LITMIR.BIZ

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and Marybeth with impeccable manners. Mr. Wakefield—she didn’t want to call him Garrick because it suggested a friendliness she didn’t feel—rose slightly in her estimation when he knelt down to greet Lizzy and Natty. He seemed used to children, perhaps even liked them, if his charming smile and silly chatter were any indication. He even acknowledged Randy with a few nonsense words and a gentle touch on the baby’s tiny hand.

      After the chaotic introductions, Mother bustled everyone into the main parlor and gave room assignments. She sent Percy to one of the newer rooms over the ballroom, with the two valets sharing a room next to him. Mr. Wakefield—oh, bother; if she called Percy by his first name, she must do the same with Garrick—would stay in Nate’s old room two doors down from hers. Like Nate, Rand now had his own home, so Tolley roomed alone.

      After Rosamond greeted everyone, she dashed upstairs to her bedroom. Nothing had changed. The pink-and-blue patchwork quilt still covered her four-poster bed. Her blue velvet chair sat by the open window where white ruffled curtains fluttered in the afternoon breeze. On the bedside table, two pink roses graced her cut-glass vase, an heirloom from her late grandmother.

      Joy bubbled over into laughter as she gazed out the window at Mother pushing Lizzy in a swing hanging from the branch of a cottonwood tree. For over two years, the family had prayed anxiously for Mother’s health, and the Lord had answered their prayers.

      In her oak wardrobe, Rosamond found a favorite yellow calico dress, left behind because it was deemed too countrified for Boston, and quickly changed from her traveling suit. Her sisters-in-law needed her in the kitchen, and helping to prepare supper was just the thing to work out the kinks from sitting many days in train cars. Going down the back stairs, she sang a cheerful version of John Howard Payne’s “Home, Sweet Home.” She flung open the kitchen door, finishing with a resounding last line: “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!”

      Garrick sat at the kitchen table, his face a study in mortification that matched exactly how she felt. Had her joyful singing broken some British rule of etiquette? Too bad. If he didn’t like her music, he needn’t listen. She wouldn’t let him ruin her happiness.

      * * *

      Garrick hadn’t been in a kitchen since childhood when he and Helena used to pester Uncle’s cook for treats. Yet here he sat while Percy and the Northam brothers chatted as if they were in the drawing room of White’s Men’s Club in London, where Garrick would much prefer to be rather than in this American ranch house. Instead of uniformed footmen serving him high tea or his fellow members inviting him to play a hand of whist, a pretty Mexican girl—the family cook—offered biscuits and coffee. Her smiling demeanor and shared grins with the two young Northam wives indicated a decided lack of propriety for a servant, at least by British standards. He wasn’t certain Uncle ever met his cooks, for all communications with below stairs were done through the housekeeper and butler.

      Still, he couldn’t complain about the American informality. Here in this cozy, crowded room, he could enjoy the aromas of roast beef sizzling in the oven and bread rising on the sideboard. While the biscuits—he supposed he should call them cookies, as the locals did—managed to stave off his hunger, he could well imagine supper would be a satisfying experience.

      A sudden glorious sound from the back hallway wafted closer to the kitchen door, a lovely soprano voice lifted in a spirited rendition of the usually melancholy “Home, Sweet Home.” As the song ended in a majestic high note rather than descending into pathos, Miss Northam burst in, her pretty face aglow with happiness. Her eyes focused on Garrick, and her expression turned to shock and then dismay. Now his face felt like a mask reflecting the same feeling. Why did she find the sight of him so troubling? He forced a smile and stood. “Miss Northam.”

      Percy jumped to his feet. “Miss Northam.”

      The brothers remained seated.

      A smile crept over her stunning face, and something struck Garrick’s midsection. Must he always feel a jolt when encountering her?

      “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Howdy, Nate, Rand, Tolley.”

      “Hey, now.” Nate stood, urging his brothers to do the same. “We’re gentlemen, too.” He approached his sister and hugged her, and his wife followed suit.

      Garrick felt a pang in his chest. Issues of propriety aside, the genuine affection among these Northams reminded him of sweet Helena. Somehow he must make Uncle’s project work so he could provide his sister with a dowry.

      “Do be seated.” Miss Northam took an apron from a hook on the wall and donned it over her pretty yellow frock. “On second thought, you men should vamoose and get your chores done so we ladies can get supper on the table.”

      “Look who’s giving orders after being home five minutes.” Rand chucked his sister under the chin and brushed his wife’s cheek with a kiss on his way toward the back door.

      “Say, is vamoose proper grammar?” Tolley grabbed a handful of cookies from the serving platter on the table as he headed after Rand. “Or did the Colonel waste his money sending you to that fancy Boston school?”

      Nate followed his brothers, beckoning to Garrick and Percy. “Come on, fellas. Let’s skedaddle before the hen party begins. We’ll show you around the place.”

      “I say, that sounds capital.” Percy followed them, giving Garrick no choice but to do the same.

      “Not so fast.” Susanna’s order stopped them all, and a significant look Garrick couldn’t decipher passed between her and Nate. “You can save that for tomorrow. These gentlemen are still in their nice travel clothes.”

      “Maybe they’d like to see the house first.” Marybeth gave Rand the same look.

      Now the older brothers eyed each other while Tolley huffed in annoyance, apparently eager to do those chores.

      “Tomorrow. Right.” Nate seemed to be smothering a grin. “Gentlemen, we’ll see you at supper.”

      The three men made their exit without argument, so Garrick concluded that the ladies gave the orders in this family. As much as a turn around the ranch might refresh him, he wouldn’t contradict either young Mrs. Northam by insisting upon going with their husbands. Percy didn’t seem to mind the change of plans. But then, very few things bothered him.

      Susanna, a tiny blonde with an accent he recognized as from the American South, turned her attention to Rosamond. “We can manage supper. You take our guests on a tour of the house.”

      “Oh, but...very well.” Miss Northam removed her apron. “Come along, gentlemen. We’ll start with the dining room.”

      She led them through the swinging door by which they’d entered earlier. The room was surprisingly large, with a mahogany table long enough to seat twelve and matching sideboard and china cabinet, the same sort of furnishings Garrick planned to order for the hotel. Such luxuries could be a sign of Northam wealth. Possibly.

      “I say.” Percy paused before the large glass front cabinet. “Wedgwood china, is it not?”

      Miss Northam nodded. “Father gave it to Mother for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. It was the talk of the San Luis Valley.”

      “I should think so.” The words, borne on a laugh, slipped out before Garrick could stop them. Miss Northam’s indignant look made it clear he’d offended her...again.

      * * *

      At Fairfield Young Ladies’ Academy, Rosamond had learned that one never made another person feel uncomfortable, even when that person was rude. After all, one couldn’t truly know what someone else was thinking. This man, however, was easy to read, even without speaking a word. His obvious disdain for her beloved Valley didn’t bode well for their working together. Why had he come here if he held Americans in such contempt?

      She schooled her face into a tight smile. “Shall we go to the parlor?”

      They followed along, with Percy making pleasant remarks about various bits of bric-a-brac

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