Mr. Thigpen looked like an anteater as he peeped over his spectacles. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

“No, sir,” Juts answered the principal.

“Were you the organizer of the cow jumping over the moon?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pushing his spectacles back up on the bridge of his nose, the principal looked to Cora. “We’ve known one another a long time. I assume you didn’t know, uh, the condition of the cow.”

Cora folded her hands on her lap. “I didn’t.”

“I see.” He sighed. “You can imagine what I had to deal with and whom?”

“I know Big Dimps is ass over tits.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, Cora. But, yes, she has been exercising her considerable emotions.” He rubbed his forehead for a moment, then leaned toward Juts on the other side of his huge desk. “Juts, I have seen the decorations, the fork and the spoon, the cat and the fiddle, the little dog. Almost professional. I don’t think any dance has ever had such scenery. Even the cow was charming, except for the obvious.” He stopped, picked up a pencil just to have something in his hand. “Are you sure you have nothing to say for yourself?”

“No, Mr. Thigpen, I don’t. I’m here to accept my punishment.”

“All right, then, but I want you to know that Delilah Jr. has also been punished.” He raised his voice. “You’ve got to learn to walk away from provocation, and Juts, you’ve got to learn to consider the source.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, here is what I’m going to do. I am not going to suspend you. You need to keep at your studies. Your math grades are excellent, your art class also. English and history, woeful, just woeful. Do you have anything to say about that?”

“Well.” She sat up straight. “Why should I care about a colon? Or a semicolon? Just a bunch of dumb rules. I want to get things done. I want to make things. And I’m tired of hearing about the dates of wars—” She abruptly shut up as her mother reached out and quietly touched her hand.

“I see.” Mr. Thigpen took a deep breath. “You are a strong-minded young lady. I won’t belabor this, but all the subjects you take at South Runnymede High are to provide a foundation for the rest of your life. If you don’t get it now, Juts, you never will. You don’t have to like English or history, but you do need to know it. Those who do not know the past are doomed to repeat it.” He gave her a sharp look. “We’ve gone through the worst war the world has ever known. One of the ways to ensure this never happens again is to learn, to head off problems before they enlarge. No, you don’t want to be a diplomat. But Juts, you will become a citizen. It’s important to know these things.”

“Yes, sir.” She had listened carefully. “No more war. But the kings and leaders who started that war, weren’t they well educated?”

This startled the middle-aged man. He’d only known Juts as a pretty youngster dashing through the halls, a very good math student. He’d never given her or most of the students much respect when it came to the deeper questions. He’d been bogged down by administration. He was missing a lot and he now knew it.

“They were.” He held up his forefinger. “Which is what makes it all the more terrible, but I hasten to add, Juts, the men who started and fed the flames of the Great War were not Americans. We tried to stay out of it.”

Cora uttered one word. “Lusitania.”

He nodded. “An act of filthy barbarism.” He looked at the unlined face before him. “Juts, please raise your grades in your weak subjects. You aren’t going to be allowed to be part of the many groups you belong to. You go to school and you go home. And this correction will last until you begin eleventh grade. Furthermore, keep away from Delilah Jr. She’s enduring the same punishment you are and I hope you both learn from it, but I warn you, Juts, if she tries to provoke you, walk away.”

Cora, too, had listened carefully, so she said to her daughter, “Did you hear Mr. Thigpen? And you’d better hear me, keep your nose clean.”

Looking at Cora, the principal said, “I’ve rearranged some classes so the girls won’t be together. There are a few classes where if I separate them they will need to repeat the class next year, so I didn’t separate them. There’s nothing I can do about the halls, the stairways, the walking to and from school, chance encounters.”

On the trolley back to Bumblebee Hill, neither mother nor daughter spoke. Celeste had given Cora the day off to see if she could straighten out the mess. The two didn’t want anyone else on the trolley to hear the discussion, but as they walked up the hill at the end of the trolley line, the words flew.

“Momma, I’m quitting school.”

“No, you are not.”

“I hate school.”

“How can you hate school when you are one of the most popular girls there? This is a fine mess and mind you, I do think you were provoked. You went too far. And that’s that.”

“Maybe so, but I want to quit school. I want to get a job and make some money.”

“You can do that after you graduate.”

“Two more years!”

“You’ll be surprised at how fast two years can fly by.”

“Oh, Momma, that’s forever.” They reached the front porch, General Pershing asleep by the door, his thick coat keeping him comfortable.

“Woof.” The English setter awakened, startled to see Cora and Juts so early in the afternoon.

Cora petted him, swung open the door. “Juts, start the fire. Take the chill off. It will be cold again tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She did as she was told but when finished, she walked outside, where Cora was inspecting her garden on the south side of the house. “Momma.”

“Now what?”

“What if I stay till the end of the year and then quit?”

“No. What if you stay to graduation. Two years. This will all blow over.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ll want to waste my time in school come fall.”

“Let’s wait until fall. We can talk about it then. In the meantime, do your best.”

—

Having finished her daily ride, Celeste dismounted and untacked her Thoroughbred. Her groom, Henry Minton, stood by, ready to perform this service, but she liked contact with her gelding.

“Miss Chalfonte, let me take that.” The groom lifted the saddle from her forearm.

“Thank you, Henry.”

Henry, a man of color, had been a fabulous rider in his youth. Falls, injuries took a toll on him. He could still ride, and ride well, but he walked with a limp and he woke up each day with pain. Some walking about took care of that.

Celeste, essentially an open-minded person, was nonetheless a creature of her time and her class. She knew that most of the great grooms and jockeys were black men. Her view of the world was, if you had talent you would come forward. She thought of Booker T. Washington. She felt the same way about factory workers, midwives, people who so often lived hand to mouth. She knew people could be crushed by large forces, by injustice and even bad luck, but she thought little about it. If someone needed her help, she gave it. She thought in terms of the individual, not the group.

“How was your ride?” asked Henry.

“Good. I love that we now gain a minute of daylight for each day until June twenty-first. The nights creep in cold but the sun dispels much of it. Winter is on the run.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Henry, ride with me tomorrow, will you? I’d like to pop some hedges and I promised Ramelle I wouldn’t jump alone. She was never nervous before.”

Grinning, he now took the bridle while Celeste pulled the good leather halter over Roland’s ears. “When my Lily was carrying Tim, she saw a ghost every twilight. That woman was afraid of everything. Something must happen inside. And then when he was born, she worried that a tiny little cough was consumption.”

“Yes, I do remember. Both Lily and Tim appear to have flourished.” She heard a barn swallow swoop overhead. “They’re back.”

“Building nests,” Henry remarked.

“Tomorrow, let’s go about eleven. Dew should be off by then, or the frost. Might freeze tonight.”

“Once the sun goes down, my bones will tell me.”

“Henry, you’re more reliable than the thermometer.” She walked outside the stable built to match the house.

When her grandfather built the house, it was at the edge of South Runnymede, surrounded by farms. He bought a few hundred acres but, not being a farmer, kept them as pasture. Others did the same, but everyone had a stable by their house as well as a carriage house. The cobblestone alleyways between the large homes reverberated with horses’ hooves. They still did, as few owned automobiles. Those who did often left rubber tire marks on the cobblestones when things went amiss.

Celeste’s father and mother enlarged the house and her mother designed the luxurious gardens based on the great English gardens of her youth.

Celeste could mount up, ride south or west, and once at the end of the alleyway, be in open country. She could ride through North Runnymede country, too, but the farms and cottages sat on smaller pieces of land, plus there were more factories on the Pennsylvania side, not so many as to be troublesome but enough that she wanted to circumvent them.

Walking back toward the house, she thought the sky startlingly blue. She’d seen much of the world and much of her own country. Memories of Vienna at night, the Opera House shining, beckoning, of walking into the British Library, or looking toward Constantinople from the Asia side, sailing to England and seeing the White Cliffs of Dover, hiking the Lake District while reading those poets. There was so much beauty on this earth, but her heart always turned toward Maryland. This patch of the Mid-Atlantic was hers. She was born here, nourished here, and she would die here.

She thought when Ramelle left for Los Angeles that she would ache for her as she ached for Maryland when traveling too long. She missed Ramelle, but surprisingly, the advent of spring, a bracing canter, laughter with her friends swept the ache away. Then again, Celeste thought she wasn’t prone to heartache. Carlotta had hit a nerve, but still, that wasn’t heartache. She would be glad to see Ramelle and the baby when they came home for their six months on the East Coast, assuming the child was healthy. With each passing day, she missed Ramelle less. She loved her. She wanted her happy. If there was more to it, she was unaware of it.

No sooner did she walk through the door than the phone rang.

“Celeste here.”

“Fannie.”

“What? You rarely call, so it must be good.”

“I took two rooms at the Belvedere Hotel. We can go down on Saturday, take the early train to Baltimore. Practice game, weather permitting. I’ll bring a blanket just in case. I do so love to watch the boys before the season begins. I’ll introduce you at the hotel get-together after practice. I know most everyone.” She stopped. “You don’t want to stay with Stirling, do you?”

“No. Margaret would put a good face on it but no one would be happy. I’d rather stay with Olivia Goldoni.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“Fannie, it’s not like that. She’s sophisticated, talented, and I hope to hear her in performance.”

“Oh.” Fannie sounded disappointed.

“Oh, what?”

“Nothing. I’m in the mood for a scandal. Except for Juts’s cow, winter has been dull.”

“I’m sure you can correct that, dear,” Celeste purred.