We drop our bags in Amy's room and I go over to the mirror and squint at myself in it. Not too bad—the leeches did their job in getting the purple bruises out. Now it's just a few smudges of yellowish tinge.
Amy sees me looking in the mirror and says, "Come. We will go to Mother's dressing room. She will have some powder there."
"Coo, Amy, look at all this," says I. The dresser top is full of little jars and bottles and things with stoppers. "I thought you Yankees was all Puritans and didn't hold with this stuff."
"We have a saying here in New England: 'Pray in Church, Sin at Home.' Here, hold your face to the light." She picks up a squat jar and opens it and takes a soft brush and dips into it and applies it to my bruises.
It's easy to imagine Amy's mother sitting here at this dressing table. As different from Amy as the night from the day, Clementine Trevelyne is as pink and flighty as Amy is dark and serious. It is certain that Mrs. Trevelyne has never read a book and her talk centers totally on things of a social nature—the parties, the dinners, the glittering balls, and who was there and who was not. She does not seem to care a whit about the danger her husband's gambling poses to her present way of life, but goes about being gay and frivolous and charming. Or maybe she doesn't know. Whatever, she was kind to me when we met at Christmas, clucking over me and saying how nice it was that our Amy has a little friend. She was kind and I liked her.
Amy steps back and surveys her work. "There. That's better."
I look in the mirror and sure enough, I can hardly see the bruise. "Good work," I say. I pick up a bottle with blue juice in it. "What's the rest of this, then?"
"That is perfume. From France. Try some if you wish."
I pull out the stopper and put my nose to the tiny bottle. "Ooohhh, that's so lovely!" I want to stuff the whole thing up my nose.
"Put some on if you like ... No, no, not like that." She sees that I was about to shake the open bottle over my head. "Like this." She takes the bottle and puts her finger over the open end and tips it and then takes her finger and puts it behind my ear. "Like that. Behind each ear. Maybe a touch at the throat."
I do it and as I am doing it, Amy's attention is captured by something outside and she goes to the window.
"It's Randall," she says, not sounding entirely pleased, "home for the weekend. Again. I've never seen him home so much. It's strange."
By the time she turns around, I have put another big dab of the perfume down on my breastbone, loosened my hair from its usual pigtail, and dragged a lock of it over my damaged eye.
She narrows her eyes upon seeing me do all this, but I just smile all innocent and get up and go down to our room to brush my hair and tie it back with a ribbon.
"Ah, you rogue, you! What have you been up to since last we met? Oh yes? Well, I've heard you've been havin' quite a jolly time with the girls, you rascal you! Several babies already on the way? I'm not surprised. Now, don't you blush like that!" Saying that, I wrap my arms around his head and plant a great kiss on his forehead.
The Sheik seems to be glad to see me, too. I had heard him whinny when we approached the stable—I guess he caught a whiff of me, though how he could through all this perfume, I don't know. Maybe he recognized my voice, talking to Amy and Randall as I was. Whatever, his eyes roll and he fairly screams at the sight of me.
I give him pieces of dried apple, which he takes off my palm with great gentleness, and I say to George Swindow, who's the head hostler, "Please, George, tell me you'll allow me to ride him later." Amy don't even bother anymore tryin' to tell me not to do it, and Randall puts on his air of not carin' what I do.
"Exercise him, Miss. You may exercise him inside the track," says George. It's plain he's thinkin' back to those wild rides I've already had upon the Sheik.
"Thank you, George. I'll be back as soon as I change!" And I lift the front of my skirts and run back to our room and put on my sailor pants and shirt and I get back as they are saddling him up. The people here are used to seeing me in this rig—they have shrugged it off and they let me be the tomboy I guess I am.
I go up next to the Sheik and he lowers his great head, nuzzles me, and then shakes his mane and snorts and stamps, which means he's ready to run and asking why are we just standing here?
Randall appears to hand me up and I settles myself on the saddle. He is dressed today in a red velvet jacket with white front lapels and a high stiff collar that goes up above his ears and his dark hair curls over both collar and ears. Above his black boots stretch spotless white britches. He looks up with hooded eyes and then reaches up and pats me on the leg and says, "Be careful now, Jacky." I smile and nod. The Sheik shies away and I turn him and we are off.
The first time around the track I take him around slow—slow for the Sheik, that is—my hair is flying out straight behind me and the great muscles of his shoulders flex and stretch and roll under my legs and the white fence posts fly by. When we get to the last turn, we go by a small pasture that has some mares placidly grazing and I've been told that three of them are with foal by him and we shall have some fine colts and fillies by summer. I know the Sheik notices them, 'cause he speeds up a bit as we pass, as if to say, "Ain't I some fine horse?"
As we pound by the grandstand I notice that Amy and Randall are standing at the rail, watching, and I stick my bottom up a little higher in the air—to gain better balance, of course. Ain't I some fine rider?
And this time around we really let go.
After the last lap, I pull up the Sheik, all hot and frothing but still ready for more, but no, that's it for now—George had waved the flag and I knew I had to bring him in or else not be allowed to get up on him again.
Sheik's capering around, wheeling and whinnying, and he rears up on his hind legs, but I soon get him calmed down by whispering in his ear and patting his sweaty neck. As he's standing there blowing, I slide off and hand the reins to ... what?...
It is a tiny little man, no bigger than me, wearing the silken colors of Dovecote Farm—green and white striped top, tight white knee pants, white silk stockings, and a green cap. He wears also a little man's cocky grin and says, "Ain't it a wonder, a female jock," and since I don't hear an accent, he must be another Cockney.
"Hullo, jock," says I. As we stand, I look directly level into his eyes, something I ain't used to doin'. "London? Cheapside?"
"Couldn't be more right, Missy. Peter Jarvis, called Pete. Sometimes Petey. Whelped and weaned in Ludgate. You, too?"
"Takes one to know one," says I, patting the Sheik on his flank. We lead him, all blowin' and snortin', on a coolin'-off walk. "Jacky Faber, Blackfriars Bridge."
"You lived near the bridge?" He looks quizzical.
"Under it," says I.
"Ah," he says, and he don't press it. "You ride real fine, Miss. The nag seems to like you."
"That's some horse. Is he the best you've ever seen?" I ask, wanting the real expert's opinion.
"He's right up there, Jacky," he says, looking up with admiration at the Sheik. "But, then, any horse can be beat, given the wrong day, the wrong rider, the wrong luck."
When we're done walking the big horse, we go back to the stable and I see Randall waiting by the racetrack gate. Not that he gives any indication that he's waiting for me, exactly, just sort of lounging about and surveying the scene and talking with some others.