Firehorse (9781442403352) (14 page)

“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.”

THIRTEEN

U
NDER PENALTY OF TORTURE
I
COULD NOT HAVE DESCRIBED
one moment of that trip, not one moment. I was so excited that all I could recall was climbing into Mr. Stead's buggy alongside Grandmother, then hearing the word “whoa” and being handed down in front of a mansion the like of which I'd never seen.

My mouth hung open as a servant led us past it and into a carriage house as grand as any church. A full two stories on the inside, it was strikingly clad in alternating ribbons of brick and stone. Thick golden sunlight streamed through a row of high windows, burnishing the wooden posts that divided the stately box stalls. That put me in mind of the boxed pews at King's Chapel. A similar sort of holy hush did blanket the place. Along the central aisle, the horses, notably all black bays or dark chestnuts, pressed against their half doors and craned their necks with interest toward the doubly large stall at the front. That's where the servant pointed us before disappearing.

“Harland!” A man pacing beside that stall broke the silence with his holler. “The foal isn't coming. It's been stuck like this for almost an hour. Why isn't it coming?” He was as well appointed as his stable, even without his black waistcoat, which was neatly folded over the stall door. His linen shirt stood snowy white against a gray silk vest, and his cuffs and collar had been starched to perfection. At the moment, however, that perfect appearance was creased with anxiety. “Look!” he said.

We all peered over the high door to see a round-bellied chestnut mare lying on her side, obviously in distress. A pair of tiny white hooves stuck out past her limp tail.

Mr. Stead responded with his typical calm. “Let's see what we have here,” he said as he donned his apron and rolled up his sleeves. In an instant he was kneeling waist deep in the spotless straw bedding. He tugged on the two hooves, testing them a bit, then pushed against them. “I suspect,” he said as he leaned his weight into the mare, “that the foal's head is turned back on its body and that's what's blocking the birthing.” He grunted with the effort. His knees slid on the straw. “I'm just going to … push … the front legs back in … and … maneuver them a bit. Hopefully the head will slip around and come forward like it's supposed to.”

The mare, looking as fragile as a deer in this awkward situation, suddenly snorted in alarm. She began scrambling violently, sending straw and dust swirling through the air.

“Here now,” Mr. Stead scolded. He threw his arms across her hindquarters in a vain attempt to keep her from flailing. “Mr. Lauber, get in here and sit on her head.”

Mr. Lauber rushed into the stall too fast, alarming the mare all the more. She tried to get to her feet. He charged at her head several times, tentatively grabbing for her halter, desperate to avoid the sharp hooves.

“Hold her down!”
Mr. Stead ordered.

“I'm trying,” the man cried.

The mare managed to right her front end. She was about to stand up. “Miss Selby!” Mr. Stead shouted, and I was inside and at the mare's head before he could finish his request: “I need you.”

Taking a sure grip on the mare's halter, close to her ears, I leaned my weight against it. She fell back with a soft thud. Before she could arise, I carefully straddled her neck, stroking her cheek and crooning to her at the same time. There was so much fear in her eyes. I wanted to make it go away.

“Well done,” Mr. Stead murmured under his breath. He was concentrating on the twisted foal hidden inside the huge belly. “Steady now.”

Entranced, I watched him return to his rhythm of pushing, then gently pulling, twisting a little this way and a little that. The strain showed on his face. I glanced at Grandmother, who was watching over the top of the high stall door. Her lips were moving, in prayer, I suppose, but otherwise she was silent. Twenty or even thirty minutes must have passed before Mr. Stead abruptly sat back on his heels and heaved a sigh of despair.

“What? What is it?” Mr. Lauber stood over him, his voice fraught with worry.

“The foal's body is too dry. I can't get it out I fear it's dead.”

“Dead?” the owner echoed. “It can't be. That's a thousand-dollar stud fee I'm out.”

“You could be out more,” Mr. Stead said wearily, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. “If I can't find a way to get the foal's body out, you'll lose Queenie, too. And even if I
can
get it out, there's no telling what damage has already been done to her, which means you'll lose her anyway.”

“That's not acceptable.” Mr. Lauber stubbornly crossed his arms as if he were arguing the price of hay, rather than the ebbing life of a fine broodmare. “You're just going to have to keep trying. Keep trying, I say!”

Nodding, Mr. Stead reached back inside the mare. His face grew taut with concentration as his fingers puzzled their way around the foal. The mare had given up struggling, and I slid off her neck. I was afraid she'd given up living. Kneeling beside her, I kept stroking her damp cheek, praying that she'd manage to hang on, praying that her foal somehow managed to be born alive. The stable fell quiet again. Every living thing, human and animal alike, seemed to be focusing on this one birth. The only sounds that disturbed the silence were the determined grunts and groans of Mr. Stead, the accompanying rustle of straw beneath his knees, and the occasional nervous cough of Mr. Lauber. Far, far away in the distance I heard a ship's whistle. It seemed odd that people were traveling elsewhere, going on with their lives, when everything of importance was happening right here.

Mr. Stead's face suddenly broke into a satisfied grin. “Aha!” he shouted. Using both hands, he pulled, long and slowly, on the
two little hooves, and this time a small head with a wide white blaze followed. The pale sack that covered the foal ripped at the point of the hooves and, as the tiny bundle continued emerging from the mare, the sack fell around its shoulders in a gauzy shawl. With one final pull, the foal—a colt—plopped into the straw, a motionless lump. Queenie nickered weakly. The small body didn't answer.