The Giver of Stars(20)

They had gone another half-mile when Isabelle turned her head so that she was looking over her shoulder. ‘It’s Izzy,’ she said.

‘Izzy?’

‘My name. People I like call me Izzy.’

Alice barely had time to digest this when the girl spoke again. ‘And I smiled because … it was the first time.’

Alice leaned forward, trying to make out the words. The girl spoke so quietly.

‘First time for what? Riding in the mountains?’

‘No.’ Izzy straightened up a little. ‘The first time I’ve been in a school and nobody was laughing at me for my leg.’

‘You think she’ll come back?’

Margery and Alice sat on the top step of the stoop, batting away flies and watching heat rise off the shimmering road. The horses had been washed and set loose in the pasture and the two women were drinking coffee, stretching creaking limbs and trying to summon the energy to check and enter the days’ books in the ledger.

‘Hard to say. She don’t seem to like it much.’

Alice had to admit she was probably right. She watched as a panting dog walked along the road, then lowered itself wearily into the shade of a nearby log store.

‘Not like you.’

Alice looked up at her. ‘Me?’

‘You’re like a prisoner sprung from jail most mornings.’ Margery sipped her coffee and gazed out at the road. ‘I sometimes think you love these mountains as much as I do.’

Alice kicked at a pebble with her heel. ‘I think I might like them better than anywhere on earth. I just feel … more myself up here.’

Margery glanced at her and smiled conspiratorially. ‘This is what people don’t see, wrapped up in their cities, with the noise and the smoke, and their tiny boxes for houses. Up there you can breathe. You can’t hear the town talking and talking. No eyes on you, ’cept God’s. It’s just you and the trees and the birds and the river and the sky and freedom … Out there, it’s good for the soul.’

A prisoner sprung from jail. Sometimes Alice wondered if Margery knew more about her life with the Van Cleves than she let on. She was dragged from her thoughts by a blaring horn. Bennett was driving his father’s motor-car towards the library. He shuddered to an abrupt halt, so that the dog leaped up, its tail between its legs. He was waving at her, his smile wide and uncomplicated. She couldn’t help but smile back: he was as handsome as a movie star on a cigarette card.

‘Alice! … Miss O’Hare,’ he said, catching sight of her.

‘Mr Van Cleve,’ Margery answered.

‘Came to fetch you home. Thought we might take that picnic you were talking about.’

Alice blinked. ‘Really?’

‘Got a couple of problems with the coal tipple that won’t be fixed until tomorrow and Pa’s in the office trying to sort it out. So I flew home and got Annie to do us a picnic. Thought I’d race you back in the car and you can get changed and we’ll head straight out while it’s still light. Pa says we can have this old girl all evening.’

Alice stood up, delighted. Then her face fell. ‘Oh, Bennett, I can’t. We haven’t entered the books or sorted them and we’re so behind. We’ve only just finished the horses.’

‘You go,’ said Margery.

‘But that’s not fair on you. Not with Beth gone and Izzy disappearing as soon as we got back.’

Margery waved a hand.

‘But –’

‘Go on now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Alice glanced at her to check that she meant it, then gathered up her things and whooped as she raced down the steps. ‘I probably smell like a cowboy again,’ she warned, as she climbed into the passenger side and kissed her husband’s cheek.

He grinned. ‘Why do you think I’ve got the top open?’ He reversed into a speedy three-point turn, causing the dust to fly up in the road, and Alice squealed as they roared towards home.

He was not a mule prone to exaggerated shows of temper or high emotion, but Margery rode Charley home at a slow walk. He had worked hard and she was in no hurry. She sighed, thinking of the day. A flighty Englishwoman who knew nothing of the area, whom the mountain people might not trust, and would probably be pulled away by that braying blowhard Mr Van Cleve, and a girl who could barely walk, couldn’t ride and didn’t want to be there. Beth worked when she could but her family would need her for the harvest during much of September. Hardly the most auspicious start to a travelling library. She wasn’t sure how long any of them would last.

They reached the broken-down barn where the trail split and she dropped her reins onto his narrow neck, knowing the mule would find his own way home. As she did, her dog, a young blue-eyed speckled hound, bolted towards her, his tail clamped between his legs and his tongue lolling in his delight to see her. ‘What in heck are you doing out here, Bluey boy? Huh? Why aren’t you in the yard?’

She reached the small paddock gate and dismounted, noting that the ache in her lower back and shoulders probably owed more to hoisting Izzy Brady on and off a horse than any real distance she had travelled. The dog bounded around her, only settling when she ruffled his neck between her hands and confirmed that yes, he was a good boy, yes, he was, at which point he raced back into the house. She released the mule, watching as Charley dropped to the ground, folding his knees under him, then rocking backwards and forwards in the dirt with a satisfied groan.