Mending Horses (42 page)

Billy cast a frightened glance at Liam, who merely shrugged.

Daniel stared down at his feet, keeping his own face passive.
He'd expected—what? A deathbed reconciliation, like a scene from one of the treacly moral tales in Mr. Stocking's schoolbooks? He'd been a fool to have imagined such a thing. Fogarty would die as blind as he'd lived, his mouth full of excuses and lies. If Billy turned her back now, who would blame her?

Siúil, siúil, siúil a rúin

Siúil go socair agus siúil go ciúin

Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán

[Go, go, go, my love

Go quietly and peacefully

Go to the door and flee with me

And may you go safely, my dear]
.

Billy's singing was thin and quavery at first, a candle struggling against the breeze, but still it made the hair prickle at the back of Daniel's neck. Next to him, Augusta drew in a sharp breath and turned her face away. Although Liam's mouth remained set in a hard, angry line, his eyes still fierce beneath knotted brows, he sat on the bed and took his father's other hand.

It had been weeks since Daniel had sat down to a dinner as tasty as the one Mrs. Warriner and her nieces and hired girls had laid out in the tavern's private dining room. And yet the ladies might as well have made salt pork and hasty pudding for all that Daniel could appreciate it. At the head of the table, Mr. Chamberlain presided like a squire. On one side sat Liam and Augusta with Billy between them, and on the other sat Mr. Stocking and Constable Ainesworth, with Daniel at the foot.

“All's well that ends well, eh, Daniel?” Mr. Ainesworth said, raising his glass. Expecting to escort Daniel and Billy to safety at the Taylors, the constable had come north to Springfield immediately upon receiving Mr. Stocking's letter. He'd arrived on the heels of Mr. Chamberlain's Peripatetic Museum, only a few days after Liam and Billy had buried their father.

“Aye, that's what they say,” Daniel replied, though he wasn't looking forward to this particular ending. Nor, apparently, was Mr. Stocking, who pushed his food around his plate, eating little. Daniel told himself that he should be glad Billy was returning to her rightful home, but instead he felt a terrible gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He should be following Mr. Chamberlain's example. The conjurer had every right to begrudge Billy her happiness, as he'd be losing one of his star performers. Yet he had generously organized this special dinner in her honor. Surely Daniel could muster a bit of joy for the lass.

Dressed in a blue-flowered flannel gown, Billy somehow looked even more un-girlish than ever she had in trousers and vest. The blue ribbon wrapped around her short blond curls was
as incongruous as the pink ribbon Phizzy wore in his tail for his Learned Horse routine. She fidgeted with her skirt, as if the fabric scorched her.

“I'd like to propose a toast.” Mr. Chamberlain rubbed his hands together and stood. “We're here to celebrate our two young artistes surviving an adventure every bit as perilous as those performed in our hippodramatic pantomimes.” He acknowledged Daniel and Billy with a nod and a wink. “Sir, mademoiselle, I salute you.” He downed his ale, then set his glass on the table. He placed his palms together as if in prayer and bowed low so that his forehead brushed the tips of his long fingers. “As does Prince Otoo Baswamati,” he added in the elegant, cinnamon-flavored tones he used for his East Indian mystic role.

Billy made an odd sputtering noise, and Daniel realized that she was trying to choke down a mouthful of ale rather than spray it across the table.

“Thank you, sir,” said Liam. “It's kind of you, indeed, to host this grand dinner for us.”

“Not at all. It's the least I could do to ease your parting.”

“Aye,” Liam agreed. “She tells me she's made some good friends among you.” He nodded toward Mr. Stocking and Daniel. “And we're grateful to you for taking care of her. I'll make sure she writes to you as often as she can.”

Mr. Chamberlain cleared his throat. “You misunderstand me, young man. It's you she's parting from, not us.”

“What?” The word flew from every mouth at the table.

“There's still the small matter of Jonny's two hundred dollars.” Mr. Chamberlain told Liam. “When your father took Jonny's money, he bound Billy out as sure as if he'd signed an indenture. Seems to me she belongs to Jonny.”

“You've no right,” Liam said, rounding on Mr. Stocking. “You've no papers on her. She told me so herself.”

“Just the other day I read in the newspaper where a judge declared a lack of papers makes no difference in deciding whether a child is properly bound out. But if you want to spend the money to take it to the courts—” Mr. Chamberlain shrugged as if it were
no concern to him. “It could take months. Or you could buy Jonny out, which I am fully prepared to do.”

Mr. Stocking pushed his chair away from the table and rose up angrily. “Now, wait a minute, Fred. I'm not holding her to any indenture.”

“Not even for a quarter interest in the show?” Mr. Chamberlain raised an eyebrow.

“You trying to bribe me?” Mr. Stocking asked.

“One third, then.” Mr. Chamberlain's lips curled into that sly conjurer's smile that he used when he was attempting to probe someone's thoughts. “One third interest”—Fred paused, slowly arching his other eyebrow—“and six dancing ponies.”

“This is madness!” Liam slammed a fist down on the table and put his other hand on Billy's shoulder. “You're talking about me sister like you were trading a horse.”

Augusta laid a hand over Liam's, encircling Billy between them. “How can you think of taking her away after all she and Liam have been through?” she said.

“I'm not,” said Mr. Stocking. “Don't fret about it, Liam. There's not a thing Fred can do to take Billy from you.”

Daniel looked to Billy, who was uncharacteristically silent. The tablecloth in front of her was deeply creased, and he realized that she was keeping herself still by clenching the linen as hard as she could. How long would it be before she'd burst?

“That's fine.” Mr. Chamberlain shrugged and put his thumbs into his vest pockets. “You and your horse boy can go back to peddling tinware and wooden nutmegs. It's all the same to me.” He waved a hand vaguely in Daniel's direction, though the stare that pinned Daniel was anything but vague. “I'm sure I can find another Professor Romanov somewhere.”

Daniel felt as if he'd been punched in the chest. To lose the ponies—
his
ponies. To see them in the hands of some stranger who might undo all the good work he and Billy had done with them . . .

Mr. Stocking flung his hands into the air. “Dammit, Fred, don't use them ponies to threaten us. It'll be your loss, not mine,
if you toss Dan'l and me out of your show. Find yourself another songbird. Billy's staying with Liam.”

“And who'll be liable for her expenses?” Mr. Chamberlain said.

“What expenses?” Mr. Stocking said. “I'm the one paying her room and board.”

“With whose money?” Mr. Chamberlain said.

“You paid me the share we agreed on,” said the peddler. “No more.”

“Funny, I don't recollect signing any papers on it.”

Daniel winced. Since they'd begun traveling with the show, Mr. Stocking had been badgering Mr. Chamberlain to formalize their terms with a written agreement, but Mr. Chamberlain had always put him off, promising to draw up the papers later.

“Then there's the small matter of her education in the gymnastic, equestrian, and thespian arts,” the conjurer continued. “That kind of training don't come cheap. Seems I'm owed some compensation if she abandons the show without earning back the cost of her learning. I seriously doubt Mr. Fogarty could afford—”

“You can squeeze me all you want, Fred,” said Mr. Stocking, “but you're not blackmailing me into taking her away from Liam.”

“Of course,” Mr. Chamberlain continued as if Mr. Stocking hadn't spoken, “all that is trivial compared to the question of whether a lad of—how old are you, anyway, Liam?”

The color drained from Liam's and Augusta's faces.

The conjurer smiled slyly and drew a segar from his pocket. He took his time about lighting it and letting out a satisfied puff of smoke. “Now, far's I know, it's not properly legal in this state for a
boy
under the age of twenty-one to have guardianship of a minor. S'pose I was to go poking around in the record books. Wonder what I'd find? S'pose I was to find someone lied on his marriage papers? Wonder what'd happen to his sister then?”

The conjurer put Daniel in mind of a spider trying to weave a web around a fly. Each time one thread broke, he cast out another. It seemed he'd saved his strongest thread for last.

“What difference does it make how old he is?” Mr. Stocking
said. “No court in its right mind would appoint you guardian, Fred.”

Mr. Chamberlain squinted at Jonathan over his segar. “Guess they wouldn't. Guess she'd just have to go to the almshouse. Or maybe become a ward of the state. Who knows where she'd end up then? Don't s'pose you got any idea what the law is around here in that regard, do you, Ainesworth?”

“This isn't my jurisdiction,” Mr. Ainesworth said. “And I'm no lawyer.”

“Then I guess I'd better seek one out tomorrow,” said Mr. Chamberlain, settling back into his chair. He nodded toward Liam and Mr. Stocking. “No telling what might happen, should I start asking questions.” Laying his segar down in his saucer, he changed his face into what Daniel imagined was meant to be a regretful frown. “Would be a powerful waste, all that talent locked up in the almshouse.”

The conjurer had to be bluffing. Daniel looked to Mr. Stocking, who knew Mr. Chamberlain best. The peddler's face was a sickly greenish gray, and his mouth worked as though he couldn't find the words to fill it.

Billy's cheeks were crimson, and her grip on the tablecloth tightened enough to send a shiver through her glass and plate. She looked as though she wanted to upend the table and start shouting at them. Shouting what, though?

“What are you saying, Mr. Chamberlain? If you can't have the girl, then nobody can?” Mr. Ainesworth said. “I may not be a lawyer, but I know what's right, and this isn't it.”

“Aye, sir, none of this is right.” Daniel stood up slowly, squaring his shoulders. It surprised him how much taller he was than Mr. Stocking. “Seems to me you're all forgetting something.” He turned to the peddler. “Aye, even you, sir. I hear a lot of talk about who owes money to who, and where Billy belongs, and what Mr. Chamberlain can give or take if he don't get his way, but there hasn't none of you thought to ask Billy what she wants.”

“She wants to stay with her family, is what she wants,” Liam said.

“She's told you so herself, then,” Daniel said.

“Aye . . . well . . . not in so many words, but I know she does.” Liam looked down at Billy.

She was still twisting the hem of the tablecloth in her hands. “You never asked me, Liam,” she said, without looking up.

“I didn't think I needed to,” Liam said. Billy shrugged Liam's and Augusta's arms from her shoulders as if throwing off a cloak. Liam rested his hand on the back of her chair, as if to let her know that he still offered his protection in spite of her rebuff. “All right, Nuala. I'm asking now. Will you come home to live with me and Augusta?”

Mr. Chamberlain folded his arms across his chest. “My offer still stands, Jonny, if you're willing to see reason.”

“Damn your offers and your threats, Fred. Well, Billy?” Mr. Stocking said. “You've been steaming away like a teakettle fit to boil.”

Billy pushed her chair back. The tablecloth was gray and ridged in tight wrinkles where she'd clutched it. “You're squabbling over me like a pack of chickens cackling over a juicy wee grub.” She looked sideways at her brother. “Aye, even you, Liam.

“But all these months Daniel's been on at me to not be always thinking of meself, and Mr. S. has been trying to learn me—
teach
me to keep me temper and mind me manners, so I been trying to hold me tongue.”

“Well, now's your chance to speak, lass,” Daniel said. “And don't you be letting Mr. Chamberlain's bluster scare you into doing something you don't want to do.”

“I don't bloody well know what I want!” Billy shouted. “I want to stay here with Liam and Augusta. I want to ride Phizzy and the ponies, and I don't want Mr. C. to throw you and Mr. S. out of the show.” She turned to the peddler, her lower lip trembling. “I want to be singing with you.” She tore the bow from her hair and flung it down onto her plate, where it sank in a pool of gravy. “And I don't want folk to be talking about me like I wasn't here,” she snapped. “Well, damn you all, and damn me, too, for no matter what I choose, it'll be wrong!” She shoved herself away from the table, knocking over her chair, and bolted out the door.