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Book Description
When does a story begin?
For Edwin Hope, it begins with a childhood dare and a forbidden tree. It begins with him falling … in
more ways than one.
Called home from his studies by the grandfather who has always hated him, eighteen-year-old Edwin
is once again trapped in a house that is colder than the winds whipping across the fields. Seeking
sanctuary, he escapes into the untamed beauty of the Peaks and meets a woman who sparks an old
memory. A memory of the sycamore that broke him, and the little girl who saved him.
Drusilla has had many acolytes over the centuries but none like Edwin. With the Great War looming
and Edwin’s future uncertain, she knows the right thing to do is to set him free from her spell, but
can she do so if it means breaking her own heart?
The Promise Tree Excerpt
In this excerpt the sycamore tree dryad has an encounter with the gardener who
works on the land belonging to Edwin’s grandfather. Although Edwin doesn’t suspect it, the
old man has more knowledge and belief in such things. Edwin has been sent to live with
relatives in Yorkshire as a result of his disobedience in returning to the tree where he had
broken his arm and the gardener has come to confront the dryad.
The Old One returned a fortnight after he had taken the Sapling away; strode into her
grove as if he owned it.
He stopped beneath the branches, sharp eyes searching. “Where are you?”
The Sapling’s attention had nourished her more than she realised she had needed. His
words had been so pretty and innocent and she was ravenous for more. She sighed
contentedly at the memory, a susurration in the silence. After years alone, the hedgerow had
been breached, noise and confusion, life and activity intruding into her isolation after so long
constricted in the solitude of the grove. She straightened her limbs in preparation of the
descent.
“Show yourself. I demand it.”
Her limbs flexed in indignation at his tone. Sooner or later, they always believed they
owned everything. No reverence or wonder, only dismissal and contempt. And anger in this
one’s case. The Old One searched high in the branches but she still did not reveal herself to
him. Why should she, when he’d given nothing in exchange? Not even a kind word. She
tightened her fist around the glass marble that the Sapling had given in exchange for a sliver
of the luck she was able to bestow.
“I want my Sapling,” she murmured and the wind caused the leaves to rustle almost
imperceptibly.
The feeling surprised her. She wasn’t given to wanting, knowing that wishes were
rarely – if ever – granted, but he’d been a strange, determined little Sapling and had piqued
her curiosity.
The Old One jerked his head upwards at the movement in the branches.
“Young Edwin said he talked to a little girl.” The old man stuck his hands into his
trouser pockets and narrowed his eyes. “Now, I don’t know what he saw, but I do know that
according to my father, my grandfather planted this hedgerow when my grandmother’s tears
at his straying up here to visit a woman became too much to bear.”
He gestured around with an arm, taking in the circle of thorns and thistles that
enclosed her grove. She followed the arm with her eyes but her mind was on his face. A
memory stirred of a younger man who shared this Old One’s features. Handsome and tall,
with hair so fair it was almost silver and hands that loved the soil. It was unsettling. A
grandson? How long had she been sleeping while the thorns grew around her?
The Old One put his hands in his trouser pockets and walked back and forth, his eyes
on the ground. He cleared his throat and looked up again.
“I’m not certain what your kind is, but if anything the old stories say is true, I know
you’ll tempt and beguile just to be loved.”
She laughed then.
Loved? Foolish Old One. It wasn’t love she desired, but veneration; that’s what she
deserved.
He pulled his hand out of his pocket. There was something in it. Interest caught, she
peered closer, trying to see what the gnarled hand contained. A gift or an exchange? She
watched closely, tempted to reveal herself.
“Young Edwin is not yours.”
He put the object in both hands and fiddled with it. She heard a scraping sound and
then there was a flare of heat and light; an explosion in her head. Her core felt the sharpness
of fear.
“Do you know what this is?” the Old One asked.
She shuddered and the branches rippled.
Fire.
“I promised the Sapling not to replace the hedge because that clearly matters to him
and I am a man of my word.”
He looked up and for a moment she would have sworn on her heart that he saw her. She
stared boldly into his eyes.
“My word is this: you leave him alone or you will burn.” He sighed and shook his
head sadly, as if his threat pained him.
“You’re too green now, but in another month those leaves of yours will change and
before the winter sets in there will be a time when you’re good for kindling.”
He lifted the fire to his mouth and blew gently, extinguishing the small dancing flame.
She sighed with relief as the flicker died away, leaving only the wisp of smoke rising
upwards and the scent of soot in the air. She slipped down from branch to branch.
“He’s leaving and he won’t be back for many years, but when he does come, you’ll
remember my words.”
She closed her eyes. She would remember them as clearly as if they were carved onto
her trunk.
The Old One nodded his head towards her and backed out of the grove. It was the
most meagre deference but the acknowledgement that she deserved courtesy gave her a sliver of the reverence that sustained her. She directed a burst of hatred towards the Old One, with
his aggression and accusations and threats, but she knew it was futile. She, who should be
able to cause branches to strike, could do nothing more than raise a slight undulation of
twigs. An immeasurable fatigue descended upon her, lethargy weakening her limbs. She slid
down from branch to branch and landed at the foot of the tree. The soil was moist and cold
beneath her feet and she wriggled her toes, grounding herself. She inhaled, savouring the
musky, damp scents that surrounded her.
She leaned back against the trunk, drawing comfort from the reassuring roughness of
the bark and closed her eyes. The beat of her heart and the pulse in her limbs fused with the
slow, steady rhythm of the tree – too slow and low for the Old One to have heard or felt but it
was there all the same.
Author Bio
Elisabeth’s writing career began in 2013 when she entered Harlequin's So You Think You
Can Write contest and it turned out she could. She writes romantic Historical fiction as Elisabeth
Hobbes and Historical folklore/fantasy inspired romance as Elisabeth J. Hobbes.
She teaches Primary school but would rather write full time because unlike five year olds her
characters generally do what she tells them. She spends most of her spare time reading and is a pro
at cooking one-handed while holding a book.
She lives in Cheshire because the car broke down there in 1999 and she never left. Elisabeth has two
almost grown kids, two cats, two dogs and a husband. The whole family are on the autistic spectrum
and that probably includes the pets! She dreams of having a tidy house one day.
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