Yesterday's Promise Read online

  The barbed words of Mary and Beth claiming that Lady Patricia would leave in the spring to marry Rogan left her more distraught than angry. What if it were true?

  Evy ran up to the front door and found her key in its usual place in the pot where one of Aunt Grace’s favorite geraniums grew, transplanted from the rectory. She steeled her emotions. I won’t think about Rogan. But she knew she would; she usually did.

  For some reason her door key always needed to move about in the lock until it finally clicked open. Battered by the wind and cold rain, she at last unlocked the door and rushed into the dry, comfortable cottage with a sigh and quickly closed the door behind her. Safety at last.

  She hastened to remove her drenched cloak and sopping shoes, leaving them to drip on the rain cloth spread beneath the hat tree. She would put water on to boil, then change into some dry clothes. By the time she returned to the kitchen, the water would be just right to add the robust dark tea leaves. A nice hot cup with bread and butter would make her feel alive again, ready to enjoy a crackling fire and her music! Remember that delightful evening at the Chantry Townhouse in London when Rogan played the violin just for you?

  The memory made her pause for a moment, causing a small twinge of regret, then Evy shook her head and padded off to the kitchen pantry. The kettle was where Mrs. Croft had left it. Enough water remained, so Evy struck a match and lit the burner.

  She set her jaw. If only she could come up with the money to pay Rogan’s loan back. That would let him know she did not need him, that she was not mooning about, forlorn and wan, waiting for his crumbs of attention!

  With the water on to boil, she went straight to her bedroom to dry herself and put on fresh stockings and a warm woolen dress. She brushed and pinned up her wavy, sometimes unruly, tawny-colored hair. Her amber eyes with flecks of green looked back at her from the mirror. In all honesty, she had no cause to deny that God had made her fair to look upon. It wasn’t wise, but she went ahead and compared herself to Lady Patricia, certain it wasn’t her own lack of charm that had detoured Rogan’s feelings.

  Thunder muttered overhead. She hastened back to the kitchen and poured the boiling water into the pot. While the tea steeped she went to the parlor, where her precious piano awaited her. Here she would relieve some tension by playing her favorite pieces.

  It was not to be, for a rush of wind invaded the parlor, scattering sheets of music across the piano and down to the floor. An open window? Evy turned to see ballooning brocade draperies reaching to ensnare her.

  She remembered now. The morning had been deceptively sunny, and she had opened it a few inches to let in some fresh air. Oh dear, she thought, by now the rain will have blown in and wet the rug.

  She hurried to close the window and was startled by a streak of white that flashed across the black sky, followed by a thunderous boom, then rumblings through the darkened woods of Grimston Way. More rain followed, pounding the pane with fists like mystical goblins riding on the fall wind.

  She wondered that her fingers shook, that she reacted so emotionally. What is the matter with me? I’ve lived through hundreds of storms.

  The wind swept over the cottage, howling, repeating the word she least wanted to remember at this moment. Murder.

  Evy had been a small child when Henry Chantry’s life was taken. The murderer, who’d managed to get away, still had Henry’s blood on their hands. Had the murderer located the Kimberly Black Diamond and escaped with it? The very thought rankled her because her mother had been blamed for its theft so many years ago. By now the perpetrator would be far from Grimston Way—there’d be no reason to stay. Even so, her skin prickled at the thought. Nor could she keep the twins’ unlikely words that Henry was her father from churning in her mind. What if he was? She paused, letting the implication flutter around in her mind before rejecting it. It couldn’t be true—that would make Rogan a blood relative.

  Regardless of the silly talk about her mother coming to Rookswood to take revenge on Henry, someone may have done just that, but not Katie—she had died along with Dr. Clyde and Junia Varley at Rorke’s Drift mission station on the day of the Zulu attack in 1879. No one could possibly have survived that onslaught.

  Overhead, a floorboard creaked, bringing her back to the moment. Her gaze lifted to the attic. It’s just the dampness, is all, she told herself.

  She remembered what Rogan said before sailing for the Cape. In spite of the authorities’ conclusion that Henry Chantry had taken his own life, he suspected otherwise, believing that someone in the extended diamond family may have killed him for more than the Black Diamond. Why more? What could be more than that rare diamond from the Kimberly fields? The map? Ah yes, there was that. The precious map that Henry Chantry had left in his will to Rogan, promising gold on the Zambezi.

  From Evy’s limited knowledge of the diamond dynasty family, the shareholders and inheritors consisted of Bleys, Brewsters, and Chantrys. Never was there any mention of her mother’s family, the van Burens. Evidently, Katie, under Sir Julien’s guardianship, had not been left an inheritance, which meant, of course, there’d been nothing left to Evy. Not that she expected otherwise. Dreaming of diamonds had never been one of her weaknesses. However, she did care deeply about Katie’s reputation—and her own.

  According to Rogan, who hadn’t explained how he knew, some members of each family were in England on the night of Henry’s untimely death. All seemed capable of the short trip from London to Grimston Way to meet with Henry…and murder him?

  The floorboard creaked again.

  Evy snapped from her thoughts and turned toward the ceiling. Rats? Ugh… Maybe, but this was a heavier creak. Footsteps? Now she was really allowing her emotions to run wild! Her musings about Henry were unsettling her nerves.

  She rubbed her arms and glanced around her in the dimness. Maybe she should have stayed for supper in the parish hall after all. A bit of company on a stormy evening would have restrained her imagination, but she set aside any notion of returning to the rectory in weather like this. By the time she arrived, she would be soaked once again, and there’d be plenty of explaining to do, especially to Mrs. Croft, who treated her as if she were her own granddaughter.

  Evy squared her shoulders. There was only one way to handle her edginess. If the Hooper twins and Wally could play Scotland Yard, well, so could she.

  She walked to the kitchen, where the tea was ready to pour, but instead of enjoying a cupful as she had intended, she went to the pantry. A small table held the oil lamp. There were no windows, only a small vent for the warm months. She struck a match and lit the wick. A flight of steep steps beside the wall led to the attic. Holding the flickering lamp, she forced her spirit to bravery, lifted her chin, and climbed.

  The wavering lamplight revealed yellow daisies on the fading wallpaper, which appeared comfortably familiar in a moment like this.

  Rain continued to lash the cottage walls. She could imagine a giant standing outdoors with booted legs apart, whip in hand, trying to bring the house down.

  It was really quite silly to allow her nerves to imagine footsteps from just a few creaks in the attic floor! After all, who would wish to look up there? There was absolutely nothing of value—just some personal belongings from Uncle Edmund and Aunt Grace—certainly not the Kimberly Black Diamond!

  The wind plowed against the cottage, threatening to penetrate the weathered planks. The steps creaked beneath her feet, yet she was certain no one could hear her approaching over the noise of the storm.

  She reached the final step and lifted the lamp. Standing near the door, she paused to rouse her courage again before stepping up to the small landing. The door whipped open, and she gasped.

  A figure, apparently draped in a dark sheet, rushed at her with hands extended. A violent force shoved her and caused her to lose her balance. As she started to fall backward, she reached in vain for a rail that wasn’t there. The lamp crashed down the steep steps, and her head struck something hard.


  A deep growl of thunder shook the cottage. Lightning dazzled the dark sky. Evy Varley lay in a crumpled heap on the pantry floor, the paleness of death upon her cold, still face.

  Henry Chantry’s murderer lifted the dark shawl and stepped down the stairs to kick away pieces of the shattered lamp and beat out the flames before they could draw attention to the cottage. With the fire now extinguished and everyone else away at the dinner, there was time enough to search.

  The murderer returned to the attic, threw open the drawers of an old parson’s desk, and tossed its contents aside impatiently. A stack of envelopes were illuminated by the glow of a candle. One envelope in particular had its edges yellowed with time. It was written in Henry Chantry’s hand, addressed to:

  Vicar Edmund Havering

  St. Graves Parish

  It had been sent from:

  Henry Chantry

  Rookswood Estate

  Then Henry had not been bluffing that night in the office chamber on the third floor of Rookswood. Henry said he had suspected me of taking the Black Diamond from him in the stables.

  But had he told me the truth about Vicar Edmund Havering?

  Kill me and you won’t get away with it. Do you think I’m a fool? I’ve left a record with the vicar of what really happened that night. Your name is in that letter.

  The murderer’s mouth twisted grimly.

  Yes, and that is why Vicar Havering had to die. Because he finally grew wise enough to look on me with suspicion. He was asking too many questions at Rookswood. But I got away with it, Henry old boy, just the way I got away with silencing you forever. To this good day they still think the old vicar’s death in the buggy on that stormy night was an accident. No one had enough sense to notice the wheel spokes had been altered. After that, all it took was a rifle shot from Grimston Woods as the vicar drove by in a hurry to get home in the rain. The horse bolted just as I had hoped. A clap of thunder and a flash of lightning were an added stroke of luck.

  The letter read like a confessional. Yes, Henry had assisted Katie van Buren in taking the Kimberly Black Diamond from its secret hiding place in Sir Julien Bley’s library at Cape House. They had intended to travel to the mission station at Rorke’s Drift to locate her baby, then leave for England, with Katie going on to America to begin a new life. But when Henry entered the stables, he was struck from behind. After he regained consciousness, both the Kimberly Diamond and Katie were long gone.

  I now believe it was Katie van Buren who struck me down in the stables and took the Kimberly Black Diamond. Certain information has come my way convincing me she was waiting in the stables that night in 1879. So convinced, I have spent months now, searching, and I believe that I am close to proving this. I am asking you to say nothing of this to anyone until I return from a trip to South Africa, which I intend to make next month.

  Upon my return I fully expect to exonerate my own tarnished honor, as I continue to live under a cloud of dark suspicion.

  The murderer’s hand trembled with rage. Henry deceived me into thinking he named me as the thief instead of Katie! And the message I sent him—he lied to me, saying he had kept it for Scotland Yard, when all the time I had fooled them all! There was no reason to have fought him… And when the pistol went off—

  “All for nothing… Henry had not even suspected me!”

  In a surge of rage, the murderer crumpled the letter and reached for the candle, then on second thought decided against burning it. The murderer moved from the attic to the steps and looked down into the gathering dimness to Evy Varley’s crumpled body.

  All for nothing. You, too, could have been spared. If only you had stayed at the church supper as you were supposed to, none of this would have happened. Foolish girl. You always were too adventurous for your own good.

  But now I’m certain I know who is hiding the Kimberly Black Diamond. I will yet possess it. It is only fair. It was meant for glory, and it belongs to me, to us! If I must kill again to have it, then I shall. Too much is at stake.

  The figure went down the steps, pausing again to look down at the body lying on the floor, still looking so fair and innocent.

  Then quickly, as thunder rumbled in Grimston Woods, the murderer fled into the raging storm.

  CHAPTER TWO

  South Africa

  July 1897

  Who murdered Uncle Henry?

  Rogan Chantry felt calmly convinced the question would find its answer among the extended diamond dynasty members scattered throughout South Africa and England—three families related by marriage, but with little else in common except diamonds…and the greed that surrounded the sparkling gems. Chantrys, Bleys, and Brewsters, all ruled by one man, Sir Julien Bley—sometimes ruthless, always dictatorial.

  Rogan sat brooding over the two objects sitting on the mahogany desk in his cabin aboard the HMS King George bound for Capetown, South Africa.

  The ship, now three weeks into its voyage from London, had come up against an uncommon storm for the season of seagoing travel. Shadows lengthened across the dark, mountainous swells as the ship rolled and pitched, its aged timbers creaking and moaning in harmony with the howling wind.

  The lantern above his desk seemed to sway its own cadence in some macabre waltz. His focus shifted from his uncle’s unexplained death to the two objects—now starting to slide across his desk. As they neared the precipice, he fetched them back.

  Two objects, both important, both reaching a generation into the past: a portion of Henry’s diary, and the map Henry had drawn to what he said was a gold deposit in the Zambezi River region. The map, once smiled upon as Henry’s Folly, was now seen differently—as a golden light shining on a path to another famous rand, like the first great gold discovery at the Witwatersrand in 1886. The British had shortened the name to The Rand, and so the big gold owners were now called randlords. Rogan drew the map toward him. As his fingers touched the heavy paper with pencil lettering, now beginning to fade on the yellowing sheet, his mind stepped back into that night at Rookswood when he’d located the treasure map he’d been searching for since boyhood…

  It happened toward the end of a summer at Rookswood Estate. Rogan had been attending geology studies at the university in London and was at the top of his class. Upon returning to Grimston Way, he found the vicar’s niece, Evy Varley, grown up…and very much to his liking.

  He encountered her one afternoon at the summer fete while he and Lady Patricia Bancroft were out riding past St. Graves Parish. Evy and Derwent Brown, son of the vicar, were putting up a booth on the village green, with Evy doing most of the hammering. The sight had amused him, and ignoring Patricia’s peevish protests, he had ridden up. The fete, which he’d had practically no interest in, was a benefit sale to help the vicar with his orchard. Rogan decided right then to attend the village event in order to admire Evy. Her green-flecked amber eyes and tawny hair were enough to catch any young man’s fancy.

  He had to admit, though, that it was not just her appearance that captured his interest. He knew many lovely girls in London, some of them daughters of lords and earls, but their beauty alone was not enough. The other girls he could always catch, but they soon bored him with their self-centered ways and shallowness, Patricia Bancroft included. Evy Varley had intelligence and wit, and she had not fallen adoringly at his feet the way the others had done. They were only interested in the title that soon would be his, upon his father’s passing: Sir Rogan Chantry of Rookswood Estate.

  What had started out as a game to add Evy to all the others had proven disturbing. From the time he had first met her, she made it quite clear that she was not impressed with his aristocratic station in life. In fact, there were times when she made him feel humble, and he found that he liked that about her. And Evy was confident in her Christian beliefs. He rarely, if ever, saw her compromise on any issue. And unlike his sister, Arcilla, with her beautiful clothes and flirtatious ways, Evy could stand her own in any group, regardless of whether or not her dress was the prettiest.
She always showed a confident self-possession about her, whether she was in the company of common villagers or those with titles who often visited Rookswood. Somehow Rogan knew that it had something to do with her strong faith, perhaps because she believed Christ possessed her.

  The fete was held the next day, and after attending, Rogan had ridden his horse back to Rookswood with Evy on his mind. Patricia had left early in the morning to return to Heathfriar, her ancestral home. When he came through the front door, he found Heyden van Buren standing in the Great Hall. Rogan had never seen the young man before, and he had the audacity to show up uninvited by anyone in the family.

  “This is Heyden van Buren from the Transvaal,” his father, Sir Lyle Chantry, had said. “Heyden, this is my youngest son, Rogan. Heyden is in London on business. He’s a secretary to one of the men in the Boer government of Paul Kruger.”

  “Seeing I’m in England traveling with our Boer president, your father’s kind hospitality has proven quite acceptable.”

  Rogan disliked Heyden from the beginning, though he could not say why. He claimed to be an Afrikaner—a descendant of the Dutch settlers in South Africa. He said his family had come to South Africa from Holland during the 1600s, when the Spanish Inquisition raged in the Netherlands against the Protestants. He boasted a good deal about the stalwart Dutch and their Boer Republic, and it did not take long for Rogan to understand that Heyden gazed at his world with the zealous perspective of Boer politics.

  Rogan, a steely eyed English lad, found Heyden’s boasting irritating, for he himself supported a far-flung British Empire from London to Calcutta, from Egypt to Capetown and beyond.

  Heyden’s fair appearance was burnt brown by the African sun. His smile was amiable, his accent not unlike Uncle Julien’s, but his frozen pale blue eyes convinced Rogan he could not be trusted. Later, when Rogan asked his father why he allowed Heyden to stay at Rookswood, his father raised his brows.