Under a Gilded Moon(52)
There was teasing in her voice—and a taut thread of jealousy, too. She dimpled in his direction.
Stuffing both hands in his pockets, Cabot pivoted back toward their host. “There’s something mysterious, something magnetic even about these mountains of yours, George. It pulls one in. Powerfully.”
“Could the magnetic draw,” Emily asked, “have anything to do with the redheaded little maid?”
Cabot only turned his head away.
With a rare flash of sympathy for him—compassion was not Lilli’s first instinct—she changed course by addressing their host. “I’m so glad you planned for us to walk the land with you.”
“It reminds me,” said Grant, “of my big-game hunting excursions out West. Where I first became passionate about conserving our land. And where I committed myself to the preservation of the American bison, who once roamed throughout our great country but whose numbers have dwindled now to the mere hundreds. An icon of our country’s history, nearly lost to extinction.”
“That,” Cabot muttered, “seems a better use of your time than some other pursuits.”
Emily, bless her, cocked her innocent head. “Forgive me if I’m not understanding, Mr. Grant, but were you hunting the very big game you’re hoping to preserve from extinction?”
“Perhaps, Miss Sloane, it would help you to view the thing from the other end of the telescope. If we don’t more assiduously preserve the wildlife and their habitats, there will be no more big game to hunt.”
Emily appeared unconvinced. But Grant had already turned to George. “Another friend you and I share in common would be my fellow Boone and Crockett Club member Theodore Roosevelt.”
“He is a friend of mine, yes. I wasn’t aware the two of you knew each other.”
“Not only know each other, but have hunted together and discovered we share so many important perspectives. Including the need to implement urgent measures to forestall the decline of certain species. Not only in the animal kingdom, but also . . .” He paused there, and seemed to be weighing whether to go on.
“Well then, I’m glad to know of yet another friend we share in common.” Vanderbilt shot a smile at Lilli. That simple trust again, she could see.
She led her horse closer to his. “If I confide in you, Mr. Vanderbilt, in admitting that I prefer this”—she swept an arm across the vista—“to even Mrs. Astor’s ballroom, would you promise not to report me to the keepers of New York society?”
“You have my word. I value my time outdoors, especially here in the Blue Ridge, as much as I expect to in my library.”
“It is one of the great gifts this country has to offer, oui? The outdoors, I mean. Pristine. Unspoiled. Abundant.”
“Forgive me, but I’d have to differ with you on the unspoiled nature of the land.” He looked genuinely apologetic at having to disagree with her. Lilli marveled that this man could have come from the same family of men who’d dominated American business for decades now, devoured their competition whole. “Of the thousands of acres my agent, McNamee, has purchased thus far, much of it had been overtimbered and overfarmed to the point of depletion. It’s been our challenge, restoring the forest and fields to something vital and fertile.”
“Everything about your estate, Mr. Vanderbilt, suggests vitality.” Lilli held his gaze. “Tout le monde.”
She meant him to hear that she included the owner of Biltmore in this evaluation. She watched his eyes widen as the realization washed over him, a wave of affirmation: Of all he’d accomplished. Of what he’d dreamed for the future. Of who he was.
Lilli Barthélemy knew a thing or two about men, the first of which was that most of them possessed only a fraction of the confidence they tried to wear like a rack of sixteen-point antlers.
But here was the youngest child of eight, an artist and a scholar, grandson of a tyrant. With her affirmation, she’d just earned more of his trust. She liked George Washington Vanderbilt II, she was startled to realize. Genuinely so.
It was Cedric the Saint Bernard who disrupted the moment, the dog bounding around the horses and up to its master, then wiping a wet muzzle against his wool trousers.
Lilli concentrated on not wrinkling her nose in distaste.
George stopped walking to scratch the creature behind his ears. “Cedric’s litter was from Bar Harbor, you know.”
Shifting the reins to his left hand and kneeling to scratch the drooling beast under his collar, John Cabot’s tone was low and affectionate. “You’re a magnificent creature, Cedric. You know, you’re the first Saint Bernard whose acquaintance I’ve been honored to make.”
George was clearly basking in the praise of his dog. Which let Lilli know she would be making friends with the slobbering beast. And therefore changing clothes more than the usual seven times a day.
“About the murder,” Madison Grant put in suddenly, apropos of nothing and jolting their calm. “Forgive me for bringing up a subject none of us wants to relive. But I feel we should keep abreast. Has there been progress in the investigation?”
Lilli’s pulse dropped to a faint thrum.
Beside her, Cabot’s hand stilled from scratching Cedric’s oversized head.
As if, Lilli thought, he’s also uneasy with this subject.
George frowned. “Wolfe rode over this very morning to update me. Apparently, something new has come to light.”