The Genuine Lady (Heroines on Horseback)

by Sydney Alexander

  Cherry leaned against the stout kitchen table and read the brief letter over and over again, her eyes trailing across the slanting copperplate without seeming to truly comprehend the words. She muttered them under her breath. They made no sense. And then they did. The world started to tilt beneath her feet, and she clutched at the table behind her to keep her balance, cutting her hand on the knife she had carelessly thrown down at the table’s edge, but not noticing the sharp pain or the flowing blood.

  Your accounts will be closed…

  It is the wish of the Beachams…

  Your late father’s wishes…

  The child shall be raised a gentleman, amongst his own people…

  Send a reply at once so that we may despatch a nursemaid and guard…

  She flung the paper down as if it burned her and stamped it impetuously, leaving a great muddy mark across the words. But they did not change.

  Cousin Anne had not been funning with her. The Beachams were coming after Little Edward. And this time, they were going to bankrupt her in order to secure her cooperation.

  Cherry somehow managed to find a chair, slide down into it, settle her wobbling head down upon her hands. She tried to gather her wits about her; she would need them, to stave off this threat. It had never occurred to her that her relations would go to such measures to take Edward from her. Her trust! The money that she had counted on to see her through the first five years in America, while she built up the homestead, bought the livestock and the seed and the equipment that she needed to create a farm, a new Beechfields here in the West. And her Uncle Richard, the trustee, might have disowned her but he would never, ever, have cut off the trust her father had left for her.

  She had been certain. Such a thing was not done.

  And yet he was threatening that very thing!

  How could he do this now? Cherry moaned into her hands, feelings cut beyond belief.

  She had trusted Uncle Richard; they had been so close, ever since she was a little child. She had ridden her pony to visit him on fine days, cantering across the fields to Fernsley Park to meet him on his big red hunter, and he had laughed down at her and called her a sweet little moppet and given her little sacks of candy to share with her greedy pony.

  He was the one who had named her Cherry. Charlotte was too long and grand name for such a reckless little tyke, he’d laughed. And she had loved him so much that she had adopted his nickname for her at once, and refused to answer to any other name.

  She had not spoken to him after the scandal, of course. She had not spoken to anyone in the English family. He had made sure she vacated Beechfields before he took up his own residence. There had been letters, letters like this one, cool and official and stamped with the family solicitor’s London address. She had been thankful for the money, thankful and relieved that her father had set aside a portion for her, though he never could have dreamed how desperately she might need it. Her uncle wrote that she was to remove herself from the family estate, and since she had the money to do so, away she went. She had taken a chaise to London, booked passage on the first steamer she could manage and found herself at her aunt’s doorstep in Washington Square scarcely before she knew what she had done. There was no point then in writing home to apologize. She was worse than dead in society’s eyes; communication with her could only further damage her family’s reputation.

  But she had thought his love for her would cause Uncle Richard to leave her little wealth alone. To give her a chance to survive without the family, to build a new life. She had thought that under all the cold business of disowning a dishonored niece, he might still have cared for his little Cherry.

  But no.

  A tear trickled down her cheek.

  And then another.

  And then Cherry laid her head down upon the table and wept, heart-broken, as quietly as she could, still determined not to wake her hosts or her baby — the baby she was suddenly afraid she was going to lose.

  Because, at first glance, there seemed to be no way around it. If Uncle Richard stopped her money, she could not feed, clothe, or house Little Edward. He was growing to be a big boy — he was months past one year old! He ate like a horse. He was growing all the time. And what would she have to offer him, just hundreds of acres of half-barren land, with nothing on it yet, no improvements at all to speak of, no crops planted or cattle grazing… just hopes, and dreams, and one could not eat hopes nor wear dreams.

  ***

  Cherry was unusually quiet at breakfast, and Patty, who had expected her to be aglow with the news of her midnight engagement to Jared (although she would not be able to tell them yet, or she would be giving away the scandalous truth about their assignations) watched her like a hawk all through the oatmeal and the eggs and the buttered toast. Cherry pushed at her food, and helped Little Edward with his, and when he managed to get egg into his mouth without her help and without half of it smearing across his nose and cheeks and chin, she looked nearly ready to burst into tears. Patty frowned, and across the table, Matt frowned back at her. He shook his head slightly. Don’t do it. Patty ignored him, as always.

  “Cherry, honey, what’s got you so sad this morning?”

  Cherry pushed at her teacup. “I’m not sad. Just a little tired, I suppose. These long nights! One never truly wakes up and then it is dark again.” Her voice was flat and unconvincing; Patty didn’t believe her for a moment. Oh, she hadn’t slept much last night… could that be the reason for her blue mood? She couldn’t possibly regret accepting Jared’s offer, could she? Was this more nonsense about her dead husband? Honestly, when was Cherry going to wake up and start living in the present?

  “Cherry, you’re acting like someone shot your dog. Come on now, honey, we’re your family out here. We can help you.”

  “You’ve done enough,” Cherry said reasonably, spreading her hands to gesture at the groaning table. “You’ve taken me and my son in for the winter, and refused a single dollar for room and board. I don’t know how I will ever repay such kindness.”

  “By telling me what is so wrong, maybe,” Patty said drily, going to the stove for the kettle. “Have more tea and tell me all about it.”

  Cherry shook her head. “I really don’t want more tea, thank you.”

  “You don’t!” Patty frowned. She had gotten the impression that tea was the English fix for everything. Maybe Cherry’s problem wasn’t that bad, then.

  Edward slapped his hands on the table and knocked over his tin cup, spilling the little milk left in the bottom. “Teeeeeeeeeee!” he sung out. “Wan’ teeeeee!”

  Cherry didn’t move to pick up the cup or blot the spilt milk. She just looked at the baby and burst into tears.

  Patty stood with her mouth gaping. “You could have knocked me over with a feather,” she told Matt later, as they sat at the kitchen table and tried to sort out the dilemma. “I didn’t know Cherry had ever cried a tear in her life.”

  “Why, whatever—” Patty stammered, and Cherry interrupted her, gasping for breath through her sobs.

  “I have to send Little Edward back to England.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  They argued about it all morning.

  Cherry thought they were wonderfully kind, but terribly naïve. They didn’t know the first thing about inheritances, or estates, or entailments, or trustees. (To be sure, she only knew as much as she absolutely had had to, which wasn’t much.) They didn’t understand that her money had never truly been her own, that she had been operating upon the kindness of relatives who would have crossed the street in order to avoid her if their paths met in London, that she had been relying on the generosity of family who had never sent word of congratulations or concern when they would have surely known her time was upon her. She had presented herself as a wealthy Englishwoman who was saving her pennies in order to invest in the homestead; how could she be so penniless that she had to sell her own flesh and blood back to England on the first ship?

  “He would be going to his own
place,” Cherry tried to explain for the umpteenth time, arguing words that she knew to be true even as they ripped her heart asunder. “He would be raised in a cottage near Beechfields, in the bosom of his family, and be educated as a gentleman. He would learn a profession and earn a respectable place in society, even if the more strict circles did not accept him. He might go far in the army. He might marry a younger, plainer daughter from a good family.”

  He might, in short, have nearly the same future he would have had if she had not forfeited his chances in the stable with his father; if his father had not died so suddenly and cruelly before he could grant them the protection of his name. He might still have something very similar to what she had stolen from him with her imprudent behavior. Not the wealth, or the high social standing, or the seat in the House of Lords. But an education, and a life as a gentleman… that was something, still.

  Not that she explained that part, of course. She was still the widow of Edward “Beacham,” as far as her friends knew. She could never admit the truth. They thought that she had married beneath herself in the eyes of her family, nothing more.

  “But you were going to give him a farm,” Patty said blankly. “The homestead… I thought all that was to give him a new start in life, away from all those strict English people.” She had shifted a little in her ideas about English society after spending time with Cherry, and was now certain that England, while fascinating to imagine, would be most uncomfortable to live in even if one was a princess.

  “But without my father’s money, I cannot keep the homestead. I cannot build the farm.” Cherry’s voice was bleak. She looked at her hands, curled in her lap, and then back up at her concerned friends. “I have nothing of my own.”

  “We can hel—” Patty started impulsively, but Matt put his hand on her shoulder and she stopped.

  “We can’t,” he said softly. “We can have Cherry and Little Edward here, but we can’t help her with the homestead. It just can’t be managed.”

  “I would never have asked you,” Cherry said. “But I thank you for offering, Patty. You are a true friend, do you know that? I never had anyone like you in England. No matter what trouble is sent my way, I am blessed to have you in my life.”

  Patty swatted at tears. “Oh… go on…” she murmured, at a loss for words, and Cherry couldn’t help but smile. It was a bright moment in an otherwise dark morning.

  Finally, Patty murmured something about getting dinner on. And that was when Cherry remembered that Jared was coming to supper that night.

  Jared would know what to do.

  ***

  “Where’s Jared?”

  Cherry’s voice was close to cracking. She swallowed, trying to keep down the panic that was swelling up in her chest. “He said he would be at supper,” she continued in what she hoped very much was a more normal tone of voice. “I hope nothing has happened to him.”

  “Ah, what could happen to Jared?” Matt asked lazily, tipping his chair back on its legs. Patty slapped at him with a cloth napkin and he brought the chair legs down with a thump, favoring his wife with a hurt look which she ignored.

  “Anything could happen to a man between town and his claim,” Patty said darkly. “If he doesn’t come by the time we’re through eating, you’re going out to check on him.”

  Matt looked from woman to woman with a comically astonished face, but neither changed their worried expressions. “You’re serious,” he said finally. “My God, how you women do natter and worry.”

  Patty just huffed and started dishing out mashed potatoes.

  “Not a cloud in the sky out there. We done rode through blizzards and hailstorms with broken bones and snake-bite,” Matt declared. “He ain’t comin’ to no harm between Bradshaw and the claim.”

  But the women just ignored him.

  Cherry sat through the dinner in an agony of worry and disappointment. Little Edward chattered and laughed and covered himself with mashed potatoes, and picked at his little bites of pork, but she could not even bring herself to do that. If Jared was hurt, if the roan had stepped in a hole and thrown him, if he had fallen from the hayloft, if anything at all had happened — or if it had not. What of the way he had just ridden away without warning this morning? Her mind kept coming back to those doubts that had taken residence in her mind this morning. That he regretted her now. Surely he could have told her yesterday that he was just going to ride back to the claim after spending the night with her? Instead he had just melted away after making a promise to her. A promise he might very well regret in the light of the day.

  She hated herself for counting so much on Jared’s help, but wasn’t that what he had promised to be, just last night in bed — her helpmeet, her partner, her husband? Surely it wasn’t unreasonable to think, for just a moment, that she might lay her burdens upon his shoulders. Surely it wasn’t unreasonable to think that he might step between her and the world, between her and her enemies, and with his man’s strength and his man’s authority say, “You’ll leave Mrs. Beacham and her son alone, thank you very much. They are my responsibility now.”

  But perhaps it was. She pushed some peas around on her plate.

  “Cherry?”

  She looked at Patty, who was standing to clear the emptied dishes.

  “Matt’s going to saddle up and go looking for Jared now.”

  Cherry nodded miserably. Then, suddenly ashamed of herself, she squared her jaw and rose from the table. “Thank you both. I’ll help clear, Patty. I apologize for my lack of appetite; it certainly wasn’t the cook.”

  And Cherry began gathering the plates. She was going to go on as she always had, and Jared would either come and help her, or he would not.

  Assuming he wasn’t lying dead on the prairie. But Cherry very definitely did not believe that to be the case. He had been riding across these prairies since he was a boy. Jared knew what he was doing.

  ***

  Jared had no idea what he was doing.

  Wilbur was looking warily at him from across the cabin, rattling his spoon in his empty tin bowl with a nervous rhythm. The hired boy had been told the day before that he wouldn’t see Jared for a few days. Now the boss was sitting on his bed, head against the wall, drinking steadily from a dark bottle that had been hidden beneath the mattress. Wilbur wasn’t bothered by the drinking, but he was a little offended that the bottle had been hidden. As if he wasn’t trust-worthy enough not to go stealing the boss’s liquor! Also, he thought Jared might offer him a taste. He’d worked all day on the barn roof, and a man got a thirst. Wilbur was fifteen, but he was pretty sure he was a man, and Jared’s hiring him to feed the animals and work around the claim had proved the fact for certain.

  Jared was getting tired of Wilbur’s hunted looks, but there was nothing he could do. He was absolutely paralyzed — where to go next, who to tell, how to tell it.

  The only thing he knew was, she’d show up sooner or later.

  Sooner, knowing that witch.

  She’d show up and start making a fuss all over Bradshaw.

  He’d thought he was done with her at last. Wasn’t proof of that just last night? Getting Cherry to promise to marry him? This would be the final clincher, he’d thought, the nail in the coffin of that whole sordid mess. He’d have a new family, as far removed from the one that had been denied him as possible. Up here in the wilds of the Dakotas, he and his Englishwoman and that sweet little boy of hers would start all over again.

  And then this damned letter.

  It was somewhere in his bed, crumpled up after dozens of readings, maybe hundreds. He had stopped three times just on the ride out to the claim to dig it out of his saddlebag and read it again, the roan ducking his head for snatches of forbidden grass while his master was lost in a private misery. Then Jared would shake his head, come to, and stuff the letter back in the bag before he pulled the roan’s head up roughly and kicked the horse back into a gallop.

  He’d thrown it into his rumpled bed before he’d gone out and joine
d Wilbur on the roof of the barn, which they’d been rebuilding ever since the cyclone had torn it apart. It was hard work and despite the sharp north wind they’d both had sweat pouring down their faces and stinging their eyes, but he hadn’t stopped hammering away until the sun was setting and he couldn’t see to place another nail in the rough boards.

  Then he’d gone inside the cabin, seen the damned letter, and started reading it again. And again, and again.

  Then he’d started drinking.

  And that was about where he was right now.

  Wilbur spoke up, in a voice still high-pitched with youth. “You got bad news, Mister?” He sounded sympathetic.

  Jared regarded Wilbur. He was lanky, with the coltish legs and arms and angular face of a very thin boy slowly becoming a very large man. Too young for heartache, Jared thought. Heartache like this, anyway. “Woman trouble, son,” he admitted gruffly. “And let me tell you: that’s the worst kind of trouble. They plague you and plague you, and you just keep lettin’ ‘em. And askin’ for more.”

  Wilbur was a little taken aback. Woman trouble, from a strong character like Mr. Reese? A cowboy who had ridden every trail between Dakota and Texas, slept out beneath the stars, roped a longhorn and tamed a mustang? He didn’t know what to say. Maybe there was more to being a man than he had thought. He’d never given women problems any consideration at all.

  Jared had to laugh at the boy’s startled face. “Want my advice, son? Avoid women as long as you can. They’ll ensnare you soon enough, and then you got no escape. Less you want to build a cabin up in the mountains somewhere and turn into a hermit.” The thought was suddenly very appealing to Jared. He could go out into the Rockies, hole up the forest, live in a cave like a bear. Anything to avoid her…

  Wilbur furrowed his brow. “Well, Mr. Reese, what kind of trouble do you mean? My mama gets real mad at my pa, but then he brings her back something nice from town and it sweetens her right up. Maybe you gotta find her something nice at Mayfield’s.”