“Right.” Turning to me again, he straightens his vest so that the pinstripes running down it are no longer lightning jags. His pupils slide to one corner for a moment as he thinks, and then he scowls so hard, his forehead turns white. “A man I hate has a pony in that race. I hate him for the simple fact that God handed him everything, while He made me bow and scrape for every cent I own.” With quick tucks, he adjusts his sleeve garters. “By all accounts, he operates on penny promises nowadays—there is some justice in the world. Still, I would like nothing more than to see his horse and jockey bested by a pair of females. In fact, his jockey was a patron here until I had to kick him out for being too rough on the ladies.” He straightens his tie, oblivious to the irony in his statement. “You cross the line before them, and you can have your bottle back.”
My shoulders pull at my cloak. “I told you, I am a novice. If I make it around the track, it will be a miracle.”
He grins. “God and I may not see eye to eye”—in one smooth motion, he slips into a rifle-brown frock coat—“but I do believe in miracles.”
I release an effortless exhale. So, I must pull a chestnut from an open fire. At least that horse is not Ameer. God may have handed Merritt everything, but the Payne heir is as wealthy as sin itself. “Who is this horse?”
“His name is Thief.”
Forty-Two
The tincture has kept Old Gin in a foggy but hopefully painless state. But before the sun rises on Friday morning, Old Gin calls out, “Sao Yue.”
“Grandfather?” I fly to his side from my makeshift bed. His eyes are unfocused and wet.
“Sao Yue?”
“No, it’s me, Jo.”
His face falls, as if disappointed by the answer. I help him drink. “Who is Sao Yue?” The words, meaning “graceful moon,” taste sweet on my tongue.
“Your grandmother. Sao Yue gave me a snuff bottle,” he gasps. “A wedding present. Your father pawned it to the turtle egg, wanting to buy something to impress Mrs. Payne, a hair comb, I think. He foolishly thought he had a chance with her. When I found out what he had done, I”—his face crumples a little—“I raised my hand against him. I told him he had shamed our family, and he must leave. I said I didn’t want to see him again.” His chest collapses, as if the confession has broken something inside, and a thread-y cough starts up.
“Shh, don’t talk.”
He shakes his head. “I hoped, if I could get that peach back, the bats of good fortune might return. Maybe bring my son back with them.” A tear rolls down his cheek, and he turns his face away, as if to hide it.
I pat his cheek with my flannel sleeve. “I will get Grandmother’s bottle back for you.”
* * *
—
AFTER A RIGOROUS afternoon of drilling at Six Paces, I return Sweet Potato to the Payne Estate, which is now fully festooned for a party. The groundskeepers have cut topiaries in the shape of horses, and shaved the lawn so close it looks like carpet. Balls made of flowers trim the gazebo. Hired domestics are twisting wire around mason jars with candles, which will be hung in the trees. The post-race party will be worthy of a visit from President Harrison himself.
I am straightening Sweet Potato’s tack when I feel someone behind me.
Caroline seems to have grown thinner since her episode with the face cream. It’s as if the assault had siphoned off the baby fat and left wisdom in her cheeks. Her hair falls in unkempt waves around her shoulders, and her gray dress with a lace bib makes her look mature without being matronly. She carries a cardboard box with a handle, the kind given with purchases at fancier shops.
“You’re not with your father today?” I ask, when no words are forthcoming.
She shakes her head. “Mama wanted me to stay with her.”
I nod, not wanting an explanation. My heart tears a little, remembering all the years we were at war without understanding why. The grievances I’d held against her have dropped off like shriveled leaves.
“You look—” Her gaze spreads over my damp riding silks and to my pebbled-goat-leather boots with my bulging toes. I brace myself for a jibe. But then she finishes, “Like a winner.”
“I thought you were going to say train signal.”
She smiles. “That, too.” An emotion flits over her face, hard to read in the filtered light of the barn. She takes a measured breath.
“Is everything okay, my lady?”
She winces and the box handle tightens in her grip. Another breath. Her frost-blue eyes seem to melt, expanding in her face. “I am lost.”
I’m surprised at the tears forming in my eyes. “Then you should look up. The sky reminds us that troubles are not permanent. Of course, right now, there’s just cobwebs.”
She attempts a smile, but a tear splashes out. She whisks it away with the back of her hand. “This is for you.” She holds up her box. “My riding boots. You will need them for tomorrow.”
“Your violin boots? I—I can’t.”
“They are just boots.” She sets them down by my feet. “And besides, I want you to braid my hair.” She pulls a comb and pins from her pocket. “If you don’t mind.”
Tomorrow is the start of the debutante season, and Caroline will be the belle of the ball. I square a stool into the ground. “Your chair, my lady.”
I begin to braid, and the soothing scents of hay and leather mingle with wonderment over what could’ve been. A strange and meditative peace settles over us. We don’t speak until I’ve pinned the last pin and adjusted the curls around her face.
“I’ve been thinking,” says Caroline. “I might buy one of those safeties for myself.” A dozen emotions paddle across her face. None find mooring. “Do you think Noemi would show me how to ride?”
“Probably not,” I say, though we both know, if Caroline demanded it, Noemi would have to give in.
A flush builds on her cheeks, and she shakes air into her skirts.
I sigh. I may never be friends with Caroline Payne. But maybe the freedom machine will move us all a step forward. “Let’s go ask her.”
* * *
—
SATURDAY ARRIVES WEARING a cloud shawl over her damp shoulders. I step into Old Gin’s room, scarlet silk skimming my figure, my hair braided into two tight buns on my head. Old Gin refused the tincture last night, preferring pain to feeling groggy. His face is a sunset of blue, red, purple, and gray, with more bruises blooming each day. Deeper injuries take longer to surface.
I shake the tincture. “How about half a dose? I’m worried about infection.”