Authors: Jill Metcalf
Tags: #romance, #family, #historical, #romance novel, #heart of america
Spring Blossom
by
* * * * *
First published by Berkley
Publishing Group, Diamond Homespun, August 1992
Spring Blossom
Copyright © 1992 by Jill Metcalf
ISBN: 978-0-9868402-0-3
PUBLISHED BY:
Jill Metcalf on Smashwords
Cover art by Marsha Canham
All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used
without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not
authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark
owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you
share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it,
or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return
to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the author's work.
* * * * *
My personal and sincere thanks go out to many
people;
To Marsha Canham, friend and author, for
years of cherished friendship, for massive support and prodding,
and for hours of assistance in this first venture into the
wonderful world of eBooks. To my steadfast and loving Intrepid
friends, for always being there. And to The Coach, for hitting me
over the head when I needed it, and for backing off when I
didn’t.
* * * * *
Treemont Farm, Virginia, 1880
Maggie Downing frowned at her sister.
“Denise! Not on my bed!” she wailed as a slim body catapulted
across the room and into the centre of the narrow bed. There were
several things over which Maggie was almost fanatical and the state
of her bed, when she was not in it, was one of them.
Denise giggled, not in the least put out by
her sister’s tone. “Tell her, Florence,” Denise called eagerly as
the ten-year-old Florence entered the room in a more subdued
fashion. “Tell her.”
Maggie looked from one sister to the other
and then fixed her attention of Florence, who was always more
cooperative. “Tell me what?” she asked
Florence moved to her oldest sister’s side
and whispered in awe, “We’ve seen him.”
Maggie frowned. “He’s a friend of Papa’s,
Florence, not the President. And you hardly have to whisper.
“But he is
beautiful
, Maggie,”
Florence whispered again.
Maggie felt her impatience growing.
“He’s big!” Denise piped up, scrambling to
her knees on the bed.
Maggie noted the girl’s rounded eyes and the
high color of her cheeks but, really! “Please get off the bed,
Denise,” she asked reasonably before turning back to face the shy,
retiring Florence. “More beautiful than Chad Moran?”
Florence nodded with enthusiasm, but it was
her thirteen-year-old sister who responded to the question. “Much
more,” Denise put in. “And he smiled at me. He has a very beautiful
smile.”
Denise’s bad manners brought an end to
Maggie’s patience and she whirled on the girl. “Get off my bed, you
little wretch!”
“Denise is mushy!” Florence said in unison
to Maggie’s order.
Denise scrambled down to stand a safe
distance away while Maggie smoothed out the silken counterpane,
fondly admiring the dainty yellow daisies that randomly splashed
across the coverlet.
“Don’t call me names,” Denise said
self-righteously. “‘Wretch’ is not a nice name.”
“Well, Anna will think I messed my bed up,
and she’ll fuss at me.” Her calf-length skirts swayed as Maggie
straightened and flung a thick blond braid over her shoulder. “Did
he speak to you, Florence? Is he impressive?”
“He didn’t even see her!” Denise giggled and
earned a fierce look from the quiet sister. “Florence was hiding
behind a tree.”
“I’m talking,” Florence said. “Go away.”
“I think he’s beautiful,” Denise added, as
if Florence had not spoken. “But he’s old.”
Maggie moved across the pretty room,
decorated in yellow and white chintz, and perched demurely on the
edge of a small boudoir chair.
“If he fierce-looking, Flo?”
Florence raised patient brown eyes and
smiled softly at Maggie. “Oh, no. He is big and he is very pretty,
and he has a nice smile. I don’t think he’s fierce at all.”
“Men aren’t pretty!” Denise insisted, but
her sisters ignored her.
Maggie frowned thoughtfully at the youngest
girl. “But you didn’t speak to him?”
Florence could only shake her head.
Denise snorted from a corner of the room.
“She was afraid.”
Maggie shot her a brief glare. “Florence is
polite,” she said heatedly. “You might take a lesson.” Having acted
as the mother since their own mother’s death, Maggie had become
peacemaker, teacher, and adviser. Now, giving her attention to the
girl who had come to sit in the opposite chair, she asked, “Does he
look savage?”
Florence was surprised by the question and
looked it. “What a mean thing to say!”
Frowning more intensely, Maggie leaned
forward. “You mean he was dressed like a gentleman?”
Frowning now also, Florence asked, “What did
you expect?”
Maggie straightened, puzzled by the girl’s
reaction. “Well,” she drawled, “He is an Indian, after all.”
“He doesn’t even carry a knife,” Denise
responded, obviously disappointed.
“Not that you could see,” Maggie put in
sagely.
Florence’s doe-like eyes widened. “Oh,
Mag…”
Maggie waved an impatient hand. “Now, don’t
get all upset, Florence,” she ordered and then fell into a
thoughtful silence.
The bright-eyed Denise crossed the room and
plunked herself down on the edge of the bed. She had a round,
almost cherubic face and thick auburn hair that always seemed to
defy her braids and she positively worshiped Maggie. “Whatcha
thinking, Mag?”
“I thought he would be fierce and exciting,”
she returned, sounding very disappointed by her sisters’
report.
“I think he just looks ordinary,” Florence
offered.
Maggie smiled. “That’s because you’re only a
baby.”
Affronted, Florence straightened abruptly.
“I am not and I think boys are stupid anyway!” Glaring fiercely,
she mumbled, “My pony is friendlier,” before racing from the
room.
Denis looked unhappy that Florence had
stomped off in anger. “You know she hates being called a baby!”
Maggie nodded, now unhappy as well. “I only
meant she’s too young to appreciate men.”
Denis snorted her signature snort. “And
you’re not?”
Maggie took her turn at being affronted.
“I’m sixteen!”
Gasping at the falsehood, Denise shot back,
“You’re fifteen.”
“Well, not much longer. I have to think of
my future.”
Denise could only stare at her, obviously
confused by her last comments.
Maggie provided the solution. “I won’t stay
at Treemont forever, Denise. I have to think about finding a
suitable husband.”
Husband?
“But, Maggie…” Denis breathed. “Why?”
“None of us will stay here forever, silly.
We must all find husbands eventually.”
“But Papa will be lonely without us.”
“We’ll find rich husbands and live in grand
mansions,’ Maggie added dreamily, oblivious to her younger sister’s
growing fears.
Denise attempted to absorb all these
thoughts and added with confidence, “But you won’t live far away,
Mag. Surely Chad will offer for you one day.”
Maggie waved a hand airily, as if to brush
away the thought. “Chad Moran is boring,” she said, getting to her
feet and shaking out her skirts. “I’ll find a handsome man who is
fiercely exciting.” Leaving her younger sister staring at her back
as she moved quickly toward her bedroom door, she threw back over
her shoulder, “I believe I’ll go see what this Hunter Maguire is
like.”
Gasping, Denise raced after her. “You
can’t,” she called as she followed her slim, long-legged sister
down the wide corridor of the second floor. “You have to wait till
Papa calls us down to meet him.”
“I simply want a little peek, silly,” and
she grinned, rushing on. “He’s with Papa then?” Maggie didn’t wait
for an answer as she raced headlong down the narrow stairs.
Denise stopped dead, shaking her head,
firmly convinced that Maggie was growing stranger with each passing
day.
*
Hunter Maguire opened the French doors that
led to the small second-storey terrace off the blue guest room. He
stepped out and took a deep breath of the fresh, sweet air as he
admired the rolling green landscape before him. This certainly was
lush, rich country, this Virginia. Beautiful and pleasing to the
eye and all one’s other senses as well. He had been born to this
land, on a small farm a few days distant from this grand old house.
And while the scale of this mother’s farm did not compare with this
ancient establishment, Hunter had plans for the future. His mother
had prospered with crops, but he was about to increase the
diversity of the farm by purchasing some good bloodstock that would
allow him to specialize in fine saddle horses. And he knew that
some of the best animals in the state could be found in the stables
belonging to his father’s old friend, Alastair Downing.
He turned back into the room, stripping off
his shirt and flexing his shoulders, easing out the stiffness. The
room had no bath, but the housekeeper, a crusty woman by the name
of Anna, had filled a large copper tub that sat before a small
fireplace at one end of the large room.
He was looking forward to a long, hot soak
after his ride from the coast. Now he could relax and enjoy a bit
of freedom after being confined on that miserable ship. He was not
very tolerant of confinement. Hunter chuckled at his own thought;
he had absolutely no tolerance for confinement and he had prolonged
his own personal torture by stopping in New York before coming to
Virginia, keeping himself mummified in high-collared shirts,
straight-legged trousers and long coats. God, he looked forward to
getting into his soft, comfortable britches and an open-necked
shirt.
Hunter struggled out of his high boots then
peeled off his faun-colored trousers. With a sigh, he lowered
himself into the hot water and leaned back, closing his eyes and
smiling as his thoughts drifted to his own home. The home he had
not seen for fifteen years.
He could still envision the tightly masked
expression of his mother as she said farewell to her
twelve-year-old son. But his father had been adamant that Hunter
receive a formal English education and there was no place in
England for Rebecca, Hunter’s mother. His father had been recalled
to London to assume his family responsibilities and a full-blooded
Cherokee woman would never have been accepted in such a place back
then. Additionally, Hunter still remembered how much she loved the
land, and he firmly believed the woman would have withered and died
had she been taken away from it.