The Giver of Stars(83)
‘The river’s rising, and fast. We need to warn people on the creek beds but there’s no one at the sheriff’s office.’
Margery turned to Beth and Alice.
‘I’ll get the bridles,’ said Beth.
Izzy was so deep in thought that she didn’t notice when her mother took the embroidery off her lap and tutted loudly. ‘Oh, Izzy. I’m going to have to unpick all those stitches. That’s nothing like the pattern whatsoever. What have you been doing?’
Mrs Brady dragged a copy of Woman’s Home Companion to her lap and flicked through until she found the pattern she was looking for. ‘Absolutely nothing like it. Why, you’ve done running stitch where it should be a chain stitch.’
Izzy dragged her attention to the sampler. ‘I hate sewing.’
‘You never used to mind it. I don’t know what’s got into you lately.’ Izzy didn’t rise to it, which made Mrs Brady tut more loudly. ‘I’ve never met a girl more out of sorts.’
‘You know very well what’s got into me. I’m bored and I’m stuck here, and I can’t bear that you and Daddy have been swayed by an idiot like Geoffrey Van Cleve.’
‘That’s no way to talk. Why don’t you do some quilting? You used to enjoy it. I have some lovely old fabrics in my chest upstairs and –’
‘I miss my horse.’
‘He was not your horse.’ Mrs Brady closed her mouth and took a diplomatic moment before she opened it again. ‘But I was thinking we could perhaps buy you one if you think horseback riding is something you’d like to pursue.’
‘For what? To go around and around in circles? To make it look pretty, like a stupid doll? I miss my job, Mother, and I miss my friends. I had real friends for the first time in my life. I was happy at the library. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
‘Well, now you’re just being dramatic.’ Mrs Brady sighed, and sat down on the settle beside her daughter. ‘Look, dear, I know how you love singing. Why don’t I talk to your father about some proper lessons? We could perhaps find out if there’s anybody in Lexington who might help you work on your voice. Perhaps when Daddy hears how good you are he’ll change his mind. Oh, Lord, though, we’ll have to wait until this rain eases. Have you ever seen anything like it?’
Izzy didn’t answer. She sat by the parlour window, gazing out at the blurred view.
‘You know, I think I’m going to telephone your father. I’m anxious the river will flood. I lost good friends in the Louisville floods and I haven’t felt the same about the river since. Why don’t you unpick that last bit of stitching and we’ll go back over it together?’
Mrs Brady disappeared into the hallway and Izzy could hear her dialling her father’s office, the low murmur of her voice. Izzy stared out of the window at the grey skies, her finger tracing the rivulets that zigzagged down the pane, squinting at a horizon that was no longer visible.
‘Well, your father thinks we should stay put. He says we might call Carrie Anderson in Old Louisville and see if she and her family want to rest here a day or two just in case. Lord knows what we’ll do with all those little dogs of hers, though. I don’t think we could cope with the – Izzy? … Izzy?’ Mrs Brady spun around in the empty parlour. ‘Izzy? Are you upstairs?’
She walked down the hall and through the kitchen, where the maid turned from her dough-rolling, nonplussed, and shook her head. And then Mrs. Brady saw the back door, the inside slick with raindrops. Her daughter’s leg brace lay on the tiled floor, and her riding boots were gone.
Margery and Beth trotted hard down Main Street, a blur of hoofs and spraying water. Around them the unfinished road sent water sweeping down the hill and over their feet, while gutters gurgled, protesting against the weight of it. They rode with their heads low and their collars up, and when they got to the verges they cantered, the horses’ feet sinking into the boggy grass. At the lower reaches of Spring Creek, they split to each side of the road and dismounted, running to each front door and hammering on it with wet fists.
‘Water’s rising,’ they yelled, as the horses pulled back on their reins. ‘Get to higher ground.’
Behind them, a straggle of occupants began to move, faces peering around doors, out of windows, trying to work out how seriously to take this instruction. By the time they were a quarter-mile down the road some behind them had begun hoisting furniture to the top floors of those houses that were double-storeyed, the rest loading wagons or trucks with what might be protected. Tarpaulins were thrown over the backs of open vehicles, small, querulous children wedged between grey-faced adults. People in Baileyville had had enough experience of floods to know that they were a threat to be taken seriously.
Margery hammered on the last door of Spring Creek, water plastering her hair to her face. ‘Mrs Cornish? … Mrs Cornish?’
A woman in a wet headscarf appeared at the door, waves of agitation rising off her. ‘Oh, thank goodness. Margery dear, I can’t get my mule.’ She turned and ran, motioning to them to follow.
The mule was at the bottom of his paddock, which backed onto the creek. The lowest slopes, boggy on the driest of days, were now a thick slick of toffee-coloured mud and the little brown and white mule stood immobile, apparently resigned, up to his chest in it.
‘He can’t seem to budge. Please help him.’