Spring Blossom

  Spring Blossom

  by

  Jill Metcalf

  * * * * *

  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.

  * * * * *

  Table of contents

  CHAPTER_1

  CHAPTER_2

  CHAPTER_3

  CHAPTER_4

  CHAPTER_5

  CHAPTER_6

  CHAPTER_7

  CHAPTER_8

  CHAPTER_9

  CHAPTER_10

  CHAPTER_11

  CHAPTER_12

  CHAPTER_13

  CHAPTER_14

  CHAPTER_15

  CHAPTER_16

  CHAPTER_17

  CHAPTER_18

  CHAPTER_19

  CHAPTER_20

  CHAPTER_21

  CHAPTER_22

  CHAPTER_23

  CHAPTER_24

  CHAPTER_25

  CHAPTER_26

  CHAPTER_27

  CHAPTER_28

  EPILOGUE

  SPRING BLOSSOM

  chapter 1

  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 stupi
d 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.

  Now, at the age of twenty-seven, Hunter would see his mother and his birthplace once again.

  Suddenly all his senses became alert as he detected a rustling noise out on the terrace; too much noise for the breeze that would disturb the vines on the trellis there. His body tensed but he remained motionless in the water as he opened his eyes and turned his head in the direction of the open French doors.

  A halo of blond hair, so fair as to be almost white, appeared above the balcony railing, followed by a youthful face, which was frowning in concentration as the girl looked down and to her left.

  Hunter watched in utter disbelief as she gained her footing, swung her legs over the railing in a flurry of white petticoats and stockings, and stood up, adjusting her skirts around her. The girl uttered a soft expletive when she discovered a small rent in her dress, and despite himself, Hunter smiled. This had to be one of the Downing girls – the eldest, he assumed, since she appeared to be in mid-adolescence. His thoughts flashed back to a comment Alastair Downing had made during their earlier conversation, something about a male trying to survive in a houseful of females. Well, there must be constant surprises, at least.

  The girl stepped to one side of the open doors and peeked into the room. Her eyes traveled to where he sat in the tub. Realizing that he had been studying her, she stared at him in confusion for a moment before shrugging in resignation and taking a single step into the room.

  Hunter forced a serious countenance. As an adult, he felt he should deal with this intrusion in a firm manner, but in the face of the girl’s impish grin, that was difficult.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d make it,” she commented with wave of her hand in the direction of the balcony.

  Perhaps it’s unfortunate that you did,” he offered seriously.

  The girl did have the grace to flush slightly. “Yes, well…it appears I’ve arrived at a most inopportune moment.”

  “I should say,” he returned dryly, but he was inwardly surprised as he realized the girl spoke as if she were fifty years old. And old soul, he thought. Alastair’s influence, no doubt.

  Now her smile disappeared, but her eyes maintained contact with his. “Well, I had to come and see what all the fuss was about.” She blushed and looked as if she could have bitten her tongue.

  “Fuss?" Hunter raised his eyebrows, questioning.

  “Denis and Florence are all excited about a guest in the house,” she explained.

  “I see.” He smiled, not really seeing at all. He retrieved his cheroot from the small table beside the tub, but he kept his eyes on her as he drew deeply on the tobacco. Hunter was fascinated to see that she was not at all intimidated by the situation. “And you came to appraise this…curiosity?”

  “Oh! Not a curiosity!” she hastened to reassure. “They both thought you were beautiful!” Maggie had the grace to blush again at her own ineptitude while Hunter threw back his head and laughed. “Mind you, I don’t judge people by their appearance,” she added, deepening the hole into which she wanted to fling herself.

  “No?” He was still amused.

  “Well, no. You could be the most handsome man in the world and be an ogre deep down inside.”

  “Very astute,” he commented with a wry drawl.

  She hurried foolishly on, afraid she had offended him. “Although I’m certain you are not an ogre, you understand.”

>   “How can you be so sure?” he asked with feigned seriousness.

  The girl looked confused again and cocked her head to one side. “Are you?”

  “Only when young ladies invade the solitude of my bath.”

  “Oh,” She flushed yet again. “I supposed I should leave. I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.” But, in truth, Maggie was enough of a female that she was having difficulty tearing her eyes away from the man seated in the tub. His eyes were so dark she was certain they must be black, and he had much more hair than her father. Thick hair that shone in the light of the room like sun rays reflected off the blue-black of a raven’s wing. His chest was wide and more muscled than any Maggie had seen and she found that staring at him promoted a delightful, tingling experience deep in her core.

  “My dear, you do not make me uncomfortable, but I surmise you will be made to feel more than uncomfortable if your father discovers where you have been.”

  To his surprise, she giggled in the face of the threat.

  “Oh, Papa would absolutely fly into a rage if he knew I had disturbed you, and Anna would be forced to lecture me about the impropriety of entering a gentleman’s room.”

  Obviously the girl felt she could cope with both of these situations.

  “Anna is quite correct, you know.”

  Maggie felt he was taking on an adult role in chastising her, and stiffened her spine. Lifting her chin in what she felt was a completely alluring pose, she said, “Yes, well, I simply wanted to welcome you to Treemont, Mr. Maguire. I shall see you at supper.” With that she turned toward the terrace doors.

  “Miss Downing?” he called, choking back the need to laugh with delight.

  Maggie turned to look at him.

  “I suggest you become familiar with the quaint but civilized custom of entering and leaving rooms through the doors.”

  “Oh!” she breathed with girlish humor and then half curtsied before turning to her right as her blond braids flew with the abruptness of her movements.