by S. B. Moores
Abigail shuddered and read down the list. The Matthews twins had been invited. Jim and John were darling, but everyone knew they were sweet on the Toliver sisters, and who could tell them apart anyway?
She saw Tobias Johnson’s name, and a warning beacon flashed in her mind. Tobias was considered one of the valley’s most eligible bachelors. Even more telling was the fact that Toby’s father, Thomas, had done business with her father for a number of years. They lived on neighboring farms, and Abigail knew her father would love to see their two families’ lands united into an even greater holding. Undoubtedly Toby was her mother’s principal target.
She gazed out the window again at the gazebo taking shape on the lawn. Toby was smart enough, she knew, and her girlfriends considered him good-looking. But Toby had been her friend for so long, she had never considered marrying him. On the other hand, they had many of the same interests. Her mother would say that was enough, and that eventually true love would grow. Abigail wasn’t so sure.
Her gaze fell upon one of the workmen on the gazebo. He was the only young man among them. He worked bare-chested, and there was something familiar about his broad back and sinuously muscled arms. He lifted long beams with ease, handing them up to other workers higher in the frame of the structure. As she watched his agile movements and physical grace, a primal, animal attraction surged through her.
Then she realized she was staring at Justin Sterling.
Wait a minute. She couldn’t remember seeing his name on the list of party guests. She scanned it quickly, running her finger down the smudged names her mother had penciled on the long, thin length of paper. Justin’s name wasn’t there.
Had there been a mistake? No, she knew there had not. Justin’s family simply didn’t have enough money and, therefore, social standing, for her mother to consider him a good match for her daughter. She tossed the list aside, leaned out the window, and watched Justin and the other workers.
It simply wasn’t fair. If her mother intended to introduce her to men with whom she might consider marriage, then certainly Justin should be on the list. It was an injustice she would address herself, if necessary.
Sprinting from her bedroom, she raced down the broad, curving staircase and ran toward the kitchen. She burst through the kitchen door and ran straight to the water pump mounted next to the large metal sink. She snatched a bucket and ladle from their resting place, tossed the ladle into the bucket, set the bucket under the spout, and began pumping water. Margaret Anne, the Whitfields’ cook, was just removing a tray of sourdough biscuits from the oven when she saw Abigail.
“Land sakes, child,” Margaret Anne said. “Is the house a’fire? If so, that little bucket isn’t going to help much.”
Abigail laughed. Margaret Anne searched for an empty space on the counter on which to set her cooking sheet.
“No, Maggie,” Abigail said. “The house is safe enough. I just thought the men working outside might need some refreshment. They look so hot out there.”
“You’re right about that,” Margaret Anne said. “This Tennessee heat is enough to suffocate ordinary folks.” She craned her neck and looked out the window at the gazebo, rising steadily on the lawn, and shook her head. “Why, I remember when your daddy and I lived in Virginia—” At that moment Margaret Anne saw the strapping young Justin Sterling among the workers. She turned away from the window and looked at Abigail, this time with a raised eyebrow. Abigail saw this and spoke first.
“Would you be kind enough to put some of your prizewinning biscuits in a basket for me?” she asked sweetly. “I’m certain the men will love them.”
“You mean you’re sure that Sterling boy will love them, don’t you?” She gave Abigail a wry smile, but she started tossing some of the still warm biscuits into a basket.
“Whatever are you suggesting, Margaret Anne?”
“That innocent act isn’t fool’n me none, young lady. And it isn’t going to fool your mama long, neither. You start messing around with young bucks from the other side of the creek, and she’ll pack you off to those Saint Louis church-women in a heartbeat.”
“She’ll have to catch me first, won’t she?” Abigail plucked the basket of biscuits from Margaret Anne’s hands and left through the kitchen door with loud, swishing skirts.
“Oh, she’ll catch you, all right,” Margaret Anne called after her. “She’ll catch you good.”
Justin Sterling drove another long nail home with the heavy sledge he held in his right hand. Between strokes, he watched Abigail out of the corner of his eye as she approached the skeleton of the gazebo. Blood raced through his veins and he marveled at how his heart took flight at the mere sight of her. How could one woman have such an effect on a man?
“Hello, strong yeomen!” Abigail called out when she drew near.
Justin detected a note of humor in her voice, and that she had diplomatically avoided using any term that would remind the men they were merely day laborers for her father.
“Hello, Miss Whitfield,” one of the older workers said.
“I’ve brought you some refreshment,” Abigail said. Then, to the men who had climbed up on the expanding structure, she said, “Please rest a minute. Come down and sample some of Margaret Anne’s blue-ribbon biscuits.”
They didn’t need much encouragement, but Justin Sterling tried not to climb down any faster than the other men.
“You’re doing good work,” Abigail said. “The gazebo looks wonderful.” She handed the bucket and a stack of metal cups to the nearest man and let them help themselves to water. Then she began passing out the biscuits, working her way toward Justin as she did so.
When she finally stood in front of him, she said, “Hello, Justin. Do you think it will be finished in time for the party?”
Everyone in the valley had heard of the festivities her mother had planned, and Justin was no exception, even if he hadn’t been invited. He looked back at the gazebo as if he were assessing their work for the first time.
“I think you’ll be able to sit here in a day or two, Abby, and feed the ducks on your father’s pond.”
“That would be wonderful,” She gave him an earnest look. “Have you received your invitation?”
“No, Abby.” Justin smiled, but he looked down at his boots. “I can’t say that I have. And I really don’t think—”
“That’s not good,” she said, interrupting him. “I will have Martha deliver it to your mother this very afternoon.” She spun on her heels and marched back toward the house without giving Justin a chance to answer.
Watching her go, Justin shook his head. He took a bite of biscuit and returned to work, but he spent the rest of the afternoon pondering what sort of trouble Abby Whitfield had in store for him.
“Walter!” Anne Sterling called to her husband as he came in the back door from the barn. “Walter, the Whitfields’ servant just paid us a visit!”
“Well, that is impressive. Is Henry in some difficulty? Does he have a problem with us?”
“Oh, no,” Anne said. She waved away Walter’s dire thoughts with one hand. “Abigail has invited Justin to the party! Can you imagine that?”
“Abigail, you say.” Walter rubbed his chin and looked over to Justin, who had just returned from working on the Whitfield gazebo. “What do you know about this, Justin?”
“No more than you,” he said carefully.
Walter put his hands on his hips. “Has the spirit of democracy suddenly descended on Henry Whitfield’s shoulders? Somehow I don’t think so.”
“Now Walter,” Anne said. “You need to be less suspicious of Henry.”
“Let me see the invitation,” he said. She handed it to him and he saw that it was signed by Abigail, rather than Henrietta Whitfield. He looked at Anne and saw the quiet hope in her eyes. Obviously she was willing to overlook the irregularity in the invitation, and the implications it presented. He handed it back to her with a soft “Humph.” If Anne thought Justin could rightfully attend a function sponsored
by Henrietta Whitfield on the strength of Abigail’s invitation, he would not interfere. He had no desire to argue social decorum with his wife, who undoubtedly knew more about the subject than he.
“Better make sure the boy has something decent to wear,” he said, taking off his greatcoat.
Justin and his mother looked at each other with a wink and a smile.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
July 1834
From the comfort of her second-floor window, Henrietta Whit-field surveyed the finely dressed young men and women who mingled on the lawn and along the paths in the flower garden. Most of the valley’s well-to-do families were represented. And why shouldn’t they be? The Whitfields could be proud of the success they’d earned since she and Henry had come to Ridgetop. Any parent concerned about the security and future of their son, not to mention their whole family, would do well to marry their interests to those of the Whitfields. Careful, Henrietta, she chided herself. You’re thinking like Henry now. She of all people should remember that Abigail’s happiness mattered, too.
A burst of laughter rose from the brightly painted gazebo next to the pond. Henrietta was ready to pronounce the gathering a success, at least in terms of attendance, when she saw Justin Sterling riding a powerful black mare across the field that separated the Whitfields’ farm from the creek, and the Sterling property. Did he intend to stop at the Whitfields?
He had not been invited to the party, of that she was sure. It had been a difficult decision, since Abigail seemed so enamored with the boy. And what woman, young or old, would not have been? His chestnut-brown hair, cut shoulder-length, flowed out behind his broad straight back as he rode, and even from this distance she could feel his smoldering dark eyes examining the party. The simple act of watching Justin drive his mount forward stirred untamed feelings at Henrietta’s core that she had not experienced in decades, and she felt her face flush pink.
Oh, yes, she was well aware of Abigail’s feelings for Justin, and why. But such moods were no longer hers to possess. Henry insisted the party was only an accommodation to their daughter, to make her feel as though she were included in the process. The ultimate objective was far too important to leave to the fickle whims of a young woman’s yearning, or to her romantic ideas of love. Henry intended to find an appropriate mate for Abigail in spite of love. One who would be there to serve and protect her and her children, long after the fires of youthful passion were extinguished. Given her own past, how could Henrietta object?
Unfortunately, Justin Sterling, as strong and virile as he might be, would not be the chosen man. Undoubtedly Justin could provide Henrietta with many grandsons. But to what avail? The Sterlings might never achieve any comfortable financial independence. That would ensure the family remained forever beneath the status Henry sought to guarantee for Abigail.
And for himself, of course.
No, Justin Sterling’s “situation” simply did not meet their requirements. More’s the pity, she thought, but Henrietta would play her part. Uninvited as he might be, she would not refuse Justin her hospitality. No indeed. She would treat him as though he were her own son, returned from some faraway adventure, and receive him with open arms. After all, there were supple young ladies aplenty in the garden that day, all with sufficient charms to distract a young man in his sexual prime. Henrietta would make sure Justin met every one. She set a smile on her lips, gathered up her skirts, and descended the stairs to greet her new guest.
Justin slowed his mount to a walk as he drew near the Whitfields’ vast trimmed lawn. The imposing, three-story red brick structure, with its white columned portico, always impressed him. It was by far the most elaborate and elegant house in the county, set on a low hill and surrounded by a field of grass, which Justin thought was an unnecessary extravagance. His own modest home would be dwarfed if placed next to such a palace. His pulse quickened when he saw the milling knots of men and women in the yard and garden. He fought the urge to search for Abby among the gaily dressed women. She would be there, of course, and he would see her soon enough. Before reaching the inner yard, he reined the horse toward a livery uniformed servant, Eric, who had come forward to receive him. He swung his right leg over the horse’s back and dismounted.
“Good morning Justin,” Eric said.
“Good morning Eric.” He paused. When he handed Eric his reins, a wave of discomfort swept over him. The younger brother of a schoolmate, Eric was from a family not much different from his own, and the sight of his equal in a serving capacity reminded Justin that he was out of his element.
“You’ve got some balls on you, Justin.” Eric grinned.
“Balls and an invitation.”
“Lucky boy.”
As Eric led his horse away, Justin resolved to remain on guard, lest he commit some horrible faux pas that would offend the Whitfields and alienate him from them forever. As if on cue, Henrietta Whitfield appeared in front of him.
“Good morning,” she said.
She smiled so broadly, Justin decided the invitation he’d received must have been legitimate.
“Good morning, Mrs. Whitfield.” He bowed as low as he could without falling forward and knocking her down. “Thank you so much for inviting me to Abigail’s party.” True, she had not written the invitation, but he calculated it best to credit her, as she was Abigail’s mother, and the sponsor of the event.
“Not at all,” Mrs. Whitfield said, unfurling her fan for emphasis. “We’re always happy to receive a gentleman as charming as you. And how is your sweet mother Anne?” She offered her elbow and, when he took it, she guided him toward the party.
“She is very well, thank you. I will be sure to tell her you asked.”
“You are such a good young man.” She beamed at him. “You’ll find many of your friends here.” And then with a wink she added, “There are some pretty young ladies who want very much to talk to you.”
He could not help but be impressed by his reception. She made him feel as welcome as a cousin from Virginia she hadn’t seen in years.
As they strolled through the garden, he did see many young men and women he recognized, including Toby, who was entertaining a knot of partygoers near the gazebo. One young woman in a hat glanced at him around Toby. Was it Abigail? He didn’t get a good enough look. He considered nudging Mrs. Whitfield that way, but Henrietta took him in a different direction.
“Let’s get you some iced punch,” she said. “Then there are some people I’d like you to meet.”
It continued like that for thirty minutes more. The punch tasted cool and sweet, and Justin luxuriated in the ice. Tables to which Mrs. Whitfield escorted him were piled high with rare delicacies, sandwiches, and cakes, the likes of which Justin had never seen. The attention Abigail’s mother lavished on him continued to surprise him. What had he done to merit such thoughtfulness?
Finally, with a firm grip on his arm, she guided him to a delicate young woman who sat off by herself on a short white bench beneath a towering green oak tree. Her long brunette hair fell luxuriously over the shoulders of her sunburst yellow gown. The spread of her skirts nearly covered the bench, which was only long enough for two to occupy.
“Sally Marston,” Henrietta said as they approached. “I’d like you to meet Justin Sterling.”
Sally’s eyes fluttered briefly at Justin, who felt a warm flush of embarrassment at the young woman’s sweetness.
“Pleased to meet you,” Justin said a little haltingly. She looked familiar, like a girl he’d known all his life who’d become a woman when he wasn’t looking. He had been too distracted by looking for Abigail to remember the girl’s name.
“Oh, we’ve met.” Sally smiled. “And I’m pleased to see you again. You live west of the confluence at Elk Creek, do you not?” Her voice betrayed no notion that many of the less socially important families homesteaded in that direction.
“Yes,” Justin admitted. He quickly rummaged through his mind to find some qualifying characteristic of his family’s that wo
uld explain why they had settled where they had, but he didn’t have to.
“We live that way, too,” Sally said. “But much farther away.”
“Of course. Your father operates the ferry landing.”
“Jacob Marston, yes. Would you like to sit with me a spell?” She brushed her skirts to one side, revealing just enough of the bench for him to sit down.
Justin had no reason to dislike Sally Marston, but he hadn’t planned on spending his afternoon on the edge of the party—and away from Abby. He looked at Mrs. Whitfield for help, but Henrietta released his arm and said, “How very nice of you, Sally. I’ll go check on the other guests. You two enjoy yourselves!”
Henrietta smiled and left Justin standing by the bench, trying not to look uncomfortable. He gawked at the space Sally had cleared for him. Pretty as she was, his chest ached at the thought of being trapped with her under the shady oak. But what could he do? It would be the height of rudeness to excuse himself and walk away, especially after Mrs. Whitfield had introduced them. He sighed and sat down heavily next to Sally. They smiled at each other and an awkward silence fell between them. He took a sip of punch to buy some time, but as he was drinking Abby appeared in front of him, seemingly out of thin air.
“Sally. Justin. Are you enjoying yourselves?”
Justin was so startled, he stood straight up and choked on a swallow of punch. He placed his hand over his mouth to keep from spraying Abby as he coughed.
“My,” Abigail said. “It’s a good thing we’re not serving anything stronger than punch.”
Sally laughed, but in the back of his mind Justin could tell that she wasn’t entirely happy to have been interrupted by Abby.
“Forgive me, please,” Justin said when he had recovered. He looked down into Abby’s impossibly green eyes and felt the familiar surge of raw desire sweep through him. It was such a palpable sensation, he felt sure the woman must be able to see it, and he blushed.
“So, you’ve only been here a few minutes and you’re already apologizing,” said a new but familiar voice. It was Toby. “I must know what for, since Justin Sterling seldom does anything he needs to be sorry for.”