Page 9 of Just Imagine
“Yessir,” Kit muttered, although she didn’t see what that had to do with anything.
“That boy doesn’t know his place,” Dora snapped. “I’d fire any servant who behaved so outrageously.”
“I guess it’s a good thing that he works for me, then.”
He hadn’t raised his voice, but the rebuke was clear, and Dora flushed.
They were nearing the lake, and Cain pulled the carriage to a stop. “My stable boy isn’t an ordinary servant,” he continued, his tone somewhat lighter. “He’s a disciple of Ralph Waldo Emerson.”
Kit looked away from a family of swans gliding between the canoes to see if he was making fun of her, but he didn’t seem to be. Instead, he laid his arm over the back of the leather seat and turned to face her. “Is Mr. Emerson the only writer you read, Kit?”
Dora’s indignant huff made Kit garrulous. “Oh, I read ’bout everything I can lay my hands on. Ben Franklin, of course, but most everybody reads him. Thoreau, Jonathan Swift. Edgar Allan Poe when I’m in the mood. I don’t hold much with poetry, but otherwise I have a generally voracious appetite.”
“So I see. Maybe you just haven’t read the right poets. Walt Whitman, for example.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s a New Yorker. Worked as a nurse during the war.”
“I don’t reckon I could stomach a Yankee poet.”
Cain lifted an amused brow. “I’m disappointed. Surely an intellectual like yourself wouldn’t let prejudice interfere with an appreciation for great literature.”
He was laughing at her, and she felt her hackles rising. “It surprises me you even know the name of a poet, Major, ’cause you don’t look much like a reader to me. But I guess that’s the way it is with big men. All the muscle goes to their bodies, not sparin’ much for the brain.”
“Impertinent!” Dora shot Cain an I-told-you-so look.
Cain ignored it and studied Kit more closely. The boy had guts, he’d give him that. He couldn’t be older than thirteen, the same age Cain had been when he’d run away. But Cain had nearly reached his adult height at that time, while Kit was small, only a couple of inches over five feet.
Cain noted how delicate the boy’s grimy features were: the heart-shaped face, the small nose with its decided upward tilt, and those thickly lashed violet eyes. They were the kind of eyes women prized, but they looked foolish on a boy and would look even more outlandish when Kit grew to be a man.
Kit refused to flinch under his scrutiny, and Cain felt a spark of admiration. The daintiness of his features probably had something to do with his pluck. Any boy who looked so delicate must have been forced to do a lot of fighting.
Still, the kid was too young to be on his own, and Cain knew he should turn him over to an orphan asylum. But even as he considered the idea, he understood he wouldn’t do it. There was something about Kit that reminded Cain of himself at that age. He was feisty and stubborn, walking through life daring somebody to take a swing at him. It would be like clipping the wings of a bird to put that boy in an orphanage. Besides, he was good with the horses.
Dora’s need to be alone with him finally overcame her aversion to exercise, and she asked him to walk to the lake. There, the scene that he had hoped to avoid was played out with tiresome predictability. It was his fault. He had let sex overcome good judgment.
It was a relief to get back to the carriage where Kit had struck up a conversation with the man who rented the canoes and two brightly painted ladies of the night out for a stroll before they went to work.
The kid sure could talk.
That evening after dinner Kit sprawled in her favorite spot outside the stable door, her arm propped on Merlin’s warm back. She found herself remembering something strange Magnus had told her earlier when she’d been admiring Apollo.
“The Major won’t keep him long.”
“Why not?” she’d said. “Apollo’s a real beauty.”
“He sure is. But the Major doesn’t let himself get tied to things he likes.”
“What do you mean?”
“He gives away his horses and his books before he can get too attached to them. It’s just the way he is.”
Kit couldn’t imagine it. Those were the things that kept you anchored to life. But maybe the major didn’t want to be anchored.
She scratched her scalp under her hat, and an image of Dora Van Ness’s pink-and-white bonnet flashed through her mind. It was foolish. The bonnet wasn’t anything more than a few pieces of lace and a trail of ribbons. Yet she couldn’t get it out of her mind. She kept imagining what she’d look like wearing it.
What was wrong with her? She pulled off her own battered hat and slammed it on the ground. Merlin looked up in surprise.
