Outrage stormed through Beryl, and she leaped to the ground. “Spoiled debutante?” Her voice rose, drawing attention from passersby. She lowered her tone and whispered, “Spoiled debutante?”
“That’s right. You’re only thinking of yourself instead of your horse, which is something I never thought you’d do. Lacey deserves better, and frankly, so do I. We’ve put in too much work for you to spoil it all over a tantrum. Pull yourself together and be a professional.” He turned on his heel and led Lacey away, leaving Beryl standing alone.
She wanted to stomp her feet, scream, throw something … until she realized that’s exactly what a spoiled debutante would do.
The fight drained out of her. She had let Lacey down. Her beloved, beautiful Lacey who deserved so much better. It wasn’t the horse’s fault that she had been sold, nor was it her fault that Beryl had laid her heart out before someone who didn’t want it.
They had one last event together, the Ladies’ Hunter Class. They might not win, but it wouldn’t be because Beryl wasn’t trying. Lacey deserved her best effort.
Their class went splendidly. In a large field of contestants, Beryl rode with confidence, hearing in her ear all Gard’s instructions. Hands low, heel down, eyes up, weight forward. Lacey responded beautifully, meeting each jump just right, changing leads, never altering her cantering cadence.
Beryl accepted the rosette with bittersweetness in her heart. Gard waited for her as she came through the exit.
He gave her a tight smile and took the ribbon, clipping it to Lacey’s bridle. “Congratulations. That was beautifully ridden.”
“Thank you.”
Leading them to the barn, he stopped outside the doors. “Beryl, we need to talk.”
She shook her head. “No, we don’t. You said everything you needed to say. I have lost everything I thought I cared about, and talking about it won’t change anything.” She slid from Lacey’s saddle for the last time. “Now, I want to say goodbye to my horse in private, if you don’t mind. Mr. Brightman will be sending a groom for her this evening, I understand.”
Beryl took the reins and led Lacey into the barn. Once she had the mare unsaddled and in her stall, she wrapped her arms around the chestnut neck and gave way to tears.
Gard was so proud and miserable; he didn’t know what to do with himself. Beryl’s ride on Lacey had been a thing of beauty, the culmination of weeks of hard work. And though he knew she was hurting, she had held herself together.
At least until she got back to the barn. The sound of her crying had shredded Gard’s heart. He wanted to go to her, but his presence was the last thing she wanted.
He hadn’t said anything about what had happened to Asa, but he didn’t need to. His wise friend had somehow known.
“You need to take a look at what is really important in life, Mistah Gard. It is fine to be focused on a goal, but sometimes God brings something even better into your path. If all you’re looking at is the good goal you have set, sometimes you miss the better thing God would like for you to have.”
Asa said no more, sauntering down the barn aisle, leaving Gard to consider his words. As he cleaned stalls and fed horses, Gard prayed and thought and prayed some more. He wasn’t sure what God was doing, but he was going to trust, and he was going to go with his heart. He might lose everything in the end, but at least he would’ve tried.
If only she could get through this evening, perhaps she could start the healing process. Beryl stepped out of the family carriage onto the gravel drive of the Deep Haven Hunt Club Hall. Lights shone from every window, and music drifted out through the open French doors that marched down the side of the Hall.
Lord Springfield drew her hand through his elbow and guided her up the steps, following her parents in evening dress for the Hunt Ball to celebrate a successful show. Her mother looked back over her shoulder, an expectant gleam in her eyes. Beryl sighed.
“You look lovely, my dear. Did your father tell you we have worked out a deal to build a factory on his property in Brooklyn? It will be most advantageous for both of us, and it will mean I’ll be in America for the foreseeable future.” He covered her hand with his. “Your mother has asked me to stay with you all in Manhattan while I look for a suitable house. I hope that meets with your approval and that you will assist me in the search for an appropriate home.”
The way he said it, leaning close, made Beryl want to yank her hand away from his grasp and step back. Staying with them in the city? Looking for houses with him? Her future closed in around her.
The ballroom was ablaze with light, both gaslight and the newfangled electric lights. A small orchestra played on the balcony, and couples were already whirling around the dance floor. Ball gowns and tuxedos flashed by. Beryl smoothed her ruby velvet gown, checking the diamond brooch at her shoulder and fingering her beryl and diamond necklace.
After being announced, Lord Springfield asked her for a dance, and she went into his arms woodenly. He was a competent dancer, and she followed his lead easily enough, though her heart wasn’t in the dance. It wasn’t even in the room.
They passed the trophy table where all the silver cups and trays and statues that had been won at this year’s show were on display. They would be sent to the engravers to have the winners’ names etched on them, then they would be placed back in the display cases in the trophy room to be admired on a cold day after a successful fox hunt.
Gard stood near the table, deep in conversation with Freeman Schmidt and Cal Brightman. She turned her head away.
At the end of their waltz, Beryl and Lord Springfield applauded politely. How could she get through this evening when her world lay in shattered pieces all around her?
“Would you like to take a stroll on the terrace?” Neville asked.
“I’d prefer a cup of punch, if you’d be so kind.” She didn’t really want punch, but it would get him away from her for a while so she could think.
An hour later, after dancing with several partners, Gard approached her. He looked magnificent in formal clothes, his military bearing evident. “Beryl, I know you’re upset with me, but we need to talk.” He waited for her assent. “Please?” Offering his arm, he motioned toward the open French doors and the terrace beyond. “It will only take a moment.”
They stepped outside. Strings of electric lights lit the perimeter of the terrace, competing with the summer stars. A cool breeze touched Beryl’s cheeks, and she lifted her face, turning into it, letting it blow some of the cobwebs from her mind.
“Beryl”—he took her hands, squeezing them to get her to look into his eyes—“I’ve been an idiot. I am so sorry for the way I hurt you. I just didn’t see how it could work between us. I still don’t, but right now I don’t care. You deserve to know the truth, and that is that I love you more than life. I had this crazy idea that falling in love and asking someone to marry me would be putting aside my own goals. And it might mean that. In fact, it already has … at least it’s delayed those goals, but I’m willing for that to happen. I mean, a delay isn’t the same as it never happening, right? And I couldn’t let this chance go.” He spoke so fast, she had a hard time following. But she’d heard one thing clearly. He loved her.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll explain everything, but first, put me out of my misery. Beryl Valentine, I love you and I want you to be my wife. I know I’m not the kind of man your parents want for you, but I promise you I’ll spend my entire life providing for you and loving you. And I’ll work hard to win their approval, too.”
Love crashed through Beryl, washing away the hurt of the past forty-eight hours. He loved her, and he wanted to marry her. She could only nod, unable to speak.
His arms came around her, and she lifted her face for his kiss, sealing the promise and giving a hint of the joys to come.
“I say. Beryl!” Lord Springfield’s voice interrupted.
Beryl would’ve sprung from Gard’s arms, but he held her tight.
“Sp
ringfield, be the first to congratulate us. Beryl has just agreed to become my wife.” Gard kept one arm around Beryl while extending the other.
“Beryl, is this true?” her mother gasped from behind Lord Springfield. “Oh, Major Kennedy.” She beamed and stepped forward. “This is so sudden. Beryl, I had no idea …” She looked confused but not unhappy, which puzzled Beryl.
“I can see we have much to discuss.” Her father’s voice cut through the group. “Perhaps this conversation would be better held in a more private location. Will you excuse us, Lord Springfield? Beryl, Rosemary, come with me. You too, Kennedy.”
They left the gaping Neville Springfield standing alone under the terrace lights, and Father herded them into the Master of Hunt’s office.
“Kennedy, when you said you had something to talk to me about, I didn’t assume it was this.” Father leaned against the desk.
Gard kept hold of Beryl’s hand. “I know this is coming out of the blue, sir, but I love your daughter and she loves me. I’ve asked her to marry me, and she’s agreed.” He sent her a look filled with private messages that she treasured.
“Mother, I know you care about status more than money,” Beryl jumped in. “And Father, I know you care about the ability to make money more than anything else, but I value character and integrity, and I love Gard Kennedy.” She said it as firmly as she could, her heart beating fast and her breath coming quickly. If they couldn’t be made to see, if they didn’t give their consent, she would be crushed. “I know you would prefer me to marry Lord Springfield, but I don’t love him and I never will. My heart belongs to Gard Kennedy.”
“Beryl, don’t you know who this man is?” her mother asked. “He’s the owner of Stuyvesant Run. His grandmother was a Stuyvesant.” She clasped her hands. “I only became aware of this tonight. If I had known …”
She turned to Gard. “A Stuyvesant?” Stuyvesants were the equivalent of New York royalty. And Stuyvesant Run had been one of the most successful thoroughbred breeding farms in America until there was a falling-out in the family and it had been closed up and the horses sent elsewhere.
Her father stroked his sideburns, a gleam in his eye. “So, that explains why you were the mystery buyer for Arcturus. I wormed the information out of Freeman Schmidt tonight. You could’ve knocked me over with a gesture.”
“About that, sir. I released Mr. Schmidt from his promise to sell me Arcturus. I bought a different horse today, and didn’t have enough left over for the stallion, too.”
“Oh, how sad. And after you rode him so brilliantly to the championship this afternoon.” Mother shook her head. “But good news for you, Wallace, since you’ve been so eager to buy the animal.”
Beryl tugged on Gard’s hand. “Wait, you were going to buy Arcturus? And you own a stud farm? And you come from one of the oldest, most respected families in New York?” She couldn’t keep up with all this information.
“Yes, I was, but I didn’t. Yes, I do, about a mile from where you’re standing. And, yes, but they don’t claim me. My grandmother had the temerity to marry a wild Irishman with a way with horses, and they had my father, who had the audacity to join the military as a cavalryman, who then had me, who also spent time in the army.” He shrugged. “I’m not wealthy, not in cash terms, that is. But I do have a home and a farm, and if hard work can see it done, it will someday be restored to its former glory.” He raised her hand to his lips. “With your help, we can’t fail.”
Her father harrumphed, and her mother clapped her hands. “My daughter, a Stuyvesant.”
“I’m curious, lad. Why did you back out of the sale of Arcturus? He would make the perfect foundation sire for your new venture,” her father asked.
Gard smiled and drew Beryl deeper into the crook of his arm. “Because I bought a different horse. Her name is Valentine’s Highland Lace, and she’s back in the show barn awaiting her new owner’s pleasure. Beryl, she’s my gift to you.” He dug the sale papers out of his dinner jacket and handed them to her.
Through blurry eyes, she read her name on the ownership line.
“Whether you agreed to marry me or not, I wanted you to have her.”
Beryl threw her arms around Gard’s neck, clutching the bill of sale, hugging him as tightly as she could. “Oh, you wonderful, wonderful man.”
“Beryl, really.” Her mother fluttered her fan. “Sometimes I wonder if it is the man you love or his horses.”
With a laugh, Gard gave Beryl a squeeze. “We’re a package deal.”
“Hmm, I can see that you are.” Father straightened. “I expect you to spend your life making my girl happy, but I’d say you’re off to a good start. And I’ll add to it. Let me be the first to give you an engagement gift. Freeman gave my syndicate the option on Arcturus, but I’d rather give you the money as a wedding present to buy him yourself. I’m sure the other gentlemen in the syndicate will understand. In fact, Van Rissingham has a line on another stallion he thinks we might be able to get for a song.”
Beryl transferred her hug from Gard to her father, and he staggered back. “Really, my dear.” He patted her back and accepted Gard’s thanks.
“Now, let’s go out and make the announcement.” He beamed. “About the engagement, not the horse.” Father laughed at his own little joke.
“We’ll be right there, sir.” Gard kept Beryl from following her parents out the door, and when they were alone, he gathered her close again.
“I can’t believe any of this is happening.” Beryl touched his face, his hair, drinking in the countenance she knew so well. “Why didn’t you say anything about your farm, about Arcturus, about …”
He shrugged. “Because it was all so tenuous. I was saving money like mad, living like a pauper. The farm has been closed up for years and needs a lot of work. And you were from a completely different class than me. I was focused on my own goals, and I didn’t know what to do when you rode into my life. And I had no idea what your parents would say if I asked to court you properly.”
She laughed, unable to believe how things had come to a head. “You ticked all their boxes. Mother cares about name and status, and Father cares about ambition and ability, and I care about heart … your heart. You swept the eligibility category—win, place, and show.”
His embrace nearly squeezed the life out of her as he lifted her from the ground and kissed her.
Erica Vetsch is a transplanted Kansan now residing in Minnesota. She loves books and history, and is blessed to be able to combine the two by writing historical romances. Whenever she’s not following flights of fancy in her fictional world, she’s the company bookkeeper for the family lumber business, mother of two, an avid museum patron, and wife to a man who is her total opposite and soul mate. Erica loves to hear from readers. You can sign up for her quarterly newsletter at www.ericavetsch.com. And you can email her at [email protected] or contact her on her author Facebook page.
The Fisherman’s Nymph
by Jaime Jo Wright
Dedication
To Cap’n Hook.
The rogue who taught me the art of fly-fishing.
Who untangled a mess of my fly line without complaint,
and who tolerated me sneaking novels into my wader’s pocket.
Because, let’s face it,
ten hours on a river gets a little long.
Special thanks to:
My sister Sarah, who will always understand my love of the wilderness and the heart that beats deep in its shadows. And to my other sisters, Kara, Halee, Laurie, and Anne. Without you all, I would be a pile of mush. Well, I still am a pile of mush, but somehow you all put me to rights in your own unique ways. I love you—all FIVE of you.
And always, to stellar parents: Mom and Dad, you knew this book-thing would happen before I ever did, and Russ and Joanne, you shatter all in-law stereotypes. Love you all!
Finally, to Hidden Cove Resort in Phillips, WI, and dear friend, Darren Hornby, whose cabins on the lake and not far from the Flambeau River
inspire all sorts of adventures!
Chapter One
Flambeau River, Wisconsin 1890
H is brown eyes were cavernous pools boiling with mayhem. A lazy toothpick waved from the corner of his mouth with quite a bit of devil-may-care. Abby wasn’t impressed by the twinkle in rich boy’s eyes either, nor did her stomach do any twists and flips when his eyelid dropped in a flirtatious wink, daring her not to swoon. Wait. She was wrong. Her stomach did twist and flip, but only because she was trying to adjust to her father’s new excursion trips. Taking the wealthy on fishing and canoeing tours, boarding them in the empty cabin adjacent to theirs, and creating experiences for people who ate money for breakfast. She would do anything for Papa, for his dream, to help support his livelihood. But Charles Farrington III on her beloved river? To fish her waters?
Between the toothpick, the mischievous smile, and the oozing of charm, it was more than apparent they were worlds apart. Charles Farrington III hailed from Milwaukee, which held many stark differences to her Flambeau River, tucked away in the northern woodlands of Wisconsin. Yet, here he was. Paying Papa to catch a fish, on her stream, that fed her river, that was her oasis. He had traveled here with his friend Jonathon, whose relations with Abby and her father went far back. Jonathon was welcome here. Abby gave Charles Farrington III a sideways glance. He was not.
“This way.” Her words tossed saucily over her shoulder, emphasized by the slap of the wicker fishing basket hanging across her chest and against her hip. Abby winced at the tartness in her voice. Sour. Unfriendly. It wouldn’t bode well to have Charles Farrington III go back to Milwaukee and future potential guests, complaining about the inhospitable daughter of Nessling’s Northwoods Guided Tours.
She raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the tall, broad-shouldered man who stumbled over a log in his attempt to keep up. That he wasn’t accustomed to the woods was more than obvious. He swiped at a fly on his shoulder. Then his face. A nice face, she admitted, but that was about the only thing nice about him.
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 42