He shakes his head. “If I don’t feel the hurt, I wonder if I’m alive.”
“Then you must feel very alive.”
His forehead crimps. “In life, there will be many races. Not all must be run. Sweet Potato will not be disappointed if she misses this one.”
Short of using the Paynes’ family telephone, I can’t imagine how our mare managed to convey that. “As it turns out, Billy has agreed to return the bottle if Sweet Potato can cross the line before Thief.”
He makes a noise that’s halfway between a grumble and a sigh. To my surprise, he doesn’t press me for details. “Thief has good legs.” He licks his dry lips. “But it takes a good heart to win a race.”
Like his. I give him a wide smile. “So, you really thought Sweet Potato could beat Ameer?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But she told me she had to try.” His good eye winks and I resist the urge to hug him. His face goes serious again. “The Bells are good people. But staying will change the direction of the wind here. Winds can be . . . scandalous.”
“Are you worried about the Focus? I would continue using a pseudonym. No one need know.”
“Wasn’t talking about pseudonym.” His eyes drift toward the door, where the sound of Nathan’s casual whistling drifts in.
I sip from his water, suddenly parched myself. He’s right. Even if Nathan and I managed to carve a spot for ourselves in Atlanta, it would be a secret isle like Avalon, and if anyone ever found out, the publisher could be ruined.
Old Gin studies the double tents formed by his feet and then shrugs. “The river travels fastest around the stones. But sometimes, the stones must be faced head-on. Who knows? With enough momentum, a path may clear, hm?”
“Do you think we should accept the Bells’ offer?”
“I think you are good at making your own rules.”
* * *
—
NATHAN WALKS IN a tight square around the Bells’ reception area, where Bear, his mother, and I stand, his Modern Horse Racing book open before him. “I would say good luck, but according to the book, jockeys are particular about those things. I could give you a lucky penny or a rock from my collection. Scratch that, I don’t have a collection—”
“I know about the collection.”
He gives me a sheepish grin. Dressed in a linen jacket, whipcord trousers, and wingtips, he could easily be one of the young men girding themselves for the battle for the debutantes. Only his insouciant Homburg hat marks him as an outlier. The daisies he wrapped with lace for Lizzie are still sprightly despite the humidity. I feel myself grimacing and force my thoughts to other avenues.
My gaze drifts toward Old Gin’s room, where he is dozing. His skin felt too warm when I left, and his eye had begun to bleed again. What if he takes a turn for the worse while I am away? I could never forgive myself.
Mrs. Bell hands me Old Gin’s cap, which she washed and brushed clean. “Don’t worry. Your grandfather will be in good hands.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I square Old Gin’s cap on my head and nod to Nathan. “See you at the race.” Then I slip out. Another battle requires my attention.
* * *
—
THE VIOLIN BOOTS put an unfamiliar elegance in my step as I lead Sweet Potato into Piedmont Park. Thanks to Caroline’s habit of wearing her shoes hard, the boots are comfortably broken in, and I may never take them off.
It is hard not to stare at all the finely dressed couples in their open-air carriages and pleasure wagons. The hats alone are dizzying. Tall satins with crushed-velvet bows, cake hats with their layers of ribbons, and of course, Miss Sweetie hats in fresh colors like strawberry and lemon. Mrs. English must be pouring herself a tall coca cordial right about now.
There are also a number of black faces in the crowd. The Paynes, not the Gentlemen’s Driving Club, make the rules today, and as long as the colored can pay the fee, Mrs. Payne will not turn away donations to her charity.
People line up at an awning painted with the word BETS, parasols open. Nearby, a contingent of women with marigold sashes has drawn the attention of a crowd. “Votes! For! Women!” Mrs. Bullis pumps her fist with each word, shaking her half of the banner. I can’t help noticing that the horse’s backside looks more professionally stitched than the front half.
“That’s our cheering gallery,” I tell Sweet Potato, who is nibbling the cap off my head.
The crowd parts, and the sight of another marching group pulls the stuffing right out of me. These marchers wear sashes of violet blue and are singing. A woman on a bicycle leads the charge: Noemi. Behind her, Rose and Mary carry a white banner stitched with the words ATLANTA BLUEBELLS: VOTES FOR ALL WOMEN. Embroidered around the banner are all manner of colorful flowers, not just bluebells.
The Atlanta Suffragists’ chant falls off, and Mrs. Bullis’s teapot face looks like it’s gathering steam.
Noemi pedals up to me and then stands, with August wedged under her. A new basket is strapped to the handlebars, lined with a picnic blanket. On her straw hat, her Farney the Falcon knot pins down a sprig of bluebells.
“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”
She grins. “You got a plan for getting around the track?”
After finishing his book on horse racing, Nathan discussed strategy with me, but none of it stuck. “Once the bell rings, go as fast as I can go.” I just have to beat one horse today. Perhaps I can keep my seat simply by focusing on Thief. I’ve never seen the piebald run at full steam, though I imagine he can burn up a track, with every line of his sleek and tapered body suggesting motion.
Noemi laughs, and her eyes drift beyond my shoulder. “Mr. Buxbaum said Robby could stay on as clerk.”
I let out a squeal, wondering if “The Custom-ary” had anything to do with his decision. “Give him my congratulations.”
“Give them yourself.”
Robby strides up, dapper in his Sunday suit of brushed cotton. “Hello, Jo!”
“Hello yourself. I hear I owe you some teeth rinse.”
“How about we toast with it after you cross the line? We’re real proud of you.”
Noemi nods. “Just moving down that road is a victory.”
Robby leans in, his laughing eyes glinty. “But bring home the big fish, okay?” He waves a ticket at me. “I got a bet on Sunday Surprise. But I also got one on you.” He winks.
The Atlanta Suffragists have again started up their battle cry, drowning out the Bluebells’ singing. Mrs. Bullis is frowning at us, and I give her a little wave that she does not return. She hands her part of the banner to another woman and stalks over. “You.” She crooks her pinky at Noemi. “Your group is making us into a spectacle. And you.” The pinky switches to me. “You arranged this to spite me.” She grimaces at the sight of Sweet Potato, drooling on my head.