Firehorse (9781442403352)

by Wilson, Diane Lee

  “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 amusement
s 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

  JAMES COULD BE THE MOST WONDERFUL BROTHER ON ONE day and complete provocation the next. That morning he was beyond wonderful.

  It had to be provoking for him, then, that I was at my clumsiest. The stiff new shoes that Mother had bought me, and that she made sure I was wearing before we left the house, were a cobbler’s curse. In just stepping over the doorsill, one blocky heel adopted a mind of its own, caught the raised edge, and sent me tumbling into thin air. If James hadn’t grabbed me by the arm, I would have landed bottom side up on the pavement below. Such a Boston debut might have killed Mother, I think.

  Sheepishly I righted myself and tottered down the stairs, safely supported by both James and the wrought-iron railing. When we reached the pavement with no further mishaps and turned down the street, though, he held his arm rigid, keeping me pulled close. Strangers smiled and glanced away, assuming we were sweethearts. That made my face burn all the more.

  Still, I was outside. After two days holed up in my tower, I needed some fresh air, as Grandmother had suggested. Only the air wasn’t fresh. Sodden odors of turpentine and coal and cabbage assaulted my nose. A damp, iron gray sky weighed on us and on the maze of buildings surrounding us. For as far as I could see, red brick townhouses just as narrow as ours stood braced together like so many books on a shelf. Bulbous facades and steep stairs spilled onto the pavement as if bursting from the books’ seams. Crowding us on the other side was the nonstop traffic. Although we lived on a smallish street, it already bustled that morning with delivery wagons and flashy carriages and pedestrians blithely zigzagging their way through the chaos. I shook my head.

  “What?” James asked.

  “It’s not Wesleydale, is it?”

  The hot look that sparked in his eyes caught me by surprise. “It certainly isn’t. It’s different through and through. It even smells different.” He sucked in the manufactured air and exhaled a happy sigh. “Intoxicating!” Lengthening his stride, he rattled on. “Think of it! At this very moment, all around us, businesses are being born, fortunes are being made, women are being wooed, men are—”

  “Women are being wooed?”

  James grinned. “Well, someone has to do it. Now, that’s a job I could hire on for.”

  We rounded the corner and as soon as we did so, he pointed out the fire station, another block and a half down the street. I didn’t see any horses on display. Maybe they were still inside. “How many do they keep?” I asked. “Horses, I mean.”

  He frowned, thinking. “I don’t know for sure. Let’s see, there’d be three to pull the steam engine, I suppose, and a pair for the ladder, if they have one. At least one more for the hose cart.” He was counting on his fingers. “And the chief probably keeps one for his own buggy. That’s seven. I guess it all depends on how much equipment they have. There could be more.”

  “And you’ll drive a team?”

  “You sound like Father,” he responded nonchalantly, though he looked pleased. “I’m just going to see if the chief will take me on as an apprentice. I’ve heard there’s a lot of brass polishing before they hand you any reins.”

  “Oh, they’ll let you drive once they see you go,” I replied with confidence, all the while staring at the huge, double-wide entry. I half expected a team to come rushing out of it at any moment, and a delicious shiver of excitement skipped up my spine. “What else do you know about the firehorses? I suppose they’re all geldings.”

  “Of course they are; it’s heavy work. And you can’t very well use some flighty mare that’s going to bolt at the first sight of fire.”

  I yanked my arm free. “Peaches wouldn’t have bolted,” I argued. “Why, I could stand her nose-to-nose with any locomotive, even with all the smoke and sparks and—”

  “No, you couldn’t.”

  “Yes, I could. And I did.”

  “Where?”

  “At the water tower outside Hinckley.”

  “Hinckley! What were you doing all the way out there? It’s not a safe place. Good Lord, Rachel, that was pure foolishness!”

  “It wasn’t foolishness. Peaches would never have done anything to hurt me. She was very sensible.”

  “She was still a mare and you’re still a girl and if Father ever found out—”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  He grinned like the devil but said, “No, you know I wouldn’t. Besides, the topic is immaterial now, since you don’t have—” The hurt that must have shown on my face was instantly reflected in his. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.”

  I bit my lip and blinked fast.

  “Well, here we are.”

  Directly across the street from us, the fire station rose up three stories, all orange brick and pale granite. It wasn’t particularly grand, but it had an air of solidity and order about it. Four pairs of tall windows lined the second story, each trimmed in black paint and discreetly displaying crisp white curtains. Another set of windows, smaller and unadorned, marked the top story. The one ornamental flourish hung above the ground-floor entry in the form of a long black sign that proudly announced in gilt lettering: ENGINE COMPANY NO. 8.

  But … there still weren’t any company firehorses on display. The only horse in sight, in fact, was a plain-looking bay hitched to a buggy, and he appeared to be sound asleep.

  James was going on about something or other—the mechanics behind a steam engine, I think—and only now realized that the reason for my visit was missing. He stopped short, looking about him as if the horses might be hidden somewhere. “I don’t understand,” he apologi
zed. “I was told that every morning—”

  “It’s all right.” I smiled to hide my disappointment. “You go on in. I’ll wait.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?”

  I gave him my most exasperated look.

  “I know, I know—just promise me you’ll stay away from locomotives.” Dodging a milk wagon, he headed across the street. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he called over his shoulder.

  I watched him hesitate at the station’s yawning entrance, take a deep breath, and disappear inside. As soon as he was out of sight, I crossed the street too, simply to wait beside the buggy horse.

  The gentlemanly bay was so thoroughly asleep that his lower lip hung slack enough to reveal his yellow teeth. Yet even in such an unguarded posture, he maintained a pleasant appearance. His face was rather slim, his lashes long. A white star sat neatly in the middle of his forehead. With a twinge, I noticed that the whorl of hairs there spun exactly like the one Peaches had. I couldn’t help but reach out to touch it.

  Immediately the horse awoke. His ears shot forward and his lips wriggled, nudging my hand for a treat.

  I laughed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything,” I told him. “I’ll bring you some sugar next time.” He stopped searching at once, quite as if he understood. Peaches used to do that too. When his dark eyes gazed into mine with the same confident patience, I had to blink back tears. To staunch them, I set about combing his black mane with my fingers, and braiding his forelock beneath its brow band. I ran my hand underneath his surcingle, scratching away a trace of dried sweat. When he’d been smoothed and groomed to my satisfaction and enjoyment, we just stood, the two of us, enjoying the morning and each other’s company. Faint aromas of castile soap and sweet feed and liniment wafted from the station, and I inhaled deeply. James could have his city smells; for me, this was heaven on earth.

  As the minutes passed and James didn’t return, I assumed he was being considered for the job and happily went on waiting. When time stretched on, though, I began to grow restless. I left the bay to pace the pavement, glancing now and again at the empty station entrance and wondering what was taking him so long. On one of my passes I heard men’s voices inside, volleying anger. My heartbeat quickened: Was James in danger? I cocked an ear to listen, wondering what, if anything, I should do. I could make out the word “she” as the subject of the argument, which eased my worries some. But then I heard the word “gun” and curiosity tugged me right up to the station entry to peek inside.