Mending Horses (34 page)

“Nobody can do everything they please,” Daniel said. “That's just the way the world works. There's things women do and things men do and—”

“Aye, you could fill a book with the things men do and have, the places they can go. A castle full of books,” Billy said, dropping her reins and spreading her arms wide. “And the things a lass can do?” She held up one finger. “Take care of men. The things she can have?” She held up a second finger. “Babies. I'll not be chained to a cookpot and a sewing basket.”

Daniel's mouth flapped like a fish's as he tried to come up with a retort. But outside of Madame Staccato and Francesca, he couldn't think of a single female who'd done aught but run a household. And they hardly counted, for most folk wouldn't consider them decent ladies. He thought on Mrs. Ainesworth and Mrs. Taylor, two ladies who seemed to know their own minds. But he could only imagine them in their kitchens and parlors, making their men's meals and clothes. Surely, though, it was because they wanted to be there, because it was in their nature. He'd never imagined that they'd have chosen something else, if only there'd been something else to choose.

Had it not been dark, perhaps she'd not have told him. But riding back in the deepening blackness, Billy almost felt as though it were Liam alongside her instead of Daniel. She and Liam used to talk about almost everything—their anger at Da, how much they missed Mam, Liam's troubles at work, her struggles to get Jimmy and Mick to mind—everything except where she went, what she did, how she dressed while Liam was at work. Many was the time she'd opened her mouth to tell him, then slammed it closed again, unsure whether he'd take it fair or ill.

So she told Daniel all the things she would have told Liam, had she mustered up the courage. She told him how it had started, when Jimmy and Mick had begun running off on their own, leaving her behind in the dim little shanty with naught but endless chores while they were out having their fun. She told him how she'd decided there was no reason for herself to be trapped inside.

So when Da was away at work or across the river at the tavern, she'd slip out through the Patch's maze of muddy alleys and
head for the center of Cabotville. As she walked, she'd listen for music wherever she could find it: a ragged patch of song here, a burst of fiddling there, the artless whistling of some lad strolling down the street. She'd follow each new song and listen until she'd get the tune right in her own head. Then she'd breathe her own life into it and make it come out better, sweeter, gladder, or sadder than she'd heard it. She'd whistle or sing as she walked, both proper songs and songs that she'd invented.

Then one day an old lady with tears in her age-fogged eyes had pressed a penny and a sweet cake into Billy's hand, and she realized that her singing could please someone besides herself and Liam. She'd learned to watch her listeners to see whether they'd be good for a penny or a treat, or whether they'd be so absorbed in her song that they'd not notice her hand in their basket or pocket, not notice the apple or potato slipped from barrel or bin.

She'd quickly learned that it was better to go about in Liam's castoff clothes, her hair hidden under an old cap. Although she'd sometimes get a penny while singing as her girl-self, she'd just as likely get a lecture about how good girls didn't sing in the streets for their suppers. But as a boy, folk would praise her for an enterprising young lad, to be helping his family so.

At first she'd been cautious, afraid she'd run into Da or the lads or someone from the Patch who'd recognize her. But that last day, she'd been careless, walking back toward their shanty along the main path instead of creeping along the shadowy backs of hovels and sheds. Da had caught her strolling along, whistling to herself and jingling the coins in her pocket.

He'd never thrashed her so badly before, trying to make her tell where she'd got the money and where she'd hidden the rest of it, for he was sure there was more somewhere. But he couldn't make her tell; he'd had to tear apart her bed tick to find her hiding place.

Da's mistake was that he'd not burned her boy clothes as he'd threatened, but had only taken them away and flung them in a corner. As soon as Da had gone once more to the tavern, she'd
retrieved the shirt and broadfalls. That night, with the boys asleep and Da still gone, she'd hacked off her plaits and her caged-in girl-self along with them.

In the long silence that followed her story, Billy could almost hear Daniel thinking. In among the shuffle of the ponies' hooves in the gravel, the crunch of dried leaves swirling around their feet, the soft huffing of their breath and the swish of their tails, she could feel his disapproving thoughts. Had it been Liam, there'd no doubt have been thoughts of betrayal as well. But when he spoke, all he said was, “And that's when you found Mr. Stocking, then?”

“Aye, and I been free ever since. Until today.” She slumped on Kelpie's back and felt his pace slacken in response. “I won't never be free again now.” Whyever had she told Daniel all that for? “S'pose you'll be thinking me daft, won't you?” she said brusquely.

Daniel sidled Silk close enough to bump against Kelpie. His knee knocked Billy's, and he poked her with an elbow, the darkness sending his aim a bit off. “Aye,” he said, “but you'd'a still been daft had you never decided to change your petticoats for broadfalls.”

She took a breath to muster up a retort, then let it out without speaking. It seemed too much effort to put her blustering, sharp-edged Billy-self back on. And yet she couldn't be Nuala again, either. She tried to puzzle out what that left her to be, but could find no answer.

Neither of them spoke again until they came in view of the inn, its windows glowing with candlelight, smells of wood smoke and something warm and savory for supper greeting them. The sound of Mr. Stocking's fiddle, turning “The Minstrel Boy” into a lament with a melancholy sweetness filled the night air. Without a word, Billy and Daniel reined their ponies short of the dooryard, in unspoken agreement that it would be sacrilege to break in on the music.

When the fiddler reached the chorus, the instrument sounded like two fiddlers playing at once, calling and responding to each other, then weaving together in harmony. Whether she would
have it or no, the music took hold of her, filled her all the way to her bones. She couldn't help but reply, even if only to hum the song under her breath, so softly she thought no one but Kelpie could hear.

There seemed as much regret in the final notes of the melody as Billy felt to hear it ending. Then a burst of applause and calls for another round of drinks broke the spell. Beside her, Daniel let out a long whoosh of breath. Billy realized that he'd been as spellbound as she.

She slid from her pony's back to lead him into the barn, then turned to see why Daniel wasn't doing the same. He stared at her thoughtfully, almost like he'd stare at one of the ponies, trying to figure out how best to gentle it.

“What?” she said coolly, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Nothing,” Daniel said. “Only I'm thinking you might be a bit wrong about being free.”

“What would you be knowing about it?”

“Naught, I fancy. Only I can't help wondering what it is that's truly making you free. Is it the clothes, or”—he jutted his chin toward the tavern, where Mr. Stocking had begun in on “Soldier's Joy,” bowing the tune so nimbly that a dancer would need to be possessed by the very devil to keep up with it “—or is it the music?”

“What d'you think now, Hugh?” O'Neill said as a boy came into the ring to clean up after the camels. “Wouldn't you'a been that sorry to'a missed this?” The soft patter of rain on the canvas blended with the murmur of conversation buzzing through the pavilion as the audience speculated on what the next act might bring.

Hugh nodded.
“Come to the show,”
O'Neill had said.
“Take your mind away from your troubles for a bit.”
Reluctantly, Hugh had agreed, though he'd not expected anything of it. He had to admit now that O'Neill was right. He'd been transported into a dream world by the music and the rainbow-colored costumes of the acrobats and jugglers, the exotic animals, the conjurer's tricks. In this world, people could fly or balance on a thread or on the tip of a sword. Wild beasts seemed gentle as housecats and lapdogs. Conjurers made objects disappear and reappear or turn into something completely different. Aye, it was all a lovely dream, a world that he'd never been able to conjure from the depths of bottle or keg.

It was all trickery, of course. If only there were magic and trickery enough to unchain him from his past, to let him start clean and fresh and carefree again, like that rosy-cheeked boy down there tidying the ring, whistling to himself, no more on his mind than—than—

Christ, no, not even here could he escape, for didn't the lad down there put Hugh in mind of his own Liam, back in the days when Margaret was still alive? Hadn't Liam carried himself just so, had that same set to his mouth when he was on a task, and that same bit of a curl that strayed down his forehead over his left eye?

Someone tuned a fiddle, the bow testing the strings tentatively,
then sawing across them with a cry like a cat in season, setting the crowd laughing. The boy straightened abruptly, leaning on his shovel, facing away from Hugh toward the other side of the ring, his head cocked at attention.

The squawl of the fiddle ripped across Hugh's heart, for didn't that lad look the very spit of Liam, the way he'd stand alert when his mam would call for him? Bloody hell, he'd never be free of them. Hugh half expected the boy to turn and shout out, “Why did you leave us, Da? Why did you leave us to die?” Would it be forever this way? Would he be forever seeing his lost boys in some other lad's face, his Margaret in any slight, fair-haired woman passing at the edge of his vision?

The hidden fiddler traced his
la sol fa
s like a lament. The boy echoed the notes tentatively at first, glancing furtively about as if he feared being caught slacking at his chores. His voice grew stronger, following the notes as if unaware that hundreds of people listened to him practice. The fiddle moved up an octave, and the boy's voice followed. The crowd stilled, listening for the fatal moment when the boy's voice would stagger and break. But the moment never came, and fiddle and voice met in a note of sweet, bright clarity. The boy swept the audience with a slow, satisfied grin. God, such a grin as Liam would have made, back in the days when Liam still had smiles.

Hugh closed his eyes. He'd give up the drink entirely this very second, he promised, if only the Lord would stop tormenting him with visions of his lost family. But instead, a new torment was added: Margaret's voice singing “
Neaill ghubha Dheirdre
”—“Deirdre's Lament.” He opened his eyes, rubbed them hard, and stared at the boy in the ring, face and eyes shining as his voice wove an intricate lacework of song with the fiddle.

“Sweet holy mother of God and all the saints,” Hugh said, crossing himself.

O'Neill patted Hugh's arm. “Aye, that lad sings like a very angel,” he whispered.

Hugh shook his head. Not an angel, nor a drunken vision. And definitely not a lad.

Nuala
.

He cheered himself hoarse when she reached the end of her song. He cheered even louder when he saw how much the others in the crowd loved her. Even though the price of the show was a good portion of a day's wage, some of the Paddies were so enraptured to hear a song in their own tongue that they dug deep into their pockets and tossed pennies at her feet.

Hugh felt the despair lifting from his breast. For surely, if the Lord had seen fit to bring Nuala back to him, there was hope yet that he could redeem himself.

Yes, he'd have her back, and this time it would be different.

“Stolen, by God!” Hugh said. “Me own flesh and blood.” He paced in front of the fire, unable to keep still.

The flames of dozens of campfires made the jagged shadows of the railroad men's shantytown loom tall over Hugh and his comrades, as if the collection of ramshackle shacks grew with the darkness the way Hugh's boldness grew with the drink. Clusters of men squatted about each fire, supping on hard biscuit and salt pork, sharing bottles and tobacco, songs and stories. The crowd around Hugh's fire grew, drawn by his intensity.

“I thought you said your children were all dead. Dead of the fever, the lads were, and the lass drownded in the river,” O'Neill said.

Hugh spun to face his companion. “Aye, so I thought, when I found her wee frock all torn and bedraggled on the muddy riverbank. But it's clear now what happened.” He rubbed his jaw, building a new story in his head, solid and strong enough to push aside the old tale.