“Have you ever noticed that on a woman’s tombstone it never reads, ‘She was a good housekeeper’?” Arlene laughed.
“So true. You’ve just given me an excuse to put off doing the laundry. I hate doing laundry.”
Arlene smiled. “I hate folding it.”
“The worst.”
They reached the parking lot. “Do you want to go into the store? It’s got some beautiful things.”
“No, thank you. I’m trying to save my money for a new coffee table. I saw one when I was last in New York and the sides were like a ship’s rigging. Sounds weird, but it really is elegant and my old coffee table is, well, old. I looked at a new office chair. One of those that you can adjust a thousand ways.” Harry unlocked the doors. “One thousand six hundred dollars. I nearly passed out.”
“It is crazy, but if you sit at a computer all day, that’s not so outrageous. I kind of think we’ve reached a point where we can’t afford ourselves.”
“Boy, is that the truth.” Harry cranked the engine and they drove out.
She chose to go up the mountain, drive along Carter’s Ridge, pass Highland, Monroe’s place, and cruise through the beginnings of spring.
“If the weather holds, a lot of entries for the fundraiser. I’m looking forward to it.” Arlene looked down the long drive to Highland.
Coming down to Carter’s Bridge, Harry turned left, heading south on Route 20. She thought she’d drive Arlene through Scottsville, the county seat during Jefferson’s time, then follow the James back toward Crozet. It would take a good hour, but the drive was pleasant and they could visit.
As they neared Crozet, Harry said, “Arlene, let me stop at St. Luke’s for one minute. I want to check my mailbox to see if any of the ladies from the Dorcas Guild left me brochures for caterers for our homecoming idea.”
“It is a good idea.” Arlene had heard about it from Harry and Susan.
“We all can reach one another via our computers, but I like to go over a brochure or a catalog and I like to lay them out on my desk to pages where I can compare services or prices. Drives me nuts flipping back and forth on the computer screen.”
“Bad for the eyes.” Arlene waited while Harry parked and dashed in.
She returned with her hand full of shiny catalogs, one Southern Living magazine that had pages marked, and a few envelopes. She tossed them in the divider.
When they reached the farm, the cats and dogs rushed out to greet them. Once inside, Harry put the materials on the kitchen table. The animals were petted and loved, and a few treats were handed out. She turned on the teapot.
“Something stronger?”
“No, this will be restorative. Do you need to bring in the horses? I can help.”
“It’s my husband’s turn to do it. But I never mind. They make me happy, my horses.” She ran her hand over the mail, moving it about. “You know, thank you for putting Susan at ease over our being at Aldie. I’m not worried.”
“Me neither.”
“People are so strange, it might even pump up the numbers of visitors or even competitors.”
Arlene smiled. “Well, then, we can all say Jason didn’t die in vain. He helped raise money for Hounds for Heroes.”
Harry slit open a heavy, good-paper envelope with her one long fingernail, about to break. She could never keep them long. Hard to do when you’re pitching hay, cleaning out hoofs, rolling a wheelbarrow.
“What the hell?” Harry handed Arlene a piece of paper, expensive paper, too.
“Maybe we’d be safer at Aldie.” Arlene studied a perfectly round blackball in the middle of the paper.
28
October 20, 1787
Saturday
“We’ve gone seven miles,” William complained.
“Maybe not. The land rises above the Potomac and getting over that takes longer. It’s rolling here. This road looks well used,” Ralston, doing his best to think ahead, said.
“That river runs fast,” Sulli, tired but keeping up, observed. “You all were smart getting us a ride on the ferry.” She looked adoringly at William when she said this, which made Ralston want to throw up.
Not wishing to call undue attention to themselves, the three had waited on the Virginia side of the Potomac. While they had enough for their fare, they still waited. If they could align themselves with a white man, they might pass not unnoticed but unquestioned. Hours later, the air brisk, the day bright, a carter moved toward them and, as luck would have it, his cart stopped. He didn’t know why so he whipped the horse.
Ralston called to him. “Stop, sir. The problem isn’t your horse.”
Ralston remembered what Catherine had told him: “Never spur a willing horse.”
He and William walked to the cart as Sulli watched. William held the bridle as Ralston crawled under the empty cart.
Pulling himself half out on his back, he told William, “Get me a thick stick. Well, Sulli can find one.” Then he said to the carter, “A stone is wedged in the wheel well. I think I can pry it out. Your axle is fine.”
“Good” was all the fellow grunted.
Sulli, casting about, picked up two sticks of differing lengths but thick widths, handing them to Ralston, who pulled himself back under the cart, working on the wheel from the underside.
They heard one stick crack, a groan, then, “Got it.”
Ralston pulled himself out, looked at William. “Take a few steps.”
William did and the cart freely moved.
The man reached in his pocket to pay Ralston, but the slender young man instead asked, “If we could stand with you, sir, and you might pay our fare, that would be a fair trade, I think.”
As the fare was only sixpence for all three of them, not outrageous, the portly fellow nodded his agreement.
The three stayed with him as though he was their master, and on the Maryland side, Ralston asked if the gentleman knew of any breeding farms, preferably blooded horses. He named Royal Oak, owned by an Irishman, Cinian Finney. And he also mentioned that given the man’s temper, he always needed new help.
The sun hung low, the air cooled, and on they trudged. A mile down the road, southeastern direction, a zigzag fence appeared. Seemed to stretch on for miles. They walked along, seeing horses in the fields, divided.
“Royal Oak.” Ralston breathed the name hopefully.
“Whatever it is, money. Money and good horses.” William paused to look over the pastures, all well kept, as were the horses.
“Must be the broodmare field,” Ralston observed.
“No one has babies by their side.” Sulli liked the setting sun glistening on their coats.
“Not yet,” Ralston simply replied. “There’s a road up ahead, turns into the farm. I say we go on down. Got to be someone around. Time to bring in the horses anyway.”
They did, and that trek seemed like miles as they were tired. A wiry man, close-cropped ginger hair and a neat mustache, a horse on each side of him, nodded as he walked toward stables in the distance.
They followed.
“Can I help you, sir?” Ralston called over the horse’s neck. “I’m a dab hand with a horse.”
“Are you now? Cheeky, I’d say.” The fellow had an Irish accent. “Here.”
Ralston took the lead rope from the fellow’s hand, walking in rhythm with him and the horse, a dark bay mare, mane pulled, tail tidied up, hoofs trimmed. This was a first-rate operation.
They walked into the stable, brick floor, painted wooden stalls. The man put the first horse into a stall, then took the second one from Ralston and did the same. Hay was already in a hay crib and buckets of water hung in the corner. The back of the stall remained open and the horses were tied to their cribs with enough room to move around and even lie down if they so chose. But they couldn’t walk out of the stall.