—
I RIDE SWEET Potato through Six Paces, though having my skirts hitched up on the cross saddle hinders my speed. On the turnaround, I nearly tumble off. I will be wearing trousers in the race, but I begin to doubt myself all over again.
There will be professional jockeys in the ring, men who know all the tricks. The only trick I know is the one where you pull up your knees and pivot in the saddle, but that one’s not going to speed me to the finish any faster.
Returning to the estate, I kiss Sweet Potato’s face and hand her to Mr. Crycks.
Only his door-knocker mustache moves when he talks. “Tell Old Gin to come back before Sweet Potato decides she likes me better.”
“Will do, Mr. Crycks. Thank you for watching after her. See you tomorrow.”
When I return to the Bells’, Old Gin stares dreamily out the open window. There’s a slow but steady limp to his breathing. On the nightstand, a half-empty cup of tea weighs down a copy of today’s Focus. He doesn’t seem to notice me, even when I kneel in front of him. Bear sits patiently at attention next to me.
“It’s the tincture,” whispers Mrs. Bell, pulling a basket from under the bed. “I used it once when my arthritis was bad, and it really sets your mind to sail. But at least he won’t be feeling too much pain.”
I touch his arm to assure him that I am here. “Sweet Potato says hello, and so does Mr. Crycks, Daylily, Portia, Charlie-Sam, Bullet, and Justice. Pirate, Frederick, Ameer, and Liberty Bell are out working.” His good eye wanders to me and then closes.
I follow Mrs. Bell to the parlor, leaving the door to Old Gin’s room open in case he wakes. A chambray couch with worn arms cradles us comfortably. She sorts through her basket, which contains knitted caps. Bear noses through the basket, too. “Does Old Gin favor any particular color?”
I’m about to choose a buckskin-brown one. We’ve always worn only plain colors so we don’t stand out. But Old Gin won’t be standing out or even standing up anytime soon. I bet he’d like the orange one. Once, a woman gave him an orange as a tip for escorting her jittery horse across the tracks. After we slowly consumed the “noble fruit,” he declared it even better than the mandarins he remembered in China. “Orange, please. I’ve never seen so many beautiful yarns.”
“My family are farmers. We own lots of sheep.”
Bear woofs, and Mrs. Bell pats her on the head. “Yes, you could’ve been chasing after those smelly puffballs instead of roughing it with us here in the city.”
“Mrs. Bell, you must let me take care of the house chores while we stay here. I can do everything except, well, cook. But even with that, if you could direct me, I’m a quick learner.”
“We never noticed smoke from your stove. What did you eat?”
“Black-eyed peas and things that could be steeped. We only used our stove when your fireplace was lit.”
“How could you tell?”
“Easy. The exhaust pipe would get warm.”
“What about light?” She draws out an orange cap with white stripes, and sets it on a side table.
“Lenses built into the walls. From the outside, they’re hidden by the boxwood. Old Gin cleared them from time to time of leaves and dirt.”
Her smile pulls her face into delicate wrinkles. “I would love a proper tour. First, there is someone I would like you to meet.” She rises stiffly, then makes for a door in the wall.
The door to the print shop.
Inside, Nathan and Mr. Bell hover over their desk, the desk, which looks wonderfully old yet strong, and on whose back hundreds of thousands of words have been written. While the sight of the publisher pours a thrill down my spine, so does simply standing in this room. I inhale the iron-y smell of the press, the ink, and burnt cedar, which all together smell like creativity and progress. The sight of the ventilation in the wall, so cunningly designed as to be barely noticeable, squeezes a gasp from me.
“None of the players will talk to us.” Mr. Bell’s extra-large voice carries easily to us across the floorboards. “They all signed exclusives with the Constitution. If only we had an angle.”
“Ah, there she is,” says Nathan, straightening.
Mr. Bell stands the same height as his son, though he is thicker in build and more emphatic in expression. A knitted cap hugs his rather lumpy head. He removes the spectacles from the end of his ponderous nose and tucks them into the pocket of his linen coat. In four strides, we are face-to-face, his good ear cocked slightly toward me.
Peering at me through bloodshot brown eyes, he rubs the stubble on his chin, maybe working out what to say. My nerves lick the back of my neck. He must have just arrived on the morning train. “So, Mrs. Payne’s illegitimate Chinese daughter has been living under the house all these years.” The statement echoes in the room, with its lack of furniture or rugs.
“Sir, I am sorry for all the . . . inconvenience.” A more accurate word would be upheaval. “My grandfather and I are in your debt. Please be assured we will pay you back as soon as we can.”
He makes a brushing motion with his hand, as if shooing my words away. “We are the ones in your debt. Subscriptions have reached—” He glances at Nathan.
“Almost two thousand two hundred,” Nathan nearly crows.
My breath falls out of me. And still one week left in March.
“Maybe I should leave more often.” He hikes his belt up over his midsection, but it slides back down. “Course, I’m not sure I could keep up with all the houseguests.”
“Apologize for that, George.”
“I am sorry. You and your grandfather are certainly welcome in our home.”
The mail slot opens, and a letter sails through, skidding on the floor until it lands beside a feed sack full of more letters. Nathan retrieves it.
Mr. Bell begins to pace, arms held behind his back. “You don’t look like a rabble-rouser. Yet, I understand you’ve stirred up quite a fizz.” He stops pacing and shoves his gaze at me. “Any other surprises I should know about?”
“Well, actually . . .”
The whole room grows ears.
“You wanted an angle on the horse race, and I have one. There is to be a thirteenth contestant. Me.”
Nathan and his father respond at the same time. “You?”
“It was supposed to be Old Gin on our horse, Sweet Potato.”
The letter Nathan is holding crunches in his fist. “This is madness.”
His father harrumphs. “Dangerous place, the track. Saw a horse take a bad fall on a sprint a few years back and had to be put down.”