Firehorse (9781442403352) (34 page)

Mrs. Cornwell spoke to James and Mr. Lee. “I was just about to leave myself, although I wouldn't mind talking with you some more about the fire. I'd like to get a few more details about how you and your men were able to drag the steam engine
all the way to the scene. Would you mind walking with me a ways?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Lee replied and gallantly offered his arm. James raised an eyebrow in my direction before the three of them set off along the pavement. I watched them go, feeling vaguely as if they all knew something that I didn't, something that was so plain to see that it needn't even be spoken about. Rubbing my arms, I climbed the stairs.

The parlor was empty. Teacups sat abandoned on table and mantel and bookcase. Their matching bone china dessert plates lay freckled with cake crumbs. I didn't hear Mother in the kitchen, so she must have gone upstairs. The house seemed so lifeless without Grandmother, so empty.

Through the doorway to the study I saw Father seated at his desk, writing. Packing materials had been neatly refolded beside a small opened box that cradled a fragment of a rainbow. I craned my neck to see a butterfly sandwiched between cotton and glass. Even in death it shimmered with the colors of a summer forest: violet blue, dusky brown, and sunlit orange. When was the last time it had flown free?

My throat clamped in disgust. Father was still trying to pin me under glass. Perhaps he thought he already had. But even without that letter of acceptance, I needed to show him where I stood. And I needed to know exactly where he stood. Just how far had he gone to win his battle?

Tentatively I rapped a knuckle on his door. “Pardon me.” Too whispery. Clearing my throat, I tried again. “Pardon me.”

He looked up with a scowl.

“I need to ask you something.” I took a deep breath. “Did you start the fire?” I'm sure I said it quietly enough, politely enough, even, for accusing one's own father of such a heinous act as arson. Yet the words slammed off the walls of the small room as if they'd been shouted.

His pen stopped moving. Peering over his spectacles, he examined me with that critical stare that had always made it so hard to breathe. “Do you have facts to support such a brazen accusation?”

“Mrs. Cornwell said she saw you and Captain Gilmore there. With a kerosene can.”

Carefully he laid his pen in its brown marble tray. Lacing his fingers, he rested his forearms on the edge of his desk. “She's correct—in this instance.”

I was asking the questions, yet I felt as if I was undergoing some sort of graduation examination, expected to come up with the right answers as well. Terrified as I was, I had to keep going. Inching inside the study, I asked, “What were you doing?”

He blinked passively, awaiting my misstep. “Captain Gilmore and I had been evaluating the insufficient water hydrants in the business district when we discovered an empty kerosene can near the Tebbetts, Baldwin & Davis building. The fact that it had been haphazardly abandoned beside an open back door aroused our suspicions. While Captain Gilmore went inside looking for an arsonist, I went in search of a policeman.”

“What happened then?”

Irritation edged his voice. “You know what happened then. The catastrophe I've been predicting for the past four months came true.” He picked up a letter opener and began tapping its blunt end on the blotter. “You wouldn't be troubled with such concerns if you hadn't come galloping in where you didn't belong.”

“I saved horses' lives! How could I not belong?”

“Because you're a girl, and saving horses' lives is the work of men. And because you didn't have my permission to leave this house. Your behavior continues to be willful and indecent.”

There was that word again: indecent. Kaleidoscopic images flashed through my mind: of Peaches and the locomotive and the orchard, of the fire station and the Girl, of Mr. McLaughlin leering inside his livery, of Mother and Grandmother huddled in the kitchen, sharing dreams beside a dying fire. It was all indecent in someone's eyes. And then I remembered Mrs. Cornwell, the wild-eyed journalist. She'd laughed at tradition's shackles. She'd shaken them off and galloped down her own path. And she'd said Father was her matchstick. Backed against the door frame, I trimmed my wick and took his words—his facts—and as calmly as I could, turned them back on him.

“If saving horses' lives is the work of men, why are so many thousands ill? Why are thousands of horses already dead? Why aren't the men saving them, Father?”

His eyes narrowed. “If you're onto that veterinary idea again, you can forget it. You'll never receive my permission.”

“I'm not waiting for your permission.” My fists clenched,
and I could feel my chest heaving. “If I waited for your permission … to do anything at all with my life … I'd end up one of your horrid little butterflies.” I eyed the one on his desk.
Stay calm
, I told myself.
Stay calm. Keep breathing
. “One way or another,” I went on when I'd settled some, “I'm going to become a veterinary. And even if the veterinary college here in Boston won't accept me, I'll apply to another college. And then another. Because somewhere, somehow, someone will accept me.”

“You've been talking to that hysterical harpy Mrs. Cornwell, I imagine. It's all ‘want, want, want' with her kind, with no thought as to who works to pay for those wants. Let me remind you of this fact: I'm not paying for any more schooling. I'll pay for your dresses. I'll pay for your wedding when the time comes and if any man wishes to be saddled with you. But I'll not pay for schooling of any kind. No Selby woman is going to humiliate me by taking a job that rightfully belongs to a man.”

“She's not
all
Selby, you realize.” Mother appeared out of nowhere and clasped my shoulder. She gave Father a defiant glare, the likes of which I'd rarely seen. “I've found a few things in my mother's room to remind me that the Boon women have some strength of their own.” She handed me a worn leather wallet thick with bills. “Here's your money, Rachel. It's more than enough, I'll wager, to persuade a college to overlook your gender and judge you on your abilities.”

Father's eyes narrowed. “Where did that money come from?”

“I don't know. Maybe from the sale of my parents' hog
farm. I thought it had all gone to Father's brother years ago.” Giving my shoulder a squeeze, she said to me, “I know she'd have wanted you to have it. You'll find a fairly recent newspaper clipping tucked inside about Cornell University; they're considering opening their doors to women next year.”

I could hardly comprehend the possibilities. I think my jaw hung open. I looked from Mother, beaming, to Father, whereupon my smile vanished.

“I won't allow it,” he said, settling back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“Yes, you will,” Mother replied just as calmly and coolly as if she were coaxing medicine into a stubborn child. “You've always been the first person to jump in and demand a change or an improvement when the situation calls for such. That's one of the things I first admired in you. Now—”

“No,” he declared.

She sighed and took a different tack. “August,” she began, and I started. I could count on one hand the number of times she'd used Father's Christian name. “Men haven't been able to cure this horse epidemic, now, have they? So why not let your daughter lend her good sense and good mind to the cause? Healthy horses can only bode well for Boston—and for Boston's safety, wouldn't you agree?”

“I'll not agree to her attending veterinary school. It's not right.”

“Who's to say what is right? Ever since we moved here you've been telling Rachel that time's overdue for some changes.
Well, times are changing, August. And your daughter—
our
daughter—is well equipped to lead some of these changes.”

He silently stared at the two of us for what felt like an eternity, blinking solemnly behind his spectacles. At last his shoulders dropped a notch and he exhaled a blast of contempt, admitting temporary defeat. “I don't know the source of this stubbornness.”

He could have been referring to Mother … but I accepted the compliment. “I do,” I said, giving him a broad smile, then transferring it to Mother. “And thank you.”

THIRTY-ONE

A
KNOCK SOUNDED ON THE DOOR, AND WHEN
M
OTHER
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?”