Mending Horses (14 page)

Daniel eyed the big red farmhouse hopefully. If the sounds of talk and laughter drifting down into the yard were any clue, Mr. Stocking had secured them a fine night's lodging. Maybe a proper room with a bedstead in it, instead of a straw tick laid on an attic floor, or a tavern chamber crammed wall to wall with snoring men.

“You're a good fella, Slingsby,” Mr. Stocking said as he came out of the house. He shook the owner's hand with a vigorous pumping motion.

“And yourself, Stocking. A helluva good man. I don't care what anybody says.” Mr. Slingsby thumped the peddler on the back.

Mr. Stocking came down the walk, grinning so widely that the sun caught on his gold tooth.

“You're looking fair pleased with yourself, sir,” Daniel said. “Did you sell one'a them tin kitchens?” He nodded toward the round-bellied reflector oven that Mr. Stocking displayed as the centerpiece of his wares, the most expensive piece the peddler offered.

“Nearly as good. I got a day's work for you, a night's work for me, free lodgings all 'round, and dinner, tea, and supper, too.” The little man puffed out his chest like a banty rooster and cocked his hat aslant to give himself a jaunty air.

“All of that, now?” Daniel said. “You must'a talked a good tale to 'em.” Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel saw Billy edge closer, though she pretended not to be listening. She'd said close to naught to either of them for days, though she'd been decent
enough to mumble
yessir
and
ma'am
and
please
and
thank you
to the folk they'd lodged with as they traveled. But she'd no words for the peddler or Daniel, except to mutter under her breath about them as didn't know how to take proper care of horses—usually just before she redid whatever care Mr. Stocking or Daniel had given Phizzy. She'd empty his water bucket and refill it, refluff his bedding, unbuckle and rebuckle his tack, until finally they'd left the gelding completely to her care. On the road, she'd sit at the back of the wagon or walk at Phizzy's head, giving the old fellow an earful of her opinions. At night, she'd slouch off to the barn rather than share whatever quarters Mr. Stocking had managed to find. Today, she'd stationed herself at the back of the wagon, plucking a whisk broom bald.

“I got to give some credit to luck and timing,” said Mr. Stocking. “Slingsby says there's a fella three houses down busted his foot. He'll pay a dollar for someone to dig his potatoes.”

“Aye, there's my work,” Daniel said. “And yours?”

“Just so happens Slingsby is having himself a husking bee. I asked him if he could use another fiddler.” The peddler tucked an imaginary fiddle under his chin and drew an invisible bow across phantom strings. “More precisely, a fiddler who can call the newest dances, sing the newest songs, and who ain't such a bad hand with the squeezebox, neither.” Mr. Stocking cast aside the phantom fiddle for an invisible concertina. “A fiddler who's also a dancing master”—putting one foot forward, he bowed with surprising grace—“to assist the young folks that don't know their heels from their toes, and to educate the old folks in what the fashionable set are dancing in Boston and New York. Who knows but I may even slip in a waltz, after they've drained a keg or two.” He took a ghost partner in his arms and bobbed in a little circle in front of the wagon, counting “one-two-three, one-two-three” under his breath.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Weren't you telling me just the other day that you'd not been to New York or Boston for three years or more?”

“That's three years sooner than Slingsby has. Anyway,
whether the dances come from New York or out of my own head, they won't be any less new, will they?”

Daniel had a hard time fitting his mind around the idea that folk would pay money to see someone else at play, never mind a whole day's wage for an evening's fun—and bed and board for three persons to boot. It would be like somebody paying him to ride Ivy. “Seems to me there won't be much corn getting husked, what with all that dancing and playing and such.”

“Well, that isn't the point, now is it?” Mr. Stocking cast a glance over his shoulder toward Billy, who pretended to be adjusting something at the back of the wagon. “Haven't you never been to a husking bee, son?”

“No. Heard some about 'em. Lyman didn't hold with any such nonsense as huskings and haying matches and frolics. He called 'em sorry excuses for drunken and lascivious behavior.”

Mr. Stocking clapped him on the shoulder. “Then you're in for a treat. Never know but you might find a sweetheart there. Find a red ear of corn and you can claim a kiss from the one you love best.”

Billy snickered, and Daniel's ears grew hot. “I can't dance or none of that,” he said.

“You will,” the peddler said emphatically. “Sophie charged me to learn—to
teach
you to be civilized young—uh”—he looked toward Billy, who had now disappeared completely behind the wagon, no doubt doubled over laughing—“civilized young gentlemen.” Mr. Stocking lowered an eyebrow as Billy's hat peeked out from around the edge of the wagon. “Those of you that aren't hopeless barbarians, that is.” The hat rose high enough so that Billy's eyes were visible, then it ducked down again. “And if dancing isn't a genteel art, I don't know what is.”

Daniel's throat was tight, and no amount of coughing seemed to clear it. “I ain't hardly genteel,” he finally said.

“Maybe not, but you can dance. I seen you myself, dancing with that horse.”

Daniel's face grew even redder at the peddler's mention of his daily game of catch-me-if-you-can with Ivy, a little ashamed that
he still fancied such childish frolicking. But there was something that happened between the two of them while they whirled and dodged around a pasture, something different from the riding. There was something they said to each other then, a promise they renewed every day.

Mr. Stocking took Daniel's wrist and placed the boy's hand on Ivy's nose, velvet warmth filling his fingers, her breath softly tickling his palm. The little man placed his own hand on Phizzy's forehead. Billy had crept up from her spot at the back of the wagon, the better to eavesdrop.

“Son,” the little man said gently, “don't never be ashamed of what you love.” Mr. Stocking took all four of them in with his smile: Daniel, Billy, Phizzy and Ivy. “Or who. Anyways,” he added, “I can teach you to dance.”

“But it's different, dancing with a lass from, well—” Daniel ruffled Ivy's mane.

“Of course it is, son. A girl don't have two left feet.”

Daniel had tied and untied his cravat a dozen times at least. It was no good, he thought, looking at himself in the mirror. No matter how well brushed his coat or how firmly pressed his trousers, it was still just himself, with his spotty face and enormous ears and that horrid orange hair that would not lie proper, not with combing or wetting or bear grease and hair tonic from Mr. Stocking's kit.

He looked out the window into the yard, burnished now by the setting sun. Mr. Slingsby and his sons and hired men had swept and raked the yard smooth for dancing, set chairs and benches and tables of trestles and planking, arranged torches and lanterns to be lit, and piled wood for a bonfire. Mr. Stocking and the other musicians made cat-squawling noises as they tuned their instruments. Instead of yearning toward the smells of meats and pies and cakes cooking, Daniel's stomach recoiled. What place had he among decent folk like that?

The sun was well down by the time he came outside. In the orange blaze of lantern and torchlight, the guests began to gather,
lasses in a swirl of skirts and shawls and giggles, gents shaking hands and slapping backs, little ones chasing dogs or chickens or each other 'round the yard. Mr. Slingsby lit the kindling for the bonfire. One of his lads tapped a keg while another set bottles out on a table. Men gathered around and filled their mugs and glasses.

As he skirted the edge of the crowd, the wind shifted, sending a swirl of smoke his way, and his stomach lurched. The clink of bottles and glasses grated on his ears. One of the men made a joke, another shouted a rejoinder, the rest guffawed and cackled. An icy sweat broke over his body. He tugged at his cravat, which had grown mysteriously tight. His tongue felt as though a wad of greasy cotton lay across it, but he couldn't spit the taste away.

He closed his eyes to steady himself, but that made it worse, as though somebody'd thrown a sack over his head. Red flames glowed on the inside of his eyelids, and for a moment he was back on that night, naked and alone and going to be killed. Someone touched his arm, and he shuddered and shied away.

“All right, son?”

He stared at the peddler, the firelight reflecting off his spectacles so that it looked as though he had flames for eyes.

“We're all friends here,” Mr. Stocking said. “Nothing to fret over.” The little man pressed a mug into his hand, its warmth a comfort against his palm. “Been a long day, huh? Digging all them potatoes.”

“Aye.” Daniel raised the mug to his lips. The cider was richly scented with cinnamon and nutmeg, a homey sweet fragrance that steadied his galloping pulse. He took a sip. Something in the cider stung the back of his throat and sent warmth down to his belly and through his blood. He let the cider and rum and spices push the bitter memory to a corner of his mind and close the door on it.

“You weren't thinking of going anywhere, were you?” Mr. Stocking asked. “Because we're always short of men for the dancing.”

Daniel barely stopped himself from spraying cider all over
the little man's clean white shirt front. “Dancing,” he repeated, a different sort of fear curdling his stomach. Thankfully, one of the fiddlers called the peddler aside. Daniel finished his cider, set the mug down on a bench, and turned away. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the figure that appeared next to him: a thin, pale-faced, light-haired girl wearing a white apron over her dress. He backed away and murmured his apologies.

“You're the peddler's boy,” she said. “You helped Papa dig his potatoes.”

He looked over his shoulder as if there might be somebody standing behind him that she was really talking to. “Uh,” he said.

She stepped farther out of the shadows and into the glow of one of the lanterns hung 'round the barnyard. “I'm Sarah.” She seemed taller, older than she had earlier. Not pretty by far, but pleasant in spite of her sharp face and shoulders square across as a spade. Eyes and hair of no particular color, her hair done up in an intricate nest of braids, her dress golden as the birch leaves just turning. She touched his wrist, and he nearly bolted.

“Daniel?” she said.

“Um.” His collar had shrunk two sizes, and his cravat had turned into a snake, wrapping itself tighter and tighter around his throat. He could feel his eyes bulging at the pressure.

“That's my sister Molly over there. And our cousins . . .” Apparently unaware of his inability to speak, she pointed out half a dozen young folk settling on benches among the baskets of corn ready for husking. Her hand lightly circled his wrist, her fingers cool against his burning flesh. “Would you like to sit with us?”

“Erf.” There was no telling what his inarticulate noise meant, but she smiled brightly and led him away as easily as she might a lamb.

Jonathan chuckled to himself. Who'd've thought that a word and a touch from a skinny little girl would strike Daniel mute and paralyzed? The girl apparently took his reticence for admiration and claimed a seat on the bench next to him. Daniel husked the corn with awkward, mechanical motions, his eyes down, his
mouth drawn in a rigid line. Meanwhile, the homely girl chattered away beside him. Daniel latched onto Jonathan with wild eyes, a penned colt seeking rescue. Jonathan responded with a grin. He wasn't helping the boy out of this one.

Daniel let the girl lead him about and bring him a plate piled six inches high. He ate in what looked like numb terror. When it came to dancing, she made sure that Daniel danced nearly every round with her or one of her friends. She even dragged Billy into a cotillion, no doubt thinking that the strange boy loitered at the edge of the party from shyness rather than sullenness.

“I hope the little hellion ain't picking pockets,” Jonathan muttered as Billy wove through the dancers. Daniel seemed to let go some of his terror while dancing, perhaps realizing that as long as he danced, he didn't have to talk to anyone. Well, there was nothing like music and dancing to cure whatever ailed a body. Or a soul.

Jonathan loved the way the dancers glowed in the firelight, the shine of the young ladies' tightly coiled and braided hair, the flutter of lace on the older ladies' caps, the flurry of tailcoats and petticoats, the tantalizing glimpses of ankle and calf beneath the swirl of skirts. With red cheeks and flushed faces, drunk with motion, the dancers followed the patterns he created—a long ribbon of brightly colored gowns woven through the warp of the men's dark, sober coats. They whirled through contras and quadrilles, jigs and reels and hornpipes, his bow the magic wand that guided them. He even dared a few intrepid couples into a waltz, once cider and rum had mellowed the old folk, and the dour and disapproving had drifted home to their beds.