To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  Sighing, Cullen gave Bucket’s head one last pat and rose from the chair. He moved in the darkened parlor to the edge of the window, which allowed him a full view of the area in front of the house. He looked toward the barn, thinking of the mare inside.

  He’d known Bourbon Belle was a valuable thoroughbred. But three thousand dollars? That’s what Harding offered him.

  Mr. Linden had failed to tell him Bourbon Belle was a champion racehorse, one with quite a winning streak. Cullen could guess why the man had left that part out, and couldn’t blame him. He might’ve done the same, under the circumstances. Much as he’d done himself moments earlier with Margaret.

  Not a lie, yet not the whole truth. Which wasn’t strictly a lie. But it was, without question, not strictly the whole truth. He sighed.

  Harding had invited him to attend an annual yearling sale to be held at Belle Meade later in the summer. Cullen shook his head, the irony of the situation still fresh. A thoroughbred sale drawing owners of the finest blood horses from all over the United States and now, in the past year, Europe as well. Including . . . England.

  Harding had stated it so proudly, all while Cullen felt an ocean evaporating in a single moment. Of all the farms for sale in Tennessee, how was it he’d landed at the one with a thoroughbred champion, next to a plantation that, he’d learned, was the largest thoroughbred stud in the South?

  The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the hour, and by the twelfth strike, as the last chord settled into the silence, he knew what he’d said to Margaret earlier that afternoon wasn’t true.

  There was one thing he would dictate. And demand. And never compromise on. If she had it in her mind for him to step into her father’s place and take over as trainer for that horse, and continue to race Bourbon Belle, the woman was in for an enormous disappointment—and the two of them in for a rough road ahead.

  He briefly closed his eyes, the day catching up with him. If the situation came to it, which he hoped it wouldn’t, he would sell the horse in order to keep his secret. Because if his past in England ever came to light here, everything would be lost.

  Not only for him, but for Margaret Linden and her father as well.

  Chapter

  FIFTEEN

  How many men did you say you’ve hired?” Maggie looked across the breakfast table at Cullen, her foolishness from the other night still gnawing at her pride. A prowler, indeed. She’d allowed her fatigue and imagination to run away with her. And in front of Cullen, no less. He’d not mentioned it since, but still . . .

  “Twenty-three,” he answered, glancing at the clock on the hearth. “And they’ll be here soon.” He downed the last of his coffee. “Are you goin’ to Belle Meade again today?”

  She nodded. “Only until noon. I should be back shortly thereafter.”

  “The men and I will likely be in the fields until sundown. We have some catchin’ up to do in regard to plantin’, so I won’t be here for dinner.” He looked up from his plate. “In the event your father asks,” he added.

  Maggie nodded, forking another bite of scrambled eggs.

  Breakfast conversation without Papa present this morning wasn’t as uncomfortable as she’d thought it would be, which is precisely what her father had told her earlier. She wondered now whether he truly wasn’t feeling well, as he’d said, or if he’d taken his meal abed simply so she and Cullen would be forced to speak to each other. She wouldn’t put it past him.

  She and Cullen had actually gotten along fairly well over the past two days. Not a cross word between them.

  Granted, she’d scarcely seen the man, what with his either being in town or riding the fields, or holed up with her father late into the evening discussing what had been planted in which field last, or how to rotate the crops, or one of so many other farming topics she found less than captivating. But she hadn’t minded their being in league with each other last night.

  The latest edition of American Turf Register and Sporting Magazine had arrived yesterday, and she’d devoured it in her room, poring over the latest articles, the notices of which stallions were standing stud on which estates, and the racing memoranda reporting last week’s wins and respective purses. Bourbon Belle’s name was nowhere listed, of course. But Maggie vowed to change that soon enough.

  She simply needed to find a new jockey—and the opportune moment to broach the subject with Cullen of racing Belle again.

  She could scarcely believe General Harding hadn’t mentioned anything to him about Bourbon Belle in the course of their conversation. Although some of the traits typically assigned to the Irish didn’t seem to fit Cullen, a boldness in speaking his mind certainly did. If he knew about Bourbon Belle, he surely would have said something.

  She studied him across the table.

  As Papa had warned her, she didn’t expect Cullen to be enthusiastic about the subject, not when considering his own father’s struggles with gambling. But she and Papa never gambled. And for that matter, neither did General Harding. She simply needed to persuade Cullen to see the issue from their perspective. And she would.

  Having had four brothers, she knew enough about men to know she needed to catch him in a favorable mood. But exactly what “favorable” looked like for Cullen McGrath, she couldn’t quite say. She’d have to think on that.

  “General Harding told me he’s glad you’re offerin’ ridin’ lessons in his corrals. He says it’s good advertisement for his estate’s services.”

  Maggie paused. “He said that? That he was glad?”

  Cullen nodded. “And havin’ seen you ride, I imagine you’re an excellent instructor. You must enjoy it.”

  Surprised by the compliment and the sincerity in his smile, she was a bit taken aback. Yet also encouraged. Was this the opportunity she’d been waiting for? “Thank you, Cullen, I appreciate that.” She fingered the rim of her coffee cup, debating if she should bring up the subject of Belle. “While I do gain satisfaction from teaching the girls how to ride, I wouldn’t say that’s what I’ve always dreamed of doing.”

  His gaze locked on hers and held, then swiftly broke away. He stood, tucking his napkin by his plate. “Well, you certainly are gifted at it all the same. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to be goin’. I’ve got a lot to do before the workers arrive. I hope you have a good day, Margaret.”

  Maggie stared at his back as he left, wondering if she’d ever seen a man clear a room so swiftly.

  A few minutes later, changed from her day dress to her riding habit, Maggie retrieved her gloves from the side table and slipped them on, assessing the jacket and skirt. Both the sleeves and hem showed signs of wear. Not surprising, the garment having seen its fifth season. Savannah’s skillful dressmaking guaranteed the garment would last, but even her friend’s expert handiwork couldn’t extend the life of the material.

  But for now, funds didn’t exist to commission a new ensemble. This one would have to do. At least the ivory point plat lace adorning the lapels—another of Savannah’s skills—was still as beautiful as the day her friend had first sewn it on.

  Maggie opened the screen door to the front porch and found Cullen standing motionless at the edge of the steps, staring out past the stable. She joined him, curious as to what held his interest.

  Coming down the road, en masse, was a throng of people. All Negroes. Not only men, but women and children. Lots of children.

  “I thought you said you hired twenty-three men.”

  “I did.” Cullen shifted on the porch beside her. “But I told the men to bring their families with them.”

  Maggie looked over at him. “Every day?”

  He turned. “What do you mean every day?”

  “You told the men to bring their families with them every day?”

  He eyed her. “I told the men to bring their families with them because they’re going to live here. With their families. At Linden Downs.”

  Maggie stared. “I understood you to mean they would come and work here, then return to the
ir homes in the evening. As a lot of the other farms are doing now. It’s simpler, people say. And less expensive.”

  He smiled as though finding that premise—or perhaps, her—intriguing. “That may be true. But we’re going to do things a little differently here.”

  She found his use of we slightly annoying. First, because he hadn’t discussed any of his plans about the farm with her, never mind that she hadn’t asked. And second, because he already seemed so comfortable in his role as owner. Yet she smoothed her frown and tried not to let her frustration show.

  After all, they’d been getting along so well, and she needed to keep it that way if she was going to win him over to racing Belle again.

  He offered his arm and, realizing his intent, she slipped her hand through and followed him down the stairs to stand beside him in the yard. To greet the newcomers, she guessed. What she hadn’t counted on was how he covered her hand with his on his arm. And kept it there.

  “You changed.” His gaze roamed the length of her then leisurely wove its way back up again. “In case I haven’t said this yet . . .” He leaned closer. “You’re a beauty of a woman, Margaret Linden.”

  Moved by his hushed tone and the thoroughness of his attention, she found her frustration quickly fading—and her riding habit growing overly warm. “Thank you . . . Cullen.”

  Mary Harding was right. He was a handsome man. Even if not in the traditional sense. His eyes, so pale a shade of green. His dark hair, longer and—how had she missed this before—touched with streaks of silver at the temples. Even the perpetual stubble that graced his jaw was peppered with the same. But that was to be expected, she guessed. After all, he was older. Almost thirty.

  Even the way he stood carried authority, and challenge. Yet when he moved, as she knew from watching him, he had an easy grace about him, one that said he didn’t much care what people thought about him. And his mouth . . . Lips closed, though not set in a firm line, just waiting for the slightest excuse to—

  His mouth tipped in a languid smile, fulfilling the thought she’d just had, and Maggie, growing aware of her actions, lifted her gaze to find him watching her. Amusement accented his features, all except for the not-at-all-humorous intensity in his eyes. She blushed to her toes. He’d caught her staring. And not only staring. Admiring. Though judging from the pleasure in his expression, he didn’t mind in the least. But she did.

  Because it felt as if he could read her every thought. Even the ones she preferred be kept tucked away.

  Finding it harder to breathe, she removed her hand from the crook of his arm and focused again on the multitude of people moving as one up the road.

  “Where will they all live?” she asked after a moment, her composure returning.

  “In the cabins.” His voice still harbored a smile as he gestured in the direction where Cletus and Onnie lived.

  Maggie scanned the imminent throng. “But there are only four empty cabins. That’s not enough room for all those people.”

  “I know. That’s why we’ll build more.”

  “More cabins,” she repeated.

  He nodded.

  “But . . . that takes money.”

  “Which we have.”

  Again, that annoying we. Figures started populating her head, money she needed for Bourbon Belle. Entry fees for races, the higher grade feed, finer tack, the cost of paying a jockey. All of that mandated cash. And what she earned from riding lessons scarcely covered a fraction of it. Although she did have a little saved.

  “Does Papa know about this?”

  Cullen smiled. “In fact . . . he does. He knows about the saddle horses I’m purchasin’ too.”

  “And he approves?”

  He opened his mouth to respond when a somewhat feeble-sounding voice chimed in from above.

  “I most certainly do.”

  Maggie turned, along with Cullen, to see her father sitting by his bedroom window on the second floor. He looked between the two of them, a smile on his face the likes of which she hadn’t seen in a very long time.

  “Cullen and I discussed all this at length,” Papa continued, resting an arm on the sill. “I admit I had questions at first. All of which he answered more than to my satisfaction. Not that you had to,” he said, the statement directed to Cullen. “But I appreciate your taking the time to discuss your plans with me.”

  Cullen shook his head. “Our plans, Mr. Linden.”

  Papa offered a smart little salute, a gesture Maggie remembered him using with her brothers, and a pang of loss tightened her chest as it did from time to time when life chose to remind her of what her world used to be like. Before the war.

  Then just as swiftly, that pang took a different twist, and she recognized only too well the taint of bitterness inside her. While she’d not been especially close to her mother, she’d always been so to her father, and to see Papa interacting with Cullen this way, so accepting, so eager to trust, so proud . . .

  “Mister McGrath, sir.”

  Maggie turned at the gentle thunder of a voice behind her and found herself looking into a sea of faces. All of them staring back.

  A tall and exceptionally muscular black man, his expression fierce, stepped forward. “We here like we agreed, Mister McGrath.”

  The man’s enunciation was distinct, and the strong undercurrent of his tone communicated volumes more than his words. Whatever Cullen had agreed to do, this man was reminding him.

  Cullen stepped forward, and to Maggie’s surprise, offered his hand to the man, who accepted without hesitation.

  “Welcome to Linden Downs, Mr. Ennis.” Cullen peered past him. “Welcome to you all.”

  Uneasy with Cullen’s familiarity toward the man, Maggie searched her memory, trying to recall if she’d ever seen her father shake Cletus’s hand through the years. Or that of any former slave. And she couldn’t.

  Odd, how something she’d never given thought to before could cause such a stirring inside her now.

  As Cullen and Ennis spoke, her gaze wandered the crowd, and she found the women watching her. She took in their tattered clothes and the items they carried—bundles wrapped in threadbare blankets and old wash bins filled with sundry items—and became keenly aware of how she herself was dressed and of the kid leather gloves in her hand. And of the breakfast she’d eaten earlier.

  Some of the children looked especially thin, the smallest ones peering wide-eyed from behind their mothers’ skirts. There had to be at least a hundred people standing in the yard. So many, for Cullen having hired only twenty-three men.

  “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Mr. Ennis.”

  Cullen’s statement pulled her back, as did his gentle grasp of her elbow, and Maggie looked to see the two men watching her.

  Uncertain what Cullen expected her to do, she schooled what she hoped was a kindly expression. She’d never been formally introduced to a black man before, much less as Cullen’s wife, and she wasn’t certain what etiquette demanded. Or if etiquette had even been written to cover such situations.

  “Missus McGrath . . .” Mr. Ennis dipped his head. “Honor to meet you, ma’am.”

  “And . . . you as well, Mr. Ennis.” Curtseying to the man would have been inappropriate, Maggie knew that much. Still, the moment felt robbed of something. “I-I’m glad you and your—your people have come to work at Linden Downs.”

  Mr. Ennis and Cullen exchanged a look she almost missed and couldn’t define, but the seriousness in Mr. Ennis’s expression softened by a degree.

  “Me and my people are glad, too, Missus McGrath.”

  Cullen’s smile and gentle squeeze to her elbow told her she’d done well. Still, she felt awkward and exposed, standing there as she was. Suddenly remembering, she checked the chatelaine watch pinned to her waist. Half past eight! Her first pupil arrived at Belle Meade at nine. And she’d forgotten to ask Cletus to saddle Bourbon Belle.

  “If you’ll excuse me . . . Mr. McGrath,” she said more formally, remembering how her paren
ts used to address each other in public. “I need to be off to my appointments for the morning.”

  Turning where only she could see—and Papa, too, if he was still looking, which she felt certain he was—Cullen winked. “I’ll do so most happily . . . Mrs. McGrath.” He nodded to the stable. “Belle is saddled and ready.”

  Chapter

  SIXTEEN

  Maggie sat up in bed with a start, her breath coming hard. The dream, so vivid, still seemed present and ready to pounce from the darkness. A sense of foreboding prickled her spine, and she pressed a hand to her chest, her heart thumping a steady staccato against her palm.

  She kicked off the sheet, the humidity causing her nightgown to cling to her. Her windows were open, yet not a breath of wind stirred outside. How could it be so hot? If it was this warm with June only two days away, what merciless heat did summer have in store?

  Knowing her room as well in the dark as she did in daylight, she crossed to the dresser, lifted the water pitcher, and poured, only to discover it empty. With a sigh she slipped into the hallway, her bare feet silent on the wooden floors.

  She heard her father’s deep snores coming from across the hall and slipped into his room. Bucket instantly rose from his place at the foot of the bed, but Maggie motioned the collie back down.

  She could scarcely distinguish the outline of her father’s form in the bed, but the sound of his breathing gave her comfort. Tears rose to her eyes. Please don’t take him. You have the rest of them. Don’t take him too.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, silent tears slipping down her cheeks. She closed her eyes, only to see the images from her dream slither to life again, so she quickly reopened them.

  Oh . . . so horrible a way to die.

  Pulling in a stuttered breath, she breathed a silent prayer for her father and then stepped back into the hallway, not wanting to awaken him.

  In the past two weeks, the naps he used to take in the afternoons now extended to mornings as well. Some days she would find him asleep in the chair in his office by ten o’clock, his book still propped open on the desk. And the powders . . .