THIRTY-ONE

A KNOCK SOUNDED ON THE DOOR, AND WHEN MOTHER opened it, Mr. Stead was standing there holding his hat.

“I’m sorry I missed your mother’s funeral, Mrs. Selby,” he said. “I was treating the Crowningshield stable of horses for this distemper plague when I was called out to two emergencies in a row—a colic and a founder—and just now finished up. I came straightaway to pay my respects.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stead. Won’t you come in?”

“Hello, Rachel,” he said.

“Hello,” I answered with a smile, taking his hat.

Seeing Father in his study, Mr. Stead nodded a greeting, which prompted Father to rise and close his door. “I have a lot of work to do,” he said gruffly, “so … forgive me.”

Mother rolled her eyes and headed for the kitchen. “I think I’ll brew another pot of tea. Rachel, please make Mr. Stead comfortable in the parlor.”

In our too-small entry, shoulder brushed shoulder and I blushed. Mr. Stead allowed me to lead the way, and then I stepped aside so that he could lower himself onto the settee. His long legs and arms folded into odd angles. I perched on the edge of a chair. The room suddenly seemed awfully warm to have a fire going.

“How long is this plague going to continue?” I asked.

He gave a weary shrug. “I don’t know. At last count some twenty-eight thousand horses have taken ill between here and New York. It’s still spreading, though some of the earliest to be affected are back in harness.” Stretching his shoulders, he said, “I don’t know which is going to give out first, the distemper or me. I’m exhausted.”

He needed a good tonic, but with none at hand, I changed the subject. “How bad was the founder?”

“Rather bad,” he replied. “The gelding’s aged and his front feet were so feverish that he couldn’t put any weight on them at all. He was nearly sitting on his haunches from the pain.”

“Did you bleed him?”

“Yes and drenched him with warm saltwater.”

“Did you soak his feet in the saltwater too?”

“Yes, Madam Veterinary, I did.” He cocked his head in mock deference but grinned. “And I left instructions with the owner to continue soaking his horse’s feet every hour. Now, did I forget anything?”

His smile lit mine. “No, you did a fine job, as usual.” When Mother returned with our tea, she found us engaged in a spirited debate about shoeing a foundered horse. Mr. Stead firmly believed shoeing had no effect on the condition, while I maintained that letting the horse go barefoot—a more natural state—could at least make him more comfortable while he recovered. She shook her head in bemusement and left us to our quarrel.

I ached to tell him about the money, but the time didn’t seem quite right, so when our conversation lulled, I asked, “Would you like some cake?”

“No, thank you,” he replied, setting down his empty cup and standing. “It’s warm in here and with me being so tired I’m starting to nod off. How about if we go call on our other patient?”

“All right.” In short order we were heading out to the carriage shed.

The moment we stepped inside, the chestnut colt whinnied shrilly. It still seemed odd to see him in the Girl’s stall, suspended in his sling. He looked so small and bony after her meaty presence. A pain stabbed my heart. I missed her, but I knew how much she’d missed her work. James had moved Freckles to a different stall and scrubbed hers with soap and scalding hot water, then again with a decoction of tobacco, before returning the Girl to the station on Sunday morning. He said he could hardly hold her back the last block, and that when she got inside the station, she’d rushed right into her stall, sniffed all around it, and given the wall a resounding kick that claimed ownership.

The colt whinnied another plea for freedom, and I ducked under the bar to stroke his neck. As usual he scrambled, three good legs and one bandaged leg flailing. “Easy there,” I soothed. “You’re going to be just fine. And don’t you worry, I haven’t lost a patient yet.”

Mr. Stead joined me in the stall. He felt along the length of the bandage, then wiggled two fingers inside the top wrap to check for swelling. “How’s he taking to the soaking? Are you managing it at least three times a day?”

“Five,” I answered proudly. “And we’re getting along wonderfully. I think we have a promising future together.”

He stood up, looking at me in a funny way. “Is there room for one more in that future?” He cleared his throat and my pulse raced as he moved closer. He was going to … No! I was going to. I rose up on my toes and kissed him full on the lips. His eyes widened and he seemed momentarily taken aback. Thank goodness he chuckled. “You don’t wait for anyone or anything, do you?”

“Not anymore,” I half-croaked. I felt my face flush. “I’m going to become a veterinary. I’m determined to do it. The veterinary college here in Boston, the one where you went, turned me down, but Grandmother left me money, and I’m going to apply to some other colleges and … and I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. I promise I won’t let you down.”

Gentle humor lit his eyes. “I hope I don’t let you down.” Affectionately he brushed the tip of my nose just the way Grandmother had, and I got another pang at that. He ducked under the bar, all business again. “I’m completely used up, so I’m heading home for a long nap—I hope. I’ll stop by tomorrow to check on him—and you,” he added, smiling, “but send for me sooner if you need me.”

“I will.” I didn’t want him to go; I wanted the three of us to stand ankle deep in the sweet-smelling straw and savor all that had happened, but I also needed time to think. And the carriage shed, even on a cold November afternoon, was the perfect place for contemplating the future.

When Mr. Stead’s footsteps had faded, I turned back to the colt. He stopped his fretting long enough to nose my pocket inquisitively. He was a smart one; he’d already learned about the peppermints. I laughed and ran my fingers through his short, fluffy mane. He bumped me again. “All right, all right,” I said. Reaching into my pocket, I discovered Mary Grace’s letter. I’d almost forgotten it. Quickly I handed the colt his peppermint. He nodded his head up and down with enthusiasm, and I took that opportunity to duck out of the stall.

The packing quilt was folded on an empty barrel. I shook it free of dust and spiders, wrapped its heaviness around my shoulders, and settled onto the crate. Already smiling at what I expected to be Mary Grace’s dramatics, I tore open the envelope. When I unfolded the letter, a small coil of reddish horsehair fell onto my lap. I knew at once it was from Peaches, and my heart gave an anxious thud. The heading was dated October 5, 1872—over a month ago. What could have delayed its delivery?

“Dear Rachel,” Mary Grace began.

I’m terribly sorry it’s taken me so long to write. You know me, always tackling too many tasks in one day, correspondence rarely being one of them. I’ve been so busy planning my wedding that I’ve hardly had time to eat, which I’ve found is beneficial to the waistline and fainting spells. Mother says I’ll be marching down the aisle in my underdrawers if I don’t hurry up and decide on fabric for a dress, but did you ever realize how many different shades of white there are?

The real reason I’m writing is to tell you about your horse, Peaches. Why didn’t you tell me that you were planning on selling her? I was so shocked to see her offered for sale at that old Mr. Cox’s livery, and I said to myself, “They can’t sell Rachel’s horse to just anybody; it’s not right.” So I made my father go right down there and buy her for my sister Lucy. She’s moony for horses like you were—are you still? —and I knew that your mare would take good care of her. Anyway, she lives in our carriage house now with Father’s other horses and I think you would say that she’s happy here. Lucy combs her mane so much that it rivals my hair for shine, and I don’t think that horse goes to sleep at night until she’s bedded knee-deep in clean straw. I’ve even caught Lucy trying to sleep in her stall with her. Honestly, she’s just like you.

And that’s the other reason I wanted her to have your horse, Rachel. You see, I’ve always admired you. I know we ‘re different—I like clothes and shoes and fine china and you like horses, horses, and horses! Ha! But I like the fact that you never cared what people thought of you. I probably care too much, and that’s its own kind of misery. I hope my sister grows up to be like you: strong and able to stand on her own two feet and on her own terms.

I was going to close this letter, but Lucy just came in and dropped this awful hank of hair on my writing desk. She says it’s to remind you of Peaches and to let you know that she’s happy. I hope you are too.

With all my best wishes,

Mary Grace.

Brimming with emotion, I refolded the letter and cradled it in my hands. The chestnut colt—I’d have to think of a name for him—was watching me with an impish look that promised adventure, and I smiled back at him with complete and utter satisfaction. Now this was a day to end all days … or to begin them.