Beryl had her arms crossed and her brows down, as if disgruntled to see someone else on her horse, but willing, barely, to go along with it.
Which was all he could ask at this point, he supposed.
He loosened the reins, letting them lie almost slack, his hands low and quiet near the pommel of his saddle. With a squeeze of his legs, he signaled Lacey to walk out. Again, the tucked chin and scratchy, too-tight steps. Halfway around the ring, the horse shook her head, making her bit jingle, and her neck lowered a fraction as if testing her newfound freedom. By the end of the circuit, she was practically sauntering, moving smoothly, head at a natural angle. When Gard urged her to trot, the tension came back; but after a lap, she was swinging along, ears twitching, balanced and easy.
Using his body weight more than the reins, Gard leaned, telegraphing a course change to the mare, guiding her toward one of the jumps on the interior of the ring. When she saw the obstacle before her, her nose went down again, and her stride shortened as if waiting for the pull-back/push-forward signals she was used to.
It was a crowhoppy jump, as was the one after. Gard eased her back to a walk, circling the ring and then lifted her to a trot and then a canter. The mare had a rocking-chair canter. It was like steering a yacht, steady, metronomic. With a loose rein, she lengthened her stride while not losing her rhythm. Gard turned her toward the jumps again, and this time she gathered herself and flew over them in stride, even changing leads fluidly as they rounded the far corner.
Gard returned Lacey to Beryl. This time, though Beryl’s lip was tucked behind her teeth, she looked more thoughtful than stubborn.
“You’ve got yourself a nice horse here. She’s willing and kind, and smart, too.” Gard dismounted, patting the mare, rewarding her for a nice trip.
He didn’t ask if Beryl had noticed the difference. He could see from the determined light in her eyes that she had.
“Let’s get that saddle changed and try again, shall we?” He glanced at the angle of the morning sun. They had about a half hour left to her lesson. In the far ring, Asa walked in a slow circle, leading Starlight, a plodding bay mare, with Miss Turner in the saddle. Miss Turner kept looking over her shoulder at the main ring as if more concerned with what was going on with Beryl and Lacey than her own lesson. Gard sighed as he swapped saddles again and this time gave Beryl a leg up.
He took the reins from her hands and laid them on Lacey’s neck. “Leave them there. Don’t touch them. Walk her around the ring.”
“How can I if I don’t use the reins to direct her?”
“Put your heel against her side and lean forward a little. She’ll move out. The reins are only a small part of communicating with your horse. Voice, weight, legs, heels, they all play a part.” No doubt the mare had done many turns around this ring. She wouldn’t need much guidance.
With doubts flying in her eyes, Beryl did as he said, and as he’d thought, the mare began a slow, tentative walk around the large oval. She certainly recognized the change in riders and waited for Beryl to use her mouth for balance, walking with short strides, chin tucked under. When Beryl let the reins alone, as Gard had predicted, the mare relaxed and lengthened her stride.
“Good. Keep going.” He moved to the center of the ring to watch her progress. They wouldn’t trot today. Both Beryl and Lacey had enough to think about right now without Gard bringing up Beryl’s less-than-stellar posting skills again.
As horse and rider made yet another circuit at a walk, Miss Turner stomped to the ring fence, her face pulled into a pout. Asa remained in the smaller ring, unsaddling Starlight. A short lesson. By his design or hers?
“Mr. Kennedy,” Miss Turner called, waving furiously as if he couldn’t see her from the center of the large ring. He waited for Lacey to walk past again before heading her way and vaulting the fence.
“How was your lesson?” He would get a full report from Asa, but he had to ask.
“That man.” She pressed her lips together. “I shall have to insist you be my instructor from now on. He said I rode like a sack of rocks, and he wouldn’t even let me steer. He led me around like an infant.”
Gard stifled a grin. Asa never minced words, and he refused to let green riders spoil horses.
“It’s just Asa’s way. In a couple more lessons, he’ll let you ‘steer,’ as you put it. For now, he is just assessing your abilities and getting you started.”
“I’m sure you are quite capable of getting me ‘started’ in riding. Don’t you know who I am? My father is Melvin Turner, of the New Hampton Turners.” She raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Even an imbecile would recognize that name.”
He didn’t.
She huffed. “I will not be relegated to being instructed by anyone but the best.” Her hand came out to rest on his arm, a change sweeping over her from a petulant frown to a pretty pout. “And that’s you, of course.” Eyelashes flickering, she gave him a sweet smile.
He was in foreign territory here. What should he do? He was saved from answering by the arrival of an ornate, glossy buggy pulled by a matched pair of high-stepping grays. Three people occupied the seats, plus a driver and—Gard stared—a liveried footman. Who on earth?
The men, wearing top hats and broadcloth coats descended, and the footman leaped off his seat at the back to hold his hand up for the lady. Her broad-brimmed hat obscured her face, but then she looked up, aloof as a queen. There was something familiar about her face.
Friends of the Schmidts? Surely guests would go to the house?
As the group approached the riding ring, Beryl disobeyed Gard’s instructions and tugged on the reins, bringing Lacey to an abrupt stop.
“Mother? Father? What are you doing here?”
Chapter Three
Beryl felt as if her sanctum sanctorum had been invaded. The one place she was free to be herself and not think about society or conventions or the expectations of her parents, and here they stood at Schmidt Farms. And with a stranger in tow.
No doubt this was the guest her father had alluded to this morning. A sense of foreboding invaded her chest.
“Hello, dear.” Mother raised her parasol to shade her face, though her hat was doing a fine job already. Her pale pink gown should have seemed miles too young for her, but she carried the look beautifully. “We were out driving and thought we’d call in. Do come down from there and be introduced to our guest.”
Gard Kennedy was back over the fence in a trice, holding Lacey so Beryl could dismount. “Thank you.” She hoped her face wasn’t as tight as her voice sounded.
“You did well for a first lesson. I’ll take her back to the barn for you.”
“Hold up there, young man.” Her father’s voice boomed. “We came to see that horse.”
A deeper dread settled in Beryl’s middle. When her father came to see a horse, it was usually to sell it. Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked, hard, keeping Lacey between herself and her father until she had herself better under control.
“Are you all right?” Gard’s voice dropped.
Her chin jerked up, and she composed her expression, calling on all her mother’s teaching about what was proper in front of others. “Yes. Of course. Thank you for the lesson, Mr. Kennedy.”
“Please, call me Gard. If we’re going to be working together, I think a bit of informality is all right. May I call you Beryl?”
She nodded. Checking her skirts, she brushed at a bit of dust here and there, and then went to her mother, kissing the offered cheek.
“Beryl, dear, I’d like you to meet Lord Neville Springfield. He’s an acquaintance of your father’s and is visiting from England.” Mother’s voice held a touch of awe and triumph.
Warning bells went off in Beryl’s head. An acquaintance of her father’s, and an English lord. From the gleam in Mother’s eye, Beryl knew they’d finally found a marriage candidate upon whom both of them could agree.
“Lord Springfield, this is my daughter, Beryl.” She sent Beryl a behave-yourself-o
r-so-help-me look, confirming Beryl’s suspicions that this was an eligible bachelor, a catch her mother was determined to reel in.
Mouth dry, heart hammering, Beryl extended her hand. Lord Springfield took it, removing his hat and smiling. He had thin, light hair; pale gray eyes; a long, narrow face; and a tall, lean body.
“Lord Springfield.”
“A pleasure to meet you, my dear.” He spoke in a well-educated, plummy accent. His hand pressed hers through her leather riding glove, and he smiled warmly, revealing straight teeth and deep creases beside his mouth. She guessed his age to be somewhere between thirty and thirty-five. About the same age as Mr. Kennedy. But nowhere near as handsome.
Beryl shoved that thought from her mind. This wasn’t a competition. One had nothing to do with the other.
“Neville,” Her father used his first name. “Come and see this mare.”
Lord Springfield let go of her hand as if reluctantly, and as he turned to go to the fence, Melanie stepped forward.
“Ahem.” She looked between Beryl and the Englishman.
“Lord Springfield, may I introduce Miss Melanie Turner?” Beryl went through the motions of being polite, though she wanted to leap onto Lacey and head for the woods, taking them both to safety.
Melanie simpered and twittered, giggling as Lord Springfield took her hand. “An English lord? My, my. What an honor to meet you, sir.”
Beryl clamped her teeth down hard, as she always did when Melanie got silly. Though … she paused. That might be a nice diversion. If Lord Springfield focused his attention on Melanie, he would leave Beryl alone. Go to it, Mel. Flirt away.
“You’re Kennedy, right? Schmidt told me he’d taken you on for the summer.” Her father jerked his chin toward Gard. “Wallace Valentine. I own that mare, and I’d like you to put your saddle on her and give her a ride for us. Put her over a few fences while you’re at it, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” Gard stripped Beryl’s saddle off, his movements efficient. If only he weren’t such a good horseman. Lacey went so smoothly for him, she was bound to show well for Lord Springfield and her father. It galled Beryl a bit to realize Gard had been right in his assessment of her riding, and she’d had to squash down a lot of pride, but the difference in Lacey when he’d been astride had been undeniable. Beryl itched to be back in the saddle, working on improving, instead of playing the suitors game with her mother and Lord Springfield.
Father left the rail and came over. “You said you were looking for a dependable mount for fox hunting, Neville. I’ll tell you, you won’t find better than Valentine’s Highland Lace. Lacey, as Beryl calls her.” Father clapped Lord Springfield on the shoulder, drawing him away from Melanie. “She’s by Highland Laird out of Lavender and Lace. She’ll make a great broodmare. Not a lot of speed in that line but great jumpers. Fearless and steady.”
Mel edged over to Beryl. “Wow. A lord from England. Aren’t you the lucky one?” she whispered. “I take it he’s here on approval?”
Beryl shrugged. “I don’t know anything about him. We just met. Maybe he’s just here looking for a horse.” But not hers. Please. Any horse but hers. Did God hear prayers about horses?
Gard had Lacey saddled quickly, and with fluid grace Beryl had to admire, he mounted. He sent Beryl a look that shot a tingle through her. Gard Kennedy really had magnificent eyes. And he looked even better on a horse than on the ground.
“I’ve only been on the mare once, so we’re still getting used to each other. She may not show to best advantage.” Gard gathered his reins and spoke to her father.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine. I’ve heard all about you from Freeman Schmidt. Only the best for his stables, eh? Go ahead and put her through her paces.” Placing his big hands on the top rail, he studied the chestnut. He knew horses. Lacey had been bred on his farm, one of dozens of useful, steady hunters he’d bred over the years.
But Beryl hadn’t loved any of them like she loved Lacey.
Beryl joined the men at the rail but a little apart. She studied Gard’s riding. He was light in the saddle, his reins loose, hands low. When he put Lacey into a trot, he posted effortlessly, rising in the stirrups with the forward motion, dropping slightly down before rising again, in perfect rhythm with the horse. He took a diagonal through the ring at a canter, asking for and receiving a lead change before circling in the opposite direction. Without altering speed, he headed toward the first of the jumps, clearing it easily, hands quiet, eyes up. Before the next jump, he shortened Lacey’s stride a bit to meet it just right. The mare landed lightly and cantered around to face the next line of jumps.
Beryl knew she was watching a master horseman at work. And Gard was getting the best out of her horse. Lacey was moving better than she’d ever seen her go. A wriggle of jealousy went through her, but she forced it down with determination. Determination to improve, to do her best, work hard, and be a better rider, not just for her own satisfaction, but because Lacey deserved it.
She dared a glance at her father and his guest, and her heart sank at the interest in Lord Springfield’s eyes as he watched her horse. If the Englishman liked Lacey enough, Beryl knew her father would have no qualms about selling the mare right there. Her throat grew tight, and her hands fisted.
Then Lord Springfield’s eyes moved to meet hers, and the interest there was unmistakable, too.
Gard brought Lacey to the fence and dismounted, patting the mare’s neck. Lacey’s sides bellowed as she breathed heavily.
“As you can see, she’s a bit out of shape, but she’s willing and kind.” Gard ran his hand down her near foreleg. “I can give you a better assessment after I’ve worked with her for a while.”
Father drew Lord Springfield down to the gate, entered the ring, and went to the horse. Beryl gripped the top rail, watching, but Mother ambled over, shading her face with her parasol, and Melanie came, too.
“Wallace, Lord Springfield, you gentlemen are going to talk horses.” Mother smiled affectionately, as she and Father had never said a cross word to one another in their lives. “I propose I return to the house with Beryl, and you can join us there later when you’ve finished?”
“But, Mother,” Beryl protested. “I need to tend to Lacey, and I had planned to stay a while longer.”
“Nonsense. You don’t need to tend that horse. There’s a perfectly good groom standing right there.” She tilted her parasol toward Gard Kennedy, and Beryl winced at the patronizing tone to her mother’s voice.
“Mother,” Beryl lowered her voice. “He isn’t a groom. He’s Major Kennedy, the riding instructor who is taking Avila Schmidt’s place until she recovers from a broken bone. He’s an excellent rider and teacher, and he’s been entrusted with the stables and horses for the summer.” She stopped, realizing she’d said too much, too forcefully, in defending him.
Mother flicked a glance Gard’s way, as if really seeing him for the first time. “Really.” Her finely arched brows rose a fraction, and the look she sent Beryl’s way made an uncomfortable heat rise up Beryl’s neck. “Then he’s more than capable of stabling that mare when your father is finished. Come, girls.” She turned toward the drive. “Wallace, Lord Springfield, we’ll see you both later?”
Father nodded, waving vaguely, engrossed in his conversation. Gard handed Lacey’s reins to him and vaulted the fence.
“Miss Valentine?”
“Major Kennedy,” Beryl used his formal title in her mother’s hearing. “I’m sorry, I have to leave. I had intended to groom Lacey and turn her out for a while.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll see to her.” He stood casually, his hands on his hips, brushing back the sides of his tweed jacket. “I’d like to work out a training routine for you and Lacey before your next lesson. I don’t have the schedule fully made out yet. What is your normal interval between lessons?”
The question caught her off guard. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning about the same time. I come every morning but Sunday, if I can, throughout the summer.”
His eyes widened. “Every day?” He was already shaking his head. “Lacey can’t handle that much work. She’ll get stale.”
“Avila … Mrs. Schmidt, let me ride some of her horses several days each week. Gloria and Rita and Bandit.” If Gard didn’t do the same, how would Beryl be able to justify coming to the farm every day? If she couldn’t escape to the safety of the stables, how would she fill her summer? “They’ll need exercise even more now that Avila is laid up.”
“I see.” He pressed his lips together, thinking. “Very well. I will see you in the morning, then.” Sketching a bow, he turned and went back toward the ring, and Beryl breathed a small sigh of relief. She couldn’t completely relax, not with her father pointing out Lacey’s merits to a potential buyer. If only she had access to some of the money she would inherit when she married. She’d buy Lacey from her father and not have to worry about him selling her on a whim.
“What do you think of him?” Mother asked as they settled themselves into the carriage Beryl and Melanie had arrived in that morning. “You could’ve knocked me over with a gesture when Lord Springfield called at the house this morning.” Smugness colored her tone.
“Why did he call? How do you know him?” Beryl looked back over her shoulder until the carriage turned out onto the road and Schmidt Farms disappeared from sight.
“Until I read his name on his calling card, I’d never heard of him. I gather your father met him when he went to England to buy bloodstock last fall.” Mother crossed her wrists daintily in her lap. “Wallace issued an invitation for Lord Springfield to visit if he came to the States.” She was almost purring. “His family has an estate northeast of London where they raise horses, but the family money comes from biscuits.”
“Biscuits?” Melanie asked.
“Cookies. His family owns the Essex Biscuit Company. They have several factories in England, and from what I understand, his father, who is a baronet, has sent Lord Springfield to America to investigate expanding the business.” Mother took a deep breath. “And, I also understand he’s single and ready to set up his nursery. Just imagine, titled, wealthy, and looking for a wife. It couldn’t be more perfect.” She looked like the cat that wolfed down a pet shop full of canaries. “I can’t wait to show him off at one of my dinner parties.”
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 37