He mulled his attitude on the short walk to the Myles’s home on the opposite end of the Rittenhouse Square neighborhood. Lord, it’s been so long since I’ve done anything like this. The prayer calmed him, and a whistle formed on his lips. Perhaps tonight would surprise him.
It did, the moment he crossed the threshold into the grand, emerald-papered foyer and met the gaze of Jocelyn Jones.
Ten years hadn’t changed her. Same golden hair, same green eyes, same uncomfortable expression when she looked at him.
When he’d finished handing his hat and gloves to the manservant at the door, she’d left the foyer. At least he didn’t need to make small talk with her. He passed through a wide door flanked by twin Ionic marble columns and joined a crowd in a high-ceilinged chamber papered in white and gold, trimmed in deep blue—an elegant home befitting an oil magnate like Hector Myles.
Before he could accept a glass of punch from a passing servant’s tray, Winnie Myles was at his side, fresh as a peach in a honey-orange gown that suited her dark hair and eyes. “Mr. Emerson, how good of you to come.”
“You were most persuasive.”
Her lashes batted in a teasing gesture. “Papa has long wanted to meet you, and now that you’re coaching our team, I thought this the perfect opportunity.”
“About that—”
“Here he is.” She waggled her fingers at a gentleman with graying brown locks and a thick mustache. “Papa, meet Mr. Emerson.”
“At long last.” Mr. Myles pumped Beck’s hand. “So glad you could attend.”
“I was happy to make a donation to such a worthy cause as the Children’s Hospital, sir.”
“And you’ll see that the Liberty Belles win the exhibition, so there will be even more donations to the cause, eh? Winnie told me all about it. Said you know a fair bit about the game.” Mr. Myles gripped Beck’s lifeless arm around the bicep.
Beck stiffened, awaiting Mr. Myles’s inevitable look of pity, but his attention was drawn away by an approaching gentleman with dark hair and catlike eyes. “Ah, Victor Van Cleef, my protégé at Myles Oil, meet Beckett Emerson.”
“So you’re the elusive Emerson.” Victor Van Cleef’s thin lips quirked underneath his waxed black mustache.
Beck preferred to think of himself as discriminating about where he spent his time, not elusive or reclusive. “Business keeps me occupied.”
Miss Myles rapped her father’s sleeve with her feathery fan. “And you’ve been most eager to talk business with Mr. Emerson, haven’t you, Papa?”
“Indeed.” Mr. Myles rubbed his hands together. “I’m curious about the safety precautions it’s said you’ve set in place at Emerson Works.”
“Safety precautions?” Miss Myles looked up at him, as if she was truly interested.
But she couldn’t possibly be. She was a good hostess, was all. “Fire walls, additional exits in case of emergency, that sort of thing.”
Victor chortled. “Unnecessary expense, if you ask me.”
Miss Myles’s brow furrowed. “I think it wise.”
“I’m undecided,” her father said. “I should appreciate a lengthier discussion on the subject, good sir, but my late wife would never have approved of me discussing business at a party—ah, I will make one exception, however. Victor, I see Archie Quaid. We must take advantage of his attendance to convince him to allow the merger to go through. Excuse us, Mr. Emerson, Winifred.”
Miss Myles shook her head, an indulgent gleam in her eye as her father and Victor disappeared into the throng.
This was as good a time as any to refuse to coach her team. But first, a little gratitude. “Thank you for taking Lulu on the team, Miss Myles.”
With a flick of her wrist, she waved her cheeks with her fan. “If you are coaching us, I insist you call me Winnie, else I may not respond to your commands in the heat of a practice session, Beck—may I call you that? It will be so much easier on the field.” She didn’t wait for his nod before continuing on. “And I told you, every lady who wishes to play may join.”
“She may not be enthusiastic at this moment, Winnie.” He grinned at the use of her Christian name. “But as I said, she needs the structure and distraction.”
“Ah, yes, diversion from the object of her affection. I imagine he is a ne’er-do-well, to have earned your disapproval?”
“That’s not quite it.” At her surprised look, he shrugged. “I don’t care that he has little in terms of worldly goods. I’m more concerned that he sees her as an heiress, not a wife. Time will tell, and while they have spoken of marriage multiple times in their six-week acquaintance, I wish her to have more time before making such a monumental decision.”
“And she’s seventeen, correct? Not the youngest bride in Philadelphia, but you said you were sixteen when you went to war. I imagine you are concerned for Lulu because you know youth can be impetuous.”
“On the contrary, I know well how strong youthful determination can be. I would never underestimate it, nor would I take too lightly the power of love at any age.” Jocelyn Jones strode behind Winnie, watching him from the corners of her eyes. Beck tugged his gaze away and met Winnie’s squarely.
“Oh, I see.” And it was clear from her breathy tone that she did.
Beck inwardly groaned. Now Winnie knew he had toppled head-over-boots in love as a young man—and had not quite gotten over it.
Winnie snapped shut her fan. She was not accustomed to the sensation clumping in her stomach like old, uneaten oatmeal, but the direction of her thoughts made it clear what she felt: jealousy.
She’d never loved anyone before, not like that. It had never bothered her, either, but for the first time, she wanted to have that sort of love. She was two-and-twenty and marriageable, as Papa reminded her daily. How much easier would marrying be if she was actually in love?
But love didn’t always end happily, as Beck’s set jaw made clear. Whomever he’d cared for had broken his heart.
A change of subject might be best. She grappled for words, finding them slippery as a muddy baseball and just as awkward to do anything with. At last she settled on the obvious. “Punch?”
“None for me, but I shall fetch you some if you like.”
“Thank you, no, but oh, here are our neighbors. I must introduce you.” She greeted the elegantly dressed couple in their early thirties. “Mr. Beckett Emerson, meet Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Beale.”
After the how-do-you-dos, Winnie tipped her head to Beck. “Their daughter, Penny, is my particular friend. How is she this evening?”
“Impish,” Marjorie Beale uttered.
“Asleep,” her husband said at the same time.
At Beck’s lifted brow, Winnie laughed. “Penny is four.”
“She is determined not to trade the baseball you gave her for a croquet mallet.” Marjorie sniffed.
When the talk shifted to Emerson Works and its manufacture of horse-drawn street cars and freight cars, Winnie left them to greet other guests. She kept an eye on Beck, however. Half the Liberty Belles attended, and Beck spoke to them all. He socialized with businessmen, politicians, and representatives from the Children’s Hospital alike, not behaving at all like the recluse Papa and Victor said he was. What a mystery Beck Emerson was turning out to be.
Victor came alongside her. “Emerson is your new friend, I take it.”
“Didn’t Papa tell you? He’s coaching the Liberty Belles.”
“He mentioned it, but honestly, I shouldn’t expect too much.”
“Because of his business obligations?”
“Not that. His arm doesn’t work.” Victor whispered it like it was a secret.
“A wound sustained in service to our country. And what has his arm to do with anything, anyway?”
“I suppose you’re right. One doesn’t need two arms to merely coach.”
“Merely? ’Tis a vital role.”
“For a girls’ exhibition.” Victor smiled indulgently. “Do not look at me like that. I find your enthusiasm for th
e game charming.”
Her mood swung from defensive to horrified. Charming? Oh, dear. Had Papa spoken to Victor about his idea that Winnie marry him? It was one thing for Papa to encourage her in that direction, but it was another altogether to tell Victor about it. Especially since the idea of marrying her father’s protégé struck her like a rogue baseball to the gut. “Speaking of the game, will you attend?”
“Indubitably.” He bowed. “I’ll allow you to see to your guests.”
Her hand pressed her fluttering stomach. She’d put off speaking to Papa about his ridiculous idea that she marry Victor, since it was far easier to dismiss it from her mind and hope it would go away. However, she hadn’t expected Victor to call her charming.
Nor had she expected to see Beck engaged in a conversation with one of the loveliest women in Philadelphia, Jocelyn Jones. Neither smiled, but then Jocelyn’s fingers landed on Beck’s forearm in a familiar gesture. Even from across the room, Winnie could see his jaw clench.
The minute they finished, Winnie hastened to him. “Beck, do you know who that is?”
“Mrs. Jones?”
“Her sister is the pitcher of the Patriots, our competition at the exhibition. No doubt she learned you are our coach.”
“Paulette plays?”
“You know Paulette Perry?” Winnie’s breath stopped somewhere on its way out. “Oh, you were not discussing baseball, were you?”
“I knew the family when I was younger, but it has been over ten years since I saw them last. Paulette had bird legs and long braids down her back at the time.”
Paulette was precisely Winnie’s age. Jocelyn was six years older—and Beck watched after her while a muscle worked in his cheek. Suddenly, Winnie’s stomach did that strange, cold-oatmeal thing again, but this time, it sent chilly tendrils down her legs, accompanied by a sudden dislike for Jocelyn Jones. How ridiculous. She didn’t even know the woman.
But she nevertheless distrusted her. “The Patriots’ charity isn’t even a real group. If they win the game, the proceeds will pay for tea luncheons at the Women’s Club Auxiliary’s aid meetings.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. It may have been true, and she may not approve, but it was not her place to say it with such unkindness and in that superior tone. Heat suffused her neck and face as she prayed for God’s forgiveness. Then she turned to Beck. “I’m sorry. What I meant to say was—they’re a good team.”
He laughed, a deep hearty sound that pleased her. “What you meant to say was you want to win. I cannot blame you.”
She couldn’t quite smile, but her heart lightened. “With your coaching, I’m sure we will.”
His head tipped to the side. “I came tonight intent on refusing you, you know.”
But she’d not given him the chance. And much as she wanted him to coach the team, he had a business. “Forgive me, then. I fear I’m quite good at charging ahead, ignoring what I don’t want to see. I’ve been selfish.”
“I don’t know about that.” His eyes twinkled. “But as for baseball, I have a few ideas to help the team improve.”
“What are they?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow at three.”
She gasped. “You’re coaching us, then?”
“I’ll make arrangements to leave my friend Gil in charge at Emerson Works each day.”
“Huzzah!” Her voice was too loud, but she didn’t care. His smile and dimples said he didn’t care, either.
Oh my, he was handsome. And generous.
And now that they had a coach, the Liberty Belles were bound to beat the Patriots.
Chapter Three
A week later, Winnie wasn’t certain having a coach made much of a difference after all. Standing in her pitcher’s square in the park, she gripped the ball and wished for an end to the worst practice they’d had since Beck agreed to coach.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t a good instructor. On the contrary, he had been patient, informative, and encouraging. The Liberty Belles had experienced a sense of invigoration and excitement under his guidance—at least, until today.
The ball slipped repeatedly from Dru’s hands, Colleen’s throws went everywhere but their intended targets, Winnie herself batted foul ticks, and Lulu hadn’t arrived yet. The weather probably didn’t help. Clouds all but obscured a colorless sky, baking the earth below with humid heat, and the team’s moods reflected the heavy atmosphere. Irene’s feet dragged over the limp grass as she took her turn at the bat. From her position in the outfield, Irene’s sister Nora, the right scout, tugged her cap from atop her thin, mouse-brown hair and waved it like a fan over her face. Her counterpart in left field, tiny, dark-haired Fannie, shoved her cuffs as high on her arms as she could while still maintaining her propriety.
Beck had stripped his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, too. The crisp white cotton of his tailored shirt emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and chest—not that Winnie should be noticing such things. Just that he was no doubt as hot as the rest of them. Other than beads of sweat on his brow, however, he didn’t show any signs of being overheated, only focused, standing several feet to the side of the home plate, his eyes narrowed.
Winnie wouldn’t complain, either. Practice was too important. She couldn’t do anything about the way her clothes stuck to her sweat-damp skin, other than pray for a breeze and determine to do her best, despite her discomfort.
As Winnie’s arm pulled back to pitch to Irene, Colleen strode past her, stopping her short. Colleen’s position as short scout enabled her to move freely about the field, but she trod right out of the diamond. “It’s too hot, Beck. Why don’t we call it a day?”
Beck shook his head. “Tomorrow’s our lone practice game against the Patriots, and we’ve only been out here twenty minutes. Not everyone is even here yet.” Meaning Lulu. Every other day this week she’d arrived with Beck, so she must be with her beau.
A small figure emerged from the willow oak near third base and dashed behind the red maple near home plate. Winnie grinned. “We have a visitor.”
“Ralph, go home!” Colleen stomped forward. “You don’t belong here.”
“I can be at the park if I want,” a high voice shouted back. “You don’t own it!”
With brows raised, Beck sauntered over toward Winnie. “Who’s our guest?”
“Ralph, Colleen’s brother. He’s our unofficial mascot.”
A small head donned in a tweed cap peered around the tree. “What’s a mascot?”
“A nuisance.” Colleen rolled her eyes.
“Ah, sisters,” Beck muttered. “Come on out, Ralph.”
Grinning, the boy leaped out, his freckled cheeks round as young apples. “I get to play?”
“No,” Colleen said.
“Yes and no,” Beck amended. “It’s a ladies’ exhibition, so we fellas can’t be on the team. But we can help, and I need a special assistant.”
Ralph’s face screwed up like he’d been presented with cod liver oil. “What’s that?”
“A batboy. Someone to make sure the striker has a bat, chase balls, that sort of thing. Do you know how to hit?”
“Sure do, mister.”
“Call me Beck.”
Winnie’s chest warmed with affection. Ralph couldn’t be more than eight or nine, but Beck had found a way to include him. She grinned until Gladys, the dishwater-blond basetender, held out her hand for Beck’s inspection. “Blisters, see? Aren’t you proud?”
“I am.” Beck chuckled. “They prove how hard you’ve been working.”
Gladys wiggled her fingers for him and giggled. Blech. Winnie squeezed the ball. “Striker to the line!”
“Oh, that’s me!” Gladys gave Beck a saucy smile. “I’m not sure I’m holding the bat right. Could you show me again?”
“Let’s see.” He sauntered with her to home base while a fresh rivulet of perspiration snaked down Winnie’s back, along with a wave of irritation. Gladys didn’t need help holding the bat any more than Winnie needed help lacing he
r boots.
But he was happy to help. In the past week, he’d taught them a few tricks, like how to aim where the opposing team was weak. The team had also started additional exercises, such as taking vigorous constitutionals each day to strengthen their bodies.
He’d also taught them how to better hold the bat. Now he wrapped his arm around Gladys to correct the position of her elbows. “Try a swing. Does it feel better?”
“Oh, yes.”
Winnie’s gaze caught Dru’s—until Dru crossed her eyes. Biting back a laugh, Winnie squeezed the ball. “Ready, Gladys?”
She was ready to bat, all right—her eyelashes, not the ball. “Thanks, Beck.”
“Happy to help.”
Winnie snorted and pitched the ball. Gladys squealed. “Not so fast!”
“Sorry.” Winnie didn’t mean to throw that hard.
Beck rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually, it’s a good reminder that the pitcher for the Patriots, Paulette, may throw harder than you’re used to. We should all practice batting different types of balls. Try again, ladies.”
He looked at Winnie when he spoke, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a small smile. Winnie couldn’t help but smile back. Despite his initial reservations, Beck was a good coach. Thanks, God, for bringing him here to help us.
Gladys hit the next pitch high over Winnie’s head.
“Got it!” Colleen called out, forestalling Fannie, who was rushing in from the outfield. Colleen caught it on the second bounce.
Beck pumped his fist in the air. “Excellent. Colleen called the play, and Fannie was there to assist if necessary. Well done.” In the past week, he’d coached them not just on technique and strategy, but communication as well. Now when they played, the person with the best chance of catching the ball announced her intention, preventing multiple players from rushing toward the ball at the same time.
Every player smiled at his praise.
“Sorry I’m late!”
At the frantic voice, Winnie turned. Lulu scurried over the grass, followed by a square-jawed young man with slick-backed blond hair. A glance at Beck’s mulish expression confirmed that he was Lulu’s beau, Alonzo.
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 9