Yesterday's Promise (17 page)

When Evy opened her eyes, she was a girl again in Grimston Wood, and a man was watching her from the trees. The thunder growled a warning, and raindrops were beginning to wet her face.

No—she blinked her eyes. She was not gathering fall leaves for deco rations for Allhallows Eve. She was lying in a bed somewhere. She tried to focus her eyes, but the surroundings were hazy. She did sense they were strange surroundings, that she could smell the odor of medicine … rubbing alcohol … Why, she was in a hospital! This couldn't be Grimston Way. London?

She turned her head to look again at the figure standing beside the bed. The one thing that seemed the same, but not quite, was the face of the man looking down at her. Light blue eyes…pleasant features, platinum hair, skin browned by the sun… He was older, of course, with gray at his temples, yet retaining a handsomeness, and strong shoulders.

She blinked, trying to rid her mind of fuzziness.

Her throat was dry, and she tried to swallow. “I've seen you before… a long time ago…”

The corners of his mouth turned upward, but his eyes held no smile. “A very long time ago. In Grimston Wood, wasn't it?”

“I think so… You remember too. Who are you?”

“Anthony Brewster.”

His voice bore that pleasing lilt she had heard from others in from South Africa, like Sir Julien Bley. Cousin Heyden's guttural accent was even stronger, with a Dutch flavor. Anthony Brewster and Julien Bley had more English aristocracy to their vowels.

“I'm Sir Julien's nephew from Capetown. You've met Camilla, my wife.”

Anthony Brewster… Camilla… Lady Camilla, yes. Yes, now she remembered.

“Camilla,” she murmured aloud.

“You remember her? She came from Capetown to stay at Rookswood when you were a girl. She gave the impression she'd come alone, but I voyaged with her as far as London, then I went on to New York on some business.”

There was something bewildering in what he said, but her back hurt too much to try to think through it.

“I'm visiting in London on my way back to the Cape. Sir Julien asked me to contact the family at Rookswood. I did so at once, and Lady Elosia told me about your tragic accident. Julien, too, sends his regards and good wishes for your swift recovery. It was a pity you fell from the attic steps like that.”

“It wasn't an—” She stopped.
I didn't fall!
she wanted to shout. It wasn't an accident. Her heart was pounding now.

No, say nothing…keep silent…

The bland blue eyes looked back. “Yes?”

Evy shut her eyes tightly to block out everything around her.
Father, help
, she prayed.
I can't think straight, I'm afraid, and I don't know what to do
.

Her head ached, and when she tried to move her legs, they seemed stiffly bound. Nothing seemed to work, and her arms felt very heavy. Panic threatened, and she made a feeble cry.

The man leaned over her. “Don't worry, my dear. Everything is going to be all right. No need to talk about it now. I should not have
brought it up. You must rest and grow stronger. You will be well taken care of. I've already spoken to your physician, Dr. Snow. He says you will walk again one day.”

She fluttered her eyes open. Walk again? But of course! Why would she need to be told that?

“After six months to a year, with a little help from crutches, Dr. Snow believes you'll be getting around just fine.”

Crutches! After a year…no. No! “W-What are you saying?”

“We want you to rest assured you'll be more than adequately cared for, Evy. Sir Julien and I both. We don't want you worrying about finances, just about getting well again. Vicar Osgood has said you are a high-spirited young lady who can face the disappointments of life. Your strong faith in God will sustain you.”

She shut her eyes tightly to hold back the tears. It was too much to think about now, too horrid to accept. Naturally she would walk again. She would run. Crutches? No… The very thought made her senses recoil.

“We think it best that you convalesce here in London instead of Grimston Way. Lady Elosia has suggested you stay at the Chantry Townhouse. We all concur.”

The Chantry Townhouse
. Evy winced, remembering. That was where she'd dined with Rogan after her piano concert, where he had played his violin for her. A night she would never forget.

“Mrs. Croft will come and stay with you. We understand you get on well with the woman. There will be a live-in nurse for as long as you need her. Hopefully, that won't be for an extended period. Dr. Snow will take care of all the necessary arrangements. Also, I'll be here in London longer than I'd expected. Sir Julien has asked me to oversee matters in the family diamond business. So I will be around to see you. Later, when you're feeling stronger, the family lawyer will contact me about setting up a fund for your needs.”

All Evy could do was look back at him blankly.

“A fund? I don't understand any of this, Mr. Brewster. Why should you or Sir Julien Bley—”

“The fund is an inheritance. Sir Julien has asked me to arrange it for you.”

Inheritance
. At present it seemed the least important thing on her mind. Someone had tried to—
No, not yet, don't think of it
.

“I'm confused, Mr. Brewster. What's wrong with me? I must have some broken bones. And…why should you bother to come and say all this to me? Not that your concern isn't appreciated, or Sir Julien's, and an inheritance is too much to think about now. I realize Sir Julien was my mother's guardian, but he hardly knows me…”
Because he wished it so
, she thought. “But why should he, or you, bother about me now?”

His eyes gazed down at her gravely. “I have always cared what happened to you, my dear…from afar, but circumstances were seldom conducive for expressing it.”

“And Sir Julien? But why?”

“You are Katie van Buren's daughter.” He cleared his throat. “Katie was part of Julien's family. He was her guardian. I think you know that now. And Katie's father, your grandfather Carl van Buren, was his good friend until he died tragically in the diamond mines at Kimberly. Both Sir Julien and I have an interest in you.”

She wanted to protest but didn't have the strength. Katie part of Julien's family? Not so. Interest in her? Why now? They were never interested in her while she was growing up in Grimston Way. Why suddenly now?

“Dr. Snow believes you've injured your spine. Whether permanently or not, he's not certain. Only time will tell.”

Time will tell
. Where had she heard those words before…spoken to her with a far different meaning?

For a moment she was swept away to Rookswood garden on that June morning after Aunt Grace's funeral. Rogan was leaving for South Africa, and he had intimated that time alone would reveal to their hearts whether true love bound them together forever, or whether the passing of time would reveal that what they had felt was also passing.

Passing, like the seasons. She remembered the sweetness of summer
near the pond where the gracious swan floated on the ripple of blue, when she'd been in Rogan's arms. Now she felt the chill wind and rain of fall.

“Life's plans are not always tied up in neat little packages,” Rogan had said that morning in Rookswood garden. “We find ourselves at unexpected crossroads… Time itself is often the best indicator of which decision to make, for it can tell so many things that are now hazy, don't you think so, Evy?”

“Yes…only time will tell,” she had said.

Oh, Rogan
. Evy blinked the scalding tears from her eyes, and the face of Anthony Brewster was blurred. She felt his hand awkwardly pat hers.

“I am truly sorry, my dear.”

His voice, oddly husky with emotion, confused her even more. This man was a total stranger. Why should he feel any emotion at all except casual sympathy?

She was able to move her right arm, and she brushed the tears from her face. She tried to focus on his face.

“I'm the one who's sorry. Aunt Grace would be disappointed in me. I'm being too emotional at a time like this.”

“Who wouldn't be? That was a nasty fall.”

Yes, quite nasty
. She refused to see that figure rushing at her. “Did you know my mother, then?”

A long pause followed, and she wondered why he looked at her with pain streaked across his face. It was because she looked so horrible…bruised and broken. That fall—that terrifying fall down the steep steps, that ghoulish figure in black that had come rushing at her—how could she explain it to anyone? How could she get them to even believe such a wild, ghostly tale? And how could she even know whom to trust with it?

Someone had been hiding in the attic—someone real. Someone either in London or Grimston Way had rushed at her and deliberately pushed her down the steps—but who, and why? She trembled at the
memory. She trusted no one enough to explain what had happened. Except Mrs. Croft. And Evy hadn't been able to see her here in London.

Anthony Brewster stepped away from the hospital bed when the door quickly opened and a nurse in white pinafore and cap entered, the red cross clearly visible. Evy was relieved to see her. Even though Anthony Brewster seemed curiously empathetic, his presence in London near the time of her accident in the cottage pricked her suspicions. Maybe what she saw in his face was not sympathy at all, but guilt.

But how could she think such a thing? It was preposterous. Why would anyone wish to harm her? It was all a coincidence. It had to be. A common thief must have hidden in the attic, that's all…passing through Grimston Way, perhaps thinking to take shelter from the storm. And she'd come upon him, startling him into reacting in a dangerous way. Yes, that must be what happened. Anything else was too horrible to contemplate. She'd been foolhardy to go up those steps to investigate the sound she had heard. She'd been trying to prove her independence, to tell herself she was capable, though living alone. And now she had brought more trial upon herself. She wasn't independent. She needed friends. She needed God most of all.

Crutches—after weeks and months…

“I'm afraid she must rest now, Lord Brewster.”

“Yes, certainly.” Anthony looked down at Evy. “You heard the nurse, Evy. You must rest. We will talk again in a few days, and you'll be feeling a little better by then. We'll save your questions for later. Good day, my dear.”

When he'd gone and the nurse drew the window shades, Evy tried to sleep. Questions hammered at the door of her mind. Questions that had no satisfying answers. She drifted off into an uncertain sleep, whispering a portion of Psalm 37 she had learned while growing up in the rectory: “The steps of a good man are ordered by the L
ORD
, and He delights in his way. Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down; for the L
ORD
upholds him with His hand.”

Dry summer winds swept across the open veld, rippling golden tussock and the assegai grasses camouflaging a pride of lions. A thin cub panted beneath the scorching South African sun. Above, a few puffs of white cloud glided across an expanse of blue. In the indigo shade, among some bleached boulders, the male lion, alerted to man's presence by the sound of hooves, stood, making a throaty noise that carried on the wind.

A few minutes later, when the riders passed by, the pride had slipped away through the grasses unnoticed.

At a brisk canter, those same horsemen, equipped with rifles and belted pistols and followed by three Bantu guards, rode toward the kopje, hunting not lions but gold.

The forceful young man in the lead, wearing a Boer leather vest laced over a canvas shirt and a wide-brimmed leather hat, brought his black gelding to the rocky rim facing the veld with an easy grace. His eyes were as electric as a thunderstorm as he surveyed the grassland that spread between the Limpopo in the south, and the River Shashi in the north. His handsome face and muscled neck were brown from weeks in the harsh African elements, and his dark hair had grown a bit longer, dusting his collar.

Two men drew up beside Rogan, stirrup to stirrup, their horses snorting uneasily as they sniffed the wind, giving a shake of their manes.

“Trouble, do you think, Mr. Rogan?”

Rogan followed Derwent's gaze in the direction of their small base camp not far from the Limpopo, or “Crocodile” River. He reached for a small telescope and trained it on the distant wagons formed into a Boer-style laager.

Mornay grumbled. “Visitors.”

Rogan drew his dark brows together, and his mouth turned under his narrow mustache.
Intruders
was more like it. The Capetown gold-bugs and randlords were still sniffing his trail like half-starved hyenas trying to lay a trap.