Chapter Thirty-four

I hung out of the side of the draper’s cart all the way to London, hoping that I would catch sight of Beauty on the road.

“Has your sweetheart run away, miss?” the old draper Mr Silver teased me.

“Leave the poor girl alone,” said his wife.

When I told them I was looking for a beautiful black horse who had been sold by mistake, they promised to keep an eye out too.

But we never caught up with Beauty on the road.

“It doesn’t matter,” I told myself over and over again. “I’ll find him.” At least I know he is going to be a cab horse, I thought. That is a good start.

As we drew close to London though, my heart sank.

It was twilight and the gas lamps were already lit. The main road into the city was crowded with carriages and carts. We had to stop and start and stop and start again, until we came to a standstill in a queue on a big bridge over the wide grey River Thames.

I had never seen so many horses in my whole life.

There was no way through and nothing to do but wait. Yet, still, people shouted and jostled. Whips cracked and horses stamped their feet.

Poor Beauty. He had never known anything but open fields and quiet lanes.

“I do hope the cab man is kind,” I whispered. “I hope he does not crack his whip.”

“Where should I drop you?” said Mr Silver, when we were over the bridge at last.

“Could you take me to where the cabs are?” I asked.

“But there’s horse cabs everywhere!” said old Mrs Silver.

“Oh, I know,” I said. “But where are the horses kept at night?”

I imagined there must be an enormous stable where all the cab horses were cared for, ready to go to work in the morning.

“They live all over the place,” said Mr Silver. “Each cab driver looks after his own horse, sometimes two. And then there is a few big cab companies who own lots of horses and loan them out to the drivers one by one.”

“But. . .” I felt sick to my stomach. I could see streets and streets of higgledy-piggledy houses stretching out on either side of us. Not to mention butchers’ shops and builders’ yards, bakeries and costermongers’ stalls. Black Beauty could be anywhere. It was impossible. James had tried to warn me and it was true; I would never find Beauty in this city. Never.

The old couple were having a whispered conversation and now Mrs Silver put an arm around my shoulders. “Listen, my dear. You come home with us, get a good night’s sleep and start your hunt in the morning.”

“Oh, but—”

“Ain’t no point arguing with my Molly,” said Mr Silver. “And anyway, that horse of yours will be tucked up with a nice bran mash after a journey like he’s had from Riverford today.”

“Of course.” Suddenly what the kind draper said made sense. Beauty wouldn’t be out on the streets, not now. He’d be in a stable somewhere, eating his evening meal.

I realized how hungry I was then, and tired too.

“You come home with us, love,” said Mrs Silver as my tummy rumbled loudly. “We’ll get you a nice bowl of warm soup and a safe dry bed for the night.”

“Thank you!” As the grey fog swirled around the London streets I was pleased to have found somewhere to spend my first night alone in the big city. My spirits lifted a little. It would be light in the morning and I could begin my search then.

“Don’t worry, Beauty,” I whispered in the darkness. “I haven’t given up. I’ll find you. Tomorrow. . .”

In the morning, Mr Silver showed me where to catch the horse-drawn omnibus to St Pancras station.

Luckily, although I had left before my last wages were due, I had a little money saved. I paid my fare and climbed the iron stairs up to the open deck on top.

“You take care, young lady,” called Mr Silver.

“Thank you.” I waved as the three strong horses pulling the enormous omnibus trotted away.

When I climbed down at the busy station, I saw the line of hansom cabs at once. Each high-wheeled buggy was pulled by one horse, with a hood and window for the passengers, while the driver sat on a high box at the back, looking over the roof where he held the long reins.

But it wasn’t the cabs I was looking at. It was the horses – they seemed half-starved and ragged. My heart sank as I desperately searched the line for Beauty.

“Excuse me,” I called up to the nearest driver. “Could you tell me where I might find a fine black horse?”

“What?” he shouted above the noise of the trains. “Climb in, so long as you can pay the fare.”

He peered down at my shabby brown frock.

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” I said, “I just want to ask you a question if I may. . .”

“Questions are for school. Step out of the way,” snapped the driver.

A man in a fine grey coat barged me aside as he rushed from a train.

“Harley Street, and quick as you can,” he shouted, climbing inside the cab and bashing on the roof with his stick.

“Right you are, governor.” The driver cracked his whip and his skinny grey gelding stumbled on his way.

I looked down the line again in horror. The next three horses were just as thin. They hung their heads and their eyes were clouded.

The fourth horse was the worst of all – an old black mare – her coat almost as dark as Beauty’s but dull as stone. She was so thin I could count her ribs like the railings on a iron fence.

Was this what cab horses were like? Was this what Beauty would become?

I almost sank down on the pavement I was so afraid.

“Are you all right there, lassie?”

A Scottish-sounding man with a big red beard called out to me from the other side of the street.

He was a cab driver too, but was standing at his horse’s head while she ate from a nosebag, hooked to the bottom of her bridle.

I smiled with relief as I saw that his horse, at least – a big strong roan mare – was plump with a shining coat.

“I–I’m looking for a horse,” I said. “Please, can you help me?”