Alice tried not to think too hard about the previous evening. She had once been told by her favorite aunt that the best way to get through life was not to dwell on things so she packed those events into a suitcase, and shoved it to the back of a mental cupboard, just as she had done with numerous suitcases before. There was no point lingering on the fact that Bennett had plainly gone drinking long after his baseball game had ended, returning to pass out on the daybed in the dressing room, from where she heard his convulsive snores until dawn. There was no point thinking too hard about the fact that it had now been more than six months, long enough for her to have to acknowledge that this might not be normal newlywed behavior. Like there was no point in thinking too hard that it was obvious neither of them had a clue how to discuss what was going on. Especially as she wasn’t even sure what was going on. Nothing in her life up to now had given her the vocabulary or the experience. And there was nobody in whom she could confide. Her mother thought conversation about any bodily matters—even the filing of nails—was vulgar.

Alice took a breath. No. Better to focus on the road ahead, the long, arduous day, with its books and its ledger entries, its horses and its lush green forests. Better not to think too hard about anything, but to ride long and hard, to focus diligently on her new task, on memorizing routes, jotting down addresses and names and sorting books so that by the time she returned home it was all she could do to stay awake long enough to eat dinner, take a long soak in the tub and, finally, fall fast asleep.

It was a routine, she acknowledged, that seemed to suit them both.

* * *

• • •

She’s here,” said Frederick Guisler, passing her on her way in. He tipped his hat, his eyes crinkling.

“Who?” She put down her lunch pail, and peered toward the window at the back.

“Miss Isabelle.” He picked up his jacket and headed for the door. “Lord knows, I doubt she’ll be riding the Kentucky Derby any time soon. There’s coffee brewing out back, Mrs. Van Cleve. I brought you some cream, given that’s how you seem to prefer it.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Guisler. I have to say I can’t drink it stewed black, like Margery. She can pretty much stand a spoon in hers.”

“Call me Fred. And, well, Margery does things her own way, as you know.” He nodded as he closed the door.

Alice tied a handkerchief around her neck to protect it from the sun and poured a mug of coffee, then walked around to the back where the horses were tethered in a small paddock. There she could see Margery bent double, holding Isabelle Brady’s knee as the younger girl clutched the saddle of a solid-looking bay horse. He stood immobile, his jaw working in a leisurely manner around a clump of grass, as if he had been there for some time.

“You’ve got to spring a little, Miss Isabelle,” Margery was saying, through gritted teeth. “If you can’t put your shoe in the stirrup then you’re going to have to bounce your way up. Just one, two, three, and hup!”

Nothing moved.

“Bounce!”

“I don’t bounce,” said Isabelle, crossly. “I’m not made of India rubber.”

“Just lean into me, then one, two, three, and spring your leg over. Come on. I’ve got you.”

Margery had a firm grip on Isabelle’s braced leg. But the girl seemed incapable of springing. Margery glanced up and noticed Alice. Her expression was deliberately blank.

“It’s no good,” the girl said, straightening. “I can’t do it. And it’s pointless to keep trying.”

“Well, it’s a heck of a long walk up those mountains, so you’re gonna have to work out how to get on him somehow.” Surreptitiously, Margery rubbed at the small of her back.

“I told Mother this was a bad idea. But she wouldn’t listen.” Isabelle saw Alice and that seemed to make her even crosser. She flushed, and the horse shifted. She yelped as it nearly stood on her foot, and stumbled in her effort to get out of the way. “Oh, you stupid animal!”

“Well, that’s a little rude,” Margery said. “Don’t listen, Patch.”

“I can’t get up. I don’t have the strength. This whole thing is ridiculous. I don’t know why my mother won’t listen to me. Why can’t I just stay in the cabin?”

“Because we need you out there delivering books.”

It was then that Alice noticed the tears in the corners of Isabelle Brady’s eyes, as if this were not just a tantrum but something that sprang from real anguish. The girl turned away, brushing at her face with a pale hand. Margery had seen them too—they exchanged a brief, awkward look. Margery rubbed at her elbows to get the dust from her shirt. Alice sipped her coffee. The sound of Patch’s chewing, regular and oblivious, was the only thing that broke the silence.

“Isabelle? Can I ask you a question?” said Alice, after a moment. “If you’re sitting, or only walking short distances, do you need to wear the brace?”

There was a sudden silence, as if the word had been verboten.

“What do you mean?”

Oh, I’ve done it again, thought Alice. But she was too far in now. “That leg brace. I mean, if we took it off, and your boots, you could wear—um—normal riding boots. You could mount on the other side of Patch here, using the other leg. And maybe just drop the books by the gates instead of climbing on and off, like we do. Or maybe if the walk isn’t too far it wouldn’t matter?”

Isabelle frowned. “But I—I don’t take off the brace. I’m supposed to wear it all day.”

Margery frowned, thinking. “You ain’t gonna be standing, though, right?”

“Well. No,” Isabelle said.

“You want me to see if we got some other boots?” Margery asked.

“You want me to wear another person’s boots?” said Isabelle, dubiously.

“Only till your ma buys you a fancy pair from Lexington.”

“What size are you? I have a spare pair,” said Alice.

“But even if I get on, my . . . Well, one leg is . . . It’s shorter. I won’t be balanced,” said Isabelle.

Margery grinned. “That’s why we got adjustable stirrup leathers. Most people round here ride half crooked anyway, drunk or no.”

Perhaps it was because Alice was British and had addressed Isabelle in the same clipped tones that she addressed the Van Cleves when she wanted something, or perhaps it was the novelty of being told she didn’t have to wear a brace, but an hour later Isabelle Brady sat astride Patch, her knuckles white as she gripped the reins, her body rigid with fear. “You’re not going to go fast, are you?” she said, her voice tremulous. “I really don’t want to go fast.”