A Promise for Christmas Read online

  A Promise for Christmas

  By

  Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Book 7 in Spinster Mail-Order Brides,

  a multi-author series

  Table of Contents

  A Promise for Christmas

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Thank you

  OTHER HISTORICAL TITLES BY LINDA CARROLL-BRADD

  This novella is a work of fiction. Names, place, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright ©Linda Carroll-Bradd All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means without express permission from author or publisher.

  Published by Inked Figments

  Cover artist: Virgina McKevitt of Black Widow Books

  Edited by: Shenoa of Lustre Editing http://lustreediting.com

  Manufactured in the United States

  ISBN: 978-1-940546-39-1

  First printing November, 2020

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. Purchasing this e-book gives you the right to one copy for your reading enjoyment. The purchase does not grant resale rights, sharing rights (either individual file sharing or sharing through peer-to-peer programs) auction or contest prize rights, or rights of any kind to sell or give away a copy of this book.

  Doing so is considered piracy and criminal copyright infringement—an illegal act in violation of U.S. Copyright Law and can be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by a maximum of five years in federal prison in addition to a $250,000 fine.

  Please respect Linda Carroll-Bradd’s right to earn a living from her creative endeavors. If you have knowledge of misuse of this e-book, do not hesitate to contact Inked Figments at [email protected].

  Chapter One

  October 1883

  “Miss Fiona. Miss Fiona”

  Seated behind her small desk, Fiona Carthage rested a finger on the last line read in her novel and bit back a sigh. Of course, her governess duties took precedence, but the story’s heroine had been teetering on the edge of a scandalous discovery. Straightening, she glanced across the school room, scanned the four student desks, and spotted the wildly waving arm. “Aye, Melvin?” Friday afternoons stretched long for students and teacher alike. This one was almost concluded.

  “I finished my arithmetic problems. You said I could go outside to play after I finished.” He glanced at the window then rounded his shoulders.

  Hours ago, at the start of the day’s lessons, Fiona voiced that promise. She gazed at the energetic eight-year-old. His mop of straight, brown hair flopped over his forehead, despite the maid’s best efforts to control his hair as his mother requested. “Aye, I remember, but I made the statement when only a wee number of clouds hung in the sky. But now with the heavens to be delivering such a downpour likely to wash clean the streets...”

  “Ah, shucks.” He crossed his arms over his chest and slumped back in his seat.

  At the mild oath, she set down her book on the desktop. The missus would not be happy to hear such language, but Fiona made no comment. Young boys needed leeway to express their disappointment. Ten years employed as a governess had taught her much about handling children. Teaching the four Huntingdon children, aged eight to almost sixteen, proved especially tough when fall weather took hold. Everyone needed the outlet of time spent outdoors.

  Storms coming off Lake Michigan often battered Chicago for days, keeping everyone except the hardiest hostage indoors. Crossing the plank floor, she stopped at the window, turned, and pulled her green shawl higher on her shoulders. She might as well take advantage of the changing weather for a short lesson. “Who can tell me the type of cloud ye see outside?”

  Without looking up from his desk, a lanky boy in the back row raised a hand. “Most are cumulonimbus. Although…” He glanced toward the third-floor window lit with dim afternoon sunlight. “A few cumulus clouds have broken away now that their water particles are gone.”

  “Very good, Lyman.” Fiona noted how much of his forearm extended past his shirt cuff. She made a mental note to speak with the housekeeper about an addition to his wardrobe. A glance around the room revealed Audrey biting her lower lip while rubbing a cloth scrap over something on her slate. Behind her, Philberta bent over her work, moving her chalk in looping motions. Probably decorations. As her sixteenth birthday approached, the young woman paid less and less attention to her schoolwork.

  A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes and flickered the lamplight in the wall sconces. On the shelf where she stored the advanced level books, the pendulum clock struck three times.

  Fiona walked across the room and stood behind her chair, hands resting on its back. “All right, children, slates go on the corner of me desk, please. Tidy yer own desks and then ye may go downstairs to yer mother’s parlor.”

  “Bye, Miss Fiona.” Melvin dashed to the front of the room then scampered out the door.

  Audrey skipped to the desk and set down her slate. “I like your hair clip, Miss Fiona. Night.”

  “Thank you, Audrey.” In truth, Fiona couldn’t wait to reach her bedroom soon enough and remove the hair ornament that tugged on the roots of her hair. She smiled at the two older pupils passing her desk in silence on their way to the door. Over the next ten minutes, she hummed an artless tune as she checked their work, entered the scores in the register, and straightened what needed doing in the room. Now, her time was her own until Saturday morning music lessons. Her deadline for submitting new greetings to the Whitney Valentine Company approached, and she needed to develop five more. Fiona collected her novel and stepped into the carpeted hallway.

  Crying arose from an upset child and grew louder. Tildy reached the top of the stairs and scurried across the floor. “Ah, Miss Fiona, there ye be.” The tousled-haired brunette bounced a toddler on her hip. “Shush, luv. ’Twill be a minute ’til yer meal. The missus wanted me to catch ye before ye hid yerself away in yer room again.”

  Hide meself again? How perceptions varied. Her employment as a governess kept her imprisoned, unable to mix with the mister and missus and admonished against consorting with the staff. Cor, she hoped the missus wasn’t ordering her to tend the wee ones again. Those tasks fell to the nannies like the one standing before her. “And ye have a message?” Fiona took a slow step backward to save her ears from the caterwauling.

  “Oh, aye. Come on, wee bairn, just a few moments more.” She shifted the girl to face outward, braced a hand on her bottom, and rocked her in small arcs. “Missus says the mister wants to speak wit’ ye.”

  “Mister Huntingdon is home at this hour?” He normally remained at his office until at least five o’clock every afternoon.

  Tildy nodded and kept swaying. “A fancy dinner party across town will start in a few hours. The missus set her maids all atwitter over pressing shirts and trousers and setting out dresses. You know how the missus fusses about her outfits.”

  “Thank ye, Tildy. I’ll go downstairs now.” Resting her fingers on the burnished cherrywood railing, she walked down the staircase. Usually she reported on the children’s progress before the noon meal on Saturdays. Perhaps the mister made plans for tomorrow she didn’t know about. No matter, she was prepared to answer any questions about their studies or their instruments. Her first year she’d made plenty of mistakes—one of which was allowing a four-year-old in the classroom. But Lyman flourished into a wonderful st
udent more because of his own intellectual capacity than her excellent teaching skills.

  Opposite the carved wood door, Fiona paused to make sure her wavy hair was still contained in the chignon. She glanced down at the bodice of her navy dress to check her buttons all remained fastened. A chalk smudge marred the hem of one sleeve, and she brushed it gone. After tapping twice, she waited for a response before stepping into the room.

  Mister Huntingdon’s office was furnished in a more masculine style than the rest of the house. Burgundy drapes adorned the floor-to-ceiling windows. The color was repeated in the striped settee and in a paisley-patterned carpet. Dark-wood wainscoting paneled the lower walls topped by a hand-painted scene of an idyllic landscape.

  Mister Huntingdon stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back. Barely forty, the tall man with wavy hair presented as a vibrant figure, albeit one who indulged a bit too much in rich food and fine wine.

  “Mister Huntingdon? Tildy said ye wished to see me.” She walked toward the massive desk, appreciating the façade carved with a variety of flower blossoms and trailing vines. Approaching the ten-year anniversary of her employment with the family, she’d hoped for an increase in her annual salary. The side job she kept secret brought in extra money here and there, but writing sentiments for a greeting card company didn’t earn enough to support her.

  Phillip turned and waved toward a chair. “Sit, Fiona.” He frowned then dropped into the chair behind his desk. “Now, I’ve always been happy with your work.”

  What did he mean by “I”? Her stomach tightened. “Aye?”

  He cleared his throat. “You see, Elberta wants to do all she can to ensure that Philberta has the best chance in society.”

  “Should I increase the frequency of her etiquette lessons?” She scooted forward to perch on the edge of the chair. “I know she’ll be allowed to attend parties and other social gatherings after her sixteenth birthday party—”

  “Yes, yes.” He ran a finger along the inside of his stiff collar. “I’m glad you mentioned the party. Well…” Clearing his throat, he shuffled papers to the side. “In my real estate business, I believe in laying out the facts to a prospective buyer. Fiona, the children have benefited from your years of service. No one can doubt that fact. But…”

  She sucked in a breath and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. If only a lightning bolt would strike nearby to distract her employer from what she feared he would say next.

  “As you know, a governess would be expected to accompany her to future gatherings. I’m sorry, Fiona, but my Elberta can’t get the thought from her head that with you around, our sweet-tempered, but plain, Philberta will not have a chance attracting an eligible young man from those she’ll meet.” Shaking his head, he tsked. “You can’t deny if the young bucks got a gander at you, they wouldn’t pay attention to poor Philberta.”

  “But, sir, those young bucks, as ye call them, would be eight or ten years me junior.” Heartbeats pounded double time. If Elberta was against her staying, then the decision would be hard to reverse. “I’ve no name or fortune. None of her friends would give a spinster like me a second look.”

  “Again, Fiona, I apologize.” Frowning, he pulled a hand over his face. “The Friday hence will be your last day of employment in my household. I’ll have your pay and a letter of recommendation ready, but you must vacate the house before Saturday’s party.” A red flush crept up his neck.

  “Nay.” She lifted a shaky hand to cover her objection. Blinking fast, she gazed across the desk at the man she’d often thought of as a second father. Hadn’t she worked hard to raise his children when their mother oftentimes couldn’t be bothered to even read them a story? Hadn’t she studied late into the night to prepare lessons to keep intelligent Lyman interested? Hadn’t she tended the children when illness sent the missus fleeing to her own bedchamber to escape the contagion?

  Another glance at his stern expression sealed her fate. Even with a glowing reference, she faced a struggle, if not an impossible task, in securing another job in such a short time. Was she to be tossed out into the streets?

  The repetitive clang of an alarm split the quiet in the bedroom.

  Heaving out a breath, Anson rolled toward the nightstand and pushed down the lever.

  Stillness was restored.

  Opening his eyes confirmed dawn had arrived. He stretched his arms overhead then across the empty right side of the mattress and shoved off the thick quilt. Cold October air pushed through the weave of his nightclothes, and he shivered. With feet set shoulder width apart on the thin carpet runner beside his bed, he started his ten-minute routine of calisthenics, performing knee bends, side arches, and arm circles. Then he dropped to the floor to execute his set of pushups. “Forty-nine, fifty.”

  Standing, he stripped off his long-sleeved undershirt and stepped out of his drawers then crossed to the commode holding the pitcher and bowl. Wood planks chilled his bare feet. He poured a couple inches of water in the bowl and grabbed the washcloth. The touch of a cold washcloth to his chest produced a gasp before he clamped his teeth to complete his morning ablutions.

  Ten minutes later, he swirled a cast iron skillet atop the stove burner to prevent the coffee beans from scorching. Their rich, roasted scent teased his nose. The mundane task allowed him to plan his day. The shipment of goods from the Pueblo warehouse should arrive before noon. Uncrating and shelving the supplies would occupy his afternoon. No matter the length of the task, he’d have no trouble serving his customers here in Gunnison City. A day well-scheduled was a productive day.

  After preparing his regular breakfast, he sat at his usual place at the head of the rectangular kitchen table. Opposite sat an empty chair. Lately, he’d been aware of this one personal goal not yet achieved in his life. Steam from his fried egg and sausage patty wafted upward and enticed his appetite. He spread a thin layer of blackberry jam on a heel of the loaf. Using his fork and knife, he stacked the egg atop the sausage and cut the round into six equal pieces. Moderation was his motto, as taught by his parents and grandparents back home in the Germany.

  After setting the dishes in a pan of soapy water, he walked toward the back door to grab his jacket. Chores needed doing before he headed to town.

  A bray came from not far from the door.

  “What the dickens?” Anson shoved his arms into the sleeves of his sheepskin-lined jacket, settled his slouch hat on his head, and bolted outside. Fall mountain air slapped his cheeks and bit his ears. His prized donkey jack, the white-faced one, chewed on the spindly weeds pushing through yesterday’s snow.

  Anson strode across the yard, only to spook the donkey who skittered away from the corral. After several unsuccessful attempts, he finally stomped to the small barn to let out the chickens and gather their eggs. Only when the milking was done and Anson had filled the feed troughs did the donkey enter the barn and trot into his stall. An inspection of the stall gate closure showed a frayed rope. A chore to be completed tonight, but now, Anson had to get into town.

  Fifteen minutes later, he reined in his mare, Brownie, at the lean-to behind his store, Lorentz Hardware. After securing the horse, he unlocked the back door and tossed his jacket onto an antler hook. With his apron looped over his neck, he tied the strings while walking toward the front of the shop. Then he gathered tarps covering the merchandise from several shelves. A quick glance around told him everything was where he’d left it the night before. As it should be. Lastly, he snapped up the window covering and reversed the sign to read Open. The moment he unlocked and opened the door, he let out a pent-up breath. His work day could begin. “Welcome, folks.”

  The bell overhead slowed its jangled notes.

  “Hey, Anson.” A tall, muscled man stepped over the threshold and pulled off his hat. “Everything all right?”

  “I apologize for being late.” Anson hated making the admission. He prided himself on punctuality. “Chad, what can I get you this morning?” He nodded a greeting toward a couple of
other customers who spread out to their desired aisles before he turned and headed for the back side of the store’s long, wooden counter.

  “Seriously, Anson, are you doing okay?” Chad leaned a hand on the counter. “I can’t remember a time when the store wasn’t open promptly at nine o’clock.”

  The bell jangled again.

  Anson glanced toward the door and narrowed his gaze on the familiar figure who looked more unkempt than on his last visit. He gave a short nod then turned to the sheep rancher at the counter. “My blasted donkey chewed his way out of the stall. I wasted too much time attempting to get him back into the barn.” Anson looked up at his friend and caught his broad smile. “I don’t realize the humor.”

  “Never did understand what you see in raising donkeys.” Chad shook his head. “Ornery creatures.”

  A sentiment held by many people, but Anson knew their true value. He glanced around to see how close anyone stood then pitched his voice low. “When I left the mine fields after the placer gold was played out, I made the decision to supply equipment and pack animals to the miners. Those donkeys and the mules I breed earn me about as much as the store does.”

  Dark eyebrows lifted. “Maybe so. I’ve been telling you for months that you need a wife.”

  He jerked back his head. “I don’t see the connection.”

  “A wife could either help with the animals or open the store on time. Since you can’t be in two places at the same time.”

  “The newlywed glow hasn’t worn off on your marriage?” Anson noticed the difference in his friend in the last year since he sent away for a mail-order bride. Her arrival lifted a huge weight from Chad’s shoulders. His wife, Vika, was a lively Scottish woman who’d stepped in as mother to Chad’s two young children. Now, the couple was expecting a baby in the early spring.

  “I hope it never does.” He laughed, deepening the lines around his mouth. “Hey, like I said before, I’m happy to get you the address to the matrimonial newspaper I used.”