A month into being a riding instructor, Gard wished he was back in the army. At least then he would know how to dress for every occasion. Asa fussed and brushed and twitched at the new suit—a tuxedo no less—while he helped Gard dress, spending half of forever tying Gard’s tie.
“Hold still.” The old man swatted Gard’s shoulder. “You can’t be going to a fancy dinner with your tie all crooked.”
“I wish I wasn’t going at all. I can’t believe I got roped into it.” Gard studied his reflection in the mirror atop the dresser. “And I can’t believe I spent money on a new suit of clothes. That money should be in the bank saving up for buying Arcturus.”
Asa nodded, pursing his lips and studying the effect his ministrations had made on Gard’s appearance. “Mebbe going to this little soiree will bring you more riding jobs. There are a couple of shows coming up, and you said the dinner would be full of horse people.”
“That’s what Wallace Valentine said, anyway.” Gard picked up his hat, wishing it were his old campaigner rather than a beaver-felt top hat. He’d never worn a top hat in his life and felt like an imposter. He didn’t put it on, since in his cramped, two-room apartment over the carriage house, the ceilings sloped and he had to stoop to go out the doors already. Still, having a place to live rent-free for the summer was helping with the exchequer.
“Will Miss Valentine be there?” Asa leaned against the door frame and put his hands into his pockets.
Gard stilled and then shrugged. “I suppose so. It’s her parents’ house.” He brushed a fleck of dust off the brim of the hat. “Why?”
Another shrug. “You been giving her lessons for a month, but you ain’t said much about her otherwise. You talk about all your other students but not her.”
Collar growing tight, Gard rolled his neck to loosen his shoulders. Asa’s dark eyes saw way too much, that’s what. “What is there to say? She’s coming along. And her mare’s already showing a big improvement.” The mare hadn’t been sold yet, thankfully. He didn’t know what Beryl would do if she lost that horse.
“Hmph. That’s not what I meant, and you know it, Major.” His striker straightened, shaking his head. “She’s mighty fine lookin’, and she sure loves horses. Man’d be proud to have a gal like that on his arm, I’m thinkin’.”
The thought hadn’t just passed through Gard’s mind over the last month. It had marched in, set up camp, and stayed, hard as he tried to uproot it. But he refused to take the notion seriously. “She’s not for me. Her father could buy and sell me a hundred times with his loose change. Anyway, I got the feeling her folks had picked out that English lord fellow for her.”
“Ain’t you always telling me that it ain’t what you have but how you act that makes you who you are? You’re as good as any of them, and better’n some.”
Gard smiled at the chiding-yet-filled-with-affection tone. “You’d defend me no matter what. Well, I’d best get to this shindig. I imagine it will be late when I get back.” He tried to tamp down some of the eagerness he felt at the thought of seeing Beryl again.
“Don’t wake me up. Some of us has to get up early and feed stock. We can’t all be gadding about after dark and sleeping in like a dandy.” Asa spoke over his shoulder as he went to his room.
Choosing to ride over rather than bother with a carriage, Gard went to the stables and saddled up Spanky, a spring-loaded young hunter prospect Freeman Schmidt wanted Gard to show this fall at Deep Haven. Spanky had terrific breeding and athletic ability, but he needed seasoning. The ride to the Valentines’ would be a good experience for him.
When Gard arrived at the Valentines’ home, he took one look and wanted to turn right around. The place was bigger than the Schmidts’ biggest barn. Every window blazed with light, and several carriages were pulled up on the circle drive. Spanky pawed the ground, shaking his head as Gard pulled him up at the open wrought-iron gates.
“Look at that. It’s almost as huge as the new Madison Square Garden.” And Beryl lived here. He’d known she was wealthy, but he hadn’t known just how wealthy. She was so far above his rank, if his rank blew up she wouldn’t hear the echo for a week.
He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He needed to stop thinking about Beryl Valentine as anything other than one of his students. Inside that house were business contacts waiting to be made, rides to negotiate on some of the best horseflesh in the country, and money to earn to fulfill his dreams.
A footman stood at the door and took Gard’s hat. Another man, the butler, came to his elbow. He took the invitation Gard dug out of his breast pocket, glanced at the name, and nodded. “This way, sir.”
He led the way through the massive foyer to a pair of pocket doors that had to be ten feet tall. They glided open with a mere push from the butler. “Mr. Gardiner Kennedy,” he announced. Gard stood erect and walked into the room wearing his “command” face, braced to meet this new challenge, arranging his thoughts like marshalling a company of new recruits.
The room was full. Men in evening dress of black and white, women in bright gowns with glittering jewels, upswept hair and ostrich feathers. Looking from one face to another, he recognized no one, but he noted he’d at least dressed correctly.
Then someone moved on his left. He turned his head and quit breathing. Beryl rose from a gilded couch, coming toward him. She wore a red dress that rustled and showed her creamy shoulders and slender neck. A string of red stones adorned her neck and another circled her wrist. Red drops hung from her ears; white gloves covered her hands and arms; and she carried a red and white fan. Her eyes were luminous, and glints showed in her hair where two diamond combs held it back from her face.
Gone was his equestrian student in serviceable tweeds, the rider who also cleaned stalls and groomed horses and hauled feed. Before him stood a flower of society, heiress to a fortune, and more beautiful than ever.
“I’m so happy you came.” Was that relief he saw in her eyes? Had she thought he might not attend? Had she been watching for him?
Then she smiled, and his heart kicked like a fractious colt at his first farrier appointment. When she offered her hand, he took it, remembering to bow.
“Miss Valentine.”
“Come, say hello to my parents, and then I’ll introduce you around.” She threaded her hand through his arm, directing him to a group of people near the fireplace. Wallace Valentine held out his hand with a broad smile.
“Ah, Kennedy. Glad you could come. Rosemary, you remember Mr. Kennedy?”
“Of course. Welcome.” Mrs. Valentine didn’t appear all that glad he had come, her eyes skimming him from hair to shoes and then sliding away as if bored with his arrival. She turned to the woman on the settee beside her, a not-so-subtle snub.
Gard smothered a smile. Poor lady, having to endure the presence of a peasant at one of her parties. If he’d been surprised at the invitation from Mr. Valentine, she must’ve been more so.
“Kennedy, I want you to meet Rutherford Van Rissingham and Barrington Bentley.” He inclined his head toward two older gentlemen, one with muttonchop sideburns, and the other with a beaky nose and narrowly spaced eyes. “They’re avid horse breeders, like me. I’m sure they’d enjoy talking to a horseman such as yourself. We’re working on forming a syndicate to purchase a stallion we’ve got our eye on. Maybe you’d like to lend us your expertise?”
“Perhaps you can discuss that later, after dinner?” Mrs. Valentine shot a sharp look at her husband, who reddened slightly but nodded.
“After dinner, then.”
“I’d be happy to help,” Gard said. “Though I’m sure you don’t need it. Hearing you talk the other day about the bloodlines you’ve got going at your stud farm, I could probably learn quite a bit from you.” Gard laid it on perhaps a bit thick, but it never hurt to be generous with compliments to your host.
“Lord Neville Springfield,” the butler announced.
Beryl’s hand tightened on Gard’s arm, and he glanced down at her. Her pretty mouth was pressed into a line, and there was an annoyed tilt to her eyebrows. So, the arrival of Springfield filled her with no joy? The thought shouldn’t make him so happy. It seemed Lord Springfield was always around these days. He’d leased a horse from Freeman Schmidt and kept him stabled at the farm. More often than not, he showed up when Beryl was having a lesson, though Gard had put a stop to him becoming a railbird and giving unsolicited advice.
What bothered Gard the most was when the lesson was over and Lord Springfield would invite Beryl to ride with him along the river or into Garrison for lunch. He’d never been the jealous type, but he was finding out new things about himself this summer. At least half the time, Beryl invited him to come along, and using the excuse of Spanky needing seasoning, he went. Lord Springfield seemed less than pleased about Gard playing gooseberry, but Gard didn’t care. The more time he could spend with Beryl, the better. The summer was going by fast, and at its end, he’d have to say goodbye forever to his favorite pupil.
Mrs. Valentine rose and swept down the room to greet the Englishman. “Ah, Lord Springfield, so glad you’ve arrived. Do come in.” She walked him through the clusters of people, beaming as if showing off a prized sheep at the county fair. “Let me introduce you to …”
“How is Lacey today?” Beryl asked.
Gard smiled. “She’s fine, a little grouchy this morning. Probably a little sore from all the pole work you two did yesterday. I gave her a liniment rubdown and turned her out in the south pasture to loaf around.” And he’d had to wash his hands several times to get the liniment smell out. He could just imagine Rosemary Valentine’s expression if he’d come to dinner smelling like a stable.
“I never asked what you said to my father to convince him not to sell her to Lord Springfield. I know he was keen to make the deal.” She let her hand slip from his elbow and opened her fan, fluttering it beneath her chin but not in a flirtatious way. More like she was warm in the crowded room.
Odd that he should miss her touch on his arm. “I told him she needed a lot of work, that she wasn’t in show or hunt condition.” He shrugged. “Nothing that wasn’t true, mind you. She’s coming on well, but another month or two, and she’ll be a different animal.”
“Well, whatever you said, I’m grateful. My father doesn’t understand the bond that forms between a rider and horse. He sees animals as ‘things’ to be traded and profited from, not individuals with personalities and heart.”
Gard had met men like Wallace Valentine in the army, treating their horses like equipment issued to them like their rifle or bedroll or canteen. Those men saw the cavalry as a place to earn glory, advancement, excitement. Just like Valentine saw breeding, buying, and selling horses as a way to impress his peers, make money, and exert dominance in the horse world. He feared he’d only delayed the inevitable by mentioning Lacey’s conditioning. She didn’t even look like the same horse now. Mrs. Valentine arrived at their side with Lord Springfield just as the butler opened the doors into the foyer once more.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, dinner is served.”
“What wonderful timing. Lord Springfield”—Mrs. Valentine arched her brows and smiled at her favored guest—“would you escort Beryl into the dining room?”
“My pleasure.” The Englishman inclined his head. “You look lovely tonight, Miss Valentine.”
“Oh, do call her Beryl. After a month of seeing each other almost every day, you can’t stand on formality. Did you know Beryl is named after the gemstone? In fact, that parure she’s wearing is made of her namesake jewels.” Mrs. Valentine twittered much like Melanie Turner—who was also attending the dinner and holding court near the bay window. Were all women born knowing how to flirt and simper?
Beryl stiffened beside Gard, not a batted eyelash or alluring tilt of the chin in sight. Come to think of it, he’d never seen her flirt or simper.
“Mother, you go ahead with Lord Springfield. I had a quick question for Major Kennedy.” She slipped her hand through his arm once more. “We won’t be a minute.”
“Nonsense,” her mother wouldn’t be thwarted. “You will see him at one of your lessons, and you can ask him your questions then. We can’t be rude to Lord Springfield.” Though evidently she could be rude to a mere riding instructor.
Beryl drew a deep breath and put a smile on her face. “Of course. Perhaps we can speak after dinner, Major?”
That she called him Major in front of her family instead of mister or Gard, as she had been doing at her lessons amused him. Not that a major was anywhere near a lord in importance, but it gave him some sort of standing in that company, he supposed.
The table was long enough to seat an entire company of men. Candelabras marched down the center in ranks, and silver, crystal, and china winked in the light. Gard found his place halfway down the side of the table, away from both his host at the head and his hostess at the foot. And much too far from Beryl who sat to her father’s left and next to Lord Springfield. At least he could see her down the way.
“Well, if it isn’t the riding instructor.” Melanie Turner came up on the arm of Mr. Van Rissingham.
Gard held her chair for her. “Miss Turner. How nice to see you again. You haven’t come to the farm again. Have you forsaken riding lessons altogether?”
She waved her hand, airily. “Oh, I’m done with riding. It’s much too physical a pursuit for me. I’ve decided to focus on my archery lessons this summer instead. That is a much more ladylike activity, I think.” She leaned back as the footman spread her napkin for her.
Spread her napkin? Did the servants fork in the food, too? Did the elite really need someone to do even the simplest tasks? And what about all the cutlery laid out in front of him? He counted thirteen knives, forks, and spoons, and no less than five crystal glasses. Two coffee cups—one regular sized, one tiny—and four plates and a soup bowl.
He pitied whoever had to wash up after the meal.
And he worried that he would make a fool of himself. He had no idea which fork to use when or what all the glasses were for. He wiped his palms on his thighs under the edge of the pristine tablecloth.
Four chairs down on the opposite side, Beryl sent him a small smile. When the first course was laid, a pale green soup, he watched her. Slowly, she reached for the rounded spoon, dipping it into the soup and sipping from the side of the spoon rather than sticking the whole thing in her mouth. He watched as other guests did the same and then took up his own spoon.
Trying not to grimace, he swallowed. The soup was cold! Was the cook an idiot, or was that how rich people ate soup? No one else seemed surprised at cold soup.
Salad, fish, chicken, ham, venison—the meal went on and on. Through each course, he took his cues from Beryl, and after the third plate had been whisked away, he realized her movements were deliberate, as if she were coaching him through the dinner.
The horseshoe was on the other foot, wasn’t it? He smothered a laugh. I guess I’m lucky she isn’t sitting beside me, threatening to smack my hand if I reach for the wrong fork. He remembered her outraged face when he’d suggested riding alongside her and tapping her hand with a quirt every time she used the reins for balance or snatched at her mount’s mouth.
But she’d gotten better over the past month, and her confidence on horseback had grown. Maybe, if he had to endure more of these dinners, he’d gain some confidence that he wouldn’t make a glaring faux pas.
Melanie kept her shoulder turned away from him, talking to the gentleman on her right. To his left, an older woman who smelled like mints and cough syrup, clattered her silverware.
“Who are you? I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Gardiner Kennedy, ma’am.”
Her pale, blue eyes widened. “You’re …” she raised her voice. “Irish?” She said it as if it was the worst thing she could think of being.
Conversation ceased, and Gard almost laughed, catching himself in time. “Well, my grandfather was from Ireland, it’s true, but I’m an American. And you are?”
“Glorinda Claes. Of the New York Claes.” She waited for a response, but he’d never heard of her or her family. “My family helped settle New Amsterdam. My great-grandfather served in the state senate.
“Oh, those Claes. Well, ma’am. It’s an honor to meet you.” Gard still had no idea who she was, but his response seemed to mollify her. He caught Beryl’s eye and she let hers twinkle, setting off a burst of warmth in his chest. What was it about her that made her different from any other woman he’d ever met?
Dinner seemed to last forever, but eventually, dessert dishes were cleared and the ladies were excused. Where were they going? Would he see Beryl again tonight? Without her to guide him through this maze of rituals, how would he know what was acceptable and what wasn’t?
“Come down here, Kennedy.” Wallace motioned as he took his seat at the head of the table. The butler and a footman entered carrying trays and a decanter. Several men lit cigars. Gard took a chair near Valentine and declined the port and a smoke. He never indulged in either.
“Rutherford, Barrington, this is the fellow I was telling you about. He’s running the show over at Schmidt Farm for the summer, so he’ll have the inside information we’re looking for.”
Gard’s brows rose. Inside information? That had a clandestine ring to it. They’d finally gotten to the reason behind his invitation, no doubt. Mrs. Valentine certainly hadn’t invited him as a social coup.
“What can I help you gentlemen with?”
“Like I said, we’re forming a syndicate to purchase a stallion, and since you’re around him every day, you can tell us about him. Is he sound? Does he have any confirmation weaknesses you think might be passed on to his get? Does he have any bad habits?”
“Which stallion are we talking about?” A boulder settled into Gard’s gut, not from the rich dinner, though he was unaccustomed to such food in such quantities. No, it was because he suspected which stallion Valentine referred to.
“Arcturus.”
His heart thumped against his breastbone. Arcturus. The stallion who was destined to be the foundation sire at Gard’s fledgling stud farm. Once he raised the money.
He spread his hands on his thighs, gripping hard. If Valentine and his cronies banded together and got into a bidding war, Gard would lose quicker than Spokane won the Derby. Would Freeman Schmidt honor the handshake agreement to sell Arcturus to Gard for the asking price after the Deep Haven Show? Or would he be swayed by a higher offer?
Gard couldn’t lie about the horse. If the deal fell through, then he’d have to trust that God knew what He was doing, and that another stallion would come along. But he couldn’t deny the disappointment that would come. Not just because Arcturus was everything he was looking for in a sire, but because, after spending time with the stallion, Gard had grown attached to him.
“Sir, Arcturus is sound. I’ve ridden him many times, and Mr. Schmidt has given me the ride on him at the Deep Haven Show before he retires him to stud. He’s got heart, and he’s smart. Learns quickly and jumps fearlessly.”
“I told you boys.” Valentine leaned back in his chair, smiling, his eyes narrowed as if looking ahead to a lucrative future as Arcturus’s owner.
“As to his confirmation, he’s well put together. No flaws.” Gard had even convinced Schmidt to enter him in the model class at the show. “As to what he will pass along to his get, it’s impossible to say since he’s not sired any foals yet. But there are no warning flags that I know of.”
“What about stable habits? Is he aggressive?” Van Rissingham tapped ash off his cigar.
“I won’t have a vicious stallion.” Bentley frowned, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Too dangerous.”
“He’s a stallion, not a lapdog. You always have to be careful with stallions, but so far he hasn’t shown himself to be aggressive. He’s stabled and pastured well away from any mares, so that helps. He’s easy in the barn, no pawing or cribbing or biting. And he loads fairly easily and travels well. I brought him up from New York City for Mr. Schmidt last month. His only quirk that I know of is that he’s reluctant to drink anything when he’s away from his normal routine. He didn’t drink anything on the train trip up, which wasn’t terrible, because he was only on the train a couple of hours, but Mr. Schmidt says he’s like that when he travels for shows, too. It’s hard to keep him hydrated.” Gard had a couple of things he wanted to try with Arcturus the next time they traveled, but he wouldn’t mention them now. “It shouldn’t matter once he’s installed at a stud farm. He’ll settle down.”
“He sounds perfect.” Bentley rubbed his narrow hands together. “The question is, where will he live? Whose farm?” He drew out a pair of pince-nez and perched them on his skinny nose.
Mr. Valentine’s brows darted toward one another. “I suppose he’ll stand at stud at the farm of the partner who puts up the most money toward the syndicate.”
“So you’re not proposing a three-way split of the cost?” Van Rissingham laid his cigar in the ash tray at his elbow and leaned forward.
“Actually, it would be a four-way split, if we decide to divide the cost equally.” Valentine nodded down the table. Lord Springfield raised his glass. “Neville is interested in joining our venture.”
Gard didn’t miss the look Van Rissingham and Bentley shared. The other five male guests looked bored, talking among themselves at the far end of the table. “Perhaps”—Gard stood—“Lord Springfield would like my chair so you can talk it over better? I don’t know that there’s anything I can add to the conversation. Arcturus is an excellent prospect as a stallion.”
“There is one more thing.” Valentine shot his cuffs. “I heard that Schmidt had another interested buyer, that they’d agreed to a price providing the buyer could get the funds together. Do you know who that buyer is, and even more important, what the price is?”
A tingle zipped across Gard’s chest, but before he had to answer that he was the buyer in question, the dining room door opened and Beryl entered a few feet. She winced at the cloud of cigar smoke, waving her hand before her face and backing up.
“Father, Mother sent me to fetch you to the drawing room. Melanie is going to play a song on the piano for us. She’s just waiting for the gentlemen before she begins.”
Gard followed his host into the room across the foyer, grateful for the interruption and wondering when he could decently escape this party. What was the protocol for leaving a society dinner party? But did he really want to leave if staying meant spending more time with Beryl?
“Oh, Lord Springfield, would you mind ever so much turning pages for me?” Melanie called from her place on the piano bench as they entered the drawing room.
Go, Melanie. Keep the Englishman busy and away from Beryl. Which I suppose isn’t very sporting of me. Lately he’d begun to suspect that if he had the means and the social standing, he might be willing to give up his bachelor status for Beryl.
“Of course, Miss Turner.” Springfield saw Beryl seated on a sofa and went to the piano.
Beryl sought Gard’s eyes and tilted her head toward the empty space beside her. He didn’t need to be asked twice. Easing down beside her, he couldn’t look away from her face, her hair, her dress that seemed to fit her right in all the right places.
“You look so different tonight. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Humor touched her eyes and she smiled. “Is that a compliment to how I look tonight or a dig at how I usually look?”
Gard knew his color was high, and he shook his head. “That didn’t come out right. What I meant to say is that you look very nice.” Which was insipid. She looked amazing, beautiful, gorgeous, striking … so many words that would’ve been better than just nice.
She leaned a bit closer and he did the same. “Truth be told, this get-up is uncomfortable and cumbersome. I’d much rather be in my riding clothes.”
He knew just how she felt. His own suit was stiff and confining. He longed for one of his old hacking jackets and riding breeches and his favorite pair of boots. Looking around at the sumptuous furniture, the valuable artwork, the gilding and carving, he wondered if he would treat Beryl differently at her next lesson. Knowing she was well off and seeing the extent of that wealth were two different things.
Melanie began to play, proficiently enough, he supposed, though he was no music expert. Springfield sat at her side, close because of the shortness of the bench, and when she nodded, he turned the sheet music.
“You had a question for me before dinner that you didn’t get to ask,” he said. If he could get the conversation onto something riding or lesson related, perhaps he could get his equilibrium back.
“The Garrison Hunt Club is going to have a hunt trial this weekend, and I wondered if you thought Lacey was ready, and if you would like to join us?” Beryl opened the pleats on her fan one-by-one, revealing the red floral design, and then just as slowly closing it, not looking at him.
He’d noticed that when the topic really mattered to her, she avoided eye contact. He found the trait endearing.
“A hunt trial?” He’d not heard of such a thing.
“Yes. The hounds need training, so the Hunt Club holds a trial … a practice hunt. Usually there are only a few riders, but a couple of times each summer, they assemble a larger field.”
“Do they hunt fox in the summer?”
She smiled, glancing up for the first time. “No. Someone drags a fox pelt over the route about an hour before the hunt. The hounds follow that trail … usually.”
“How long is the course? Lacey’s improving, but she isn’t in top form yet.”
“It depends upon how long it takes the hounds to pick up the scent, but Lacey and I have ridden in several, and I don’t believe it taxed her too much. And you can drop out of a hunt at any time.”
His mind galloped through the list of available mounts at Schmidt Farm. Rita or Delaney could certainly handle the going, but Spanky would benefit the most.
“Sure, let’s go. Though you’ll have to coach me on the etiquette. I’ve never done any fox hunting.”
“Fox hunting?” Lord Springfield stood next to Beryl. Gard hadn’t even noticed that the music had stopped. “I love a good hunt. Do tell me there are some clubs nearby?”
Wallace Valentine, overhearing, leaned back in his chair to speak over his shoulder. “Garrison Hunt is one of the best. Beryl will be happy to introduce you to the master, won’t you, Beryl.”
The slight look of dismay in Beryl’s eyes only partially mitigated Gard’s feeling of disappointment that his lordship would no doubt be joining them on the practice hunt.