Chapter Thirty-seven

I was still staring up at the poster when I heard a horse whinny and someone calling my name.

“There you are, Josie, lass,” said Mac as Pinky picked her way down the snowy street. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Mac!” I gasped, tearing my eyes away from the poster. “Have you heard something? Have you found Beauty?”

“I can’t promise,” said Mac with a big grin. “But jump up and we’ll go and see.”

“You think Beauty’s in Richmond?” I said.

We were trotting along near the river, through the quiet Sunday streets of London. Pinky was pulling a little light trap instead of the heavy hansom cab and we fairly sped along. I gasped as I saw Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament glistening with snow. “Like the old city’s put on a wedding dress,” Mac said.

Then he told me how he had heard news of a cab horse south of the river who fitted Beauty’s description.

“Owned by a fellow by the name of Brannigan.”

“That could be him!” I cried. “Barker, Baker . . . Brannigan.” At least it began with the right letter.

“I don’t ken him myself,” said Mac. “Folk say he’s not a bad sort. A bit gruff perhaps. But rumour is the horse is as black as midnight.”

As Pinky’s bit jingled and the wheels of the trap rattled over the snow, I began to sing a little tune inside my head: Let it be Beauty. Let it be Beauty. Let it be Beauty. Please.

Brannigan was a big man who lived in a tiny cottage, tucked away in a ramshackle street close to the river. He appeared at the door still chewing his breakfast and it took a while before he understood my garbled plea to see his horse.

“You want to look at Blackie?” he growled and scratched his chin.

“Just a quick peek,” I said. “That’s all we’ll need.” I would know in an instant if it was Beauty or not.

“And what if he is this horse of yours?” said Brannigan. “What good will that do you? I paid good money for that nag.” He folded his arms and stood like a rock.

“Where did you buy him?” I asked. “From Riverford Fair?”

“Riverford? No,” scoffed Brannigan. “I got him from a dealer in Windsor.”

“Oh.” My heart sank a little but Mac squeezed my shoulder.

“You only got him two days ago. Is that right?” he asked Brannigan.

“Thursday.” Brannigan nodded.

“So he could still be this wee lassie’s horse,” Mac explained. “The fellow who brought him in Riverford could’ve passed him on to your fellow in Windsor, who sold him to you and. . .”

While they were talking, I noticed a shed at the end of the street with a muck heap behind it. Brannigan’s horse must be inside. I crept away. Could it really be Beauty? I had to find out for sure.

It was black as a cave inside the shed.

I could hear the horse shifting his feet and breathing somewhere in the darkness.

“Beauty?” I whispered. “Beauty, is that you?”

But even before his soft nose touched my hand, I knew.

This horse was not Beauty.

He did not sound like Beauty. He did not smell like Beauty. And, as I buried my head in his short scruffy mane, he did not feel like Beauty either.

“I wish you were,” I said. “But you’re not.”

Even so, I couldn’t let go. It felt good to hold him and I stayed, whispering in his ears, until Brannigan flung open the door of the shed.

As winter light flooded in, I saw that the horse did not look like Beauty either. Blackie had a long, heavy head like a cow with small ears and big teeth. He seemed gentle and kind but his coat was dull and his legs were short. He was not Black Beauty. Not even close.

“Sorry, lass,” said Mac miserably. “I thought it was worth a shot.”

“It was. It really was. And it was so kind of you to take me,” I said, trying to sound cheerful as we sloshed and slithered our way back towards the city. Poor Pinky kept slipping on the slushy streets.

The snow on the ground had turned grey and wet, churned up by horses and cartwheels all day long. And it had begun to sleet now too, thick wet drops blown in our faces by the wind.

“I’d planned to come back past Buckingham Palace,” said Mac. “I thought a country lass like you might like to see the sights. But are you not in the mood for it?”

“Oh please do, I should love to see,” I said. Sad as I was I couldn’t bear for Mac to notice, not after all he had tried to do. He was such a kind man.

“You never know,” I said, attempting to laugh. “If Queen Victoria is home, she might invite us in for a cup of tea.”

“And a shortbread biscuit, I hope,” chuckled Mac.

But the palace just looked big and grey and cold. If there was anyone at home, the sleet was falling far too thick and fast by then for us to even see the windows.

“Where will you sleep tonight?” Mac asked.

I coughed and tried not to answer.

“You can’t stay out on the streets, Josie. Not in weather like this,” he said. “I’d invite to you to stay at mine if I could. But it’s my uncle’s lodgings – just two rooms – and I’ve three big cousins all as rough as rams. I don’t think it’s any place for a lassie.”

“I’ll be fine, Mac,” I said, pulling Doris’s old coat up around my neck. “Honestly I will.”

“I don’t like it,” muttered Mac. “I’ve a wee sister your age back in Scotland. I’d hate to think of her out on the streets in the cold all night.”

He was right. The thought of crawling under an old fruit wagon again tonight was almost more than I could bear. Seeing Blackie had made me realize again how hopeless my search for Beauty was.

I shivered, more with misery than cold.

Even if I did not freeze to death tonight, I would never find my Beauty. London was just too big. Too busy. And too lonely. How could I hope to find a horse in a place so huge that people barely knew each other’s names?

Then I thought of Mac, sitting beside me, his face looking so sad, all because he was worried for me.

Just a week ago, Mac had been a stranger too. I hadn’t known his name. Or Pinky’s. Now here they were. Out on a Sunday. In the snow. Just to try and make my dream of finding Beauty come true.

‘You don’t have to worry about me, Mac,” I said in a cheerful voice. “I know we couldn’t find Beauty today, but . . . but I did find someone else.”

“Who?” asked Mac, his face brightening almost at once. “Who did you find, lass?”

I thought of the poster of Cleopatra and a strange fluttering feeling flickered in the pit of my tummy.

“Someone special,” I said as Mac’s grin grew even broader. “This morning, on Drury Lane . . . I found my mother.”