Cullen held out the potato, and Maggie could scarcely believe what he’d just told her.
“This is how it came out of the ground?” she asked.
“Well, it was a little dirtier, but aye.” His mouth tipped in a smile.
She took the potato and studied it—nary a blemish or bad spot on it. She eased down into one of the rockers on the porch. “They’re all like this?”
“So far. We’re harvestin’ them right now.”
“So the man in town was right.”
“Aye. As was your father.”
Loving Cullen for crediting Papa, she looked up again. “So what does this mean?”
He claimed the rocker beside her, and Bucket chose a spot between them. “It means that while we lost the corn, the tobacco, and most of the cotton, we do have potatoes. And they’re the finest potatoes in all of Nashville. Maybe even Tennessee. Which will surely count for somethin’ at market.” He laughed softly.
“What’s so funny?”
He took the potato and turned it in his hand. “An Irishman havin’ the best potatoes.”
He took hold of her hand, and she covered his.
For all the disappointment in recent days, there had been far more joy. She rested her hand on her midsection. For the time being, she and Cullen had agreed to keep the news of the baby to themselves. She couldn’t help but wonder at the events of recent days, and at how—even in the face of such misfortune, there was so much good, so much to look forward to. Regardless of her not racing Bourbon Belle again.
But Kizzy . . .
The girl had been brokenhearted after their conversation yesterday, which Maggie understood only too well.
Cullen leaned forward in the rocker, and Maggie followed his line of sight to see a wagon coming up the road. Not the main road to the house, but the road coming from the workers’ cabins.
Seated on the buckboard were Cletus and Odessia, which was enough to pique Maggie’s curiosity. But when she spotted Ennis in the back of the wagon on a makeshift bed, that brought her out of her chair. Cullen too.
They met the wagon as it pulled up, and Cletus nodded.
“Is everythin’ all right?” Cullen asked.
Odessia climbed down, with Cullen’s assistance.
“My husband and I would like a word with you, sir. You, too, ma’am.”
Cullen shook Ennis’s offered hand. “We would’ve come down if you’d asked.”
Sweat dotted Ennis’s brow, and he mopped at it with his kerchief. “I know that, sir, but I ain’t wantin’ to take the chance that Kizzy’ll hear what I got to say. That girl . . .” He smiled. “Once she hears you say somethin’, even if you’s just talkin’ things through, she take it as a vow.”
Maggie felt her face go warm.
Wincing, Ennis shifted on the pallet. “I guess I best come right out and say my piece.”
Cullen nodded encouragement.
“I know your wife done told my daughter there ain’t gonna be no more teachin’ and no racin’. But my wife and I talked things through real good, and . . . Well, sir, we here to ask if your wife would keep teachin’ our daughter. And then if”—Ennis’s focus shifted to Maggie—“if she be good enough, ma’am, if you might put her in that race. Ridin’ Miss Bourbon Belle.”
“No,” Cullen said almost before Ennis could complete the thought. “I’m sorry, but that’s out of the question. My wife and I have discussed it too, at great length, and it’s too dangerous for your daughter. We can’t be party to it.”
“I figured you was gonna say that, sir. And I respect you for it.”
Maggie noted Ennis wiping the sweat from his forehead again. She’d assumed his perspiration stemmed from pain, which it well could. But judging from the dread—and determination—in his eyes, his nervousness seemed rooted more in what he was about to say.
“But my daughter already know what it’s like to be beaten by a white man. She know what it’s like to watch her papa get beaten too. And worse. She done seen things, sir, all my children have, that I’d give my life for them not to see. Or feel. But that ain’t a choice I get to make.”
A silent tear slipped down Odessia’s cheek.
“I want my daughter to grow up strong, Mr. McGrath,” Ennis continued. “And happy. And doin’ what she love. And she love to ride, like you know already. But mostly sir, I-I just want my little girl to grow up.”
A knot lodged at the base of Maggie’s throat and, even without looking over at Cullen, she sensed a similar response in him.
The muscles in Ennis’s jaw worked something fierce. “And if my family stays here, sir, in this town, in this state, with the way things is . . . there ain’t too good a chance of that happenin’.”
The man shifted on the pallet again, his grimace telling a story words couldn’t. “One more thing, sir . . . We’s grateful for what you done for us, bringin’ us here to Linden Downs. But we left what little we had to come here. You lose this farm, sir, and we lose everythin’ too. And we’s back in Shantytown.”
Odessia blinked and wiped her cheek. “I done checked around some, and we know what a jockey gets paid. But I know too,” she added hurriedly, “that Kizzy ain’t no jockey like them boys that been ridin’ ’fore they could walk. But we’s wonderin’, Mr. Ennis and me, if you was to let Kizzy ride Miss Belle, and if they was to win . . .” Odessia twisted a worn handkerchief in her grip. “If you’d give us half of regular jockey pay.”
“That way,” Ennis continued, “we have us enough money to go west, sir, and start over new. And our children, maybe they can have a life different from this one here.”
Maggie slipped a look at Cullen. He held the man’s gaze, his struggle mirrored in his troubled expression.
Then Cullen looked at her, his eyes discerning, and she willed for him to read every thought, prayer, and dream in her heart concerning Kizzy and this family.
Finally Cullen shook his head. “There’s no way we can agree to half of regular jockey pay.”
The faint hope in Ennis and Odessia’s eyes faded.
“But if you’re willin’ to take full pay—and a bonus, if we win—then we’ve got ourselves a deal.”
Chapter
FORTY-FIVE
In less than ten hours, at six o’clock sharp, the gunshot would sound, and Belle and Kizzy would be racing around Burns Island Track. Just thinking about it sent goose bumps skittering up Maggie’s arms, even as the tangle of nerves that had been her near constant companion over the past month coiled a little tighter.
But Kizzy was ready. She knew it. So was Belle.
A chilled breath of fall stirred the bedroom curtains, the risen sun brilliant against a depth of cloudless blue. The perfect day. Kizzy hadn’t seemed a bit nervous last night, but Ennis and Odessia were. Maggie saw the trepidation behind their smiles.
But the girl was fearless, as Uncle Bob had commented in their final practice yesterday at Belle Meade. “That child got more spunk and grit to her than anybody her size has a right to.”
And Maggie knew the girl was going to need every bit of both.
Kizzy was a gifted rider, but she’d never ridden in a real race before. And to have her first race be the Peyton Stakes . . . To say it was an ambitious goal was putting it mildly. But Belle knew the ropes.
All Kizzy needed to do was exactly what she’d been doing. Be an extension of Belle and let the thoroughbred fly. If things went as Maggie expected, Kizzy wouldn’t need to worry about the other riders once they were out of the starting gate, because Belle would already be several lengths ahead.
Maggie finished buttoning the front of her emerald green riding habit, the skirt slightly more snug fitting than the last time she’d worn it, yet not so much that anyone would notice. She smoothed a hand over her abdomen.
The nausea she’d been experiencing upon awakening each morning had tapered in recent days. She found that eating something before her feet ever touched the floor helped, so she’d taken to keeping a small stash of
Aunt Issy’s lemon cookies in the drawer of her bedside table.
Feeling the tiniest swell beneath her palm, she smiled, wondering if Aunt Issy’s cookies weren’t at least partly responsible.
The creak of a floorboard drew her gaze to the mirror above the mantel, and her smile took an intimate turn.
Cullen ducked through the doorway and came to wrap his arms around her from behind. “Guess who’s downstairs with the Linden Downs racin’ silks.”
Maggie felt a blush of excitement—and relief. “I can’t wait to see them!”
She’d never doubted Savannah could do it. But she’d begun to wonder whether her friend would be able to do it in time. Savannah was sorely overworked, she knew. Every minute of her friend’s day was spoken for, between sewing and caring for her younger siblings.
She’d met with Savannah nearly a month ago now, and together they’d chosen the colors and the design for what Kizzy would wear today.
“Miss Darby says she’s sorry it took her so long, and she’ll make any last-minute alterations on the spot. I’ve already sent for Kizzy.”
“Thank you.” Maggie leaned into his strength, enjoying this rare moment alone. It seemed as if there was always someone else around these days.
He searched her eyes in the mirror’s reflection even as his hand spanned her midsection. “You haven’t told her yet,” he said softly.
Maggie averted her gaze.
“You need to tell her, love.”
“It isn’t as easy as that, Cullen. Besides, you and I haven’t told anyone yet. Well, outside of Onnie and Cletus.”
“And Ethan.”
She frowned.
“He and I were talkin’ late last night in the stable, and he asked, in a roundabout way.”
“A roundabout way?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Said he’d noticed you seemed . . . different lately.”
Maggie found that impossible to argue with. She certainly felt different. And yet, her opinion of Cullen’s older brother remained largely unchanged. Something about the man simply didn’t sit well with her.
Cullen kissed the top of her head and turned her in his arms. “Savannah Darby will be happy for you, Maggie. Your friend’s got a kind heart.”
“I know she does. She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. But it’ll also make her sad, in a way.” Maggie fingered the buttons on his shirt. “And I dread doing that.”
A telling look moved into his eyes. “She’s goin’ to know soon enough. And then what will you say when she asks why you took so long to tell her?”
Maggie sighed, knowing he was right.
Cullen fingered the ivory point plat lace on the worn lapel of her suit jacket, and Maggie wished she’d had the money to enlist Savannah’s skill for a new riding habit as well. But she wasn’t about to ask Cullen for money for such a luxury, not with funds so tight.
Besides, even though she wasn’t the superstitious type, she’d worn this riding habit for every one of Belle’s wins. Maybe it would bode well for them today.
Cullen kissed her forehead. “We’re about ready to load up Bourbon Belle. If ever a horse was eager for a race, I’d say it was her.”
“I’ll be right outside after meeting with Savannah. I know I’ll see Belle again at the track this afternoon, but I’d like to see her here too. So please don’t leave before I come out?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
As they made their way toward the stairs, Maggie spotted Ethan’s still-closed bedroom door—at half past eight, no less—and she paused on the second-story landing. “About your brother . . .”
Cullen’s expression became guarded, and she chose her words carefully.
“Sometimes when I rise very early, I’ll notice his bedroom door is still open and his bed unslept in. Do you think he’s . . . doing things he oughtn’t?”
Cullen cradled the side of her face. “I wouldn’t worry. Ethan’s always been a bit of a late nighter, if you know what I mean. I also think he’s learned his lesson in that regard.”
She didn’t know exactly what he meant, but having had four older brothers, she had an inkling. And Cullen’s cloaked expression kept her from pressing the issue.
Once Maggie reached the foyer, she heard Kizzy’s excited squeal. And when she turned the corner into the central parlor, she realized why.
“Oh, Savannah . . .” Maggie looked at Kizzy strutting around the room in her dusky blue racing silks with burgundy trim. “They’re beautiful.”
Kizzy beamed. “I like ’em ’cuz they’s trousers.”
True enough, they looked identical to the shirts and trousers the other jockeys wore. And were a perfect fit on Kizzy’s lithe frame.
At Odessia’s urging, they’d decided not to flaunt the fact that Kizzy was a girl. Odessia had braided her daughter’s hair tight against her head, and the jockeys’ names were never listed in the program—only the thoroughbreds—so no worry there.
But once Kizzy slipped her cap on—which the girl did as though on cue—any question regarding gender was removed.
She looked like a boy. Same as another young girl Maggie remembered. Only, that young girl would never have had the opportunity to do what Kizzy was doing today. Sad, how the color of one’s skin so defined the path of a person’s life. Both in freedom for opportunities, and in boundaries.
She prayed, especially in light of the recent war, that it wouldn’t always be that way.
“Missus McGrath, I gonna run show my mama these. She out back of the kitchen with Miss Onnie. That all right?”
Maggie smiled. “Yes, but please don’t get them dirty.”
Kizzy went running.
“Maggie . . .” Savannah’s tone was tentative. “I apologize that it’s taken me so long to finish the silks.” Savannah grew teary and gave a little laugh, then waved a hand like she always did when she became emotional and wished she hadn’t. “My new employer can be a tad demanding.”
“A tad?” Maggie blew out a breath, remembering that day in the shop. “Mrs. Adelicia Acklen Cheatham of the Belmont Estate can be a tad demanding—or seemed such when you sewed the new silk draperies for her parlor. But your employer,” Maggie exhaled, “she’s Attila the Hun in bloomers!”
Savannah’s laughter bubbled up, and Maggie’s did too. Oh, but it broke Maggie’s heart to have to tell her friend her wonderful—yet painful for Savannah—news.
“Savannah, I’ve been intending to—”
Her friend held up a hand. “One more thing!” She reached behind the settee and withdrew a box. “When we bought the material for the racing silks, I saw another cloth of the exact color that day, and I thought it would be lovely on you.” Savannah placed the box on the cushioned seat, then looked down at Maggie’s emerald jacket and skirt, and smiled. “I wish I could have paid for it myself. But I couldn’t. So I approached your husband, and he was more than willing to pay for it all.”
Maggie felt her mouth slip open. She glanced through the front window to see the culprit himself walking into the stable. “That man . . . He never said a thing to me.”
“As well he shouldn’t have. I threatened him within an inch of his life if he did.” Savannah nodded to the box on the settee.
Cherishing her friend, Maggie untied the string and removed the lid. Seeing the garment within—or rather, a master seamstress’s work of art—Maggie tried to give voice to the gratitude in her heart, but the words wouldn’t come.
She withdrew the jacket from the box and held it up.
The garment was dusky blue, the same shade as Kizzy’s racing silks. But the fabric had a more substantial, luxurious feel, and a lovely paisley corduroy collar in burgundy and earthy tones of green that complemented the blue. The same swatch of corduroy embellished the edge of the sleeves.
“Savannah, this is stunning.”
Savannah’s smile was pure pleasure. “I so enjoyed sewing this for you, Maggie. Especially knowing what an important day this is. And—” She rea
ched for her satchel and withdrew a small pair of scissors, a needle, and some ivory thread, and laid them on the side table. “I also know how some owners of thoroughbred racehorses can be about following the same routine or wearing the same clothes as they did the time before when their horse won, so . . .” She gestured to the lace on the lapels of Maggie’s emerald green jacket. “I want to transfer the lace from your old jacket to your new one. So you’ll have a bit of past wins with you today too.” She grinned. “So hurry up and let’s see it on you!”
Excited, Maggie raced up the stairs to the bedroom. Savannah followed. With the door closed, Maggie began undressing, noticing how her friend surveyed the room. The same room where they’d lain awake at night as girls, giggling.
The room now bore definite masculine touches. Cullen’s second pair of boots by the wardrobe, his shirt hanging from the desk chair. And by the wash basin, his razor and shaving cup, which the man remembered to use maybe every third day.
Maggie laid her jacket on the bed.
“He seems like such a good man, Maggie. Your father chose well.”
This time it was Maggie’s turn to come close to tears. “Yes, Cullen is a good man. And I pray every day, Savannah, that God will bring someone just like him into your life.”
Savannah raised a dark blond eyebrow. “You mean a tall dark Irishman who’s as kind as he is handsome?”
Maggie’s eyes widened, then she giggled, slipping off her skirt. This was the Savannah she’d grown up with. The feisty, spirited Savannah before the war. “And to think,” she whispered, “I couldn’t stand the man at first.”
Savannah shook her head. “I’m proud of you, Maggie. Proud of what you’re doing today too.”
“Can you be there? Is Attila giving you the time off?”
With a faint smile, Savannah shook her head. “But I’ll be cheering for you and Belle and Kizzy from a few blocks away.”
Maggie stepped into the skirt Savannah held out for her. And no sooner did she reach around on the waistband to button the closure than she remembered—
To Win Her Favor Page 36