TWELVE

THE SKY SHIMMERED WITH THE COLORS OF AN OPAL WHEN we stepped out of the shed. The clip-clop and rattle of horses pulling morning delivery wagons had doubled. The air was cool and moist and promised new beginnings. Until I noticed a faint odor of smoke. Shivering, I remembered that that was what had started this morning’s rumpus: another fire.

“Cold?” Mr. Stead laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I shook my head. “Just tired.” But it was more than that. What if there were more burned horses out there that needed help? What about the burned one right here? “Are you sure we shouldn’t stay with her?” I asked.

His smile showed he understood. “She needs her rest more than she needs us right now.”

There was comfort in his voice, and we walked the few steps to the house without speaking further and not the least bit awkward for it. It was nice being with him. His coat smelled of hay and horses and something musky-sweet, so different from the nose-wrinkling tobacco and ink odors embedded in Father’s clothes. And he’d complimented me once more: “Admirable job,” he’d said. Vain, yes, but if I could press those words into my album, I’d pull them out again and again just to hear them.

Apparently Providence thought I needed some humbling. As we climbed the narrow stairs of the back stoop, Mr. Stead reached past me, in gentlemanly fashion, to open the screen door. I tried edging around it and him, only to lose my footing. Flailing like a whirligig, I teetered toward a bed of withered morning glories. Pride goeth before a fall, indeed.

He pulled me right just in time. “Steady there.”

I mumbled an embarrassed thank-you into the collar of my robe. “I’m sure Father’s still in his study,” I said. “Please come in.” Too red-faced to explain the battered door leaning against the wall, I led the way through the kitchen. On the stove was an empty skillet crusted with cornmeal. Beside it, a kettle of hot water simmered just below a whistle. We found Grandmother and Mother huddled over cups of tea in the dining room. A round of cornbread, cut into wedges, sat on a platter.

Mother leaped to her feet. “Mr. Stead! I didn’t realize you were still here.” She made a close study of my face, searching for evidence of impropriety.

“Yes, well,” he cleared his throat, “things took a mite longer than I expected.”

“Would you care for some tea?” She said it coolly, making no move to offer him a chair or a cup, or even a cold breakfast of cornbread.

The man who had seemed so confident in the shed unraveled a bit. He cleared his throat again and shook his head. “Thank you … but no. It’s very kind of you, though, Mrs. Selby,” he stammered. “I was hoping to have a word with your husband. Is he …?” Peering hopefully into the parlor, he searched for an escape.

“He’s in his study, with our son and a Captain Torrance Gilmore, who says he’s the chief at the fire station. If you’ll follow me?”

I wanted to roll my eyes at Mother’s formality. Our house was so small that she could just about turn in place and, with a good reach, lay her hand on the doorknob to Father’s study. But instead, she made a show of guiding the veterinary around the dining chairs and through the corner of the parlor into the narrow hall, where she halted him with an upraised hand. Laying an ear to the door, she tapped on it. “Mr. Selby?” The men’s voices fell silent. Footsteps sounded and then the door opened to reveal Father’s annoyed face.

“Mr. Selby, Mr. Stead would-”

“Come in, come in,” Father interrupted. The veterinary was pulled into the heavily draped room. “We were just discussing the merits of—” The door closed in Mother’s face with a decisive click.

For the briefest of moments she stood there, pale and silent, and my heart squeezed. I knew how she felt. When she turned, though, her face was completely composed. “Goodness, it’s been a busy morning,” she said. “Your grandmother and I have brewed some chamomile tea for its calming effects. You could do with a cup, I imagine.”

Nothing inside of me wanted to be calmed, but I obediently turned to take my seat.

“What have you been doing all this time?” Mother asked as she set a cup and saucer in front of me. “Dressed only in your robe and alone with a stranger?”

She was trying to pour shame along with the tea, and I wanted neither. “Mr. Stead isn’t a stranger; he’s a very good veterinary and I was helping him.”

“Not helping him with that horse, I hope,” Mother exclaimed. “She’s a vicious animal. You saw what she did to your father, and … oh, Rachel, look at your hands! I hope Mr. Stead didn’t see these.” She grabbed my hands from the tablecloth, turned them over and back, and shook her head.

Grandmother rattled her empty cup against its saucer. “And what’s so wrong with getting a little dirt on your hands, may I ask?”

As if they showed signs of leprosy, Mother let mine drop. “It’s more than dirt that she has on her hands.” She took a seat and poured herself some tea. “Mr. Selby and I don’t think it’s seemly for a young woman of Rachel’s age to be wrestling horses alongside men. What about her reputation? All she has is her reputation.”

“I helped save a life,” I argued.

Mother got that pinched look. “Saving her life,” she said firmly, “will be God’s doing, not yours or Mr. Stead’s or anyone else’s.” She pointed toward the stairs. “Now please go put on something clean, if you have any dresses left. And scrub some of that filth from your hands before you return to the table.”

I flung myself at the stairs, gritting my teeth. All I had was my reputation? I was nothing more than an amorphous cloud of someone’s version of “good”? Hah! I was more than that. I had steady nerves; he’d said so. And a way with horses. And … knowledge. Mother didn’t know what thrush was, or founder, but I certainly did.

As I reached the upstairs hall I heard the door to Father’s study open. Something had been decided about the Girl, and I had to know what that was. Spinning round, I clenched my fists and crouched out of sight on the top step.

Father and James came out first, then Mr. Stead and Captain Gilmore, the fire chief, the same slightly built man I’d seen at the station Saturday morning. He did appear to be the impatient sort; he kept frowning at his pocket watch while his white mustache twitched like a rabbit’s nose. To my astonishment, the dalmatian also stepped from Father’s study to take his place at the chief’s side. Father had never been one to allow animals in the house. To my further surprise, the dog immediately sensed my presence. He looked straight up the stairs, found me, and froze; I prepared to scramble.

Father was slapping James on the back and talking in an unusually loud voice to the other men. That was his brand of salesmanship. “I’m telling you again, Captain, he’s a good one. I guarantee that if you put the reins in his hands, those firehorses of yours will gallop off their feet.”

Captain Gilmore pocketed his watch. He didn’t smile. His lined forehead suggested he was a worrier, a man who’d need to devise a plan to smile before risking one. “No doubt, Mr. Selby,” he answered, fiddling with the hidden watch and rocking back and forth on his feet. “No doubt. But it takes more than speed to negotiate this city. A good driver has to have a feel for the surface of the street, and the weight of the steam engine, and the temperament and ability of each horse.”

“Then James is your man,” Father stubbornly declared. “He can do all that and have that burned horse of yours back into harness in no time. You have my word on it.”

I clamped my hand over my mouth. The Girl could stay!

The boasting embarrassed James, something the chief was quick to notice. “Confidence is a valuable trait,” he said, “until it is carried to the extreme.” He looked squarely at Father. “I don’t believe Mr. Stead shares your optimism on that last matter.”

“You heard him say the horse is doing better—”

Mr. Stead defended himself. “Now, I didn’t exactly say ‘better’-”

“The horse is on its feet, isn’t it?” Father argued.

“But she wasn’t, just this hour, and—”

“But it’s on its feet now, isn’t it?” Father pressed the point, grinning all the while. He could smell the victory.

“When I left her, she was standing, yes.”

“And my son has been treating the animal in between your visits, correct?”

“That’s partially-”

“There!” Father clapped his hands. “James is the answer to all your problems, I tell you. He’ll have that horse back in harness in no time. And I want you to promise me, Captain, that he’ll be the one driving.”

The white mustache twitched faster. “Mr. Selby, as I’ve already told you, it’s the law that a fireman be at least twenty-one years of age.”

There was a light, rapid knocking on the door. Father ignored it to keep grinning at the chief. The two were nearly face-to-face. He wasn’t speaking, yet I knew a message was being sent. “If my son gets to the fires,” he finally said, his words so quiet that I had to hold my breath to hear them, “we’ll both get what we want.”

The watch was practically alive in Mr. Gilmore’s pocket. “I have no idea what you mean,” he said uncomfortably. “But I do know that I must be going. I’ve work to do.”

“We all do,” Father said jovially as he opened the front door. “We all have our work.”

A boy in gray knickers and a striped shirt waited anxiously on the steps. “Is the veterinary here?” he asked.

Mr. Stead stepped forward. “Yes, what is it?”

“Mr. Lauber needs your help, sir. His Queenie’s having trouble with the baby.” The boy’s eyes were dark with worry.

“Tell him I’ll be right along,” Mr. Stead replied. As the boy scurried down the steps, he called after him, “And tell him to leave her be until I get there.” Turning back to the men, he glanced up the stairwell. I blushed. He’d known all along that I’d been sitting there and listening. “It seems the horses of Boston have conspired to keep me from having so much as a catnap today,” he said. “So if you’ll all excuse me, I have to go deliver a foal. It’s the mare’s first, and sometimes things can take a wrong turn.” He hesitated, as if he was going to say something else, then, thinking better of it, headed out the door.

Mr. Gilmore checked his watch again and shot a warning glare at my brother.

“Understood,” James said with a smile. “I’m on my way.” They both left at once. The dalmatian paused at the stairs, until a sharp whistle called him outside too.

A wave of relief washed over me. I was in clover. The Girl could stay. Suppressing a squeal of joy, I jumped to my feet.

Just as Father was closing the door, Mr. Stead returned. He looked apologetic and somewhat flustered, and he was talking in such a low voice that now I couldn’t hear his words at all. I did hear Father’s scornful reply: “What would she want with this?”

My heart skipped. They were talking about me, I knew it. Mother left the dining room to join in, then Grandmother. With a dismissive harrumph, Father returned to his study and closed the door. What was it?

Grandmother started up the stairs. Pulling herself along by the railing, she smiled at me. “Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,” she said in a mysterious, singsong voice. “Hurry and get yourself dressed, Rachel. I believe this is your work.”