Beryl Valentine snatched an apple from the bowl of fruit decoratively arranged on the table in the hall and hurried toward the front door, hoping to get outside before anyone stopped her. As she passed the vast mahogany pocket doors to the parlor, voices drifted through the opening.
“Beryl is twenty years old. It’s time she realized her responsibility.” Her father, Wallace Valentine, railroad tycoon and financial genius, had a voice better suited to a baseball stadium than a boardroom. “There’s her fortune and her future at stake, and she doesn’t seem to care.”
Beryl stopped with her hand on the front door.
“I’ve got things under control.” Rosemary, Beryl’s mother, had a well-modulated voice … that could still slice through the air like a razor blade. “If you’d butt out of the process, I could have her engaged before Christmas.”
“You have things under control? With that parade of wimps you marched through the house all winter? Every one of them weak as chamomile tea and sniffing around Beryl just to get at her money. There isn’t a one of them I’d give two cents for. She’s our only child and heir, and she has a duty.”
Beryl closed her eyes, her heart sinking to her heels. While her parents could and did argue about everything from the household help to national politics, their latest disagreements all seemed to center around one goal: finding Beryl a husband. The odd thing was that they were united in the notion that she needed a husband but definitely divided on the method and the candidates.
And neither one seemed to think Beryl should have a say in the matter. She took a calming breath.
“They weren’t wimps. They were perfectly presentable young men, the sons of some of the best families in New York Society. Any one of them would make a suitable match for Beryl. I don’t care how much money a man has if he has the right breeding, the right connections.” Mother could put more starch in her voice than you could find in a hotel laundry.
“Not a one of them knows how to do anything useful.” Something impacted wood, and Beryl knew her father had smacked his fist on a table, a familiar gesture when he warmed to a subject. “All they know how to do is inherit money and spend it. Not a man’s man out of the lot.”
You tell her, Father.
“I suppose those ancient cronies of yours that you bring home are better? Men more than twice her age? It’s disgusting, and I won’t have it.”
Thank you, Mother. In that we are agreed. The wimps are bad enough, but the cronies are worse. Beryl stifled a sigh, weary of the topic and knowing they could be at it for hours.
“At least they’re men, not obsequious boys. And they know how to run businesses and accumulate wealth instead of squandering it and then looking for an heiress with a healthy bank account to replenish their coffers. I don’t care where a man comes from as long as he’s got the brains and ambition and ability to make something of himself. I have found just the man for Beryl. He’s coming over this afternoon—”
“Wallace, sometimes I think you have rocks for brains….”
Beryl had heard enough, but before she could escape, the parlor maid hurried by with a tray, bobbing her head. “Good morning, Miss Beryl. Will you be joining your parents for tea?” she asked, her voice loud in the echoing foyer.
Beryl made shushing noises, but it was too late.
“Is that you, Beryl?” her mother asked. “Come in here.”
The parlor maid shot her a silent apology as they entered the parlor.
The maid set the tray on the low table in front of Mother, checked that everything was in order, and dropped a curtsy. “Should I fetch another cup?” She addressed the question to Mother.
“Yes, please.”
“No, thank you.”
Mother and Beryl spoke at the same time.
“Mother, I can’t stay. I have an appointment.”
“You have time for tea.” Her mother’s placid voice set Beryl’s teeth on edge. But she took the tea her mother handed her, blowing on it to cool it.
“Sit down.”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“It takes just as long to drink a cup of tea standing as it does sitting down.” Mother regarded her with dark brown eyes, demanding good manners.
Beryl sat.
Father leaned on the corner of the desk, arms folded, tweed coat straining across his big shoulders. “We haven’t been here twenty-four hours and you’re already headed to the stables?” He raised his eyebrows. “I have someone coming to the house today whom I want you to meet.”
She brushed her hand down the front of her riding habit. “I cabled ahead our arrival date, and I have a lesson scheduled this morning. I’m eager to see how Lacey traveled.” Her beloved mare, Lacey, hated train travel, even for the relatively short distance from New York City. “I’m also looking forward to seeing Avila again.” Avila Schmidt had been Beryl’s riding instructor the past few summers, though the lessons often took the form of long rides together where Avila became more of a mentor and confidant than teacher.
“You coddle that mare. Coddling makes them soft. You might be interested to know I had another offer for her this week. Cal Brightman was looking over my stock, wanted a mount for his wife and a possible broodmare for his farm.” He ran his hand down his right sideburn, pursing his lips. “I told him you’d spent a lot of time working with the mare and that he wouldn’t find a gentler mount.”
Fear gripped Beryl’s heart, the way it did every time her father talked about possibly selling Lacey. Technically, the horse belonged to her father, but Beryl had ridden her for the past five years and had come to love her dearly. They’d competed together in a few local shows, and Lacey had been her mount every fall for fox hunting. They were a team.
“I’ll never understand your fascination with horses.” Mother shook her head. “I know it’s fashionable for young ladies to ride in Central Park occasionally, but private lessons, horse shows, hunting. You practically live in the stables. It’s unbecoming, and it certainly won’t help you find a husband. You should be attending the lawn parties, picnics, and fetes like other girls your age.”
“Mother, please.” Beryl turned to her father. “You wouldn’t sell Lacey, would you? You know I’ve taken a special liking to her.”
“Horses aren’t pets, they’re assets. Assets that cost quite a bit of money to keep and train, and if a chance comes to make a profit on the sale of an asset, you take it. I bought that mare to become a broodmare, and she’s more valuable on a stud farm than as your summer mount.” It was a position he mentioned often, and one that made Beryl’s heart hurt. He didn’t seem to understand the bond she felt with her horses—not Belle, the pony he’d sold when she was ten; not Dannyboy, the chestnut gelding Beryl had ridden to her first blue ribbon when she was fourteen and whom her father had sold at that very show; and not Lacey, her sweet, kind thoroughbred hunter.
Her father wasn’t cruel about it. He just didn’t understand. To him, horses were objects, not individuals. They represented profit and loss. Especially those he bred and raised for racing and hunting and showing and blood stock on his stud farm up near Saratoga.
Beryl glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I must be going. My lesson starts in less than an hour, and I have to stop by and pick up Melanie. The carriage is waiting out front.”
Mother picked up her needlework and poked her needle into the cloth. She never seemed interested in her projects, as if she did them only because it was expected of a lady of quality. “You will be home in time to help me with planning this week’s dinner party.” It wasn’t a question. “I’ve narrowed the guest list to twenty.”
Before she could answer, her father scowled. “That guest list includes the Bentleys and the Van Rissinghams, right? I’m trying to get Rutherford and Barrington to partner with me to purchase the Schmidts’ young stallion, Arcturus. If we can syndicate him and stand him at stud next spring, we’ll make back our investment in one season.” He crossed his ankles, a calculating gleam in his eyes. “I heard Schmidt has another offer he’s considering, and he’s given the bidder some time to pull together his financing, but I told him I’d match any offer. Arcturus won everything there was to win at the National Horse Show last year. With a horse like that, I could name my stud fee. I’ve got another name for the guest list. He can partner Beryl for the evening, so the numbers are even.” He shot a piercing look at Beryl, and she stifled a sigh. Another of his cronies in search of a wife.
Sighing, Mother looked at him reproachfully. “You know what will happen if the Bentleys and Van Rissinghams come to dinner. You’ll talk horses all evening. It practically ruined our last dinner party. Nobody could get a word in edgewise, and you refused to change the subject. You practically recited the Stud Book from memory, and then you each took turns bragging about how one of your horses beat another at some potty little show or track somewhere.”
With yet another argument brewing, Beryl took the opportunity to set down her nearly full teacup, drop a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek, promise to be back to help plan the dinner, and duck out of the parlor. She hurried outside into the fresh air, nodding to the footman who held the carriage door for her.
A footman. She shook her head. Liveried and everything. That was Mother for you. Mrs. Astor and Mrs. Vanderbilt had liveried footmen at their front doors, and Mother had followed suit. Beryl thought the fad ridiculous, requiring young men to wear pantaloons and hose and braid as if they’d just stepped out of Georgian England. But to Mother, and to a certain extent, Father, too, image was everything.
At least talk of the dinner party had gotten them off the subject of finding her a husband, something she was quite capable of doing herself, thank-you-very-much. Not that Beryl wanted a husband right now. She’d get around to it when she felt like it, and not before. For now, her only love was a chestnut mare named Lacey, and that was more than enough.
The last thing Major Gardiner Kennedy (Ret.) wanted to do for the next few months was coach twittering, giggly girls through riding lessons—females with hardly a notion of which end of a horse bit and which one kicked, taking riding lessons only because they had nothing better with which to fill their time, and because it was the “done thing” for ladies of a certain class. He’d scanned the list of students this morning, stunned that not a single male name was to be found.
Why had he allowed himself to be talked into this?
Because he needed money.
And he was helping out a friend.
And it was only for a few months.
It would all be worth it, if it helped him reach his goal. Wouldn’t it?
He listed the reasons for the hundredth time in the last week since landing this job, trying to convince himself it wouldn’t be so bad.
Crossing his arms on the top rail of the paddock, he studied the blood bay stallion calmly grazing in the June sunshine. Arcturus, named after the brightest star in the night sky, swished his tail, unaware of Gard’s plans and dreams for him.
“I take it from your wistful stare that you’re still interested?” Freeman Schmidt, Arcturus’s owner and Gard’s temporary employer, clapped him on the shoulder.
Gard straightened and accepted the older man’s offered hand. “Very much, sir. He’s just the stallion I need to get the farm started right.”
“I’ve had two more inquiries about him just this week. I am beginning to regret setting a price and giving you until after the Deep Haven Show to meet it.” Mr. Schmidt tapped his cane on the hard-packed dirt, pushing aside his tweed coat and tucking his thumb into his vest pocket. He gave a rueful smile. “You caught me in a moment of weakness, lad. Not to mention, my wife said if I didn’t give you a chance, I’d be in her bad graces for ages to come.” His faded, blue eyes twinkled with ever-present good humor. “Trust me, the last place you want to be is in Avila’s bad graces.” He propped one of his shiny, high boots on the bottom rung of the paddock fence.
Gard smothered a grin. On the one hand, Mr. Schmidt’s wife could be sharp-tongued, not known for suffering fools gladly, but on the other, she was tireless in her charity work with a soft heart under all her bluster. And she had made it possible for him to get this job.
“She’s a force to be reckoned with, sir, but I have a feeling that when she’s on your side, you’re unbeatable.”
Mr. Schmidt clapped Gard on the shoulder again with a guffaw. “Then I’ve been unbeatable for thirty-two years now. I highly recommend the matrimonial state. Now that you’re out of the army for good, will you be looking for a bride?”
Gard shook his head. “Not anytime soon, I’m afraid. Every penny I have goes back into saving for Arcturus. I’m in no position to take on a wife just yet.”
“Hmph. I can appreciate wanting to be wise with your funds, but when the right girl comes along, priorities change.” Mr. Schmidt pursed his lips, making his mustache jut out like walrus whiskers. “In fact, you might even consider taking on a few partners in your horse-breeding enterprise to lessen your financial burden and free up your prospects. I know I wouldn’t mind buying a share of your new venture.”
Shaking his head, Gard studied the stallion once more, noting how the sunlight gleamed off his red-brown coat and how glossy his black mane and tail appeared. “I appreciate the offer, sir, but I want to do this on my own. Spending my life in the military, I’ve lived all over the States, but I’ve never had a home. Now that I’ve inherited my grandmother’s farm, I’m ready to put down some roots. I just need to earn a bit more money this summer to get the final pieces into place to make that happen.”
“Well, I’m glad to have you taking over the lessons these next few months. Avila still hasn’t reconciled herself to the fact that she won’t be ready to resume her activities for a while yet. That was a nasty tumble she took. The doctors say she will be on crutches for at least two months, then on limited activity until perhaps Christmas. She’s fortunate to have kept her limb. It was a bad break. Truth be told, I’m glad the doctor sent her to convalesce at her sister’s place. Woman doesn’t realize her age. She’d be out here every day in spite of the crutches if I’d have let her stay here.”
I wish she were here. The military had done nothing to prepare Gard for dealing with young ladies. He knew next to nothing about girls, except that they giggled and cried a lot, both of which made him more nervous than being alone and lost in Apache country.
“I’ll do my best, sir, but I’ve never given lessons to young ladies. I might’ve spent three years as an instructor at the Cavalry School at Fort Riley, out in Kansas, but the recruits and officers I was training there were all tough men. I’m pretty sure the same methods won’t work with a … shall we say … more genteel clientele?” He rubbed the back of his neck, remembering the repetition, the drills, the shouting and dust and sweat of cavalry training, and trying to imagine what lady-students might be like in comparison.
“You’ll do fine. Most of our pupils only want to learn to hack in the park proficiently, or perhaps compete in some of the walk/trot classes in local shows this summer. They’re looking for someone to give them confidence, not ready them for the Pony Express.” He chuckled. “Word’s beginning to spread that we have an eligible new riding instructor. We’ve already had double our number of students from last year, and it’s been less than a week. Twenty-seven students over last year’s twelve.” He rubbed his hands together.
Gard’s stomach muscles clenched. “That’s more than I can handle alone. Thanks for letting me bring Asa along to help. He’ll be working with the greenest riders while I take on the more advanced students.” Gard glanced over his shoulder toward the training ring where his former striker and friend groomed a plump white pony in preparation for his first lesson of the day. Asa’s hair nearly matched the pony’s, his weathered, black skin a stark contrast. He had been Gard’s father’s striker—sort of the military version of a valet—when Gard was a boy. Gard had no idea how old Asa was, just that he’d been a fixture in his life for as long as he could remember. And he was an excellent horseman.
Gard placed his hands on the top rail and pushed away. “I suppose I’d better stop admiring Arcturus and get back on the job.” He pulled a paper from his shirt pocket and scanned the list. “I’ve got two lessons this morning. A Miss Melanie Turner and a Miss Beryl Valentine?”
“You’re in for a treat. Beryl is one of Avila’s favorite students. I don’t know Miss Turner. I believe she’s new.”
Gard headed toward the barn, trying to think of anything he wanted less than to meet his first students.
Beryl held her skirts aside so Melanie could sit next to her in the carriage.
“Do you like it?” Melanie waved to her new riding habit, the latest style, lovely forest green velvet trimmed in satin. “I’ve been dying to wear it. I have a new habit made up every year, but I’ve never gotten to wear one since I don’t ride.”
“It’s beautiful.” And completely impractical for more than looking good. Beryl glanced down at her own more serviceable brown tweed. Nowhere near as pretty, but it wouldn’t show every bit of dust. She touched the white stock at her throat, fingering the hunting hound pin, a gift from Avila for her birthday last year.
Melanie laughed. She was always laughing, always playful … when she wasn’t pouting, that is. “Goodness knows how this lesson will go. I haven’t been on a horse since the pony rides at my sixth birthday.”
“I’m anxious to see Avila. She didn’t answer my last letter, but I suppose, knowing I would be coming so soon, she didn’t bother.” Beryl watched the trees and meadows go by, glad for warm weather and the gentle breeze after the bitter New York City winter. Sunshine filtered down on the open carriage as they turned out of Twin Oaks, the Turner family’s summer estate, and headed to Schmidt Farm. The road wound near the Hudson River, and across; through the trees, Beryl could make out the gray stone buildings of West Point Military Academy.
“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Melanie leaned closer, face alight at being able to relay a choice bit of gossip. “Our cook heard from the Schmidts’ housekeeper that Mrs. Schmidt had a bad fall. She won’t be teaching lessons. In fact, she’s not even at the farm. She’s gone up to Syracuse so her sister can look after her, probably for the entire summer. Mr. Schmidt hired someone to take her place, a dashing ex-Major. I hear he’s gorgeous.” She rolled her eyes, clasping her hands against her chest. “I just heard about it yesterday, which is the only reason I didn’t beg off these lessons at the last minute.”
Beryl’s heart lurched. “What happened?” And how did Melanie always get news before Beryl?
“I don’t know the details. A broken leg, maybe? But the rumor is that the new instructor is heart-stoppingly handsome.”
Biting her lip, Beryl frowned. No wonder Avila hadn’t answered her letter. And now she wouldn’t even be at the farm all summer?
They turned into the Schmidt Farm drive, passing between the whitewashed brick pillars and under the wrought-iron sign. The large house and barns came into view, white-railed paddocks, closely clipped lawns, carefully raked training rings, everything orderly and familiar while chaos burst through Beryl. As they reached the south end of the riding enclosure, Melanie stopped cold.
“I told you he was gorgeous, but my, my.”
“What did you say?” Beryl pulled herself from her distracted thoughts.
Melanie nudged Beryl, indicating with her chin—because it was unladylike to point—in the direction of the far side of the ring. “Pay attention.” She squeezed Beryl’s arm. “It’s the new riding instructor, Major Kennedy. Oh my, just looking at him makes my heart flip-flop.”
Beryl glanced in the direction Melanie was staring. A jolt rippled through her, but she quickly tried to quell it. Whew. Melanie was right. If that was the new riding instructor, this stable was going to be stampeded by society women wanting to learn to ride. He wore no hat on his dark curly hair, and his riding breeches and jacket fit him just right. Sunlight gleamed on his knee-high boots. Tall, thin, with high cheekbones and a straight nose, he looked like every girl’s dream of a dashing cavalry officer.
He turned his head and their eyes locked. Her heart tripped and a thrill whooshed through her. Even at this distance, he had quite the impact. And yet, looking the part didn’t mean he could ride, or that he could teach. What experience did he have? Did he know a cavaletti from a canter? Time would tell.
Dropping her gaze, she let out a slow breath, casually turning toward the white-railed paddock where the Schmidts’ prize stallion Arcturus, grazed. This was the horse her father was trying to form a syndicate to purchase. He’d been the talk of the Deep Haven Show last fall, winning the model class as well as the open jumping class. She couldn’t stop her gaze from returning to Major Kennedy, feeling a thrill go through her once more.
She turned away, disquieted by the awareness she had of the Major. No man had ever affected her this way, and they hadn’t even met. Was she so shallow as to be impressed with a handsome face? She hoped not. “I wonder if Lacey has settled in. It’s a long trip, even by train, and she hates to travel.”
“You can’t seriously be thinking about your horse at a time like this? Don’t you think he’s handsome?” Melanie tugged on her elbow, inclining her head toward the instructor. “No wonder your mother despairs of finding a husband for you.”
Beryl winced. “Don’t start. She keeps bringing home eligible men, but I don’t care for any of them. They’re fine but not what I want in a husband.”
“Well, you are the heiress to a huge fortune. It’s a serious decision. Wasn’t there anyone you met last winter that you liked?”
“They weren’t all terrible, but how can I know if they really like me, or if they just like my father’s money? Almost every one of them mentioned my inheritance at one point or another. I want to marry someone who loves me for myself, not for my father’s bank accounts and property. I want someone who would marry me even if I didn’t have a penny to my name. And it would be awfully nice if he at least liked horses a little bit.”
Melanie frowned, tilting her head as if Beryl had spoken in a foreign language. “You want to marry for love?”
The wonder and disbelief in Melanie’s voice made Beryl sad. New York Society considered birth and status well above feelings and dreams, and it was the duty of all wealthy, well-born young ladies to make advantageous alliances through marriage to ensure the continuation and exclusivity of the social strata to which they had been born. This was drummed into them from their first breath, and it drove Beryl mad. Rebellion heated in her middle, and she pressed her lips together to stop the flow of words she knew Melanie wouldn’t understand.
“I want to check on Lacey.” She started around the ring, careful to make a wide swing that would take her away from Major Kennedy. She wasn’t ready to deal with him just yet.
“Don’t you want to meet the new instructor first?” Melanie trotted alongside.
“No, there will be time enough for that.”
Beryl had the summer to be free, to concentrate on her horsemanship and her sweet mare. Perhaps, if she prayed hard enough, God would send the perfect husband: a man who loved God, loved her, and didn’t need or want her money.