THIRTY
THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY I ATTENDED MY SECOND funeral in two months. Turning sixteen seemed to have introduced death into my life, but I refused it more than a sideways glance.
Mother had found a small Episcopalian chapel in Lower Mills, south of Boston, that had a suitable graveyard behind it. As we stood shivering inside its iron fence, listening to the minister glorify the life of a woman he’d never met, my thoughts and eyes wandered. Rosebushes had been planted at regular intervals along the fence, and someone had tied their leafless arms to the uprights. I wondered what color the blossoms would be next spring. A stone angel larger than me smiled from above a neighboring grave. She stood darkly silhouetted against the thin light of a November sky. Looking past her to the rolling hills and listening to the soft rush of a nearby river, I knew Grandmother would have loved it here.
Few people marked her burial. Huddled in front of the minister were only Father and Mother and James and myself, and for some reason Mr. Benton Lee, who’d asked to come along at the last minute. He sort of hovered behind and between Father and James, shifting his weight from foot to foot, restless as always. Mr. Stead had promised to join us, but although I kept an ear open for Balder’s familiar clip-clop, the road leading up to the church remained silent.
Even this far outside the city, the odor of smoke still hung in the air. It seemed to have permeated our clothes and our hair and our very skin, and I wondered if we’d ever be cleansed of that dreadful night.
The cataclysmic fire had burned for twenty-four hours, all through the next day and into Sunday evening. Even with the flames finally cornered and extinguished, acres and acres of rubble that had once been Boston’s business district still sent up white clouds of smoke. The newspapers that had managed to print editions on Monday stacked their headlines with exclamations: BOSTON IN FLAMES! THE HEART OF THE CITY BURNED OUT! LABYRINTHINE STREETS CHOKED WITH A HORROR-STRICKEN MULTITUDE! Notably absent was the popular and widely read Boston Pilot. Its offices on Franklin Street had burned to the ground. What was to become of the lady journalist now?
Yesterday I’d raced through every article I could find to see if investigators had discovered the cause of the fire. One witness claimed to have seen a disreputable character near Summer and Kingston Streets on Saturday evening but gave police only a vague description. Hooligans caught up in the frenzy of the presidential election had been setting small fires in the past weeks to garner attention, and one newspaper laid the blame in their corner. But again, there were no faces and no names.
Father donned his coat of humility and wrote that he bemoaned the disaster, truly he did. Poor Boston! But before he reached the end of his column, he’d flung off that coat and was crowing. Hadn’t he warned his readers that this was bound to happen? Hadn’t he been saying all summer long that Boston wasn’t prepared? Maybe people would listen next time. I squirmed at his vainglory, wondering if he’d boast so bravely if the lady journalist had been able to publish her findings in the Pilot.
While the journalists across the city scrambled to report the fire’s epic devastation, the preachers went to great lengths to make sense of it. Summaries of their sermons were printed in the newspapers, and after reading them I believed every preacher in Boston saw the fire as neither arson nor accident, but as a direct message from God. Most said it was clear evidence of His wrath, a visitation on Boston for its sins, and how easily I pictured Grandmother nodding her head to just such a sermon. But the famous Reverend Henry Ward Beecher, preaching from his New York pulpit, said that if that were truly the case, then what city in the nation would deserve to stand?
“Fire,” the minister intoned, and I jumped to attention, “is a test of strength. Man can construct great buildings—four, five, and even six stories high—which Nature, in the form of fire, can destroy in an hour. Does that mean that we should stop building? That we, as humans, should give up hope? No. Because fire, like death, is God’s way of reminding us that our lives are temporary. All things material, He tells us, including our bodies, can be lost. But the soul—the soul that truly believes—will live on. Let us pray.”
The minister—Reverend Biggs, his name was—and his wife, Clara, as well as Mr. Lee, returned to our house for some cold lunch, followed by tea and cake. In hanging their coats on the hall tree I saw that more newspapers and some letters had been set on the table. One of them was addressed to me in Mary Grace’s elegant hand, and I warmed at the thought of a piece of Wesleydale finding me here in Boston. I could almost hear her chatting on about her upcoming wedding, could almost see her curls bobbing as she eagerly detailed her dress and the flowers and the foods they’d serve at the church reception. I slipped it into my pocket to enjoy later.
Then I joined Mother to make small talk with Mrs. Biggs, who, ever since arriving, had been glancing from my scarred hands to my face and silently offering her most sincere pity. She and her husband, who was talking with Father, reminded me of a pair of salt and pepper shakers: identically stout bodies of average height, bland faces, he with a close-cropped head of white hair and she with a froth of curly black. They were even relating the same story, taking turns giving a lengthy account of the misfortunes of a son of one of their congregation’s members who had lost his entire inventory of carpets in the fire, to which Mother nodded her head and murmured, “Such a shame” several times over. I’d never been more relieved to hear a knock on the door, and I bolted to answer it before Mother could rise.
To my astonishment, the lady journalist stood there, her collar turned up against the cold. She leaned close with eagerness. “Just the person I was hoping to see,” she began, then, catching a glimpse behind me, “Oh, I’m sorry. You have guests. Perhaps—”
“No, it’s fine.” I was happy to get outside, away from the formalities and artificialities. Away from the pity. I closed the door, having to hug myself to ward off the chill.
“The matchstick,” she said abruptly.
I couldn’t help noticing how the harsh wintry light aged her features. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. “Pardon me?”
“I didn’t explain about the matchstick, about your father being a matchstick.”
My stomach plummeted. So he was guilty.
In that wild, unchecked way of hers, she grabbed my arm. “What you have to understand is that a matchstick can destroy—and it can kindle. It all depends on how you look at the fire it creates.”
“I don’t understand. Did my father start the fire?”
Her eyes shot toward the parlor window. “Is he at home?”
“Yes.”
That appeared to give her pause. She released my arm to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, though the gusting wind pulled it loose. When she went on, her voice was still urgent but lowered. “That’s not what I came to talk about. What I want to tell you is more important—much more important. You see, when your father discharged me I thought he’d destroyed me, and for a while, I let him. That day when I spoke to you, right there,” she nodded toward the pavement at the bottom of the stairs, “was one of my lowest. But then I decided that being a journalist meant too much. So I pulled myself together and wrote some more stories, and I sold them to other newspapers, and one, the Boston Pilot, hired me on at an even better salary. That’s when I began to see your father as a matchstick that had kindled a stronger flame in me rather than a matchstick that nearly destroyed me.”
“But the Pilot burned down. What will you do now?”
Her grin tipped sideways. “The building alone burned, sweetie, not the work.” Echoes of the minister’s graveside sermon, delivered again.
“Are you going to print that my father started the fire?”
“I’m not completely convinced that he did.”
“But you said that night—”
“I said that I’d been following him and his friend, whom I believe to be Captain Gilmore, throughout the area where the fire began. I think their actions were quite suspicious, and I’m determin
ed to learn more about what they were doing that night. But did I see either of them actually set match to kerosene? No. I did, however, see Captain Gilmore break the glass of and let himself into a jewelry store—that was after your father had left—so if Mrs. Gilmore comes parading by in a new diamond necklace in the next few weeks, I’ll alert the store’s owners.”
Behind us the door opened, and James and Mr. Lee, in mid-conversation, crowded us on the top step. Trading apologies amid the jostling, we all four descended to the pavement. I felt it my duty to perform the introductions and even had my mouth open until it occurred to me that, although I’d spoken to her more than once, I still didn’t know the woman’s name. With a perceptive nod she extended her hand. “Mrs. Sarah Cornwell,” she said. “I already know Mr. Lee here, though not this other young man.” She gave James a flirtatious smile.
“James Selby,” he said, returning the smile.
That had the effect of squelching hers. “Oh … so you’re another one of his” Wrinkling her face, she gazed up at the house. “Are there more?”
James shot a quizzical look at me.
“No, just James and myself,” I responded. “And our mother.” Why did she always come as an afterthought?
The door opened again and this time Reverend Biggs and his wife emerged, waving their good-byes. They cast suspicious glances at the four of us as they passed by, though they made an effort to nod politely. Hurriedly they climbed into their buggy and drove away.
Mrs. Cornwell spoke to James and Mr. Lee. “I was just about to leave myself, although I wouldn’t mind talking with you some more about the fire. I’d like to get a few more details about how you and your men were able to drag the steam engine all the way to the scene. Would you mind walking with me a ways?”
“Of course not,” Mr. Lee replied and gallantly offered his arm. James raised an eyebrow in my direction before the three of them set off along the pavement. I watched them go, feeling vaguely as if they all knew something that I didn’t, something that was so plain to see that it needn’t even be spoken about. Rubbing my arms, I climbed the stairs.
The parlor was empty. Teacups sat abandoned on table and mantel and bookcase. Their matching bone china dessert plates lay freckled with cake crumbs. I didn’t hear Mother in the kitchen, so she must have gone upstairs. The house seemed so lifeless without Grandmother, so empty.
Through the doorway to the study I saw Father seated at his desk, writing. Packing materials had been neatly refolded beside a small opened box that cradled a fragment of a rainbow. I craned my neck to see a butterfly sandwiched between cotton and glass. Even in death it shimmered with the colors of a summer forest: violet blue, dusky brown, and sunlit orange. When was the last time it had flown free?
My throat clamped in disgust. Father was still trying to pin me under glass. Perhaps he thought he already had. But even without that letter of acceptance, I needed to show him where I stood. And I needed to know exactly where he stood. Just how far had he gone to win his battle?
Tentatively I rapped a knuckle on his door. “Pardon me.” Too whispery. Clearing my throat, I tried again. “Pardon me.”
He looked up with a scowl.
“I need to ask you something.” I took a deep breath. “Did you start the fire?” I’m sure I said it quietly enough, politely enough, even, for accusing one’s own father of such a heinous act as arson. Yet the words slammed off the walls of the small room as if they’d been shouted.
His pen stopped moving. Peering over his spectacles, he examined me with that critical stare that had always made it so hard to breathe. “Do you have facts to support such a brazen accusation?”
“Mrs. Cornwell said she saw you and Captain Gilmore there. With a kerosene can.”
Carefully he laid his pen in its brown marble tray. Lacing his fingers, he rested his forearms on the edge of his desk. “She’s correct—in this instance.”
I was asking the questions, yet I felt as if I was undergoing some sort of graduation examination, expected to come up with the right answers as well. Terrified as I was, I had to keep going. Inching inside the study, I asked, “What were you doing?”
He blinked passively, awaiting my misstep. “Captain Gilmore and I had been evaluating the insufficient water hydrants in the business district when we discovered an empty kerosene can near the Tebbetts, Baldwin & Davis building. The fact that it had been haphazardly abandoned beside an open back door aroused our suspicions. While Captain Gilmore went inside looking for an arsonist, I went in search of a policeman.”
“What happened then?”
Irritation edged his voice. “You know what happened then. The catastrophe I’ve been predicting for the past four months came true.” He picked up a letter opener and began tapping its blunt end on the blotter. “You wouldn’t be troubled with such concerns if you hadn’t come galloping in where you didn’t belong.”
“I saved horses’ lives! How could I not belong?”
“Because you’re a girl, and saving horses’ lives is the work of men. And because you didn’t have my permission to leave this house. Your behavior continues to be willful and indecent.”
There was that word again: indecent. Kaleidoscopic images flashed through my mind: of Peaches and the locomotive and the orchard, of the fire station and the Girl, of Mr. McLaughlin leering inside his livery, of Mother and Grandmother huddled in the kitchen, sharing dreams beside a dying fire. It was all indecent in someone’s eyes. And then I remembered Mrs. Cornwell, the wild-eyed journalist. She’d laughed at tradition’s shackles. She’d shaken them off and galloped down her own path. And she’d said Father was her matchstick. Backed against the door frame, I trimmed my wick and took his words—his facts—and as calmly as I could, turned them back on him.
“If saving horses’ lives is the work of men, why are so many thousands ill? Why are thousands of horses already dead? Why aren’t the men saving them, Father?”
His eyes narrowed. “If you’re onto that veterinary idea again, you can forget it. You’ll never receive my permission.”
“I’m not waiting for your permission.” My fists clenched, and I could feel my chest heaving. “If I waited for your permission … to do anything at all with my life … I’d end up one of your horrid little butterflies.” I eyed the one on his desk. Stay calm, I told myself. Stay calm. Keep breathing. “One way or another,” I went on when I’d settled some, “I’m going to become a veterinary. And even if the veterinary college here in Boston won’t accept me, I’ll apply to another college. And then another. Because somewhere, somehow, someone will accept me.”
“You’ve been talking to that hysterical harpy Mrs. Cornwell, I imagine. It’s all ‘want, want, want’ with her kind, with no thought as to who works to pay for those wants. Let me remind you of this fact: I’m not paying for any more schooling. I’ll pay for your dresses. I’ll pay for your wedding when the time comes and if any man wishes to be saddled with you. But I’ll not pay for schooling of any kind. No Selby woman is going to humiliate me by taking a job that rightfully belongs to a man.”
“She’s not all Selby, you realize.” Mother appeared out of nowhere and clasped my shoulder. She gave Father a defiant glare, the likes of which I’d rarely seen. “I’ve found a few things in my mother’s room to remind me that the Boon women have some strength of their own.” She handed me a worn leather wallet thick with bills. “Here’s your money, Rachel. It’s more than enough, I’ll wager, to persuade a college to overlook your gender and judge you on your abilities.”
Father’s eyes narrowed. “Where did that money come from?”
“I don’t know. Maybe from the sale of my parents’ hog farm. I thought it had all gone to Father’s brother years ago.” Giving my shoulder a squeeze, she said to me, “I know she’d have wanted you to have it. You’ll find a fairly recent newspaper clipping tucked inside about Cornell University; they’re considering opening their doors to women next year.”
I could hardly comprehend the
possibilities. I think my jaw hung open. I looked from Mother, beaming, to Father, whereupon my smile vanished.
“I won’t allow it,” he said, settling back in his chair and crossing his arms.
“Yes, you will,” Mother replied just as calmly and coolly as if she were coaxing medicine into a stubborn child. “You’ve always been the first person to jump in and demand a change or an improvement when the situation calls for such. That’s one of the things I first admired in you. Now—”
“No,” he declared.
She sighed and took a different tack. “August,” she began, and I started. I could count on one hand the number of times she’d used Father’s Christian name. “Men haven’t been able to cure this horse epidemic, now, have they? So why not let your daughter lend her good sense and good mind to the cause? Healthy horses can only bode well for Boston—and for Boston’s safety, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’ll not agree to her attending veterinary school. It’s not right.”
“Who’s to say what is right? Ever since we moved here you’ve been telling Rachel that time’s overdue for some changes. Well, times are changing, August. And your daughter— our daughter—is well equipped to lead some of these changes.”
He silently stared at the two of us for what felt like an eternity, blinking solemnly behind his spectacles. At last his shoulders dropped a notch and he exhaled a blast of contempt, admitting temporary defeat. “I don’t know the source of this stubbornness.”
He could have been referring to Mother … but I accepted the compliment. “I do,” I said, giving him a broad smile, then transferring it to Mother. “And thank you.”
THIRTY-ONE
A KNOCK SOUNDED ON THE DOOR, AND WHEN MOTHER opened it, Mr. Stead was standing there holding his hat.
“I’m sorry I missed your mother’s funeral, Mrs. Selby,” he said. “I was treating the Crowningshield stable of horses for this distemper plague when I was called out to two emergencies in a row—a colic and a founder—and just now finished up. I came straightaway to pay my respects.”
Firehorse (9781442403352) Page 24
