Beryl stifled a groan.
Chapter Four
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. “We
ll, 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?”
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 38