The Valentine Legacy by Catherine Coulter
“Rules are to keep ladies protected,” Allen Belmonde said as he patted his wife’s shoulder. It wasn’t all that gentle a pat, James saw when Alice winced. “Ladies shouldn’t complain about rules.”
“Yes, well, Jessie will do as she pleases,” Ursula said. “Come along, James, we really must be leaving now. Nelda, our regards to your husband. Alice, you and Allen enjoy the rest of the day. We will see you in church tomorrow.”
James grinned down at Nelda, who’d taken a step closer to him. “I smell like a horse, so you’d best keep your distance. If you see your father, tell him I’ll be at his stables tonight with a bottle of his favorite claret, though I’m sure he’s already counting on it. He can gloat all he wants.”
“You and my father still drink together?”
“Whenever I beat him, he rides to Marathon, bringing me champagne.”
“Why then,” Alice said, “you should bring the claret to Jessie. She’s the one who beat you, not her father.”
“It’s his stable,” James said, wishing the brat were here so he could count her freckles again. That got her mouth shut quickly enough.
“I’ll tell my mother,” Nelda said. “I don’t often see Father anymore. As for Jessie, well, why would I want to see her? She’s so very odd, you know. I do disagree with Alice, but she doesn’t mind that I do. Ladies need rules. It makes civilization, well, more civilized. We do need you charming gentlemen to protect us, to guide us, to tell us how to go on, to—”
“That’s really enough of a list,” Ursula said, squeezing her husband’s arm in impatience.
James, who thought Jessie the most unnatural of females, said quickly, “She’s not at all odd, Nelda. And she’s your sister.” He turned to Giff. “I’ll see both of you tomorrow.”
“You’ll see Mother, too,” Ursula said, her voice as grave as a nun’s, her eyes as wicked as a sinner’s.
“There is that,” James said, gave them all a cocky smile, and strode off through the dwindling crowd.
“Well,” Nelda Carlysle said all bright as the afternoon sun overhead, “I’ll be off then. Ursula, I do hope to see you again soon now that we’re both married ladies. Perhaps I can visit you in town? I’ve finally convinced Mr. Carlysle that a nice town house on George Street would be ever so convenient. That’s quite near to you, isn’t it?”
“Quite near,” Ursula said, and thought, I’ll move to Fells Point if you come to town, Nelda. You could also be a bit more delicate about your overtures to my poor brother. Oh dear, that would certainly cause a tangle if Nelda managed to get her hooks into James. No, my brother would never poach on a husband’s preserves.
Ursula and Giff watched Nelda lean down to speak to Alice, who was just a little bit of a thing, her hand on her sleeve, then give her a brief nod. She smiled up at Allen Belmonde, nodding pleasantly, though to Ursula’s knowledge, Nelda couldn’t stand him.
“What are you thinking, Urs?”
“What? Oh, just that Fells Point is a lovely spot.”
“Have you been there lately?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter, just believe me.”
2
If Lord Derby hadn’t won the coin toss in 1780, it’s possible that we’d call it the Kentucky Bunbury.
—HISTORICAL OBSERVATION
THERE WAS A full moon. The late-March weather was mild, only a slight night breeze rustling the early spring leaves on the immensely old oak trees that lined the drive to the Warfield farm.
James whistled an English ditty the Duchess had written the year before as he cantered astride Sober John, a horse as gray as the exquisite pewter bowl that sat in the middle of his dining-room table, and just as durable. The Duchess, who was actually the Countess of Chase and an English Wyndham, never seemed to run out of ideas, which was understandable, he supposed, what with the idiocy of George IV and all the politicians to provide her with such outrageous fodder. It was a catchy tune. He smiled to think how Marcus Wyndham, the Earl of Chase and the Duchess’s husband, would sing her ditties at the top of his lungs in his bathtub, sending maids flurrying off in fits of giggles outside the huge master bedchamber at Chase Park.
James lightly patted Sober John’s neck. The stallion was twenty years old now and the mainstay of James’s breeding farm. Sober John’s get were racing long four-mile stretches from Massachusetts to Kentucky. Sober John was a thoroughbred, a stayer, whose endurance had been renowned on the racecourses. He was now becoming renowned as a stud, thank the good Lord.
The bright moonlight glinted off the white wooden fence that, along with the oaks, lined the drive from the main road to the big house itself. The Warfield Stud and Racing Stable was huge, profitable, and well run. James admired it and prayed Marathon would one day be as successful. He particularly liked all that white fence that went on and on until it disappeared beyond a stand of oak trees into the darkness. He could only imagine what it would cost to keep that damned fence painted white.
When James pulled Sober John up in front of the stables, a young black slave dashed forward to take his reins. “Rub him down good, Jemmy,” James said, and tossed the boy a coin.
“Sell me Sober John.”
“Forget it, Oliver.” He stretched out his hand and shook the older man’s. His hair was redder than the brat’s, though unlike hers it was threaded with gray and was as grizzled as James’s hairbrush. His eyes were a faded blue, unlike the brat’s which were a wet-looking green, the color of the damp moss beside a pool of dirty water in the middle of a swamp. “You had four winners in the races today, all of them Friar Tuck’s get. That two-year-old filly—Miss Louise—she’s going to keep you winning for years, barring accidents. You don’t need Sober John.”
“If I had Sober John I’d put you right out of business, boy.”
“I hope the thought keeps you awake at night.”
Oliver sighed deeply. “I’m getting old. Aches and pains keep me up enough at night. Oh hell, if I were your age again, I’d steal Sober John, challenge you to a duel, and put a bullet through your gullet. Now I’m too old to do anything but whine and bark like an old dog.”
“An old dog that likes claret.”
Oliver Warfield grinned, showing a darkened tooth in the front of his mouth that would have to be pulled soon. “You had three winners—not bad for a young fellow with a dash of skill. You would have had more if your jockey, Redcoat, hadn’t broken his leg.”
“He wouldn’t have broken it if that lout from the Richmond Rye stable hadn’t tried to slash him apart with his riding crop, sending him into a tree.”
“So give your jockeys pistols, James—some owners do, you know. Come inside, my boy. I want my claret. I want to gloat. Jessie told me to do it up right since you tried to do her in today.”
“I don’t think it’s possible.”
“What?”
“Doing in Jessie. I think she puts glue on the seat of her pants. I’d have to pry off her saddle, too.”
James followed Oliver Warfield into the large office he’d added onto one end of the huge stable. It was lit with four lamps. The air was redolent of the smells of leather, horse, hay, and linseed oil. James breathed in deeply. He loved the smells, had all his life. Oliver waved him to a deep black leather chair. He took the bottle, opened it, and poured both of them a liberal glass.
“To your victory,” James said, hating those particular words. Oliver knew it, too, the old bastard.
“My victory.” He clicked his glass to James’s, then sat back and drank deep. “Were there many at the races today? I had to leave early. This damned gout of mine gets nastier by the year.”
“I’m sure Dr. Dancy Hoolahan would tell you the claret doesn’t help.”
“Then you should try to win more often.”
“Hell, so it’s my fault that you have gout?”
“Well, it’s your bloody claret. All I have to do is win and you’re here to pour it down my throat.”
“The very best bloody claret.”
“A good number. A lot of ladies, which is a good sign. The Puritans are trying their best to get racing outlawed, but I don’t think it’ll work here. We’re all too big a bunch of sinners.”
“You’re right about that. Ah, it’s fun to gloat. It always makes me feel better. A warm, sunny day never hurts attendance. I wish I could have been there for all of it.”
“There were assorted broken bones to liven things up. Look, Oliver, I just nudged Jessie,” James said, sitting forward, cupping his wine glass in his hands, “I didn’t really try to toss her off. I just wanted to wipe the grin off her face.”
“That’s not what she says, but she’s always ready to look at you cross-eyed, James. I don’t know why the girl can’t abide you. It’s not that she’s a little prude, not my Jessie. But she hasn’t liked you since she met you—what was it? At least six years ago. She was just a little tyke then.”
“She’s never been little in her life. When she was fourteen, she was all legs and a big mouth.”
“Well, maybe that’s true about her mouth,” Oliver said. “She beat you soundly, James.”
James poured them more claret. “To your victory,” he said again, knowing the words would be a litany before the evening was over. The good Lord knew James would need a lot of claret to see him through the evening.
“So many victories over the years,” Oliver said as he loosened his cravat. He knew his years gave him the right to wax philosophical every once in a while, particularly with James, who was young and unseasoned. Winning was better than philosophizing any day. Doing both was all a man could desire. “You know, of course, that the Warfield stables have been here since the early seventeen hundreds when it was started by my grandfather. Aye, he’d just stepped off the ship from Bristol, one racehorse to his name, skinny as a rail from puking his guts up the entire voyage, and filled with all the optimism of youth.” Oliver Warfield drank deep then sighed. “From father to son and father to son. What a tail-male line.”
“I’ve never heard humans called a ‘tail-male line’ before.”
“Same difference, only I failed. All I could do was breed daughters. Three bloody females. It’s enough to make a man weep.”
“Maybe this is the start of a tail-female line.”
“Not likely. What good are girls? They get married, leave, change their names, and breed—babes, not horses. I’m not complaining. It’s what they’re supposed to do. Look at my females. Just one husband amongst the three of them, and old Bramen is older than I am, James. Have you seen those skinny legs of his and that huge paunch? He’s probably more shriveled than a two-year-old potato. I just shook my head at Nelda and told her she was a fool, but her mother told me to mind my own business, which is horses, and not to interfere. Old Bramen is rich, I’ll give him that. What’s a father to do, James?”
“Nelda seems happy,” James said with no hesitation, lying cleanly. “I saw her today. Don’t worry about it. It’s done. Enjoy life, Oliver. Enjoy your aches and pains. A son-in-law will turn up. Glenda is pretty, well dowered, and men flock around her. What are you worried about?”
“There’s Jessie to consider.”
“Why?” James took a drink of claret. The glasses were old and chipped, but they were of good quality; at least they’d once probably graced a grand table. He wondered if Mrs. Warfield had believed them long ago tossed on the trash heap. “She’ll outgrow her nonsense. She’ll want to be a wife and a mother, just give her a while.”
“Poor child. She should have been a boy. Just like me is Jessie, all pride and vinegar and stubbornness. She’s even got my red hair. As for those freckles across her nose, well, Mrs. Warfield claims that’s my fault for letting Jessie run wild as the colts in the fields since she was just a little mite.”
James remained quiet. He and Oliver both knew a lady shouldn’t have freckles. Nor should she have chapped lips.
Oliver Warfield beetled his thick red eyebrows. “Jessie doesn’t want to marry. She told me so just last week.”
James became even more quiet. He looked at the nearly empty bottle of claret and wished he’d brought two bottles.
“She said that all men were pigs and selfish and short-sighted.”
“That’s quite a lot, even out of Jessie’s big mouth.”
“Jessie never learned restraint. Except with horses.”
“I’ve never thought I was shortsighted.”
“You’re young. Of course you’re shortsighted. That’s why Nelda married old Bramen. She was tired of waiting for you, not that it matters now. Bramen’s got more money than either you or I will ever earn in a lifetime. Just mind that you don’t become Nelda’s lover. Aye, James, I hear things. I know that Nelda would like a lusty young man in her bed and it’s you she wants. What am I to do with Jessie? Yes, that’s right, give me more claret. You have a good cellar, James. Damn, I think we should have the loser bring two bottles. Just ain’t enough tonight. Did I tell you that Mrs. Warfield blames me, claims Jessie is unnatural and I made her that way, letting her ride astride wearing men’s breeches will bring her to no good. She says I’m taking away Jessie’s womanness. Jessie says womanness is boring and the skirts are too tight. She says she doesn’t want to mince around in shoes that make her feet hurt. She doesn’t want to have to treat men like they’re smart and charming, which they aren’t. She says men get married and get fat and belch over their dinner. She says they’re clods and can’t ride worth a damn. I don’t know precisely what she means by all that, but there it is. But she’s a damned good rider, is Jessie. Now Glenda, there’s a beauty for you, the perfect lady. Don’t you agree, James?”
James took another drink of claret. He didn’t know Glenda all that well, but from Ursula’s glazed expression of social pain, he imagined that Glenda was probably just as spoiled as her lovely sister. At least Jessie wasn’t a spoiled brat. She was just a brat, no spoilation about her. As for Glenda, she played the harp and recited poetry that she herself had penned. He’d been spared the poetry but not the harp.
“Glenda would make any man a fine wife. All sweet laughter and giggles.”
James grunted. Glenda was small and round with lovely breasts to which she granted more freedom than other girls of his acquaintance. She lisped occasionally, an affectation that seemed to be making the rounds of Baltimore society. She also had the disconcerting habit of staring directly at a man’s crotch. He’d once had to move quickly behind a potted palm when she’d done that to him at a party last year.
He tossed down the rest of his claret. The sweet, heavy wine sat nicely in his belly. “I’m here to let you gloat, Oliver, not to have you try to marry me off to one of your two remaining offspring.”
“True, but a man has to think of the future. If you married Glenda, you’d combine Warfield Stud and Racing Stables with your own Marathon farm. You could do much worse, James. What’s the size of your breeding farm in England?”
“Candlethorpe is small, half the size of Marathon. The Earl of Rothermere who owns—”
“I know all about the Hawksburys, James. One of the finest studs in all of northern England. I hear Philip Hawksbury married a Scottish girl who’s magic with horses.”
“Yes, Frances is a good sort. Her way with horses is amazing. They oversee my stud along with Sigmund, my head stable lad, when I come to America. Sober John’s sire is Ecstasy from the Rothermere stable, who goes directly back to the Godolphin Arabian.”
“Sell me Sober John.”
“Forget it, Oliver.”
“I suppose I could,” Oliver said. “But I’ll keep after you, maybe send one of my girls to soften you up.”
“Just don’t send Jessie. She’d just as soon put a knife in my ribs as look at me.” James stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles. He closed
“How do you figure that, boy?”
“You’ll see, old man, you’ll see.” He opened his eyes and held out his empty glass.
Oliver Warfield gave a grunt of laughter and poured the last few remaining drops of claret into James’s glass.
There was the sound of crashing wood, a scream, and a thud.
Both men were on their feet in an instant, running to the door of the office. They dashed through only to draw up short.
“What the hell?” Oliver Warfield stared down at his daughter, dressed like a boy, her red hair stuffed beneath a woolen cap, lying sprawled on her back, arms and legs flung out, just outside the door, in a trough filled, thankfully, with hay.
“Jessie! What in God’s name happened? Are you alive, girl? Is anything broken? Speak to me.”
There was a small, unconvincing groan.
James just looked down at her, knew she was quite conscious because he saw her eyelashes twitch, and said, “She’s too obnoxious to be hurt. I’ll tell you what she was doing, Oliver. The brat was overhead eavesdropping, lying on her belly with her eyes and ears pressed to the cracks between the beams. Isn’t that right, Jessie?”
3
“SPEAK TO ME, girl!” Oliver lightly tapped his hand against her cheek. She gave another little moan that didn’t fool James for an instant. He said in a voice laden with English arrogance he knew would prompt her to attack him, “Yes, do say something, Jessie. Your father and I wish to get back to our claret. Your interruption was untimely. If you don’t get up, I’ll just have to pour this bucket of water on you. That should make you a bit more alert. I say, Oliver, isn’t there a green sheen to that water? Could that be a bit of slime on top?”
Jessie Warfield opened her eyes even though she didn’t want to. She resisted the temptation to throw the bucket of water in James Wyndham’s face. She would have liked to disappear, but there was nothing for her to do but face the music. “I’m all right, Papa. It was a bad fall, but I was just knocked silly for a little while.” She gave her father a pathetic smile.