The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection

by Kristin Billerbeck

  Jere never forgot the childish words with which he asked Jesus to live in his heart and help him to “be a good boy.” They served him in good stead when trials came. The stern control Laird Cunningham exercised over himself, his household, the many slaves who served him, and especially his only son seldom slipped. The occasions when it did were legendary.

  The elder Cunningham unfortunately bequeathed both his love for the plantation and his stubbornness to his only son. Many times Jere flinched at his father’s rock-hard determination to control his life. Jere never let it show. Laird Cunningham despised weakness and rode roughshod over opposition, believing he was duty-bound to direct others in the way they ought to go.

  On most such occasions, Jere silently met his father’s stern gaze, then went his own way. Today in the drawing room had been different. Jere shrank from the memory raw in his mind and deliberately concentrated on the vast Cunningham domain. It stretched as far as he could see in every direction. Beautifully cared-for fields ribboned with lazy streams swept to low hills that were backed by distant mountain ridges. The hum of bees heavy with pollen harmonized with voices from the whitewashed cabins that housed the Cunningham slaves. Voices now raised in a familiar spiritual. No ramshackle dwellings marred Hickory Manor. Each tidy cabin had its cow, garden, and patch of flowers.

  Jere turned up his nose in disgust. Some of the neighbors’ slave quarters were disgraceful, little more than shacks. He furrowed his brow. The one time he protested the deplorable conditions to his father, Laird Cunningham shook his head and sternly reminded, “How he treats his slaves is each man’s responsibility. We treat ours well, but we are not our brothers’ keepers.”

  We should be. The words remained unspoken but never completely disappeared into the land of forgotten conversations. They popped up at odd times, leaving Jere depressed without knowing what to do about his feelings.

  A cloud slid across the sky, blotting out the sun and Jere’s temporary peace. He sighed, unable to laugh off or ignore the incident that had sent him galloping away from home and his father’s presence. Resentment rose like bile. Jere flung his head back and stared at a distant, blue-hazed mountain. “Sorry I couldn’t hold my tongue, God. I can’t and won’t marry Harriet Conrad, even though she would bring a dowry as large as her feet to the house of Cunningham.”

  He paused, wishing God would tell him, I don’t expect you to marry her. The heavens remained silent. Jere chuckled. What had he expected? A lightning bolt? Why ask for reassurance when he already had it? His heart had confirmed his convictions a hundred, nay, a thousand times since the day he would remember if he lived to be older than Methuselah. In the space between heartbeats, he had taken measure and staked his claim to Lucy Danielson. For fourteen years he’d remained unshaken in the face of his father’s continuing disbelief that a six-year-old’s fanciful attachment would be strong enough to carry into manhood.

  Jere expelled an exasperated breath and set his mouth in a grim line. Father had brought the subject up again today. His steely gaze had bored into his son, who dreaded hearing the timeworn arguments and accusations he knew by heart.

  “You’re twenty years old,” he stated through thinned lips, paying out the words the way a miser reluctantly parts with his gold. He glared at Jere, seated in the richly upholstered chair on the opposite side of the great marble fireplace. “Old enough to put aside this abominable obsession with the Danielson child, and—”

  Jere closed his mind against the rest of the speech. Child? In many ways, he admitted to himself. A hundred glimpses of her laughing face when she followed or led him into mischief flooded his brain. Lucy calmly removing her shoes and wading stocking-footed in the creek when she knew it would scandalize Mammy Roxy. Lucy sneaking tidbits to a mongrel dog through the open window behind her at a formal dinner. Lucy filling his heart with her antics and obvious adoration. Even though no vow of love had been declared between them, her incredible blue-green eyes showed awareness of the bonds that shut out any possibility of either Jere or her marrying anyone else.

  His father’s grating voice interrupted the thought. “Can you imagine Lucy Danielson as mistress of all this?” He carelessly gestured around the tastefully furnished drawing room. “Unless she changes completely, and I see little hope of that….” He paused and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “She will never be mature enough to properly grace any man’s home, let alone a man of your station.”

  The sleeping protest Jere had stifled more times than he could remember roused, shook itself, and roared like a cannon. “Mature enough!” Jere felt his eyes burn and knew they flashed blue fire at his father. “She’s mature enough to accompany Dr. Luke on his rounds. Mature enough for everyone in Hickory Hill and miles around—except you—to recognize that she has been given the gift of healing! Mature enough to know from childhood that nursing is her calling and to have studied all she could get her hands on, plus learning from Dr. Luke.” Pride choked off his tribute. He observed the consternation in his father’s face at the unexpected outburst but retrieved his voice and heedlessly rushed on.

  “Every day Lucy tries to live up to the standard set by her heroine, Florence Nightingale. You must know the courageous ‘lady with the lamp’ and her assistants overcame unspeakable conditions in the Turkish barracks used as a hospital during the Crimean War. Miss Nightingale saved the lives of countless British soldiers.” He paused. “Lucy has already helped save lives right here.”

  “The Nightingale woman disgraced her father and broke his heart.”

  Jere sprang to his feet so abruptly, his heavy chair crashed to the polished floor. He stepped forward, unable to hold back words he had wanted to speak a million times. Words he had swallowed because of the commandment to honor his father and mother. “Thank God Dr. Luke isn’t such a man! He respects his daughter enough to let her choose her own life.”

  The older man slowly and deliberately raised himself from his chair. His fixed gaze never wavered from his son’s face. “Some of us can afford to be more choosy,” he grimly pointed out. “Lucas Danielson has little land and fewer possessions to leave future generations. Your mother and I have given our lives to the establishing of Hickory Manor. In many ways, it is our lives.”

  Yours, not mother’s, Jere thought. She would be happy no matter how little she had. Although she enjoys her home, what really matters to Mother is serving God and her family.

  “Jinny will be suitably betrothed at the proper time,” Laird droned on in a voice as devoid of emotion as if he were describing the selling of a farm animal.

  Jere opened his mouth to protest, then shrugged. Why bring his younger sister’s future into the argument? Doing so at this point meant prolonging Father’s tirade, something Jere hated and avoided whenever possible.

  Today it wasn’t possible. In the same calculated tones, the master of Hickory Manor announced, “You will be twenty-one next August. As you know, you stand to inherit a goodly section of land. If between now and then you consent to wed Harriet Conrad, all will be well. I have approached her father on your behalf.” The words fell like cold, hard pebbles into the pool of silence that Jere stonily maintained. “Conrad and his daughter are both agreeable to the union.”

  “Agreeable?” Furious at the suggestion, Jere lost the last of his self-control. “Not to me. I absolutely refuse to marry that simpering lummox!”

  Laird’s great hands balled into fists. His face grew mottled. “Enough! No woman will be spoken of so in this household.”

  “You are right, sir. I shouldn’t have ridiculed Miss Conrad, any more than you should belittle Lucy Danielson.” He hesitated, then decided that since all-out war must ultimately be declared, it might as well happen. Father could never be any angrier than right now, after having had his principles thrown into his teeth.

  “I’m sorry I can’t live up to what you expect of me, but I wouldn’t marry Miss Conrad if she were the only woman on earth. I will also never marry in order to increase our holdings. You ma
rried for love. So will I.” Jere searched the granitelike face for any sign of softening. He found none. Years of pride and ambition had evidently erased Father’s memories of the young man he once was.

  Jere took a deep breath and freed himself from the invisible shackles he’d felt tightening around him ever since the conversation began. Should Father carry out his implied threat of disinheriting, perhaps even disowning, his natural heir, it meant losing both land and dreams. Yet something deep in Jere’s soul compelled him to say, “I’ve loved Lucy Danielson since childhood. I always will. Marrying another would be akin to sacrilege. God and Dr. Luke willing, I plan to offer Lucy a betrothal ring one year from today.”

  His father laughed unpleasantly. “Which she will naturally accept. What girl wouldn’t leap at the opportunities you offer?” He ignored Jere’s murmur of protest. “I repeat my ultimatum. Either you marry Miss Conrad on or before your twenty-first birthday, or I shall not be responsible for the consequences.”

  Jere didn’t trust himself to say more. He bolted from the room and from the house as if pursued by a thousand devils. A few minutes later, he mounted Ebony and galloped away, seething with the unfairness of it all. Just before he reached the rising ground leading to his favorite knoll, his pent-up emotions exploded into a war cry that echoed across the valley and bounced off the distant hills.

  Ebony poked his nose against his master’s shoulder and whinnied, shattering Jere’s reverie. How long had he been standing atop the knoll? He gazed at the westering sun. Rose-purple streaks heralded the near approach of dusk. Jere vaulted into the saddle and headed for Hickory Hill. Should he remain in the village after completing his errand and go straight to the Danielson home at the appointed time, thereby escaping another meeting with Father?

  A hasty survey of his rumpled riding clothes scotched the idea. No gentleman would appear at his ladylove’s birthday soiree in such condition, even though she had seen him far more disheveled many times. Social conventions sometimes bring more trouble than they are worth, he thought bleakly.

  “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,” Jere sang mournfully, urging Ebony into a ground-devouring trot, then a canter, followed by a gallop. “Nobody knows but Jesus….” He thought of the many times he’d heard field hands sing the haunting words, supposedly written by an unknown slave or slaves. Somehow their poignancy had never touched him as much as they did now. He sang on,

  “Sometimes I’m up, sometimes I’m down,

  Oh, yes, Lord;

  Sometimes I’m almost to the ground,

  Oh, yes, Lord.”

  Inexplicably comforted, Jere reached the outskirts of the village. He slowed Ebony to a trot and turned him toward the least likely place one would expect to find a gift for fifteen-year-old Lucy Danielson’s birthday: the blacksmith shop.

  Chapter 3

  The grime-covered face of the village blacksmith brightened when Jere and Ebony halted before the smithy. A wide smile broke out, like whitecaps against a dark reef. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten our little secret.” He removed a bulky package from the corner. “It’s just as you wanted it.”

  Jere’s usual high spirits returned. He leaped from the saddle and eagerly accepted the package, hefting its weight and grinning. “How did it turn out?”

  “Perfect. Just perfect.” The smile grew even larger. “Miss Lucy’s gonna get the surprise of her life.” The blacksmith chuckled gleefully and rubbed his hamlike hands, obviously enjoying the conspiracy. “Smart as she is, I predict that little lady will never guess what’s in the package—not the way you had me wrap it. Your folks coming in for her birthday supper, as usual?”

  “Yes.” Jere tucked the heavy package in his saddlebag and paid the previously agreed-on price for his purchase. “As usual.”

  “Lemme see; it’s been nigh onto fourteen years, ain’t it?” Rolls of flesh nearly hid the twinkling eyes. “Folks ain’t forgot the way you stood there straight as a wooden soldier when Miss Lucy toddled over to you. Or how you told the world what you wanted, right then and there.” His joyful bellow rang out louder than the sound of hammers and anvil with which he plied his trade. He slapped his leather apron. “I hear tell you ain’t changed your mind.”

  “Would you?” Jere demanded, already knowing the answer.

  “No, siree. You’re the second luckiest feller around.”

  “Second luckiest? Why not the luckiest?” Jere demanded.

  “The way I figure is, I got me the best lass in the world. I’ve had her for more than thirty years. That makes Miss Lucy second.” He scratched his balding head and his expression changed. “My wife wouldn’t have made it through that bad spell of ague if it hadn’t been for that child, which she ain’t anymore. Dr. Luke was run off his feet taking care of sick folks. He didn’t have time to stay with just one person. Miss Lucy waltzed into our house like she owned it. She told me what to do and made sure I did it.” Gratitude added a touch of beauty to the rugged features. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. The whole village feels the same way.” The big man cleared his throat. “That goes for you, too, son.”

  A bittersweet feeling threatened Jere’s composure. Why couldn’t Father admit Lucy’s worth, when so many others recognized it and loved her for serving? Or mine, he mentally added. Family loyalty sealed his lips from uttering words that would betray the lord of the manor’s attitude. Besides, folks—including the blacksmith—would find out soon enough. He’d wager Ebony against a swaybacked nag that before morning, news of his heated argument with Father would romp through the peaceful valley on tattletale feet. Each telling would add spice and lurid details until the tale had only passing acquaintance with truth.

  Jere grinned in spite of himself. By the time the story traveled full circle through village and neighboring plantations then back to Hickory Manor, he’d be cast as everything from the prodigal son to Sir Galahad, depending on who repeated the gossip and how many times.

  He gripped the blacksmith’s hand, then swung into the saddle. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done this without you, but you already know that.”

  The blacksmith swiped one hand across his face. “Yeah, but it won’t be me who gets Miss Lucy’s undying gratitude.” His eyes glistened. “Wish I could be a mouse in a corner when she starts peeling away that paper.”

  His laggard customer just laughed. A touch of heels to Ebony’s sides sent them racing down the wide street toward home. The last thing he needed tonight was another lecture about cutting the family’s time for leaving short. “This is Lucy’s birthday, and she has a right to be happy,” he told the stallion.

  Ebony snorted, extended his powerful legs, and headed for Hickory Manor.

  They reached the stables at last light. Jere tossed the reins to a waiting stable boy, hid his package in the carriage the family used for more formal occasions, and hurried toward the house. He reached his room undetected and rang for hot water. After his bath, the dark-suited gentleman with the gleaming white shirtfront who stood brushing his sunny hair before the glass atop his chiffonier, bore little resemblance to Ebony’s carelessly attired rider. Jere admitted without conceit that he would do and bounded downstairs after a servant tapped at his door and informed him the family was ready and waiting in the “libr’y.”

  Laird Cunningham raised one eyebrow but said nothing. Isobel, lovely in pale blue, smiled a welcome. Jinny curtseyed, her rose-pink skirts swaying with the motion. Alerted by his father’s coldly stated plan for Jinny, Jere felt a protective surge of concern. He silently vowed she would not be sacrificed on the altar of greed. If Father ever attempted to force Jinny into a marriage not of her own choosing, Jere would thwart his plans. Even if it meant carrying her so far away that Father would never find her. God forbid it would come to that.

  “You’re staring at me as if you’d never seen me before,” Jinny accused.

  “I’ve never seen you look so beautiful,” her brother told her.

  She blushed until her s
urprised face matched her gown. “Why, Jere! You never use pretty words to me. Is it because—I mean, you act different.”

  “I never before realized how quickly you are growing up,” he said soberly, wondering if his fear for her future showed in his eyes or in his voice.

  Perhaps it had, for some of Jinny’s radiance dimmed. Uncertainty crept into her face, and her gaze followed Jere’s quick look at their father. With a rustle of skirts, she ran to Isobel and unnecessarily smoothed a wisp of her carefully arranged hair. “You’re the one who looks beautiful. Doesn’t she, Father?”

  Jere hated the appraising look that came into his father’s eyes before he bowed to his wife and said, “Mrs. Cunningham is always pleasing to behold.” Why didn’t he admit Mother was even lovelier than Jinny?

  Jere held his sister’s cloak while his father did the same for Mother. Donning his own, Jere trailed the others out the front door and down the steps to the waiting carriage. At first, Jinny excitedly chattered about the evening ahead. Her father’s rigidity and lack of response soon silenced her. The rest of the journey was accomplished in total stillness, broken only when they reached Hickory Hill.

  “I hope you acquired a gift suitable for the occasion,” Laird Cunningham said in a voice that showed he had grave doubts about that very thing.

  Jere knew the comment was directed at him but clung to his determination to make this a happy occasion for Lucy and refused to rise to the bait. Jinny quickly replied, “Oh, my, yes! Mother and I sent away for a copy of Mr. Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. Lucy has read her copy so many times, it is almost worn out.”