The Valentine Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  “You were knocked silly when you were born,” James said, extending his hand.

  She grasped it and let him pull her out of the hay trough. She brushed herself off for a very long time.

  “Were you eavesdropping?” Oliver asked. “As James said?”

  She brushed herself harder.

  “Come on, Jessie, of course you had your ear plastered against the ceiling of your father’s office. You probably wanted to hear if I would give away any racing secrets.”

  “Actually,” Jessie said, rising to look James right in the eye, taking the bait he offered with both hands, “you don’t have a single racing secret to interest me. I know more about racing than you do, James.”

  “Now, Jessie, James admitted that he might be short-sighted, but he is young.”

  “What are you talking about, Papa?”

  “Don’t you remember? You said you didn’t want to marry because all men were selfish and pigs and short-sighted.”

  “You heard me admit to being shortsighted, Jessie. You heard everything. Refresh my memory. Did we talk about you and your multitude of failings?”

  Her eyes fell and he stared down at her. Not far down because she was so damned tall, those legs of hers nearly as long as his. “What the devil do you have on your face?”

  Oliver peered closely at his daughter. “Yes, Jessie, what is that stuff all over your cheeks and nose?”

  She slammed her hands against her face and took a step backward, hit the back of her knees against the hay trough, and fell into the straw again, arms flailing.

  James laughed, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, “I think, Oliver, that your daughter here is trying to lighten her freckles with some sort of concoction known only to females, which makes me wonder how the devil she learned the recipe.”

  “Now, James, Jessie’s a female. Why, I remember just last month she couldn’t ride in a race because—”

  Oliver Warfield’s voice died a quick, clean death. His daughter struggled out of the hay trough and without another word, fled from the stables, leaving behind her a very embarrassed, silent father and an equally silent James Wyndham.

  “Er,” Oliver said, “tell me about the Earl and Countess of Chase. Will they ever visit Maryland do you think?”

  James looked distracted, which he was. Jessie’s unexpected fall through the ceiling had amused him and left him feeling the tiniest bit sorry for her. And even when her father tried to come to her aid, he’d only embarrassed her more. And they’d caught her with that goop on her face. It smelled like cucumbers.

  “What, Oliver? Oh, my English cousins. They’ve got a lot on their plate just now, what with the Duchess birthing her second child, another little boy, just three months ago. They named him Charles James. I’m his godfather. He’s dark-haired like his father but he’s got his mother’s deep blue eyes. Come to think of it, Marcus has deep blue eyes and his mother has dark hair too.”

  “Duchess. I’ve always thought that was an odd name.”

  “Her husband named her that when she was nine years old and he was all of fourteen. She was very contained even then, you see, very collected and calm in any crisis. She still is, except around Marcus. He glories in being offensive and does it particularly well around her. It drives her mad. It occasionally even drives her voice up an octave, though only rarely.”

  “She writes ditties, didn’t you say? Even though she’s rich and a countess?”

  “Yes, she’s quite good.”

  “That’s a man’s job.”

  James looked taken aback. “I suppose so. I never really considered that before. It’s just a natural part of her, a talent she has that everyone takes for granted—at least they do now.”

  “Just the way my Jessie is talented with horses,” Oliver said. “A lot of folk just take her talent for granted.” He shoved James back into his office. “We’ve still got a bit more of your claret to drink.”

  “No, there’s just a sip left in my glass,” James said sadly. “What earthly good could cucumbers do?”

  Sober John covered Sweet Susie two mornings later. Oslow oversaw the lads in their handling of both the stallion and the mare, who’d been in heat now for a good week.

  “Aye, it’s time,” Oslow had said. “I’ve checked her over and it’s time. Sober John’s ready.”

  The breeding shed was large, clean, and attached to the stable. Each of the five lads knew what he was to do. They wrapped Sober John’s hooves in soft cotton to protect Sweet Susie. As for her, she was held gently while Oslow guided Sober John to his task. Sober John was excited at her scent and nipped her hard on her rump. For a moment there was chaos, but just for a moment. One of the lads wasn’t all that experienced, and Sweet Susie got away from him. Then the lads got Sober John to focus on his duty, which he proceeded to perform with great enthusiasm.

  Oslow himself led a trembling Sober John back to his stall, telling him what a grand fellow he was, how he would have an extra share of oats to go with his hay. Keeping weight on the stallions was a problem during mating. Sober John would also have an extra tub of alfalfa.

  As for Sweet Susie, James patted her sweating neck as he slowly led her to the paddock to cool down in the shade of three massive oak trees. She was blowing hard and still a bit unsteady on her hooves. He gave her three buckets of fresh water, brushed her down until she blew complacently into his palm. Allen Belmonde had brought her finally, grudgingly paying James the stud fee. Allen had bought a small racing stable just south of Baltimore after he’d married Alice. He’d wanted to marry Ursula at one time, but she hadn’t been interested in him. James suspected her dowry wasn’t big enough for Allen, anyway. Their mother had been interested, though, in having Allen Belmonde for a son-in-law and that had led to arguments that had led to neighbors giving James impudent grins during the following days.

  He hoped that Sweet Susie would foal a winner for Belmonde. It would build Sober John’s reputation and that of Marathon. James gave Sweet Susie a carrot, patted her rump, and said, “This is your second time with Sober John. I just know it in my gut that you’re in foal. Eleven months, my girl,” he said, going to the paddock gate, “then you’ll be a mother.” Since it would be her first foal, James knew they’d have to watch her closely as her time drew near early the next year.

  He walked back toward the house, a big red-brick Georgian surrounded by apple, plum, and cherry trees coming into full bloom in the front and a once-beautiful rose garden on the west side. Thomas, his butler, tended a huge vegetable garden in the back of the house.

  James had bought the house three years previously from Boomer Bankes, who’d been caught embezzling from a public water fund. Included in the deal were two dozen slaves whom James had promptly freed. All of them had stayed on with him. He’d spent his money building new cabins for all his married people and had added a large dormitory at the top of the stable for all the stable lads. He provided seed for gardens and good lumber for furniture. After he’d finished, he’d had no money left. The putrid green wallpaper in the drawing room of his home still made him bilious, the floors were ugly and scarred, and the horsehair wadding was poking out of several of the settees and chairs. The kitchen was older than the Ellison flour mills on the Patapsco River, but Old Bess knew how to coax everything to work. The privy had reeked so badly that anyone having to walk near it gagged. He’d had everyone wrap kerchiefs around their faces and they’d dug the old privy under half a dozen feet of earth and built a new one, liming it until no one had to hold his nose within ten feet of it, even if there wasn’t an upwind breeze.

  Then he’d renamed the farm Marathon, showing off his Latin and Greek education, his cousin Marcus had said, cuffing him, adding that he didn’t know the Colonists even knew such things. During the past year James had spent more and more time in Baltimore. Upon occasion he considered selling his stud in Yorkshire, but then he’d just shake his head at himself. He loved Candlethorpe, loved England, and loved his English relatives. No
, he wouldn’t give up either of his homes.

  He came around the east side of the stable, automatically checking off tasks he had already done that morning and thinking about what he had to do throughout the afternoon. He came to a halt at the sound of Oslow’s voice, low and deep, a voice that mesmerized anyone who heard it. James’s ears immediately perked up.

  “Aye, Diomed won a three-year-old sweepstakes in England, at Epsom, way back in 1780. But then he just faded away, didn’t win another race, didn’t do a bloody thing. They put him to stud, but there he was a failure, too. He lost all fertility. He came over here in 1800, bought on speculation, you know. And you know what happened, Miss Jessie? It was our good old American air and American food and our American mares that worked magic in that old horse. His fertility returned and he covered just about every mare in every state. Aye, if Diomed were a man he’d be a bloody Casanova. Diomed is the forefather of the American racehorse. He stands alone, I say. He’ll stand alone forever, you mark my words, Miss Jessie.”

  “Oh my, Oslow. I remember when he died, I was just a little girl, way back in—When was it?”

  “In 1808. A grand old man he was. More folk mourned his passing in old colony land than they did George Washington’s.”

  She laughed—a pure, sweet, long laugh, nearly as long as those skinny legs of hers.

  James came around the side of the stable to see Oslow sitting on a barrel, Jessie sitting at his feet, her legs crossed, a straw in her mouth. An old hat was set back on her head and her thick red hair was coming out of its pins, straggling down beside her face. She was dressed as disreputably as any of his stable lads on wash day, her wool pants so old they bagged out at the knees and hugged her ankles. It seemed to him, though, that the freckles over her nose were lighter. Her lips weren’t chapped, either.

  “So,” he said, “what was that stuff you were using, Jessie? I thought I smelled cucumber.”

  “What stuff?” Oslow asked, nodding to James.

  James just shook his head. “So you were telling her about Diomed.”

  “I wasn’t using any stuff. I just like to eat cucumbers. Did you ever see Diomed, James?”

  “Once, when I was a little boy. My father took my brother and me to the racecourse and he was there, a grand old man, just as Oslow said, standing there like a king, and all of us went and bowed. It was quite a show. You’re telling me that you carry cucumbers around and eat them?”

  “Just sometimes.” Jessie abruptly got up and dusted herself off. James saw that the wool pants were very tight across her butt. He frowned. Jessie saw that frown and said, defensive as a banker with his hand caught in the till, “I just stopped by for a few minutes to see Oslow. I’m not here spying or anything. Oslow said Sober John covered Sweet Susie.”

  “Yes. It went well.”

  “I would like to buy Sober John.”

  “You don’t have enough money, Jessie. You won’t ever have enough money.”

  “When I own my own racing stable I will. I’m going to be the most famous and richest racehorse owner in America.”

  Oslow stood up, too. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised, Miss Jessie, no, I wouldn’t. You be good now, girl. Remind me to tell you about Grimalkin the cat.” Oslow walked away, whistling.

  “How long have you been conferring with Oslow?”

  “I’ve known Oslow since I was born. He’s a friend, and he knows everything about every horse all the way back to the Byerly Turk, the Darley Arabian, and the Godolphin Arabian. Did you know that Sober John goes tail-male all the way back to the Godolphin Arabian?”

  “I know. I’ve never seen you here before. How often do you come to see him?”

  She scuffed her boots in the dirt.

  “Jessie, I’m not accusing you of spying or putting poison in one of the horse’s oats.”

  “I’d put poison in your oats before I’d ever hurt a horse. All right, I’ve been coming here since I was a little girl. When Mr. Boomer lived here, he always gave me a glass of claret watered down with lemonade.”

  “God, that sounds gruesome.”

  “It was, but he tried to please me. He didn’t know anything about children. Poor Mr. Bankes, he didn’t make a good criminal. He was too nice.”

  “He was a sniveling coward, pleading on his knees that no one challenge him to a duel. He preferred jail to facing any of the men he’d cheated.”

  “He wasn’t a sniveling coward to me.”

  “You didn’t have anything to steal. Now, enough of that. I assume you didn’t break anything from your fall?”

  “No, I was just a bit sore. Papa had the ceiling repaired yesterday. The damned wood was rotted through right where I put my knee.”

  “I don’t suppose that taught you anything?”

  He used his obnoxious drawling English accent again, knowing it enraged her. Her jaw twitched, her shoulder actually jerked, but she kept her head down. “Yes,” she said, then finally looked up at him. “I learned that I’ve got to scout out my terrain before I venture into it.”

  He laughed; he couldn’t help it. “Would you like to come to the house for a glass of claret?”

  She looked suddenly like a child who’d been offered an unexpected treat. He drew back from that glowing smile. “With lemonade in it, naturally.”

  Jessie Warfield was back, in spades. She looked away from him, toward the overgrown rose garden. “I must go home, but thank you for your kind offer. The garden is a mess, James. You should have someone fix it.”

  She didn’t wait for him to say anything to that, just turned and strode away, those long legs of hers eating up the graveled drive until she got to Rialto, the damned horse who’d beaten Tinpin. He watched her stroke Rialto’s muzzle, check the saddle girth, then swing herself gracefully onto his back. She pulled her hat over her eyes, lightly kicked Rialto in his muscled sides, and rode down the drive. She never looked back. One long tail of red hair had escaped her hat and hung down her back.

  He would swear he’d smelled cucumbers. He wondered if she carried them around in her coat pockets; they certainly bagged out enough.

  4

  GLENDA WARFIELD STARED at James Wyndham’s crotch. She knew it didn’t matter if a man wasn’t looking at her, as James wasn’t now. He would look at her soon enough, even if he was in the deepest conversation with someone else, as James was now, speaking with Allen Belmonde, that dark-haired, swarthy man whose crotch she’d never stared at because he frightened her with those dark, lightless eyes of his. She couldn’t stand his weak, fluttery little wife, Alice, who, strangely enough, seemed to adore Jessie, always praising her independence, nauseating Glenda in the process.

  She stared at James. If she just kept staring long enough, he would eventually turn around and she’d see a leap of lust in his eyes and pain as well because he’d quickly realize there was nothing to be done to assuage his lust.

  But James didn’t turn around for the longest time. He turned around finally when his brother-in-law, Giff Poppleton, greeted him. He met Glenda’s eyes briefly, nodded, but then he listened to something Giff said, and laughed.

  Glenda wasn’t pleased. She was eighteen, quite pretty, her breasts milky white and full. Men loved to look at her breasts; she’d known that since they’d blossomed two years before. The stable lads were in a constant state of male turmoil whenever she came around, which was often since she had hit sixteen and was more than eager to test her power on anything male.

  Why wasn’t James Wyndham interested? Surely he must realize that if he married her, he’d eventually have the Warfield stables to add to his own holdings.

  “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What doesn’t, dearest?”

  “Oh, Mother, I was just thinking that James Wyndham should be proposing to me rather than ignoring me.”

  “You’re right,” Portia Warfield said, frowning at this injustice. “It doesn’t make any sense. It is perplexing. Your chemisette is nonexistent, dear. Come with me to the l
adies’ withdrawing room and I’ll arrange it. You don’t want to be thought loose by the other ladies.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Glenda said. She dutifully followed her mother from the large Poppleton drawing room.

  Portia Warfield said to her daughter as they climbed the wide cherry-wood Poppleton stairs to the second floor, “I just wormed it out of your father—James was married to an Englishwoman. Your father wanted to stop there, but I wouldn’t let him. He gave in finally when I offered to let him order whatever he wished for dinner. The woman James married was the daughter of a baron and very young. Evidently she died in childbirth within the first year of their marriage. One supposes that he’s still wounded, at least as much as a man is capable of being wounded when his wife dies. Of course he hadn’t known her all that long, less than a year. The child died with her. I suppose that would depress a man to have his heir lost, but I understand it’s been at least three years since it happened. He should be snapping out of this indifferent stance he’s taken with all the lovely girls in Baltimore.”

  “He has a mistress. He doesn’t need any of the lovely girls until he is ready to marry for an heir.”

  “A mistress?” Mrs. Warfield said, pausing a moment, pursing her lips. “Why haven’t I heard anything about that? Do you know who she is, Glenda? Not that you should know anything at all about such improper situations, but anyway, who is she?”

  Glenda leaned closer. “Mrs. Maxwell.”

  “Connie Maxwell? Goodness, she must be at least thirty-five years old! She’s been a widow for years now. Fancy that. Are you certain, dearest?”

  “Oh yes. Maggie Harmon told me she heard her papa tell her mama that he saw them together in her garden and they were kissing and laughing and doing other things, too. Her papa told her mama that they disappeared behind a huge rosebush and the laughing stopped.”