Brides of Georgia

by Connie Stevens

  “Mr. Danfield, I…I…”

  His expression turned solicitous. “Have I upset you in some way? Because that was not my intention.”

  Wonderment filled her. “You didn’t upset me. I didn’t expect—that is, I’d assumed all men—” She stopped herself before saying something sure to insult him, but he finished her thought.

  “You thought all men were like your father?”

  Was she that transparent? Oddly, the idea didn’t frighten her, at least not with Mr. Danfield. She relaxed her shoulders and nodded. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  He sat forward and rested his arms on his upraised knees. “Pastor Winslow taught me a great deal, and he always seemed to use common, everyday things as object lessons.” A twinkle lit his eyes. “Around here, that usually involves sheep.”

  She couldn’t help but smile and raised her eyes to watch the newborn lambs again.

  After a moment, he continued. “You’ve probably heard the parable in the Bible about the shepherd who left the ninety-nine sheep to go out and find the one that was lost. Of course, that parable is meant to illustrate how we should seek people who need the Lord, but Pastor Winslow used it to draw a different picture. What kind of man was the shepherd?”

  She cocked her head and pondered the question. “I suppose he was diligent about his job.”

  Mr. Danfield smiled and nodded. “Yes, he was that. But what made him diligent?”

  Auralie turned her gaze back to the twin lambs tottering unsteadily next to their mother. Who wouldn’t want to diligently protect something so vulnerable and helpless? She lifted her shoulders. “My father would say the sheep were worth money so diligence ensured a better profit. But I presume the shepherd had a different reason.”

  Mr. Danfield’s rich, deep-throated laugh made her heart skip, and she hoped he’d laugh again.

  “The shepherd cared about the sheep, and he demonstrated his compassion by showing that even the least of them was just as important as the rest. Pastor Winslow used to say every one of his sheep was important, just like every one of God’s children is important.” He pointed to the new mother and her babies. “When you found this ewe in distress, you could have just left her to fend for herself. After all, even if she had died, there’s still a whole flock of sheep down the hill.”

  Auralie gave a soft gasp. “I couldn’t do that. Look at her. Look at those little ones. How could anyone just leave her to die?”

  “Exactly my point.” When she turned to look at him, he was smiling at her. “Pastor Winslow emphasized that if Jesus died for the sins of all of us, then He views every person the same way the shepherd does his sheep. The pastor’s point was that we shouldn’t treat some people better or worse than others because we assign them a different level of importance. It was a valuable lesson that I hope I never forget.”

  “Your Pastor Winslow sounds like an extraordinary man.” And so are you, Colton Danfield. She pressed her lips together before the words found their way past her tongue. “I must say this has been a very enlightening morning, but I fear it’s well past the noon hour. Belle and Mammy will be sending out a search party if I don’t get back.”

  Mr. Danfield pushed away from the tree trunk and stood. He reached down and grasped both her hands and helped her to her feet. For a moment—an eternity—they stood facing each other with joined hands. His warm eyes and devastating smile robbed her of speech.

  He released her hands and took a step backward. “May I see you home?”

  At the moment, she couldn’t think of anything she’d like better. She nodded and took one last look at the lambs she’d helped usher into the world. “Will they be all right?”

  “Oh sure.” He gave a sharp whistle. “Free will look after them.” The dog came bounding up the hill, and Mr. Danfield gave him a pat. “You have two new babies to take care of, fella.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a dog named Free.”

  “Barnabas named him.”

  She smiled. No other explanation was needed.

  As they approached the boundary line between the two properties, Mr. Danfield cleared his throat. “Would you be offended if I asked you to call me Colton?”

  Her breath caught. You’re engaged. Tell him. Her heart and her common sense waged war. Until it was announced, the engagement wasn’t official. At least that’s what she kept telling herself.

  At some point, she’d already begun thinking of him as Colton, and she couldn’t deny how the silent utterance of his name in her private thoughts set an entire flock of hummingbirds loose in her stomach.

  “I find nothing offensive in calling you by your given name, but you must call me Auralie.”

  “Auralie.”

  She had to remind herself to breathe at the sound of her own name. The way he said it was melodic, as if the wind whispered. Her heart pounded so hard, the impact vibrated throughout her body.

  What was it Belle had told her? “All I’m trying to do is make you visualize how it could be if you were to do your own choosing.”

  The grass was still wet with morning dew as Colton made his way to the pasture to check on the newest lambs. Free met him with tail wagging, as if proudly showing off his new babies. Only three days old, the twins stuck close to their mother, but they looked stronger than they had the morning they struggled into the world. For the hundredth time, the memory of Auralie kneeling in the grass, holding the ewe’s head and crooning quietly to calm the nervous mother, slid easily into his thoughts. Who would have thought the daughter of Shelby Covington would exhibit such tender compassion? Chagrin pricked him when he remembered how he judged her—assumed she’d be spoiled and arrogant by virtue of her lineage. He was happy to be wrong.

  He’d never stopped to think how a woman like Auralie lived under a cloud of intimidation, but that’s exactly what she’d implied. Did Covington really bully his own daughter into submission? The idea rankled Colton more than he cared to admit.

  What are you doing, Danfield? He shook his head. Time after time he warned himself against allowing feelings for Auralie to take root, and every time the feelings won out. Hadn’t he pushed away the budding attraction? Didn’t he try to discipline his thoughts?

  “Hmph. If I did, I wasn’t very successful.” He reprimanded himself all the way back to the barn, but blocking Auralie from his thoughts was an exercise he found impossible. He’d exchanged a few glances and smiles with her at church yesterday—each time setting his heart to thumping like a schoolboy’s. At the end of the service, Jack McCaffey snagged him to discuss some information regarding Shelby Covington’s pledge to bring the railroad into their area. By the time he broke away from Jack, the Hancock carriage was leaving the churchyard.

  No good could come of seeking more than friendship with her. With a heavy sigh, he grabbed a hoe from the barn and headed for the cornfield.

  The sun slipped behind a cloud, and the air held the scent of rain. He began swinging his hoe at the intruding weeds, hoping to get several rows done before the skies opened up. Hard work. That’s what he needed. Nothing like aching muscles and sweat to take a man’s mind off…

  In the distance, a stylish gray carriage pulled up at the Hancocks’ front door. Colton straightened and squinted. Mrs. Hancock’s servant, Sam, loaded bags behind the driver’s seat. Auralie came out onto the porch, tying her bonnet under her chin. Mrs. Hancock followed. They hugged, and then Auralie turned toward Colton’s farm and paused. He couldn’t tell from the distance whether she saw him. A minute later, she and Mammy stepped into the carriage and drove off, leaving Mrs. Hancock standing and waving from the porch.

  Colton leaned on his hoe and watched the carriage disappear beyond the trees. She’d not mentioned her visit was growing short, not that it was any of his business.

  “Just as well,” he muttered, but his words rang hollow.

  Colton dragged his sleeve across his forehead. His back and shoulders ached and sweat dripped from his hair, but taking out his frustration
s on the weeds was better than brooding. When he got to the end of the row, he picked up the canteen looped over the fence post and took a drink. As he returned the canteen to the post, he caught sight of three men beyond his property line.

  He instantly turned to ascertain Barnabas’s whereabouts and found him working on fence posts near the barn. Colton returned his focus to the trio who now studied an unrolled scroll.

  His surly mood kicked a notch higher. He intended to find out once and for all who these men were and what they were doing so close to his land. He strode to the edge of the cornfield toward the men. If grumpiness hadn’t already taken up residence within him, he might be tempted to laugh. The men, dressed in fine suits, brocade vests with glittering watch chains, and silk cravats, looked as out of place tramping around through the underbrush as a mule in church. Engrossed in whatever the paper in their hands contained, they didn’t look up until Colton called to them.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  The three jerked their heads up in unison. Colton stopped at the edge of his property, and one of the men walked toward him. His thick reddish brown hair and square jaw gave him an air of nobility, and Colton wondered if this was the same man Barnabas saw.

  “May I ask what you’re doing out here?”

  The man lifted his chin and sent a sweeping glance down Colton’s dirty work clothes and muddy boots. “Are you Danfield?”

  “That’s right.” He held out his hand.

  The man gave Colton’s hand a brief shake. “My name is Covington.” The man’s haughty demeanor hung in the air like a stench from mucking out the stalls. Covington paused momentarily, as if waiting for Colton to react to the name. When Colton remained stonefaced, Covington continued. “My men and I are conducting a geographical survey, marking boundary lines for a client—an old family friend.”

  The hackles on the back of Colton’s neck rose, and his spine stiffened. Covington’s disdain didn’t bother him nearly as much as what he didn’t say, but Colton didn’t intend to let Covington walk away without confronting him with what he knew.

  “A friend of mine witnessed you several days ago, taking survey measurements across my land. I’d like to know why.”

  A sneer pulled one side of Covington’s mouth upward. “Your land? Can a man who doesn’t have the means to purchase land truly be called a landowner?”

  Every shred of self-control Colton possessed prevented him from planting a fist on the side of Covington’s aristocratic jaw. “If you’ll check the record books in the land office and the tax assessor’s office, you’ll find I am the legal owner of this piece of property.”

  “Through another man’s benevolence.” Covington sniffed. He reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook with gold filigree stamped on the front. He flipped a few pages. “The previous owner was an old man by the name of Winslow, and he left it to you when he died.”

  Colton clamped his teeth and pursed his lips, determined not to allow the man to detect any inkling of agitation at the disrespectful reference to his dear friend and mentor, or his implied insult. “That is true. Does inheritance make me any less the rightful owner of the property?”

  “Legally, no. At least for now.”

  Colton ached to grab this arrogant snob and bloody his nose, but if he landed in jail, what might happen to Barnabas?

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Covington tucked the notebook back into his coat pocket. “What question was that?”

  Colton spread his feet and crossed his arms. “Why were you surveying across my land?”

  The same insolent smirk appeared. “We were using the southeast corner of the little shanty there as a benchmark for locating the corner of the property.”

  No point in inviting more ridicule by informing Covington that little shanty was his home. Besides, Colton was quite certain all the condescending talk was a smoke screen. If Covington thought he could rile Colton to the point where his anger would make him take leave of his common sense, he might miss what was really going on. The first chance he got, he planned to go to town and make some inquiries with Randall Kimber at the land office. If there was anything underhanded brewing, Colton wanted to find out.

  Colton uncrossed his arms and planted his hands on his hips. “I have to get back to work.”

  Covington snorted. “Of course you do.” He turned to walk away, but Colton stopped him.

  “Mr. Covington.”

  The man halted and turned, his forehead furrowed in patronizing disdain. “Yes?”

  “A thought just occurred to me. Do you suppose your father is going to live forever?”

  Covington’s brows dipped. “What?”

  Amusement tickled Colton’s belly, but he held it in. “Unless your father lives forever, you’re going to inherit Covington Plantation some day. How nice that you will become a real landowner through another man’s benevolence.”

  Colton turned and strode back to the cornfield.

  Chapter 13

  Auralie forced her attention back to the discussion of tea cakes, tarts, and petit fours. Gabrielle Bolden held court in the parlor at Covington Plantation, instructing Auralie on the proper arrangement of the buffet table for tea. The woman destined to be Auralie’s mother-in-law arrived armed with lists, schedules, menus, and decoration plans, complete with instructions for Auralie and her mother.

  “You do understand, of course, each menu item has been selected with utmost thought and consideration for color, shape, and texture, as well as taste.”

  “Forgive my confusion, Mrs. Bolden.” Auralie intertwined her fingers in her lap, twisting her ring. She curled her toes inside her slippers at the disapproving frown from her mother, who sat across the room. “I was under the impression the engagement party would be held in the evening. I don’t understand the need for planning an afternoon tea.”

  Mrs. Bolden raised one eyebrow. “There will be very important people coming from as far as Atlanta and Augusta—senators and their wives, diplomats, and various dignitaries. Some will arrive in the afternoon, and we must be prepared to serve them refreshments befitting their station.”

  Auralie wilted under the scrutinizing glare of the woman’s green eyes. She didn’t care a fig about planning this soiree, but her mother did. As she expected, an indignant cough came from across the room.

  “Auralie received the guest list from your son and has spent a great deal of time in preparation for the announcement party.”

  Auralie’s eyes widened. How could her mother speak such an exaggeration? “Mother, I—”

  The elder Covington woman merely gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head to Auralie. “We’re quite prepared to entertain the most elite of those listed and will take every pain necessary to ensure a most triumphant event, surpassed only by the wedding itself.”

  Mrs. Bolden pressed her lips together in an artificial and condescending smile. “Of course.”

  Auralie wasn’t fooled. Gabrielle Bolden intended to dictate every detail of the event.

  Phoebe Covington refused to be outdone. “I’ve commissioned ten ivory tablecloths of the finest Irish linen, to be overlaid with Belgian lace. In addition, I’ve ordered twelve dozen napkins in a coordinating brocade.” She finished with a slight bob of her head, no doubt intended to put an exclamation point on her announcement.

  Mrs. Bolden advised that the etched stemware she’d ordered from Boston should arrive any day. Auralie’s mother described the finest of silver and crystal candelabras she’d chosen for the serving table. The duet of egos made Auralie dizzy, and she longed to be back in the sheep meadow with Colton, watching the lambs. She stiffened her jaw against the yawn that threatened to expose her boredom.

  Auralie’s mother tugged at her cuff and sat forward in her chair. “Mrs. Bolden, our cook makes an excellent pecan shortbread that is particularly nice with tea.”

  Mrs. Bolden fluttered her hand in a dismissive motion and uttered an
airy titter. “Oh my dear Mrs. Covington, we will bring in the best chefs and pastry artists from Savannah and Charleston. Surely you didn’t think to entrust such an important occasion to your servants.” She pressed a lace-gloved hand to her bosom and shook her head. None of her precise curls dared to slip out of place.

  Auralie’s stomach rolled over. Is this what her life was destined to be?

  “So, let us summarize what we have thus far.” Mrs. Bolden perched a pair of bejeweled eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose and looked over the sheet of stationery in front of her on which she’d written several lists.

  “For the tea, we shall serve Darjeeling, orange pekoe, ginger spice tea, and a delightful oolong tea I sampled the last time I was in Richmond.” She jotted down a notation, and then sent an evaluating glance around the room. “This room might do for the tea. If the weather is nice, we’ll leave those french doors open to the veranda. That way the space might not seem so cramped.”

  Auralie gulped. Cramped? If the cavernous room was any larger, it would echo. She slid her gaze to the window and wondered for the twentieth time that day what Colton was doing, and whether he knew she’d left Belle’s.

  “Miss Auralie, you mustn’t daydream.” Mrs. Bolden’s voice, while veiled with overtones of refinement, grated on Auralie’s ears. “My son will expect his wife to be attuned to his needs and be capable of engaging in intelligent conversation. You can hardly do that while staring out the window.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Auralie itched to have this ordeal over. A quick glance showed Mother’s displeasure at her daughter’s lack of attention. A knot twisted in Auralie’s stomach.

  Lord, I’m not giving up praying and asking You to please put a stop to this marriage. I love You, Lord. Help me trust You with this.

  She tried to relax her stomach muscles that had begun to cramp. Mrs. Bolden went down her list of delicacies for the afternoon tea.

  “Finger sandwiches of cucumber, watercress, liver pâté, and veal pâté. As accompaniments to the sandwiches, tomato aspic, cranberry apple press, and ambrosia will be offered.” She checked off the items as she announced them. “We must have at least four different kinds of tarts, equally pleasing to the eye as to the palate. With that in mind, I’ve chosen red current tarts, lemon chess tarts, marmalade tarts, and ginger buttermilk tarts.” She glanced up at Auralie and her mother, as if daring them to challenge any of her choices.