To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  Finally she dozed in the chair beside him until sometime after midnight, when Onnie came to relieve her.

  But once Maggie was in bed, sleep wouldn’t come. She lay in the darkness recounting all the reasons her father had given when he told her about this “arrangement” at dinner, and she wrestled to refute them. And couldn’t.

  If only they had more time. But they didn’t.

  If only she could find a jockey. But she hadn’t.

  If only Richard had lived. But—

  If only, if only, if only.

  She realized her father had done what he’d done as much for her safety and security as for her aspirations for Bourbon Belle. And she was grateful. So why these stirrings of resentment? Not at her father. But at the man, whoever he was.

  This man had leapt at the chance to marry a daughter of Nashville’s landed gentry, however distant the gentry distinction seemed at present. He’d likely heard the family name, then decided to swoop in and lay claim before the property went to auction.

  And he didn’t know about Bourbon Belle . . .

  What if he saw Belle, and instead of seeing her for the champion the mare was, he saw a quick way to get money for the farm?

  Maggie rolled onto her back and kicked off the sheets, the room suddenly warm. Knowing how men in general felt about women and thoroughbred racing, she would have to tread carefully. And now, knowing this particular man’s disdain for the sport, well . . . She sighed.

  He’d been married before, Papa said. Did that mean he was old? Twice her age? Maybe more? She didn’t wish to marry an old man. She’d always dreamed of being a wife, not a nursemaid. Guilt chided her at the thought. She was happy to take care of her father this way.

  But a husband? That was different.

  How was it her father had described him earlier? A proud man, but in the best sense of the word. What did that mean?

  “Some might consider him a little rough around the edges,” Papa had added. “But he’s a man other men respect, even if they wish they didn’t.”

  So he was old and a bully. Maggie shoved her hands through her hair and stared up at the ceiling.

  Even though she didn’t know this man, she knew her father. And her father—her safe haven and strong tower for as long as she could remember—would never lead her down a path he wasn’t certain of.

  But what if it was desperation or his deteriorating health influencing his decision? Then again, as he’d said, what other choice did they have?

  She’d had such different plans for her life. And as much as she wanted to believe that God wanted them to stay on this land and for her to keep Bourbon Belle, to do what she’d set out to accomplish, she wasn’t quite so sure anymore. She’d seen so many people who trusted him brought low.

  So why should she expect to escape a similar end?

  Maggie curled onto her side, cradled a second pillow to her chest, and did what she always did when she couldn’t sleep. She tried to recall every detail about the faces of her mother and each of her brothers, while wishing that the world—and her future—still looked as it had when she’d ridden upon her father’s shoulders as a child.

  It wasn’t until she awoke the next morning, the sky tinged with pink, that she realized she’d never even asked her father her would-be suitor’s name. No matter. She was going to make it perfectly clear to the man exactly what she thought of him and his designs to get Linden Downs. Before she reluctantly said . . . I do.

  Chapter

  SEVEN

  Cullen prodded Levi up the road leading to Linden Downs, seeing the land in a different way this morning. All this was his. Or soon would be. If Margaret Linden said yes.

  As tired as he’d been last night, he still slept fitfully, unable to get comfortable. Unable to keep from thinking about today, about what he was doing and how his life was about to change.

  “I’m keeping my promise to you,” he whispered, staring up into the cloudless blue, remembering Moira’s last requests. Promise me, she’d said, voice thready, tears trailing her temples, that you’ll take our Katie and make the life we’ve dreamed about. Don’t give up, Cullen.

  He wasn’t giving up. But keeping this promise was coming at a far greater cost than he’d imagined. And was being fulfilled in a far different way, he was certain, than Moira had ever dreamed when she’d asked it of him.

  He hoped that if she could see him today, she would understand. But better yet if heaven would simply keep the veil between this world and that pulled taut.

  It was a moot point, but a majority of his sleeplessness had been devoted to Miss Linden. How he wished he’d made a better effort to seek out her portrait in the house. Surely, with her being the only daughter, there were portraits. What was she like?

  Was she short? Or tall? Lithe? Or curvy? Those things mattered to a man when he was marrying. Actually, they mattered all the time, but especially with a wife.

  That truth swiftly faded as reality reminded him that this marriage wasn’t like his first one. This union was not borne of love. Not the vows they’d take during the ceremony, whenever that might be in the days ahead, nor the husband and wife union that would follow later.

  Surely though, with time and getting to know each other, he and Miss Linden could grow to have something, at least.

  If she said yes.

  He’d passed the Tax and Title Office earlier and was eager to return later that day with the signed deed to pay off the debt that was owed. He looked forward to presenting the “paid in full” receipt to Mr. Linden. But taking that step would definitely mean he’d be all in. No turning back.

  The farmhouse came into view, and he reined in.

  He checked the time on his pocket watch, a gift from his grandfather before he died. Half past eight. Earlier than he thought. Linden had asked him to return that morning at nine.

  Not wishing to arrive before the Lindens were ready, he guided Levi across a field to the east in the opposite direction of where he’d ridden yesterday. Everywhere he looked were gently rolling hills and fields bordered by thick stands of pine and poplar.

  He imagined the fallow fields come July, knee high with stalks of corn or covered with the hearty growth of sweet potatoes, those green-leafed vines spreading out and taking over as they grew.

  Linden said they’d also planted white potatoes in the past, but—Cullen huffed—with what happened to his own family and their potato crop in Ireland, he wasn’t willing to throw away good soil on white potatoes that rotted as soon as you looked at them.

  Linden also said they’d grown cotton, but Cullen had no experience with the plant. For that he’d have to rely on Gilbert Linden’s knowledge.

  He spotted a bluff a half mile or so away and remembered Linden remarking on it. He urged Levi to a canter, then to a gallop, and the Percheron ate up the distance. Even the steep incline leading to the bluff was no match for his strength.

  The view from the bluff was indeed breathtaking—and instructive.

  From this vantage point the layout of the fields and the various plots of land was plainly evident. And true to Linden’s word, Cullen could also see the Cumberland River in the distance and the city of Nashville some six miles east.

  If Mr. Linden hadn’t had the opportunity to ride up here in a while, Cullen would offer to bring him. They could discuss plans for what to plant and also—

  Just then, on the ridge due south, a rider crested the hill, the horse covering the ground at breakneck speed. Watching them, Cullen couldn’t shake the uncanny sense that he was reliving a moment he’d already experienced. Yesterday, by the river.

  He leaned forward in the saddle, watching the pair’s progress, and for a moment, as the girl gave the mount its head—her skirts whipping behind her—he was a boy again, back at the London track, seeing Bonnie Scotland race like the wind with the same speed and gracefulness. And win.

  A minute later, rider and horse disappeared back over the hill, headed in the direction of Belle Meade. A member of
the Harding family out with one of their champion thoroughbreds, no doubt. He guided Levi back down the hill and toward the farmhouse.

  He’d thought a lot about General Harding last night too. Just because people were neighbors didn’t mean they had to be neighborly. He planned on treating Belle Meade Plantation just as he would the Nashville Thoroughbred Society.

  Give both a wide berth.

  The house was quiet when he arrived. After Mr. Linden’s enthusiasm yesterday, Cullen half expected the man to be standing here waiting for him. He tethered Levi and climbed the steps to the porch, the worn wooden planks already feeling somewhat familiar, tempting him to dream of home and of a place to belong.

  He knocked on the door, softly the first time, more pronounced the second. The soft tread of footsteps, then the door opened.

  “Mister McGrath.” The servant from yesterday had apparently learned his name.

  “Miss Onnie.” Cullen smiled when her eyebrows shot up. Expecting her to smile in turn, he was surprised when her countenance remained somber.

  “Mister Linden, he still be abed, sir. And Miss Linden, she—” Onnie looked beyond him, and at the same time Cullen heard the drum of hooves. “There she come right now, sir.”

  Cullen turned and walked to the edge of the porch, focusing on the rider still some distance away. That was Miss Linden? Feeling as if something blurry were now coming into focus, he watched her progress as she flew astride the handsome bay thoroughbred across the field. The same thoroughbred she’d been riding earlier on the ridge and, as it turned out, by the river yesterday morning.

  He couldn’t decide which was more graceful—the horse or the rider. Miss Linden slowed the mare to a canter then reined in by the porch, eyeing him with every bit of the curiosity he was certain showed on his own face.

  Her gaze moved over him in a manner he was certain wasn’t customary for a lady. But he wasn’t bothered in the least, especially when the tiniest smile touched her mouth. When her gaze met his again, a blush rose to her cheeks, but he found her perusal—and apparent approval—more than a little heartening.

  She dismounted, and he could understand now how he’d mistaken her for a slip of a girl. She was a tiny thing and looked even more so next to the thoroughbred. But seeing her up close left no doubt.

  Margaret Linden was woman through and through.

  Where Moira had been blond and tall, this lady was brunette and petite. Moira had had full curves, but Margaret Linden’s were far less pronounced. Still, on her lithe frame, they made an impact.

  Cullen quickly dismissed the thought and descended the porch steps, having rehearsed what he wanted to say. Cletus approached for the horse, and Cullen waited until he’d led the thoroughbred away.

  Pleased when Miss Linden curtsied and offered her hand, he took it in his, and only then realized how nervous she was. Her slender hand shook, and he gently tightened his grip to reassure her.

  When she returned the gesture, the mixture of fear and hope, of panic and relief blooming in her expression moved him more than he would have expected in such a moment.

  “Miss Linden, I know this is a difficult position for a lady such as yourself to be in.” Her brow furrowed, and he rushed to continue, not wanting her to mistake his meaning. “But I want you to know that I pledge to—”

  She pulled her hand away. “You’re Irish?”

  The tone she used to say the word wasn’t a polite one. Nor was it promising. The warmth in her eyes just seconds before disappeared so swiftly Cullen questioned whether he’d imagined it to begin with.

  “Aye, ma’am, that I am.” He studied her. “I take it your father didn’t mention that detail.”

  “No.” She swallowed, her chin jutting the tiniest bit. “He did not.”

  She glanced beyond him to the door, and he could see her thoughts spinning, her expression revealing all. She was working to figure a way out of this, and her reaction stabbed at his pride. But he held the advantage in the moment, because he knew something she apparently didn’t as yet. She didn’t have another way.

  And when her gaze finally slid back to his, he could see that she knew it too.

  She bowed her head.

  “Is this a problem for you, Miss Linden?” His voice came out more smoothly than the words felt leaving him.

  If gauging her response by her slowness to answer, he’d have untethered Levi right then and been on his way. But the struggle mirrored in the tightness of her shoulders, in the firm knot of her tiny hands at her waist, kept him grounded where he was—while not softening him toward her in the least.

  She lifted her head and looked toward the house again, her eyes glistening, then back at the stable. Then finally at him again, appearing as though at any moment she might need to empty her stomach.

  “No,” she said quietly. “It isn’t a problem, Mr. . . .?”

  “McGrath,” Cullen said, certain he understood why Gilbert Linden had left that part out. “Cullen McGrath.”

  “McGrath,” she repeated, as if trying out the name. The downward turn of her mouth told him how she felt about that too.

  Wordlessly, she entered the house, leaving the door open behind her. That was something, at least, he thought. Following her inside, he paused on the top step. If there were any other way . . .

  He walked into the house and closed the door behind him, certain of two things. In Margaret Linden’s eyes he rated somewhere far, far beneath her love and devotion to a father she adored—and a horse.

  As Onnie buttoned Maggie’s best dress from behind, Maggie held her breath, determined not to cry. The pastor had arrived shortly after she’d returned from her ride, and Cullen McGrath seemed as shocked to see the man as she was. Her father had sent Cletus into town earlier to fetch him.

  “It ain’t white or fancy,” Onnie said, working to fasten each tiny pearl button on the back of the dress. “But it’ll do real nice.”

  The cream-colored calico was one Maggie hadn’t worn in a while, and it didn’t fit as it once had. The bodice wasn’t nearly as snug, and where the cotton material once hugged her waist, it now hung loose.

  She stared out the window. Her view overlooked the stable and meadow, but all she could see was her life and dream of marriage coming to a hasty and final end.

  Papa’s confidence in the rightness of this arrangement and his obvious certainty that she would go through with it were both comforting and alarming. He would never do anything to hurt her, and this was the last resort.

  But did that make it right?

  She’d tried to discourage Papa from coming downstairs, even told him they could hold the ceremony in his bedroom if need be. But after he managed to sit up in bed and eat something, he insisted they convene downstairs in the parlor.

  “Right where your mother and I married,” he’d said. “However different this day is from what I imagined it would be.”

  She’d helped him get ready for the ceremony and was accompanying him downstairs to the parlor when Mr. McGrath saw them on the stairs and insisted on helping. From all accounts and for whatever it meant, the man seemed genuinely concerned about Papa’s well-being.

  “There you go, Miss Linden.” Onnie touched her shoulder. “Now turn around and let’s have a look.”

  Maggie turned and read approval in Onnie’s understated nod. Having her here was a comfort. But Papa was right. Today—her wedding day—was nothing like she’d imagined either.

  An Irishman. That’s who her father had chosen.

  When she’d first ridden up and had seen the man standing there on the porch, she’d blinked to make certain her eyesight wasn’t playing tricks. Handsome was a word often used to describe the masculine gender, but in this case it fell far short of the mark. Mr. McGrath had a look about him that made a woman’s eye linger. And hers had done just that and more, much to her chagrin.

  His features weren’t the suave, cultured sort belonging to Southern men she’d known. They were rougher. He was rougher. And she’d fo
und herself fascinated by him. With dark brown hair worn longer than fashionable, pale green eyes, and a lean-muscled physique, Cullen McGrath looked more suited to the wild than he did to Nashville. And certainly to Linden Downs.

  Twenty-five years old, she guessed, maybe one or two more, he was the kind of man women stopped to look at on the street. But only because they’d never seen anything like him. They never would have whispered about him at parties, because his sort were never invited. More suited for tavern brawls than ballroom dancing.

  And yet she’d found herself altogether captivated as she’d stood there staring at him. Until he opened his mouth.

  She cringed. Everyone knew what the Irish were like. No one in town would hire them, much less keep company with them. They were lazy, eager to fight, had no morals. Selling Linden Downs to that man wasn’t saving the farm; it was only delaying the inevitable. And yet . . .

  He was the nearest branch, as Papa had said in so many words. And she was grabbing hold.

  Maggie turned and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Not exactly the image she’d pictured when dreaming of her wedding day. No gown of white silk with high-fitted bodice, or long delicate veil of white tulle reaching to her feet. No wreath of maiden-blush roses with orange blossoms gracing her head. Nothing a real wedding would have.

  Then again, this wasn’t a real wedding, in that sense.

  She reached for her scent on the dresser, the glass bottle long since empty. She removed the decorative stopper and held the bottle to her nose. The faintest scent of lilac and something else too far gone to remember with clarity tugged at her sensibilities. Perfume was a luxury. One she’d done without for well over three years now.

  Most days she smelled of fresh hay, leather oil, and horses. Not exactly a feminine scent, nor one befitting a bride. But it wasn’t as though she cared what Cullen McGrath thought. Still . . .

  She pressed the underside of one wrist to the bottle’s opening and rubbed, then did the same with the other, then sniffed. Scarcely a trace. She placed the empty bottle back on the dresser, remembering the last time she’d worn this dress, and what she’d been doing. Dancing. With Richard . . . She clenched her jaw in an effort to quell the emotion.