She smiled up at him. “I’d be so very grateful.”
Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, George repositioned her weapon. “When the quail are flushed, you’ll want to take an instant to plant your feet, feel the wood of the stock against your cheek, and focus on a single bird, not the flock.”
His breath near her ear, his cheek brushing hers, he nudged the gun down to the right. “You’ll be swinging your firearm up and through from behind the bird, sweeping from tail feathers to body to beak and then, bang—pulling the trigger as the muzzle passes the beak. The key is to breathe deeply. To remain calm.”
Yet she could hear his breath coming faster. His gloved hand covered hers on the trigger. “I’ll be right here behind you.” Did he really imagine she felt nervous about pulling a trigger?
Her own heart rate at a preternaturally slow thud, Lilli was scarcely aware of the others in their group standing in a clutch behind them. When at last the dog was released—“Hunt, Gurth,” Vanderbilt all but whispered—and shot into the brush, she followed without hesitation, leaving all of them quickly behind. Her mistake, perhaps—the initiative that said she wasn’t a novice at all. But hang it, there were birds to be shot.
Nose to the ground, the dog was visible only in flashes as he crashed through the brambles, quartering relentlessly toward the next open space. Seeing where Gurth must be headed, Lilli hurried to that clearing’s edge and took her position. As the dog thrashed through the last of the brush—and the three men, huffing, caught up with her—a covey of bobwhite exploded into the air.
In a triumph of restraint, Lilli emptied only one barrel. The quail tumbled to the earth. Grant and Cabot shot, too, one of them missing, one of them dropping a quail. Gurth went happily about his business, collecting the birds.
George beamed. “Well done, Miss Barthélemy!”
“Merci beaucoup.” She cocked her head at George. “Beginner’s luck.”
Emily had by now joined them. Her tone was telling, a drawl that mimicked Lilli’s own remnants of a New Orleans accent. “Why, however did you learn to shoot like that in only one lesson?”
Lilli shot her friend a look. Women never betrayed each other on these little deceits. Not women who wished to remain friends.
George’s enthusiasm bounded over her silence. “Beginner’s luck indeed! Marvelously done.”
Leaning into him ever so slightly, she handed the gun back to him. “The credit is entirely due to my teacher.”
He took this in. Blinked. And then smiled.
After lunch, the group went for a ride, then after a time dismounted and, leading their horses, strolled over the fields, golden brown, and beside the French Broad River that wound through the estate. Above were the mansion and the blue mountains beyond.
George stopped, his hand scratching under his horse’s mane but his eyes on the bottomland that rolled out on either side. “I hope, you know, for the estate to be entirely self-sustaining. The forest, the crops, the dairy, the nursery—all of it.”
John Cabot drew up beside him. “I can see why anyone would feel so powerfully drawn here.”
“Despite the destitution of the natives,” Grant added, “and the harrowing depths of their ignorance.”
Cabot’s retort came with a vehemence that made everyone turn. “Poverty, I’ll grant you. Grinding poverty, even. But we’ve witnessed examples of keen intelligence. Less access to formal education, of course. But a striking intelligence, nevertheless.”
For a moment, no one spoke, the only sound the crunch of their footsteps and the horses’ across the dried grass.
Emily splashed into the quiet. “Why do I think that Mr. Cabot is thinking of one intellect in particular, rather than the whole of the Appalachian populace?”
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.