Page 1 of Worthy Promises
Chapter 1
1883
New York, New York
Oliver Toivonen walked down the stairs of his parents’ opulent home, and his mouth twisted at the servants dashing through the halls. Despite the way the floors sparkled and the lack of dust on the freshly painted surfaces, his mother was running the staff ragged. After spending his youth in the country, Oliver was pleased to move to the rapidly expanding city. But he didn’t understand his parents’ desire to own such a large and ostentatious house.
Of course, that was because Oliver hated to socialize. His mother was the opposite. As he stalked into the dining room he heard her prattling to his father about her upcoming soiree to show off the completed house. Osmo had his head bowed as he studied his plate, which raised Oliver’s hackles.
While his parents couldn’t understand the son they called boring and staid, they were exceptionally devoted to each other. It was odd to find his father not listening with rapt attention to whatever his mother had on her mind. Oliver took a seat at the table and set his newspaper next to his plate. A servant rushedover to place a plate of food in front of him. Not one to waste time, Oliver grabbed his fork and dug in to his poached eggs.
“Are you both well?” Oliver asked the moment his mother took a breath and remembered her half-eaten breakfast.
“No, Oliver, I am gravely concerned that not enough people will attend my open house in a few weeks.”
“You are constantly invited to socialize and have an astonishing number of friendly relationships,” Oliver pointed out. “I have no doubt the bodies will be squeezed into the house until there is barely room to breathe.”
“Osmo, tell your son that I find his lack of concern for my worries unacceptable,” Felicie Toivonen replied with a pout.
“Oliver, be kind to your mother,” his father said, never lifting his eyes from his plate.
Since Oliver didn’t believe he’d used any harsh words, he frowned.
“Apologize,” his mother demanded.
“I have nothing to apologize for,” Oliver retorted.
A fat tear slid from her exceptionally bright yellow gaze, which he’d inherited from her.
“It’s not just your size that’s brutish,” his mother bemoaned as she used her napkin to pat the dampness from her cheek. “I don’t know how we went so wrong with you. I wanted so badly to have an affectionate child. Fate betrayed me and gave me a somber giant lacking kindness in his heart.”
His jaw flexing, Oliver refused to allow her words to hurt him. Unlike his slender father, Oliver was broad-shouldered and stood a couple of inches above six feet. He towered over his parents and the other owls they’d met. If it wasn’t for the icy blond hair and the exact shade of yellow irises he’d inherited from his mother, he’d easily accept that he had been switched at birth.
It was hardly his fault he’d grown to such massive proportions, and he’d tried his best as a child to please his mother. But her moods were mercurial, and she’d pushed him away more often than she’d cuddled him. The lack of affection had left him confused, and he’d grown more withdrawn as he aged. Although he was barely an adult, he no longer bothered to pretend to be the son she wanted. Nothing he did pleased her.
“Have you nothing to say?” his mother wailed.
“No,” Oliver said.
“Since the day you were born, I have been devoted to you, and yet you do nothing to show any kind of gratitude,” his mother accused, tossing her napkin onto the table and rising to her feet. She brushed her hands along the tiny row of buttons down the front of her ivory frock. “You hardly understand the heavy weight of entertaining. If even one thing goes awry, my reputation and that of this family will be in tatters. Think of that and how it will affect your little art hobby.”
In a flurry of pique, she turned on her heel and marched out of the dining room, weeping loudly.
Since it was hardly unusual for her to dramatically leave a room like a spoiled child at least once a day, Oliver barely paused in consuming the last of his meal. But he was curious why his father didn’t chase his mother as he usually did when she was cross or claiming to be devastated by some minor infraction—which was almost always made by Oliver.
His father cleared his throat. “How is your business?”
Eyebrows flying up in shock at his father’s query, Oliver gave him his full attention. There was curiosity in his mustard eyes, but they were also strangely hollow. While Oliver was inept at understanding the feelings of his parents, something was obviously bothering his father. Oliver had no ability to comfort, but he dearly wished for the talent.
“It’s going well, thank you for asking,” Oliver replied. “I sold all of my initial purchases and have recently acquired two sculptures.”
To his parents’ horror, he’d asked for a small loan from his father a year ago, after his first shift into a gorgeous snowy owl. Driven to stand on his own two feet, Oliver had invested the money in paintings, which he’d sold at an extraordinary profit. It was his dream to someday have galleries too, but he didn’t dare mention that to his parents.
A son in trade wasn’t acceptable in the society so integral to his parents. They pretended his interest in art was nothing more than a hobby. Oliver allowed them their delusions, but he put all his energy into growing his new business and building a reputation for himself among his parents’ illustrious peers. Thankfully, there was plenty of money to be earned among the elite, and Oliver intended to become a respectable source for fine paintings and sculptures.
While he lacked any ability to create masterpieces himself, Oliver was easily moved by a brilliantly painted canvas or an intricate sculpture. His passion for art was acceptable to his parents and their ilk, but not his interest in openly profiting from it. Mostly, Oliver ignored societal rules. However, he refused to embarrass his parents despite their distant relationship.
“Good. That is good to hear,” said his father.
