQuestions beat like the wings of a trapped rook against her restless soul.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, secrets and suspicions abounded around the Chantry family.\u003cbr\u003eThe theft of the famous Kimberly Black Diamond still remained\u003cbr\u003eunsolved after all these years. And then there was Henry’s mysterious\u003cbr\u003edeath at Rookwood. The authorities had ruled it a suicide, but even\u003cbr\u003eRogan believed his uncle had been murdered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wind and cold rain drove against Evy as she slowly made her\u003cbr\u003eway up the dirt road that ascended to Rookswood Estate. She was soon\u003cbr\u003esoaked to the skin, her cloak billowing and whipping with each gust.\u003cbr\u003eThe wind filled her ears as it rushed through the great trees that loomed\u003cbr\u003eoverhead like sentinels guarding the only entrance that led to the ancestral\u003cbr\u003ehome of the Chantrys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe neared her rented cottage, which stood well back from the road,\u003cbr\u003etucked among the trees, with Rookswood Estate as her nearest neighbor.\u003cbr\u003eThe bungalow’s isolation, however, did not trouble Evy. The cottage was\u003cbr\u003eperfect for her music classes, with room in the large parlor for her grand\u003cbr\u003epiano. In fact, the term \u003ci\u003ecottage \u003c\/i\u003ewas rather misleading, since it contained\u003cbr\u003esix ample rooms and an attic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked again toward the tall trees of Grimston Woods, now\u003cbr\u003eencroaching on the side of the meandering road and growing darker by\u003cbr\u003ethe minute. She could imagine Rogan Chantry emerging from those\u003cbr\u003etrees riding his fine black horse, just as he had on the day she first met\u003cbr\u003ehim, back when he’d been a spoiled, arrogant boy, determined to lord his\u003cbr\u003estation in life over her. She could see him now as that youth, his glossy\u003cbr\u003edark hair waving past his forehead, his flashing brown eyes and taunting\u003cbr\u003esmile that insisted she would be his one day whether she liked it or not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Rogan grew up, however, he had matured and mellowed and\u003cbr\u003ehad been much kinder to her. He had gone so far as to arrange a loan so\u003cbr\u003eshe could complete her final year at the music academy. He had even\u003cbr\u003egiven money through Vicar Osgood to start her own music school,\u003cbr\u003eenabling her to live independently.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWill I ever see him again? \u003c\/i\u003eshe wondered. \u003ci\u003eAnd if not, will it matter to\u003cbr\u003ehim as much as it does to me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eA creaking sound broke her reverie, and as Evy approached the cottage,\u003cbr\u003eshe noticed the front wicket gate was open. The wind must have\u003cbr\u003eloosened the latch after she left for the rectory. The gate was swinging so\u003cbr\u003ehard that if it had a mind of its own, it should be quite dizzy. Her own\u003cbr\u003efeelings were being buffeted in much the same way. Wisdom argued\u003cbr\u003ewith folly, and she knew wisdom should easily win, but when it came to\u003cbr\u003eher will, it was not so easy to yield her desires to the Lord. She must pray\u003cbr\u003eabout that harder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDespite the rain, she paused by her gate. From here she could look\u003cbr\u003estraight up the dirt road to the forbidding Rookswood Estate. The towering\u003cbr\u003estone gate, weathered by generations of time and decorated with\u003cbr\u003eleering faces of medieval gargoyles, was bolted shut against her, serving\u003cbr\u003eas a stern reminder that Rogan Chantry was not only gone from Rookswood\u003cbr\u003ebut also from her life—perhaps forever, if the Hooper twins were\u003cbr\u003eright.\u003cbr\u003eThe rain continued to descend in torrents, bouncing off those\u003cbr\u003ehideous stone creatures of man’s twisted imagination. \u003ci\u003eHee, hee, \u003c\/i\u003ethey\u003cbr\u003eseemed to mock with bulging eyes as the rainwater came gushing from\u003cbr\u003etheir open mouths and over their protruding tongues. \u003ci\u003eMy own imagination\u003cbr\u003eis perhaps as wild, \u003c\/i\u003eshe thought. Even as a girl, in the company of\u003cbr\u003eRogan, she had not appreciated those gargoyles; nor did she now. She\u003cbr\u003eglared at them, then turned away and entered her yard, securing the gate\u003cbr\u003elatch against the tugging wind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sturdy cottage, with its white walls and green shutters, withstood\u003cbr\u003ethe storm as bravely as it had for generations, but she noticed an\u003cbr\u003eopen shutter on the high window near the peaked roof. The dark pane\u003cbr\u003estared back, looking opaque and silent as the rain slashed against it.\u003cbr\u003eShe came up the walk past whipping vines that reached their tentacles\u003cbr\u003etoward her and shaking bushes now devoid of autumn’s golden\u003cbr\u003eflowers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRogan… \u003c\/i\u003eHer feelings, unlike the twins who seemed to agree on\u003cbr\u003eeverything, argued between desire and anger, but when it came to Rogan\u003cbr\u003eChantry, it seemed neither emotion won. Hadn’t it always been so—\u003cbr\u003eeven when she was a girl? There were times when her frustration over his\u003cbr\u003efailure to write made her angry enough to throw things, but she had been\u003cbr\u003ebrought up too well for such childish displays of unbridled anger. On\u003cbr\u003emore frequent occasions it was not anger, but a deep longing she felt, a\u003cbr\u003ekeen desire for Rogan’s company. Denied this, she at times wilted under\u003cbr\u003ean intense sadness that often reached the level of pain. One day she loved\u003cbr\u003ehim and remembered in detail his fiery kiss good-bye, then she loathed\u003cbr\u003ehim the next when the post delivery continually passed her by.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No mail today, Miss Evy,” old Jeffords would call out when he\u003cbr\u003ecame by in his pony-trap to deliver the post and saw her on the porch\u003cbr\u003ebusily pretending to care for a potted flower. She was sure the news\u003cbr\u003espread around Grimston Way how Miss Varley waited for an envelope\u003cbr\u003epostmarked from South Africa.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe barbed words of Mary and Beth claiming that Lady Patricia\u003cbr\u003ewould leave in the spring to marry Rogan left her more distraught than\u003cbr\u003eangry. What if it were true?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvy ran up to the front door and found her key in its usual place in\u003cbr\u003ethe pot where one of Aunt Grace’s favorite geraniums grew, transplanted\u003cbr\u003efrom the rectory. She steeled her emotions. \u003ci\u003eI won’t think about Rogan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eBut she knew she would; she usually did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor some reason her door key always needed to move about in the\u003cbr\u003elock until it finally clicked open. Battered by the wind and cold rain, she\u003cbr\u003eat last unlocked the door and rushed into the dry, comfortable cottage\u003cbr\u003ewith a sigh and quickly closed the door behind her. Safety at last.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe hastened to remove her drenched cloak and sopping shoes, leaving\u003cbr\u003ethem to drip on the rain cloth spread beneath the hat tree. She\u003cbr\u003ewould put water on to boil, then change into some dry clothes. By the\u003cbr\u003etime she returned to the kitchen, the water would be just right to add\u003cbr\u003ethe robust dark tea leaves. A nice hot cup with bread and butter would\u003cbr\u003emake her feel alive again, ready to enjoy a crackling fire and her music!\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRemember that delightful evening at the Chantry Townhouse in London\u003cbr\u003ewhen Rogan played the violin just for you?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eThe memory made her pause for a moment, causing a small twinge\u003cbr\u003eof regret, then Evy shook her head and padded off to the kitchen pantry.\u003cbr\u003eThe kettle was where Mrs. Croft had left it. Enough water remained, so\u003cbr\u003eEvy struck a match and lit the burner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe set her jaw. If only she could come up with the money to pay\u003cbr\u003eRogan’s loan back. That would let him know she did not need him, that\u003cbr\u003eshe was not mooning about, forlorn and wan, waiting for his crumbs of\u003cbr\u003eattention!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the water on to boil, she went straight to her bedroom to dry\u003cbr\u003eherself and put on fresh stockings and a warm woolen dress. She\u003cbr\u003ebrushed and pinned up her wavy, sometimes unruly, tawny-colored\u003cbr\u003ehair. Her amber eyes with flecks of green looked back at her from the\u003cbr\u003emirror. In all honesty, she had no cause to deny that God had made her\u003cbr\u003efair to look upon. It wasn’t wise, but she went ahead and compared herself\u003cbr\u003eto Lady Patricia, certain it wasn’t her own lack of charm that had\u003cbr\u003edetoured Rogan’s feelings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThunder muttered overhead. She hastened back to the kitchen and\u003cbr\u003epoured the boiling water into the pot. While the tea steeped she went to\u003cbr\u003ethe parlor, where her precious piano awaited her. Here she would relieve\u003cbr\u003esome tension by playing her favorite pieces.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was not to be, for a rush of wind invaded the parlor, scattering\u003cbr\u003esheets of music across the piano and down to the floor. An open window?\u003cbr\u003eEvy turned to see ballooning brocade draperies reaching to\u003cbr\u003eensnare her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe remembered now. The morning had been deceptively sunny,\u003cbr\u003eand she had opened it a few inches to let in some fresh air. \u003ci\u003eOh dear, \u003c\/i\u003eshe\u003cbr\u003ethought, \u003ci\u003eby now the rain will have blown in and wet the rug.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eShe hurried to close the window and was startled by a streak of\u003cbr\u003ewhite that flashed across the black sky, followed by a thunderous boom,\u003cbr\u003ethen rumblings through the darkened woods of Grimston Way. More\u003cbr\u003erain followed, pounding the pane with fists like mystical goblins riding\u003cbr\u003eon the fall wind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wondered that her fingers shook, that she reacted so emotionally.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat is the matter with me? I’ve lived through hundreds of storms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eThe wind swept over the cottage, howling, repeating the word she\u003cbr\u003eleast wanted to remember at this moment. \u003ci\u003eMurder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eEvy had been a small child when Henry Chantry’s life was taken.\u003cbr\u003eThe murderer, who’d managed to get away, still had Henry’s blood on\u003cbr\u003etheir hands. Had the murderer located the Kimberly Black Diamond\u003cbr\u003eand escaped with it? The very thought rankled her because her mother\u003cbr\u003ehad been blamed for its theft so many years ago. By now the perpetrator\u003cbr\u003ewould be far from Grimston Way—there’d be no reason to stay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven so, her skin prickled at the thought. Nor could she keep the twins’\u003cbr\u003eunlikely words that Henry was her father from churning in her mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat if he was? \u003c\/i\u003eShe paused, letting the implication flutter around in her\u003cbr\u003emind before rejecting it. It couldn’t be true—that would make Rogan a\u003cbr\u003eblood relative.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRegardless of the silly talk about her mother coming to Rookswood\u003cbr\u003eto take revenge on Henry, someone may have done just that, but not\u003cbr\u003eKatie—she had died along with Dr. Clyde and Junia Varley at Rorke’s\u003cbr\u003eDrift mission station on the day of the Zulu attack in 1879. No one\u003cbr\u003ecould possibly have survived that onslaught.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOverhead, a floorboard creaked, bringing her back to the moment.\u003cbr\u003eHer gaze lifted to the attic. \u003ci\u003eIt’s just the dampness, is all, \u003c\/i\u003eshe told herself.\u003cbr\u003eShe remembered what Rogan said before sailing for the Cape. In\u003cbr\u003espite of the authorities’ conclusion that Henry Chantry had taken his\u003cbr\u003eown life, he suspected otherwise, believing that someone in the\u003cbr\u003eextended diamond family may have killed him for more than the Black\u003cbr\u003eDiamond. Why \u003ci\u003emore? \u003c\/i\u003eWhat could be \u003ci\u003emore \u003c\/i\u003ethan that rare diamond\u003cbr\u003efrom the Kimberly fields? The map? Ah yes, there was that. The precious\u003cbr\u003emap that Henry Chantry had left in his will to Rogan, promising\u003cbr\u003egold on the Zambezi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Evy’s limited knowledge of the diamond dynasty family, the\u003cbr\u003eshareholders and inheritors consisted of Bleys, Brewsters, and Chantrys.\u003cbr\u003eNever was there any mention of her mother’s family, the van Burens.\u003cbr\u003eEvidently, Katie, under Sir Julien’s guardianship, had not been left an\u003cbr\u003einheritance, which meant, of course, there’d been nothing left to Evy.\u003cbr\u003eNot that she expected otherwise. Dreaming of diamonds had never\u003cbr\u003ebeen one of her weaknesses. However, she did care deeply about Katie’s\u003cbr\u003ereputation—and her own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAccording to Rogan, who hadn’t explained how he knew, some\u003cbr\u003emembers of each family were in England on the night of Henry’s\u003cbr\u003euntimely death. All seemed capable of the short trip from London to\u003cbr\u003eGrimston Way to meet with Henry…and murder him?\u003cbr\u003eThe floorboard creaked again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvy snapped from her thoughts and turned toward the ceiling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRats? \u003c\/i\u003eUgh… Maybe, but this was a heavier creak. \u003ci\u003eFootsteps? \u003c\/i\u003eNow she\u003cbr\u003ewas really allowing her emotions to run wild! Her musings about Henry\u003cbr\u003ewere unsettling her nerves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe rubbed her arms and glanced around her in the dimness.\u003cbr\u003eMaybe she \u003ci\u003eshould \u003c\/i\u003ehave stayed for supper in the parish hall after all. A bit\u003cbr\u003eof company on a stormy evening would have restrained her imagination,\u003cbr\u003ebut she set aside any notion of returning to the rectory in weather\u003cbr\u003elike this. By the time she arrived, she would be soaked once again, and\u003cbr\u003ethere’d be plenty of explaining to do, especially to Mrs. Croft, who\u003cbr\u003etreated her as if she were her own granddaughter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvy squared her shoulders. There was only one way to handle her\u003cbr\u003eedginess. If the Hooper twins and Wally could play Scotland Yard, well,\u003cbr\u003eso could she.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe walked to the kitchen, where the tea was ready to pour, but\u003cbr\u003einstead of enjoying a cupful as she had intended, she went to the pantry.\u003cbr\u003eA small table held the oil lamp. There were no windows, only a small\u003cbr\u003event for the warm months. She struck a match and lit the wick. A flight\u003cbr\u003eof steep steps beside the wall led to the attic. Holding the flickering\u003cbr\u003elamp, she forced her spirit to bravery, lifted her chin, and climbed.\u003cbr\u003eThe wavering lamplight revealed yellow daisies on the fading wallpaper,\u003cbr\u003ewhich appeared comfortably familiar in a moment like this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRain continued to lash the cottage walls. She could imagine a giant\u003cbr\u003estanding outdoors with booted legs apart, whip in hand, trying to bring\u003cbr\u003ethe house down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was really quite silly to allow her nerves to imagine footsteps from\u003cbr\u003ejust a few creaks in the attic floor! After all, who would wish to look up\u003cbr\u003ethere? There was absolutely nothing of value—just some personal\u003cbr\u003ebelongings from Uncle Edmund and Aunt Grace—certainly not the\u003cbr\u003eKimberly Black Diamond!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wind plowed against the cottage, threatening to penetrate the\u003cbr\u003eweathered planks. The steps creaked beneath her feet, yet she was certain\u003cbr\u003eno one could hear her approaching over the noise of the storm.\u003cbr\u003eShe reached the final step and lifted the lamp. Standing near the\u003cbr\u003edoor, she paused to rouse her courage again before stepping up to the\u003cbr\u003esmall landing. The door whipped open, and she gasped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA figure, apparently draped in a dark sheet, rushed at her with\u003cbr\u003ehands extended. A violent force shoved her and caused her to lose her\u003cbr\u003ebalance. As she started to fall backward, she reached in vain for a rail\u003cbr\u003ethat wasn’t there. The lamp crashed down the steep steps, and her head\u003cbr\u003estruck something hard.","brand":"WaterBrook","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303653527781,"sku":"NP9780307458759","price":20.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307458759.jpg?v=1767744683","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/yesterdays-promise-isbn-9780307458759","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}