Promise Me This Read Online Free Page A

that.”
    Annie nodded, determined to smile.
    “We’ve a new life to build, and we shall need every bit of English pluck and Irish grit to get us through.”
    Annie nodded again. She wondered if Owen had any idea what pluck and grit it would take for her to see him off.
    By midmorning Annie’s skirt was soiled. She and Owen had weeded, scraped, turned, and sifted the topsoil of their parents’ plots in the midst of Bunhill Fields cemetery. They had hoed shallow ditches, spaced close enough to crowd out the most persistent weeds, and sprinkled seeds, sparingly, down their rows.
    “Mother loved these blue spikes.” Owen smiled, brushing the earth from his fingers. “Father always said they were the color of her eyes.”
    “Like mine,” Annie said, smiling faintly.
    “That they are. Blue as the bluest lobelia England ever grew!”
    Annie sat close to Owen but could not look at him. “But Father . . .”
    “What about Father?”
    “I heard you and Aunt Eleanor arguing. What did she mean when she said that it was no accident that sent Father to his grave? That it was his own ridiculous pining for a woman too silly to help him manage his business?”
    Owen did not answer but stiffened and sat back on his heels.
    “She meant Mother, didn’t she?” Annie held her breath.
    Owen stood and dusted off the soil from the knees of his trousers. He picked up the pocket rake and spade he carried with him everywhere, wiped them on the grass, and polished them with his handkerchief.
    “Owen?” Annie persisted.
    Still he did not answer, did not look at her, but packed the tools away and reached for her hand.
    Annie stood, brushing her skirt, and stared at her brother until he spoke.
    “Did you read the book I sent you?”
    “I began, but I’m not fascinated by it. And what has that to do with my question?”
    The corners of his lips lifted slightly. “You do not have to be fascinated by it.”
    “It was written so dreadfully long ago, Owen. Couldn’t you find me something amusing?”
    “The writer is one I hope will become your friend. He’s a neighbor of Mother and Father’s.”
    “A neighbor? How silly! He’s been dead for ages.”
    Owen grinned. “He might have lived before them, but his work and writings were very much a part of their lives.” He tweaked her honey-colored curls. “I remember Mother reading his book to me when I was younger than you are now.”
    “Well—” Annie placed her hands on her hips—“perhaps if I had you or Mother reading it aloud to me, I could take more pleasure in it.”
    Owen laughed aloud. “You’ve got me there!” He pulled her aside. “Here, our friend and neighbor—come take a look at his stone.” Owen spread his coat on the ground before Annie. He traced the outlined relief on the side of John Bunyan’s tomb with his finger, as if he had memorized the sculptor’s movements. “This is a picture of the pilgrim, called Christian, from the book. See how he’s weighed down, carrying that heavy load upon his back? He can hardly bear it, and the way is steep and rough.”
    “Yes, but you’ve still not answered my question about Father.” Annie tugged her brother’s sleeve.
    But Owen seemed to ignore her. “That’s the way of our lives—all of us. We’re loaded down with burdens too heavy to bear—disappointments, losses, sin. Even guilt about our inability to overcome the burdens that bend us low. The longer we tread with that heavy load on our backs, the more we are likely to despair.”
    A full minute passed before Annie reached out and tentatively touched the stone. “Father was terribly sad after Mother died, wasn’t he?”
    Owen’s eyes met Annie’s at last. “She was the light of his life. Losing her took everything from him. A year passed and he could not let go of his grief.”
    Annie narrowed her eyes, concentrating on the shapes in the stone. “Father was caught by the Giant Despair.” She bit her lip. “Do you think his death . . .”