Mending Horses Read online

  The ache in Daniel’s jaw was no longer from smiling, but from clenching his teeth. The green, secret place inside of him tugged at the edge of his mind. He pushed back against it, forced himself to reply. “I’ll start schooling ’em in earnest tomorrow, I promise you, sir.”

  “They’re schooled plenty already. All you got to do is step in where Neezer left off.” The hard line of Mr. Chamberlain’s mouth softened. “Look, boy, I know you never worked any trick ponies before. But it’s not that much different from getting ’em to plow or draw or run. All you got to do is take a switch to ’em, and they’ll be prancing up a storm in no time. Just—”

  “No. No switches. No chains or mustard plasters or whatever your Perfesser used to torment ’em—”

  “I’ll have none of your sass, boy!” Mr. Chamberlain loomed over Daniel, glaring like a snake eyeing a mouse. Daniel braced himself not to stagger from the long, bony finger that Mr. Chamberlain stabbed against his breastbone to drive his words home. “Neezer broke them ponies just fine, and he—”

  Daniel dug his nails into the fence’s gray, weathered wood. He fought the urge to snap the showman’s poking finger in half. “Aye, he broke ’em, all right. Your bloody Neezer broke ’em into a million pieces.” He spat into the dirt at Mr. Chamberlain’s feet. “Well, sir, it ain’t breaking that them ponies are needing. It’s mending. And that’s what I’m bloody well doing.” He shoved himself back from the fence and spun away from the conjurer to return to the ponies that he had already begun to think of as his own.

  “You testing him out, Fred, or are you just an ass?” Jonathan asked, admiring the obstinate set to Daniel’s shoulders as the boy stalked away.

  Jonathan nudged Billy. “Go help Dan’l get those horses fed and watered.” The girl’s glance darted from the Irish boy to Jonathan to Fred, betraying her dilemma: to work with the ponies she’d been yearning after all day, or to stay and eavesdrop on what promised to be an entertaining quarrel between the peddler and the showman. Jonathan lowered his head and peered sternly over his spectacles at her. “Go.”

  Billy rolled her eyes as she squeezed between the fence rails, but the eager trot that took her to the ponies revealed where her true preference lay.

  “You hear the way he answered me back?” Fred went on. “You let your boy talk that way to you?”

  “I hope he would, if I was ever being an ass. Anyway, he’s not my boy.”

  “I give him a job, a God-almighty opportunity any boy would give his eyeteeth for, and what does he do? He spends the day playing and making pets of my ponies.”

  Jonathan spat out his chew and ground it into the dirt.

  “Damn it, they’re mine, not his.” Fred waved toward Daniel with a contemptuous motion that stopped mid-gesture as Ivy whirled toward the boy, drawing the ponies in her wake.

  “Not yet. Give him a few more days with ’em, and they’ll think they are.” Jonathan watched Daniel teach Billy how to use posture and eyes and hand motions to draw the ponies in or send them away. Already he was experimenting with using one gesture to summon the ponies individually, and another to bring them together as a group. Billy mimicked him gleefully.

  “I don’t care what they think–it’s what they do that concerns me,” Fred said. “Every day those ponies aren’t working is money out of my pocket.”

  “You’ll have your show, Fred. Or, should I say, your ‘cultural and educational exhibition of equitational achievement’?”

  Fred darted Jonathan a quick sideways glance, his cheek growing taut as if he had to bite it to keep his expression stern.

  “I’ll vouch for Dan’l,” Jonathan continued, “and you know I was never one to let you down. I’m still sharp as ever when it comes to judging folks.”

  “Are you?” Fred asked, his eyes returning to Daniel and Billy and the ponies. “Seems to me you’ve got a little soft around the edges in your old age.”

  “Not the edges, just the middle.” Jonathan patted his belly. “I still know a promising boy when I see one. Dan’l will get a better show out’a those ponies than your Neezer ever could.”

  “Spoiling ’em, that’s what he’s doing.” Fred rested one elegantly booted foot on the bottom rail and settled his elbows along the top of the fence. “Mending horses, indeed.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out two segars, trimmed their ends, and handed one to Jonathan. With his eyes still on the ponies, Fred flicked a lucifer against the fence post, lit his own segar, and held out the match for Jonathan to do the same. It wasn’t until he’d blown the first puff of smoke out that he turned back to the peddler. By this time, Daniel and Billy were in the far corner of the pen, the ponies gathered around them expectantly, like children waiting for a treat. “I got to say, though, that’s the first time I ever saw those beasts standing on the same side of the ring as their trainer without being forced into it.”

  Jonathan chuckled. “Well, Fred, maybe you’re not quite such an ass after all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Don’t worry, Daniel. Mr. Chamberlain won’t take the ponies away,” Billy said, putting into words the cloud that had hung over Daniel since yesterday’s confrontation with the conjurer.

  Daniel lifted an eyebrow. Now this was something new. Could the wee fiend be turning human after all? “Huh. I crossed him pretty bad.” But Daniel didn’t feel a bit regretful. He had decided to pretend he was still in charge of the ponies. First thing after giving Ivy and Phizzy their breakfasts, he’d taken Billy to the showgrounds to tend the ponies. Fed and watered, Gray and Teeth now stood tethered to the fence, warily eyeing Daniel and Billy.

  He took a brush and hoof pick from his bag. “Let’s see if we can make them ponies shine all on their own, without all them feathers and coverlets and bootblack that Perfesser used on ’em. Too lazy to keep ’em cleaned up proper, he was.”

  “That’s all? Just clean ’em?”

  “It’s teaching ’em, too,” Daniel said. “Teaching ’em we can touch ’em without meaning ’em harm. Showing ’em it can maybe even feel good. Go slow and mind what they like and what they don’t, all right?” He tossed her a brush. “A wee bit of a tune mightn’t come amiss, neither.”

  Daniel shook his head over Gray’s ragged coat and tangled mane. As he smoothed the mare’s coat, first with his hand, then with a gentle but firm stroke of the brush, Billy copied him. He was pleased to notice that Billy’s eyes flicked from Teeth’s ears to his tail to his feet, watching for signs of fear or temper, that she backed off and started again with a gentler touch if the pony grew uneasy. Slowly, the pony responded, his ears relaxing, his neck softening.

  “You didn’t like that Perfesser, did you?” Billy asked Teeth, as she rubbed the spotted gelding’s whiskery nose. “You’ll be liking us much better.”

  Soothing Gray with his voice and hands, Daniel gently explored her legs for scars, hot spots, traces of old injuries or new. “Oh, and you think the ponies will be getting a vote about who tends ’em?” he asked.

  “Mr. S. won’t let him take the ponies away. And they’re great friends, Mr. S. and Mr. C.”

  “Oh, it’s Mr. C. now, is it?” Daniel said. He fetched the bottle of Sullivan’s Liniment he’d taken from Mr. Stocking’s kit. “I s’pose next you’ll be calling him Fred and taking tea with him and his birds.” Daniel shook his head. “They’re friends, aye, but this is business.”

  “Who else has he got?” Billy said. “Even if he does say you’re not to train ’em, he’ll just put Mr. S. in charge of ’em, and Mr. S will ask you to help, won’t he?”

  “Perhaps.” Daniel poured some of the liniment into his hands, then ran them down the mare’s leg in firm but gentle strokes. He’d found no evidence of true soreness, only fear that anyone handling her legs aimed to do her harm. He hoped the soothing liniment and the touch of a hand in kindness would reassure her.

  “Besides, if he takes the ponies away from you, I won’t sing for him. He won’t have much of a show without me and Mr. S
. playing and singing, will he now?”

  “And whyever would you be doing me such a grand favor?” Daniel peered under the mare’s belly at the lass. “You despising me and all.”

  Billy untangled the knots in Teeth’s tail, grasping the hair in small sections and brushing carefully so Teeth wouldn’t feel the pull of the brush. “You’re not so bad as all that. ’Specially seeing as how you’re going to need me help with these ponies.”

  “So there’s the truth of it,” Daniel said as he lifted Gray’s hoof. “You’ll be civil to me only so’s I’ll let you help with the ponies, eh?”

  Something soft hit him on the arse. Slowly and deliberately he set Gray’s hoof down, straightened, and turned. A clod of horse manure lay at his feet. Billy stood a little ways off, a devilish grin on her face.

  Daniel picked up the turd and flung it back. She laughed as it shattered against her shoulder. In spite of everything, Daniel couldn’t help laughing, too. “Enough, lad,” he said. “You’ll be spooking the horses.” He reached for his brush and hoof pick.

  “Lad?” Billy repeated. “Did you say lad?”

  “Surely not.” Daniel grinned to himself, wondering if this was the first time he and Billy had ever been truly glad of each other’s company.

  The thin sunlight did little to burn away the morning chill, but Daniel’s work quickly warmed him as he and Billy helped the ponies shed their summer coats in flurries of hair and dirt. They smoothed the soft new hair growing in to meet the coming winter, untangled manes and tails, massaged scarred legs, greased dry and brittle hooves. They’d finished four of them by the time a low whistle broke through Daniel’s musings. He looked over the red pony’s back at Mr. Stocking.

  “You swap those ponies when I wasn’t looking, boys? ’Cause these surely aren’t the same pitiful creatures that were here yesterday.”

  “Pretty slick, aren’t they?” Billy said. “That one’s almost white, now she’s cleaned up.” She pointed at Gray, who stood with Teeth, Black, and Brown. Compared to Socks and Red, the four clean ponies seemed to glow.

  “That’s more’n I can say for you two,” said Mr. Stocking.

  A gritty layer of dirt and horsehair covered Daniel’s clothes. He made a futile attempt to dust himself off and assessed his charges. “They’d look a mite finer, had they some meat on their bones. Didn’t that bloody Perfesser ever feed ’em?” He traced the ribs that stared out along Red’s side.

  “They’re just about as bony as you,” the peddler agreed. “Here, I’ll put down some hay for ’em while you get cleaned up for breakfast. You can finish up these last two afterwards.”

  “We should give ’em new names,” Billy said, spewing bits of fried potato as she talked.

  “How many times do I have to caution you about talking with your mouth full? Takes a man’s appetite away. I despair of ever civilizing you, son,” Mr. Stocking said. The man next to him passed a platter of codfish cakes across the table. The peddler grabbed one with his fingers and dropped the hot morsel onto his plate. He shook his scorched fingers and blew on them.

  Daniel used his serviette to hide his grin over Mr. Stocking teaching Billy manners. The lesson was further undermined by a teamster on Daniel’s left, who hawked and spat on the floor. On the other side of the table, a skinny young tinker broke wind with a noise and smell that did more to ruin Daniel’s appetite than Billy’s undisciplined chewing.

  He pushed his plate aside and leaned over his tea, hoping the aroma would distract his stomach from the odors in the taproom. He’d never been finicky, but after so many years at the Lymans’ table, he’d gotten used to eating tasty food among mannerly folk.

  “I said, we should give the ponies new names,” Billy repeated. “I mean, Teeth, what sort of a name is that?”

  “So long as they’re treated kindly, they’ll not be knowing or caring whether they got good names or not,” Daniel said.

  “But we’ll know, won’t we?” Billy said.

  The lass was right. After all, he’d known the difference between Paddy and Daniel. Known and cared. “D’you think your friend’ll be minding should we change his ponies’ names?” he asked Mr. Stocking. “That is, if he’s not given me the sack yet.”

  The peddler shook his head. “He decided to give you a chance, once I showed him how I could buy us some time.” He swabbed a bit of bread around his plate to soak up the drippings and popped the greasy morsel into his mouth.

  “Time, aye.” Daniel said. “We could use a bit of that.” If he pushed the ponies too quickly, he risked losing the sliver of trust they’d begun to show him.

  “Fred wants a horse act in his show, and a week isn’t nearly enough for those ponies. But we can still give him his horses.” Mr. Stocking waved his knife in Daniel’s direction.

  “We can?” Daniel said.

  Mr. Stocking nodded. “While you were delousing the ponies, I was putting old Phizzy through his paces. He can still do the learned horse routine pretty well.”

  “What’s a learned horse do?” asked Billy.

  “Counting, telling time, picking pockets, and generally making me look an idiot.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing that,” Daniel said. “But you said ‘horses.’ ”

  “I’m not the only one with a learned horse.” Mr. Stocking rummaged in his pockets, pulling out and putting back a shabby little notebook, his pocket watch, and a Jew’s harp before extracting his pipe with a satisfied little “ah.”

  Daniel shook his head. “Ivy’s clever, aye, but I never taught her no circus tricks.”

  “But we’re not a circus, are we?” Mr. Stocking said with a wink. “We’re here for education and erudition, not entertainment, or so the posters say.”

  “I know even less of erudition than I do of circus tricks,” Daniel said.

  “How about that little game you play with Ivy in the mornings?” asked the peddler.

  Daniel’s face warmed. Ee-jit probably didn’t begin to describe how he looked when he was blundering about the pasture with Ivy. He scrubbed a hand along his jaw. “You think folk’d be interested in such foolishness?”

  “Put that to music and you got yourself a show.” Mr. Stocking tucked an invisible fiddle under his chin and used his pipe to mime bowing a lively tune.

  “Daniel knows less about music than the man in the moon,” Billy said with a scornful laugh.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll make the music follow whatever dance Dan’l and Ivy come up with.” The peddler laid his pipe on the table and foraged through his pockets for his tobacco pouch. “Now,” he said, “about those ponies. I reckon you’re not planning on using the Perfesser’s old routine.”

  Daniel shook his head. “All that shouting and whip-cracking and such. If that’s what pleases folk, I’m wanting no part of it.”

  “What pleases folks . . . Well, I could write a whole library on that.” Mr. Stocking lit his pipe. “It mostly comes down to two things: Show ’em something they never seen before, and don’t show ’em how you do it.” He gestured toward Daniel with the pipe stem. “And if they think you’re likely to get hurt or killed in the process, they’ll like it that much better.”

  “Like them rope dancers and jugglers and such?” Daniel said.

  Mr. Stocking nodded. “Don’t take any more talent to juggle knives than kindling wood, but you can bet your last penny they’ll cheer louder for the knife juggler.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  With a sense of guilty fascination, Daniel watched “Francesca de V., the Fascinating Danseuse,” practicing on the cloud swing. It seemed impossible that this being of grace and light could be a mere human. So-called decent folk would have called her sinful and heathenish for displaying her body so, and worse, for practicing such gyrations on the Sabbath. But to Daniel, there seemed no more wickedness in her performance than in a bird’s flight. If there was any sin, it was not in Francesca’s doings, but in his watching them. He couldn’t take his eyes from the sweet soft curves of c
alves and ankles exposed by her short skirt and tights, even though it made him uneasy. Proper ladies were always concealed beneath a fortress of skirts and bodices and mysterious undergarments.

  “Who let you boys in? You want to see a show, come back tomorrow and buy a ticket.”

  Daniel’s gaze returned to earth, where the tumblers and jugglers practiced their tosses and falls in the show ring. Two men–one black and one white–juggled knives back and forth. Mr. Sharp and Mr. Dale, Daniel recalled, but he couldn’t remember which was which. Four acrobats leaped from a springboard onto each other’s shoulders, while a fifth monitored the rope dancer’s practice. Blocking Daniel and Billy’s way was a bulky man in a patched jacket. He’d not looked quite so threatening on Friday, when he’d worn a top hat and tailcoat and announced the museum’s “exhibitions” in eloquent, genteel tones.

  The jugglers ceased their practice. “What is it, Mr. Varley?” the white one asked.

  “These bumpkins’re trying to catch a free show,” Mr. Varley said, raising a fist. “I’ll give ’em something to look at.” A spiderweb of purply red veins stood out on his cheeks and nose.

  The acrobats and jugglers lined up behind Mr. Varley–all except the black man, who stood aside with arms folded across his broad chest and an inscrutable expression on his face. The performers formed a solid row of well-muscled young men, the five dark-haired, dark-eyed acrobats ranged like stair steps from the shortest, who looked a little younger than Daniel, to the tallest, who seemed to be in his twenties. They’d been advertised as the Ruggles Brothers, and seeing them up close, Daniel believed that the relationship hadn’t been invented. The only one in the row who looked out of place was the knife juggler, a blue-eyed man with ashy brown hair lightly sprinkled with gray. Thinner than the rest, but no less muscular, he sent his blade spinning end-over-end and caught it, grinning as if he were eager to use it.