Firehorse (9781442403352) (4 page)

Fog clouded the small, rectangular courtyard attached to our townhouse, but I knew what was hidden there: a broken-roofed, thoroughly disheveled carriage shed. I'd poked through it on our arrival, halfheartedly expecting to find a horse inside. The lone stall was empty, of course, and stacked with rubbish, its rough planks thick with dust and cobwebs. When I'd stepped onto the desiccated bedding, a rat had scurried up and over one of the planks. But the lingering smells! I closed my eyes
and drew them again to mind: a haze of horse sweat, a dried sweetness that spoke of grain, even a hint of oiled leather. The abandoned place was, all in all, completely splendid. And though I didn't have a plan yet, I knew that that carriage shed—and what went in it—was going to be my salvation.

Maybe life in Boston wasn't going to be so terribly awful. It was Saturday; something good had always happened on Saturdays. My heart gave a hopeful buck and I sucked in a deep breath. The unforgiving corset squelched such whimsy. Like a rabbit being squeezed between the jaws of a trap, I started to panic. I couldn't breathe. Holding onto the sill, I fought for one shallow breath after another, the corset all the while grimly clutching me with its bony stays. Almost a full minute passed until I'd gotten enough air to forcibly slow my heaving ribs. How was I ever going to get used to wearing such an uncomfortable contraption?

With a last longing look outside, I continued on down the stairwell. This was the darkest part of the house, perfect for protecting the delicate colors of Father's butterfly collection. The five frames hung there were the first things he'd unpacked. I tried to ignore them, as I had at home. To me they seemed a celebration of death, of the cruel capture of something once beautiful and vulnerable. I didn't have to turn my head to know that each winged creature was stretched between four pins. Centered below each was a tiny label, somewhat yellowed, listing its Latin name in a small, typeset font. Father hadn't added his own handwriting to his collection; he hadn't even collected them
by his own hand. Instead, he'd paid boys back in Wesleydale to bring him butterflies. If he approved, he kept a few select specimens. Shuddering, I hurried past, and for the hundredth time wondered how many butterflies had been killed without ever meeting his approval.

From the bottom stair I could see that Father and James were in the dining room, and I could hear Mother and Grandmother in the kitchen. They were quarreling over tea preparation, their voices easily carrying through the thin walls of this pasteboardy house.

“Don't use my good china if you're just going to make dirty water,” Grandmother was scolding.

“Tea isn't supposed to be the color of mud,” Mother replied impassively. “I'm steeping it for exactly one and a half minutes. That's the way Mr. Selby takes it.”

“But I'm going to be drinking it too!” The wooden joints of the kitchen table groaned as Grandmother leaned her weight against it. “Good Lord. You're sending me to the Pearly Gates with a belly full of backwash.”

“I wish you wouldn't talk that way, Mother. You're not going to die.”

“Well, then, I have a news item for you, Nora: We're all going to die. And I the sooner because—”

“—you're older?”

“No, because I can't get a decent cup of tea in this house. Since you've dragged me across the nation to die, the least you could do is brew me a decent cup of tea.”

The door to the dining room swung open and Mother, carrying the tea tray, entered. She was followed by Grandmother, who plopped into her chair with a loud sigh of distress. To distract them from their argument, I quickly slipped into the room and into my chair.

“Rachel!” Mother set down the tray and gave me a hug. “I'm so pleased that you've joined us. Are you feeling better?” She passed a cool hand across my forehead. “Would you like something to eat? I've some porridge ready, or would you prefer eggs?” Before I could answer, she disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the icebox opened. “There's still some ham from last night,” she called, “with a few potatoes?”

“No, the porridge is enough. Thank you.”

Father remained hidden behind his newspaper, but James leered across the table with one of his patented grins. “Mrs. Rip Van Winkle, I presume? Or Sleeping Beauty?”

Blushing, I busied myself preparing a cup of tea the way I liked it: equal amounts of milk and the brown stuff, sweetened with two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Grandmother had already poured hers. I could tell by the way she was briskly stirring her milky brew, clanking the spoon against the china cup with the agitation of an eggbeater, that she was on to one of her prickly days.

“It's a wonder anyone can sleep with those fire alarms sounding at all hours,” she grumbled. “That's the second one in three days.” She bit into a biscuit, leaving a bead of jam glistening on the fuzz of her upper lip. “Your father's learned,” she
said after swallowing, “that it was Hansen's Livery that burned last night—burned to the ground. More than thirty horses lost.”

Even with the milk, the tea tore a hole through my stomach. Thirty horses! Dead! Horrid images filled my head: panic-stricken horses pawing at their wooden cells, charred and twisted bodies stretched stiff and silent. Mother set a bowl of porridge in front of me and I had to look away.

“Such a shame,” she murmured.

“Damned morning papers!” Father exclaimed suddenly. “They-”

“Mr. Selby, please.”

“—have all the most timely news.” Father thrust his paper aside to stab at the meat and potatoes on his plate, taking in a huge mouthful. Pages from several other newspapers were spread open on the table. Mother seemed to have given up complaining about the ink stains on her linens. “How does one compete with them?” He looked around the table, but knowing he'd provide his own answer, none of us said a word. “My only consolation,” he went on shortly, “is that the
Argus
, being an evening paper, can provide what they can't. And do you know what that is?” Again, we remained mute, our audience of faces turned toward his. “Editorial examination. Thoughtful, complete, and direct. Helps people know how they should think. That's where you get your money's worth. Facts
and
insight.” He waved his fork in the air. “Not a damned speck of insight in the morning papers! Take a look for yourselves. Just one ridiculous recipe after another for face cream or foot powder or … or … Professor Flint's horse tonic.”

Mother had taken her place at the opposite end of the table. She was pushing at the wrinkles in the tablecloth, a habit of hers when she was bordering on being upset. “Mr. Selby,” she began in a whisper-soft voice, “your language. I really wish that you—”

“And that's why this livery fire could prove serendipitous.”

“Serendipitous!” Grandmother countered, angling for a fight. “What makes you think it was an accident?”

Father peered over his spectacles. To a stranger, it might seem he was sizing her up, but he well knew this opponent. Secretly, I think he lived for these debates; maybe they both did. I also think that's why he insisted Grandmother move to Boston with us. She was the only one who challenged him. “There are not yet
facts
,” he emphasized his favorite word, “to prove that it was an accident or that it wasn't. I use the term serendipitous as it applies to
my
good fortune. In the past two days I have been searching for some topic, some problem here in Boston that needs solving. Something to hang my hat on, so to speak—or to light a fire under the readers of the
Argus
. And it just may be Boston's readiness—or lack thereof—to fight fires. With the Great Chicago Fire having wreaked its devastation just last year, the public needs to examine the state of asbestos in Boston. So that's why this livery fire may be quite convenient.”

My toes curled at the thought of thirty dead horses being “convenient” for Father.

Grandmother snorted and leaned forward.
“Your
good
fortune, is it? Did you stop to consider that last night's fire has nothing to do with serendipity but everything to do with the Almighty's displeasure?” Quite the opposite of her own daughter, Grandmother relished fanning the flames. “I remind you of Reverend Wyeth's last sermon: ‘For behold”'—she rapped her knife on the table for emphasis—“‘the Lord will come with fire and with his chariots like a whirlwind.'”

Father made a showy pretense of curbing his smirk. “I do hope he's not coming today,” he retorted, one hand in the air. “I have a newspaper to get out.”

“That's blasphemy!” Grandmother rapped her knife again.

“That's business!”

James, always the peacemaker in our family, interrupted. “Speaking of fire,” he said, “I heard that the chief at the station around the corner is hiring. I thought about going over there this morning.”

“Oh, James,” Mother murmured, “you're not old enough for such dangerous work.”

“A smoke-eater!” Father tore into the idea as readily as his meat. “Of course you're old enough. You're nineteen …?”

“Next year. Eighteen now, but that's good enough for polishing brass.”

“Polishing brass! Ha! You'll be a driver and nothing less. After some of those wild-eyed broomtails you drove for Elbert Hubbard, these city teams will seem as docile as oxen. Why, I'll match you against any driver they can put up and we'll see who gets to the fire first!”

Mother was pressing the wrinkles with ever more vigor. “I still don't think that-”

Father ran her over. “And say, once you're hired on, maybe you can get me the inside story. You know, talk with the men; see what they think about this city's readiness. I've learned there's been a rash of fires recently. Maybe they're somehow connected.”

“I've told you they're connected,” Grandmother crowed.

“I think I'll boil some more water for tea,” Mother said, leaving her food uneaten. “Would anyone like some more tea?” She looked around futilely before gliding out of the room.

James caught my eye. Something was up. “How about walking over with me? I'm told the firehorses are brought out every morning for exercise and viewing by the public. You'd like to see them, wouldn't you?”

No corset could contain it: My heart bucked hard. “That would be wonderful.”

“Good. As soon as you're finished eating, we'll go. It's half past eight already, and I'd like to speak with the chief as soon as possible.”

“I'm finished,” I said, pushing back the chair. It occurred to me that James still planned amusements for me as if I were a child of five rather than a girl nearly sixteen. And I continued to follow. Oh, well.

Mother returned to the dining room in time to hear our plans. “Oh, I'm sorry, dear,” she said to me, “but you can't go. Mr. Selby has made arrangements for your grandmother
and you and me to sit for a photograph.” She clasped her hands together, maybe for Father's benefit. “Won't that be lovely?”

I wanted to bolt.

“There should be time to do both,” James said.

“The appointment is for eleven thirty sharp,” Father warned. “It won't reflect well on me if you're late.” He folded his newspaper and stood. “Besides,” he said, without even glancing in my direction, “I don't think your sister needs to be socializing with horses. We've had quite enough of that in the past.” He pulled his watch from his pocket, muttered a calculation to himself, and left the room with a perfunctory nod. Snatching his hat from the hallway, he hurried out the front door.

“Now,” Mother was saying cheerily, “I want us all to look especially nice. I was thinking white—”

“I've not worn anything but black since Joseph passed and I'm not about to change,” Grandmother interrupted.

“But-”

“I'm wearing black.”

“Fine, Mother.” She turned to me. “You and I can wear white. I was thinking about your good muslin dress, the one we ordered through Wheaton's. And I'll help you pin up your hair like this.” She began gathering my hair in her hands.

James must have seen the look on my face. “Mother,” he implored, “it's three hours until your appointment. Surely Rachel and I can walk over to the station and be back in plenty of time for her to dress. Let her visit the horses.”

“You heard what her father said.”

Here they were, talking about me as if I weren't in the very same room.

“Oh, let her go,” Grandmother said. “Do her good to breathe in some fresh air.”

Mother let my hair fall. “Oh, all right. I wash my hands of it. But hurry, or it's the Selby name that gets a black mark. We're new here. People will be watching.”

“Let them watch!” Grandmother muttered. “The devil's got his own eye on them.”

James shot me a conspiratorial look. “Can you hurry, Rachel?”

I nodded and jumped up from the table so abruptly that the cups rattled in their saucers. My legs were aching to hurry.

FIVE