The Promise Read online

  THE PROMISE

  Book 1

  (Carson Series)

  By

  Marti Talbott

  © All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Promise (Carson Series, #2)

  PART I | CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  PART II | CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPER XVII

  CHAPTER 8

  PART III | CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  —end— | Epilogue

  BROKEN PLEDGE | (The Carson Series) | Book 2 | (Sample Chapter)

  CHAPTER 1

  (End of sample chapter) | Pick up your copy of this book today! | MORE MARTI TALBOTT BOOKS

  COMING SOON

  About the Author

  In 1746 England, ten-year-old Jonathan Rhodes lived a life of luxury. His constant companion was eight-year-old Colleen, who could do anything a boy could do, including play tricks on the adults without getting caught. He assumed they would always be together, but when the king's men executed his father and they were separated, Jonathan's world fell apart.

  For twelve long years Jonathan thought of nothing but his promise to find Colleen, but finding her was the easy part – getting her to fall in love with him proved far more challenging.

  All of Marti Talbott’s Books are suitable for ages 14 and above.

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  ENGLAND

  He was just a boy of ten when the King’s men executed his father.

  It began on the 15th day of April, in the year of our Lord, One Thousand Seven Hundred and Forty-Six. Great Britain was at war, the classes were sorely divided, and thousands took their leave on huge tall ships bound for the Colonies. Yet, of these things, ten-year-old Jonathan Samuel Rodes knew little. His was a life of wealth in an enormous three-story mansion north of Shrewsbury. His Mother was beautiful, his father was intelligent, and his younger brother was not as bothersome as most five-year olds.

  For as long as he could recall, Colleen Stuart, her widowed father and her little sister also lived in the mansion, and by the time she reached the age of eight, Colleen was more than his playmate, she was his best friend. She could do anything a boy could do; ride horses, spar with makeshift swords, and skip rocks across the pond. Best of all, she could play jokes on the adults without getting caught. For that accomplishment alone, he held her in the highest esteem.

  Indeed, Jonathan had not a care in the world, save one – he feared Colleen’s father would remarry and take her off to live with an evil stepmother on some inhospitable stretch of land. That night, the very night before the executions, it was of this he hoped to speak to his father at length. As was his custom, Jonathan stood just outside the open door to Colleen’s bedchamber, answered a few of her five-year-old sister's endless questions, waited for them to fall asleep, and then hurried down a flight of highly polished stone steps to his father's study on the second floor.

  The red and gold lavishly decorated room was bathed in candlelight, logs burned in the hearth giving off a sweet aroma, and the study offered the usual air of warmth and sanctuary. Yet, right from the beginning, his father's weary glance and forced smile alarmed him. A tall man with dark hair and dark eyes, Lord Rodes sat behind a solid oak desk wearing a white satin shirt and black long pants. He motioned for the boy to take the chair opposite, then handed him a single sheet of paper.

  “What is it, Papa?”

  Suddenly the study door burst open. Two burly men in ragged commoner clothing rushed in and quickly closed the door. The boy sat frozen in his chair.

  “Hide these!” said one, shoving a satchel into Lord Rodes’ arms.

  The other, distinctly smelling of horse sweat, mumbled heavily slurred words as he raced around the room throwing closed the drapes and blowing out the candles. The flickering fire in the hearth cast ominous shadows of both strangers on the far wall.

  Lord Rodes protested and attempted to give the satchel back, but the strangers would have none of it. As quickly as they had appeared, they hurried off, their heavy boots pounding down the stone stairs and the huge front door slamming shut behind them. With wide eyes, Jonathan raced to the window. He parted the drapes slightly, and watched below as the men mounted their horses. The hooves of the horses clapped loudly as the men bolted down the lane, cleared the gate, and quickly turned up the road toward London.

  Then, just as Jonathan was about to turn away from the window, he heard more horses. He held his breath and kept his small eyes glued to the gate. “They return.” he muttered. But it was not the commoners. Instead, moonlight glistened on drawn sabers held firmly in the hands of three pursuing Redcoats. Not a glance did they give in his direction, and soon, they too were past the gate and out of site.

  The following stillness lasted only a moment before Lady Rodes, Colleen, and a host of servants came to see what was the matter. Lord Rodes quickly calmed them and sent them away.

  The boy let the drapes fall back and turned to his father. “Who are they, Papa?”

  Lord Rodes placed the leather satchel on his desk, released the buckle and opened it. Clearly disturbed by what he saw, he raised a hand and rubbed his brow. Then he looked the boy square in the face, “They fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie, but you must not say a word of it. Not of them and not of these.”

  Jonathan hurried to the desk and caught a glimpse of the sparkling jewels just before his father closed the satchel. A grin crossed his face.

  But Lord Rodes was not smiling. His was a look of intense fear when he abruptly took a firm hold of the boy’s shoulders, “Promise you will not speak of what you have seen this night until you are a man. Do you hear me, Jonathan? Not until you are a fully grown man!”

  Taken aback, the boy could hardly breathe as he spit out the words, “I swear it, Papa.”

  “Come, there is no time. We must hide the jewels in a place no one will think to look.”

  Jonathan quickly folded the forgotten sheet of paper he still held in his hand, stuffed it in his pocket, and followed his father out of the house. And hide them they did – where no one on earth would ever think to look.

  Thus, it began.

  Redcoats came the following morning and arrested both Lord Rodes and Colleen’s father. They were accused of thievery and before noon of the next day, on the green near the cobbler’s shop, they were executed.

  In a mansion that hosted many a great ball with bright lights, music and laugher, Jonathan found himself sitting in the foyer beside Colleen in an eerie and disturbing quiet. With vigilance, he watched the front door, firmly believing they would come. They were Scottish Jacobites and he had no doubt that as soon as word reached them, they would make haste to his door. And it was his door now. At only ten, he was heir to all his father’s holdings and responsible for the family.

  But death had not yet finished its thunderous plague.

  In the north, and on the same day, Scotland's Bonnie Prince Charlie failed in his attempt to take the crown from the House of Hanover and restore it to the Stuart line. When the battle was finished, Prince Charlie’s Jacobites lay dead on the grass of Culloden in a sea of blood, gold shirts, and plaid kilts.

  Therefore, the Jacobites never came to the mansion. Soon after they laid his father in the ground, Jonathan’s mother took to her bed with a strange illness. In three short months, she too was dead, leaving Jonathan and his little brother, Colleen and her little sister, all alone in the world. Then a tall and frightening stranger came to claim the mansion and all the inheritance. Before he was finished, the stranger
divided the girls from the boys and arranged to have them sent away.

  With the heaviest of hearts, Jonathan listened one last time to Colleen’s accomplishments on the piano. When she stopped playing, he kissed the top of her head and then gave her his promise, “I will find you, Colleen. When we are grown, I shall not rest until I have found you.” With that, he turned, left the music room, slowly walked down the marble steps, exited the house, and climbed into a carriage where his little brother waited.

  Jonathan and his little brother were sent to live with his mother’s sister in Ireland, where they were given new names to protect them from the shame of being the sons of a thief. And so it was that the eldest son of Lord Rodes became Uriah Carson. For years, he cherished the single sheet of paper his father had given him and plotted ways to find Colleen. He also pondered a most curious question – why had no one ever searched the property or asked about the jewels?

  FOURTEEN YEARS LATER

  At the foot of the Pennines Mountains, Uriah Carson sat on an ebony horse and watched. At the age of 24, his hair had become coal black and his eyes were as dark as his father’s. The billowing sleeves of his shirt fluttered as the southern gale blew against him, but he was not distracted by the clouds moving swiftly across the sky, nor the rustling leaves in the trees. Instead, he gazed across the unkempt gardens of a declining country manor and watched the attractive young woman struggle against the wind to remove the washing from the line.

  Her real name was Colleen Stuart, but she had not heard the sound of it in many years. Instead, she preferred Mary Jackson, an ordinary name fitting for the ordinary position in which she found herself. The wind made the long brown frock and the white apron of her servitude cling annoyingly to the front of her body. From beneath the ruffled edges of her plain white bonnet, snippets of deep auburn hair flittered around her face. She paused when she noticed him and tipped her head slightly to one side. Then she shrugged and returned to her work. When Mary Jackson looked again, just before entering the back door of the house, he was gone.

  ONE MONTH LATER

  In a cluttered and musty linen closet beneath the stairs, the light of a lone candle flickered across Mary Jackson's face and highlighted the red in her hair. Shelves along both sides were piled high with bedding, lace tablecloths and napkins, most of which were caked with years of undisturbed dust. Carefully, she dipped a large spoon into the bowl of mashed raspberries, and then spread the juice evenly across the red upholstery of a dining room chair. She could feel her sister staring at the side of her face.

  Mary quickly glanced at her, “I tell you, she won't see it. She fancies herself far too significant to look before she sits.”

  Elizabeth brushed a strand of blonde hair away from her face, shifted her weight on the hard stool, and went back to smashing more raspberries, “And if she sends us away with no references?”

  “We lied about our references before and we can lie again. Besides, we will not always be servants. We need but wait a little longer.”

  “Wait for what?”

  Mary lifted her chin defiantly, “That, I cannot say.”

  “Of course not. And while we wait, we wait in this – the most inhospitable place in all of England. It is too cold in the north, and why does Lady Phillips make us sleep in the smallest of the bedchambers when none stays the night but us? There are ten rooms too many for one old woman and two servants, the floors creak, the hearths do not stay lit, and the brook is too far away to be convenient. The roof lets in the rain and the clocks tick so loudly I can hardly get my rest.”

  “Sister, do lower your voice.”

  Elizabeth sighed and went back to her mashing, “What about the server? Won't he see the juice on her chair when he sits her?”

  Mary wrinkled her brow, narrowed her bright blue eyes and let her spoon loudly drop in her dish. “About him, I am quite put out. How dare her Ladyship employ such a disagreeable man? He neither speaks nor smiles, and I begin to think he is mute.”

  “Mute? I hadn't thought of that.”

  Mary grew quiet for a moment. “Now that you mention it, the server will do quite nicely. After Lady Phillips sits and gets this wonderfully sticky juice all over her gown, we'll blame the server. Since he is mute, he'll have no way of denying it.”

  “Oh, Mary, she won’t believe us. You forget how she delights in always blaming me. Why she never suspects you is more than I can comprehend.”

  “She likes me...as well as she likes anyone, that is.” Suddenly, Mary heard footsteps in the hallway. She grabbed hold of her sister's arm and watched as a shadow interrupted the sunlight under the door, stopped for a few seconds, and then moved away.

  “It is only the server,” Elizabeth whispered. “Oh sister, I do pray he stays. He is quite helpful and I’d like more time to tend my reading.”

  Mary grabbed the bowl out of her sister’s hands, dumped the contents in the middle of the cushion, and then scraped the pulp and seeds back off. “Not much chance of that, even the village simpleton was unwilling to stay for long.”

  “Aye,” Elizabeth sighed, “only you and I are simpleton enough for that.”

  The large kitchen in the Phillips’ Manor was well lit when Elizabeth entered. The smell of cooked ham filled the air, heavy pots hung from hooks on the yellowing walls and near the back door, a workbench held wash tubs and water buckets. Cupboards stood flush against the other walls, one with a short leg propped on a book to keep it level, and a small fire burned in the hearth. The center table was cluttered with bowls, platters of food, three candelabra, and a large silver tea service. Mary worked feverishly to shove a new candle into a holder.

  A full foot taller, the server stood nearby oddly staring at her. Immaculately dressed in white, he wore leggings, breeches, a shirt, and a vest under a white jacket bordered by lavish rows of gold braid.

  At first, Elizabeth was disturbed by the server’s behavior, but she soon dismissed her concerns, shrugged and laid a long pink gown across the back of a chair. “Lady Phillips has changed her mind again.” She waited, but Mary did not reply, so she walked to the bench to fill a water pitcher and tried again, “Do you hear me, Sister? Lady Phillips now prefers the pink gown.”

  Mary tilted her head and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully, “Pink? Yes, pink will do quite nicely.” She shoved another candle into the candelabra and glanced at the server. Already he had begun to annoy her.

  “Yes, but Mary,” Elizabeth went on, “she does not approve of the ironing.”

  “Of course not. She never approves of the ironing, particularly when she has guests arriving in less than half an hour.” Finally getting the last candle to sit straight, Mary turned to face the server. She handed him one candelabra and then another, “Lady Phillips desires three holders and only three on her table. Do not light the candles on the wall. Place one holder midway at each end and one precisely in the center.”

  She waited but the server didn't even nod, so Mary narrowed her eyes, glared until he finally dropped his gaze and left the kitchen. “I am mistaken,” she muttered, “he is not disagreeable, he is hateful.” She grabbed the iron off the table and walked to the hearth. Looking around until she found it, she snatched up the square metal grating, plopped it down near the hot embers, and set the heavy iron on top.

  Elizabeth poured the last ladle of water into the pitcher, “Do you truly intend to iron the gown again?”

  “Perhaps, then again, perhaps not. And while I decide, perhaps the iron will melt into the fire.” She paused just long enough to take a deep breath, “Every fortnight she invites the same tiresome old men, complains about the ironing and demands we serve the same tiresome dinner. Then we spend an entire evening listening to them talk of nothing more than the same tedious ghosts.” Mary tucked a loose lock of hair under her bonnet and marched to the cupboard. “We have lived with Lady Phillips these many months and never have we seen a ghost. Yet, that insufferable old woman reports a new sighting nearly every week.”

&
nbsp; “True,” agreed Elizabeth, setting the pitcher down on the table, tearing off a small piece of ham, and slipping it into her mouth.

  Mary removed a stack of plates from the cupboard and carried them toward the table. When the server returned and again drew too near for comfort, she gritted her teeth and shoved the stack of plates at him. “Away with you! Take these to the table and do not walk so quickly. If Lady Phillips discovers it, she will demand the same of us.”

  The server did not move. Instead, he bore his dark eyes so deeply into hers, she began to squirm. Mary blinked several times, looked down and nervously smoothed her crisp white apron. Then she tilted her head to one side and raised her gaze.

  For an instant, his eyes softened. Then he shifted the plates to one hand and reached around her to grab the last candelabra. He backed up two steps, mockingly bowed, and walked out of the room.

  Mary grew livid, “Again I am mistaken. He is not hateful, he is insufferable!”

  Above, in the master bedchamber, a service bell frantically began to ring. Elizabeth grabbed the pitcher and rushed toward the door. “I truly hate that bell,” she whispered.

  Mary walked to the chair and began to examine the gown. “Yes indeed, a red stain on a pink gown will do quite nicely.”

  In the dining room, Uriah Carson set the plates and the third candelabra on the table. He lifted his hand and gently rubbed his forehead. “She does not remember me. Perhaps she remembers none of it.”

  “WAIT,” ELIZABETH URGED when the server lifted the tea service off the kitchen table. “Allow me to straighten your scarf.” When he set the tray down, turned toward her and held still, she dried her hands on her apron and began tucking layers of ruffled scarf under the edge of his “V” necked vest. “As you can see, her Ladyship dresses her women servants in wearisome brown frocks, but her men must be exquisite. There, that will do nicely.” Elizabeth stepped back, smiled, and looked up at him. For a moment, she saw softness in his eyes she found oddly familiar. She waited for him to take the tea tray and then followed him to the dining room.