The Giver of Stars(18)
‘Isabelle? Can I ask you a question?’ said Alice, after a moment. ‘If you’re sitting, or only walking short distances, do you need to wear the brace?’
There was a sudden silence, as if the word had been verboten.
‘What do you mean?’
Oh, I’ve done it again, thought Alice. But she was too far in now. ‘That leg brace. I mean, if we took it off, and your boots, you could wear – um – normal riding boots. You could mount on the other side of Patch here, using the other leg. And maybe just drop the books by the gates instead of climbing on and off, like we do. Or maybe if the walk isn’t too far it wouldn’t matter?’
Isabelle frowned. ‘But I – I don’t take off the brace. I’m supposed to wear it all day.’
Margery frowned, thinking. ‘You ain’t gonna be standing, though, right?’
‘Well. No,’ Isabelle said.
‘You want me to see if we got some other boots?’ Margery asked.
‘You want me to wear another person’s boots?’ said Isabelle, dubiously.
‘Only till your ma buys you a fancy pair from Lexington.’
‘What size are you? I have a spare pair,’ said Alice.
‘But even if I get on, my … Well, one leg is … It’s shorter. I won’t be balanced,’ said Isabelle.
Margery grinned. ‘That’s why we got adjustable stirrup leathers. Most people round here ride half crooked anyway, drunk or no.’
Perhaps it was because Alice was British and had addressed Isabelle in the same clipped tones that she addressed the Van Cleves when she wanted something, or perhaps it was the novelty of being told she didn’t have to wear a brace, but an hour later Isabelle Brady sat astride Patch, her knuckles white as she gripped the reins, her body rigid with fear. ‘You’re not going to go fast, are you?’ she said, her voice tremulous. ‘I really don’t want to go fast.’
‘You coming, Alice? Reckon this is a good day for us to head round the town, schoolhouse and all. Long as we can keep Patch here from falling asleep we’ll have a fine day. You okay, girls? Off we go.’
Isabelle said almost nothing for the first hour of their ride. Alice, who rode behind her, heard the occasional squeal as Patch coughed, or moved his head. Margery would lean back in her saddle and call something encouraging. But it took a good four miles before Alice could see that Isabelle had allowed herself to breathe normally, and even then she looked furious and unhappy, her eyes glittering with tears, even though they barely broke out of a slumberous walk.
For all they had achieved in getting her onto a horse, Alice could not see how on earth this was going to work. The girl didn’t want to be there. She couldn’t walk without a brace. She clearly didn’t like horses. For all they knew she didn’t even like books. Alice wondered whether she would turn up the following day, and when she occasionally met Margery’s eye, she knew she was wondering the same. She missed the way they normally rode together, the easy silences, the way she felt as if she were learning something with Margery’s every casual utterance. She missed the exhilarating gallops up the flatter tracks, yelling encouragement at each other on wheeling horses as they worked out ways to traverse rivers, fences, and the satisfaction as they jumped a flint-strewn gap. Perhaps it would be easier if the girl weren’t so sullen: her mood seemed to cast a pall over the morning, and even the glorious sunshine and soft breeze couldn’t alleviate it. In all likelihood we’ll be back to normal tomorrow, Alice told herself, and was reassured by the thought.
It was almost nine thirty by the time they stopped at the school, a small weather-boarded one-room building not unlike the library. Outside there was a small grassy area worn half bare from constant use, and a bench underneath a tree. Some children sat outside cross-legged, bent over slates, while inside others were repeating times tables in a frayed chorus.
‘I’ll wait out here,’ Isabelle said.
‘No, you won’t,’ Margery said. ‘You come on into the yard. You don’t have to get off the horse if you don’t want to. Mrs Beidecker? You in there?’
A woman appeared at the open door, followed by a clamour of children.
As Isabelle, her face mutinous, followed them into the yard, Margery dismounted and introduced the two of them to the schoolteacher, a young woman with neatly coiled blonde hair and a German accent, who, Margery explained afterwards, was the daughter of one of the overseers at the mine. ‘They got people from all over the world up there,’ she said. ‘Every tongue you can imagine. Mrs Beidecker here speaks four languages.’
The teacher, who professed herself delighted to see them, brought the entire class of forty-odd children out to say hello to the women, pet the horses and ask questions. Margery pulled from her saddlebag a selection of children’s books that had arrived earlier that week, explaining the plot of each as she handed them out. The children jostled for them, their heads bent low as they sat to examine them in groups on the grass. One, apparently unafraid of the mule, stepped into Margery’s stirrup and peered into her empty bag in case she might have missed one.
‘Miss? Miss? Do you have more of the books?’ A gap-toothed girl, her hair in twin plaits, gazed up at Alice.
‘Not this week,’ she said. ‘But I promise we’ll bring more next week.’
‘Can you bring me a comic book? My sister read a comic book and it was awful good. It had pirates and a princess and everything.’