Firehorse (9781442403352)

by Wilson, Diane Lee

  So the four of us kept watching, with me digging my nails into my palm at each of David’s tumbling failures. After a while, it seemed that his mother lost interest. She nosed through her hay a little, then stood with her back to us, splay-legged and dozing. David clambered to his feet again, swayed wildly, and crumpled in the straw.

  We had to do something! I looked up at Mr. Stead and found, to my blushing surprise, that he’d been watching me. “Why isn’t she helping him?” I asked across the stall.

  “Because this is something he has to learn to do on his own,” he replied. “God gave him strong legs to stand on; he just has to learn how to use them.”

  “Father, is anything wrong?” A young female voice sounded from the end of the carriage house. “What are you watching?”

  “Shh!” Mr. Lauber hushed his daughter. “Queenie’s had her colt.” He motioned for her to join us.

  She arrived without a sound of footsteps, which oddly reminded me of my mother’s silent comings and goings. The girl was strikingly pretty, with the porcelain complexion of a china doll, and maybe a year or two older than me. But with no more than a glance over the stall door, she announced, “Mother wants to know—”

  “Shh!” Mr. Lauber shot a warning look at her.

  The command came because David had again made it to his feet and was managing to keep his balance this time. He bravely took a step, wobbled, took another one, and was still standing. His mother pricked her ears and nickered encouragement. He answered in a high-pitched whinny. With innocent determination, he lifted first one spider leg and then another, rushing the sequence until he was tottering … right in front of me.

  Holding my breath, I slid down the wall to crouch at his level. His bulging eyes tried to follow the motion. I smiled. With his whiskery chin and bobbling head, he reminded me of a little old man who’d been drenched by an unexpected rainstorm. I extended my hand. Inquisitively he stretched his skinny neck. His damp muzzle tickled my palm. When his lips parted, I felt his rubbery gums bumping against my skin. Such a look of surprise came over him that he jumped back, shook his head, and nearly fell over. I had to stifle a laugh. Queenie nickered again, and this time he found his way directly to her side. Almost by accident, though I suspect it was more by God’s hand, he found his mother’s teat and began suckling.

  Mr. Lauber spoke to Mr. Stead. “Thank you, Harland,” he said, before returning his misty gaze to the mare and foal.

  Mr. Stead nodded. Looking back at the new pair, he smiled and said, “My pleasure.”

  FOURTEEN

  THE EXCITEMENT IN THE CARRIAGE HOUSE FADED gradually, like the last quavery thrumming of a church organ. The other horses returned to their hay, and we walked back down the aisle in contemplative silence.

  The spell was broken when we stepped into the sunshine. “Ew!” squealed Mr. Lauber’s daughter. “Look at your hands!”

  It was the second time that morning my hands had received critical marks. I’d forgotten to scrub them after helping Mr. Stead with the Girl, so now they were doubly mottled with dried sweat and horsehair, and a drop of dried blood crusted one knuckle. The grimy half-moons tipping each fingernail showed even more darkly. Yet I wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. I was proud of my hands and the work they’d done, and answered her horror—that same horror I’d seen on Mother’s face—with a broad smile. Perplexed, Miss Lauber gathered her skirts a little closer.

  Her father, however, frowned. “Mr. Stead, may I have a word with you?” He motioned for them to move a few steps away. Something in his sudden change of expression pricked my curiosity. Feigning an interest in the manicured bed of roses behind them, I murmured, “How lovely,” and left Grandmother and Miss Lauber to sidle nearer the men.

  “It’s bad enough that you let her upstage me with my own horse,” Mr. Lauber was complaining, “but what if things hadn’t gone as they did? What if she’d been kicked? Queenie’s a hot-blooded mare, you know. The girl could have broken a limb—or worse! I don’t think it’s right.”

  “She knows her way around a horse,” Mr. Stead countered. He sounded somewhat irritated himself. “I’m sorry if her presence has disturbed you. I just didn’t see any harm in it.”

  Grandmother made her way to my side, interrupting my eavesdropping. Bending over a deep red blossom, she whispered, “I’ve changed my mind. That veterinary of yours is a good man.”

  “Um-hmm,” I mumbled, moving to another bush, still pretending interest in the roses while trying to listen to the men.

  “Perhaps you’re too young to realize this,” Mr. Lauber went on, “but many people consider it unseemly for a girl to witness a birthing.”

  I sneaked a glance as Mr. Stead crossed his arms. He was a good head taller than Mr. Lauber and looked down on him with such an unflinching air that, despite his seniority, the older man started rowing backward. “I’m not saying you’re not a good veterinary, Harland. You know I have no complaints there.” He ventured a laugh and reached up to clap him on the shoulder. “Besides, I was a young man once myself. I remember how it was with the fillies. But take my advice: Consider your reputation and keep them separate from your work.” Tipping his head like a bold robin, he took another stab at control. “There’s others that will be thinking the way I do,” he warned.

  Mr. Stead stiffened. It was ever so slightly, but I saw it, even if no one else did. “Then they have my pity, is what I’m thinking,” he replied. Spinning on his heel, he picked up his satchel and headed for the buggy. Grandmother and I followed.

  Mr. Lauber was quick to entwine his daughter’s arm in his own and escort us. “I owe you an apology, ladies.” His artificial friendliness reminded me of soured milk; on the surface it seemed all right, but … “I didn’t properly introduce you to my daughter, Emilyn. Emilyn, this is …?”

  “Mrs. Esther Boon,” Grandmother replied. “And Rachel Selby, my granddaughter.”

  “How nice to meet you,” Emilyn said coolly.

  “I wish I could have shown you both more hospitality than my poor stable has to offer,” Mr. Lauber said, “but I wasn’t… expecting you.” He looked pointedly at Mr. Stead’s back.

  “I’ve visited homes not nearly as fine as your stable,” Grandmother said. “We enjoyed ourselves.”

  I latched on to the buggy horse like he was an old friend. In a way he was, because he was the same horse I’d seen outside the fire station, the one to whom I’d promised a treat. Now, at my approach, he wriggled his lips hopefully. All I could do was pet his neck and murmur, “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “What’s that?” Mr. Stead asked. He nodded for the waiting servant to take hold of the horse’s bridle so he could help Grandmother into the buggy.

  I blushed; I hadn’t planned on human ears hearing me. “I … I promised your horse I would bring him a treat.”

  “That humbug! Has he gone to begging again? Balder!” He rattled the whip in its stand. “You’re a second-rate scoundrel, you are,” he said to the horse. “Mind your manners.” With a smile and a wink, he handed me up into the buggy and climbed in beside. The servant stepped away. Waving crisply to Mr. Lauber and Emilyn, Mr. Stead clucked to the horse. “Now look lively, Balder, or I’ll send you down to the docks for some real work.” The bay moved off, but not before shaking his head and snorting with what was surely indignation. I hunkered down to keep from laughing out loud.

  On the drive homeward I took more notice of my surroundings. We were passing through a particularly well-to-do part of Boston, and the streets were lined with one amazing mansion after another. Mr. Stead entertained us with tidbits of gossip about the wealthy occupants, and I felt rather grand just trotting by such luxury, especially when we passed a public horsecar. It was crowded, with people packed together like herrings, either sitting on benches or standing, suspended from leather straps, all of them looking wilted in the heat. I had little reason for pride, I suppose, because the buggy’s one seat was nearly as crowded. Jostled between Grandmother and Mr. Stead,
I became uncomfortably aware of his leg pressed thigh to ankle against mine, of his black jacket scratching the fabric of my dress. I tried to pull in my shoulders.

  Grandmother leaned across me. “Are you a married man?” she asked bluntly.

  That shrunk me some.

  “No, Mrs. Selby, I’m not.”

  “It’s Mrs. Boon, if you’ll remember,” Grandmother said. “I’m the mother of Rachel’s mother. I’m not a Selby.” She flicked a cinder off her skirt. “And why aren’t you married?”

  Mr. Stead shifted his position, pulling his leg away from mine, though for lack of space it gradually sagged back against it. I sneaked a glance at his face. If he was discomfited by her liberty he didn’t show it. He took time clearing his throat, then said, “Well, Mrs. Boon, I’m not married because … Here now!” He jerked on the reins as a fancy trotter pulling a basket phaeton came round the corner at such a reckless clip that they nearly collided with us. Balder snorted, more in disgust than alarm, I thought, and once the reins were loosened proceeded calmly. “What were we talking about? Oh, yes.” Mr. Stead chuckled. “Well, I suppose it’s because I’m very busy and”—as he searched for words, an embarrassed grin widened across his face—“and, well, let’s just say that my horse has better luck with the ladies than I do.” I shot Grandmother the most injurious of glances, which she blatantly ignored.

  “Which church do you attend?”

  Mr. Stead looked past us. At first I thought he was seeking escape, until he raised his whip over his head to signal he was turning. We joined with traffic on a busier street, and when we’d settled in, he answered her question. “I rarely have the time,” he explained. “You see, most of my patients don’t recognize the Sabbath as a day of rest. Or at least their owners don’t. So I commune with our good Lord when I can. And that’s as likely to be right here in my buggy as in a white steeple church.”

  That seemed to satisfy Grandmother on that topic, but she was too much the terrier to sit idle for long. Before we’d gone one whole block she had another question. “Did you ever consider becoming a real doctor?”

  “Don’t I look real?”

  “It’s a better living.”

  He shrugged. “Better is a slippery word, Mrs. Boon. I’m a better man for my education. I help animals get better. And, let’s see, how does that verse go? ‘There’s nothing better for a man than that he should find enjoyment in his toil.’” It was his turn to lean across me. “Ecclesiastes,” he whispered to Grandmother.

  A smile tugged at her lips, though she tried to look serious. “I like a man who knows his Bible,” she said approvingly.

  Enjoyment in his toil. I looked down at my lap. Did that count for her toil as well? I had to wonder, because my hands were burning like they’d grabbed hold of stinging nettle. The fiery—and yet somehow thoroughly enjoyable—sensation had sparked when that foal touched his tiny muzzle to them. I closed my eyes, shutting out the city noises and trying to recall his excited, high-pitched whinny. I shut out the smells and tried to breathe in the lingering aroma of his sweet breath. From his very first movement he’d been so full of life, so eager for it. I wanted to race back there and hug him to me.

  Before I was ready, we were home again. I didn’t want to end the dreamlike morning by climbing out of the buggy and touching ground. I didn’t want to go back to holding a needle in my hand, squinting over a circle of stretched linen. I wanted to hold a tiny head in my hands, to hold life. But Mr. Stead climbed out and took Balder’s bridle while I helped Grandmother down. She tackled the stairs alone, allowing me to linger. I pretended to check the buggy for anything left behind, when of course we hadn’t carried anything with us but our excitement.

  “Shall we check on your mare?” Mr. Stead suggested, and I nodded. The dream would last a little longer.

  We found the Girl dozing. The silver pin was still in place. Just below it, a drop of blood showed black against a remnant of her light coat. Quietly, Mr. Stead stepped into her stall and pressed his fingers against her throat to check her pulse. I knew my own was racing. He nodded satisfaction, then felt for the cotton he’d stuffed deep into her ears. That was to keep her from hearing a fire alarm, to keep her from hurting herself, but I instinctively recoiled at the dulling of her senses. “She’s doing fine,” he said in a low voice.

  Someone must have stuffed cotton into my own ears, because I was moving in a stupor. I knew we were walking back out to the buggy, but there was a buzzing in my head that brought my world in close. The day had grown so stewingly hot that when a bead of sweat trickled down my arm it seemed like liquid fire. The tingling in my palms was explosive. My hands felt foreign to me, as if someone else’s hands had been attached to my body. In a way I felt newly born myself, and as if this new person, not me, was speaking, I heard the words: “Teach me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  My breath caught. What was I saying? This was unknown territory.

  But there was no use in hesitating; I was galloping. “I want to be a veterinary too. I want to help horses. I want to feel-”

  “Hold on there,” he said with a laugh. “You’re talking faster than my ears can listen. You want to be a veterinary?’

  I nodded. My heart was pounding so hard inside my chest. I was galloping toward the biggest fence I’d ever faced. It was terrifying and exhilarating at once.

  “Girls don’t become veterinaries,” he said with that same patronizing smile Father often wore, and my chin hit mane as the hooves slid to a stop. Anger flared inside me. He’d suddenly joined all the rest of the men and boys who’d laughingly pushed me away. “Although if any young woman could, I’d lay money on you.”

  I went as cold as forged iron. “Teach me, then. I want to learn.”

  “I don’t know….” He rubbed his chin, looking doubtful. I suspected he was recalling Mr. Lauber’s warning.

  “I won’t bother your clients, I promise. I’ll stay out of the way. And I have a horse care manual that I’m already studying; I’ve read nearly half of it.” I clenched my fists. “You don’t understand; you can’t, I suppose, but I have to do this. I know I have to.”

  He took note of my fists. “A whole half of a manual, have you? Well, then, answer me this: How would I go about treating a case of thrush?”

  That was easy, thanks to Peaches. “Clean the affected hoof well,” I recited, “then soak a rag in turpentine and pack it into the hoof.”

  He withheld his opinion and presented another question. “When do tushes appear?”

  “When a horse is between four and five years old.” I allowed myself a sly smile. “They’re also called ‘bridle teeth.’”

  He raised an eyebrow and rubbed his jaw again. “True or false: Distemper is most likely to appear in young animals.”

  I had to think about that one. “Diseases of the Glands” had been a difficult chapter, though I thought I remembered that distemper was akin to smallpox. “False. It’s very contagious for every horse.”

  He finally grinned. “You don’t need me,” he said. “You already know more than most of the so-called horsemen in this city.”

  “Then you’ll teach me?”

  The small gap in our years was nothing compared to the greater one in our gender. “Veterinary medicine is not all bandages and birthings,” he said with a laugh, as if I were a little girl asking to play dress-up. “There’s a rather ghastly side to it that’s just not suitable for young women. Or any women. And it does take a certain amount of strength to wrestle the beasts.”

  He thought he had me, but he was wrong. “You didn’t use your strength to treat the Girl,” I argued. “You used your mind, and me, to keep her off balance, and you rewarded her with peppermints.”

  “Yes, well-”

  “And as for the ghastly side of it, what does it matter what an animal looks like or what the treatment requires, when you own the ability to heal it?”

  He looked taken aback. “Did you say veterinary or lawyer? You argue your c
ase like the latter.”

  “Veterinary,” I stated firmly. I could feel my fists clenching again.

  He paused, studying me. “If it’s not too personal, may I ask how old you are?”

  “Sixteen in September.”

  With a guarded nod, he said, “Well, that’s on the young side for veterinary school, though age isn’t as important as practical experience and, of course, money. It’s a three-year course, you know. But, the thing is, I’ve never heard of any lady veterinaries in the Boston area.”

  “There are some lady doctors on Warrenton Street; we walked by their offices on our way to the photography gallery. What’s the difference?”

  “Well, one difference is that their patients can at least say where it hurts.” He chuckled at his own joke and I smiled politely, waiting for a more serious answer. The silence made him uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he adjusted his hat and tugged at his collar. “The Selbys certainly are a determined lot, aren’t they?” He had no idea. “Well,” he began again, glancing skyward, “I suppose that I could at least teach you some of the basics.” And then, as if finally convincing himself of the possibility, he said, “All right, all right, here’s what I’ll agree to do.” He took on a newly stern expression and I stood as tall as I could. “I’ll allow you to accompany me when the situation and client are suitable, and we’ll see how long your interest holds up.”

  I opened my mouth to protest his evident doubt. He shut it with a warning finger. “But you have to agree to do a few things as well.”

  I nodded like a whirligig in a windstorm. I’d do anything.

  “You have to keep studying your manual. Which one do you have?”

  “The Reliable Horse Care Manual for American Owners. My brother gave it to me.”

  “That’s a good one,” he replied. “Accurate illustrations. I can warn you that not all the books out there are as reliable as their titles. Let’s see … you’ll have to pass a few more tests of my design. And … you’ll have to obtain your father’s permission.”