When the stall door rattled open, he jumped. Darley shied, hitting the stall divider.

  Jarret, angry, exclaimed. “Miss Clay, you know better than to startle—”

  But then he took in her appearance: breathless, her cheeks red, hair damp. He stood, brushing the hay and shavings off.

  “Miss Clay?”

  “I saw your father, Jarret. He looked terrible. He told me you planned on sleeping out here and I came, I rode, I know—” She broke off. “We shouldn’t speak here.” She inclined her head to the stable door. “Outside.”

  She turned toward the door. Jarret followed her slight figure up the aisle. A boy was sponging the foam off her mare. The girl herself had sweated right through her jacket.

  “You ought not ride so hard through the town, Miss Clay,” Jarret observed.

  “Don’t you tell me what I ought and ought not do,” she hissed. “Not when you have it in mind to do something far more reckless.” She walked on quickly till they were alone in the tack room. She pulled the door shut and wheeled around. “They can kill you; you know that.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t you dare give me that slack-jaw face. I know you are thinking to ride that horse off tonight.”

  “No, miss. No such thing.”

  “Really?” She turned to the saddle rack and laid her hand on Darley’s racing saddle. She reached into the pocket that was supposed to contain the lead weights of his handicap. She pulled out a fistful of grain. “You won’t make it to the river.”

  “How far is the river?” There, he’d said it.

  Mary Barr compressed her lips. “Eighty miles, on the turnpike. But you can’t take the pike.”

  “I can if you write me a pass. Say you is Marse Warfield and I got to take his horse to Cincinnati.”

  “Jarret—”

  “You know it ain’t right, Miss Clay. You know this colt was my pa’s rightful wages. Just because we went on ahead and made something special of him don’t give them the right to just up and take him.”

  “I know that. But they won’t see it that way. They’ll see stolen property, a runaway slave. You could die.”

  “Miss Clay.” Jarret dropped his voice. “I might as well be dead, if this”—he lifted both hands, palms upward, in a wide, all-encompassing shrug—“if this is how living gone be.”

  The afternoon was waning when Jarret led Darley out of the barn, mounted up, and turned toward the track. Mary Barr watched him until they reached the backstretch. Then she ambled over to the gate of the colts’ grazing pasture and raised the latch. No one could see the handful of grain she held in her fist, but the colts smelled it. Three of them rushed the gate. Mary Barr pretended to stumble and the gate flew open. She cried out for help, and the grooms came running. In the confusion, with every eye on the loose colts, Jarret asked Darley to jump the rail, and then he asked for a gallop.

  He prayed that no one saw them go.

  MARY BARR CLAY

  Cassius Marcellus Clay House, Lexington, Kentucky

  1853

  Mary Barr handed her mare to the groom and turned to the rear entrance of the town house. She was sweaty, dusty, and trembling.

  “Miss Clay, you ill?” the cook exclaimed. “You do look a fright!”

  “I know it, Ester. I’m not ill. It’s just—nothing. A little bit ill, perhaps. Can you send some hot water to my room, please? I’m going up to change. I don’t want Mama to see me like this.”

  “No need to worry ’bout that, Miss Clay. Your Mama dining at the Meadows tonight.” Ester dropped her voice. “Your Papa in town.”

  “Here? Now? In the house?” Mary Barr was dismayed. She had hoped to avoid her mother but avoiding her father was a necessity. She could barely keep her composure around him in normal circumstances.

  “Ester, please tell him I’m ill and won’t be dining down.”

  “I don’t know ’bout that, Miss Clay. He won’t like it. He say he expecting you. He asked me to make the pie you like.”

  “Tell him, nevertheless,” she said. “I’ll take the back stairs.” Ester moved aside to let the girl pass through the narrow doorway that led to the servants’ staircase. On the top step, she stopped and removed her riding boots, gliding across the landing in her stocking feet, avoiding the loose board that creaked. In her room, she closed the door behind her and breathed out.

  When the knock came a few minutes later, she thought it was Ester with the pitcher of warm water.

  “Come,” she said.

  Cassius Clay opened the door. “They said you were ill—I came to see . . .” His concerned expression changed as he took in Mary Barr’s dusty, sweat-stained clothing, her matted hair and high color.

  “Great heavens, child. What have you been doing?”

  “Nothing, Papa. Only riding. I—I took a tumble in the dust is all. I thought you were the maid with water for the basin. I’m really not presentable now. I’m sorry for you to see me in this state.” The words tumbled out in a breathy rush. Clay’s frown deepened.

  “Where were you riding? With whom?”

  “I rode alone. Just from the Meadows to the Association track. I wanted to see how the horse was recovering from the race yesterday. It was very exciting, Papa, you should have—”

  “You were with that boy again—that son of the trainer?” His tone was jussive. Mary Barr’s pulse began to race.

  “I wasn’t with him, that is to say—”

  “Mary Barr. Did that boy attempt anything on your person? Did you have to struggle against him? Is that why you look as you do?”

  “Of course not! Nothing of that kind. I—”

  “You are lying to me. I can see it in your face. You can’t even look me in the eye.”

  He stepped toward her and raised her chin. “Look at me, child.”

  With immense effort, she drew her eyes up from the floral pattern on the Turkish carpet. But she could not withstand her father’s gaze and turned her head away from him.

  “I ask you again. Do not try to protect him. What did he do to you?”

  She was in tears now. “He did nothing to me. It was I. I did something to him, and now I fear he will likely die of it.”

  Clay’s voice softened. “Tell me.”

  Mary Barr poured out the story as her father stood saying nothing. He handed her his folded handkerchief.

  “You know my views on slavery, I trust. You also know I am in favor of legal and negotiated emancipation, not your abolitionists’ underground railroads. But I cannot say you did wrong. Indeed, you acted bravely. But you are right to fear the consequences for that boy. They could be mortal. Getting to the river with your false pass—he may do it. He may even get across. But he won’t be safe in Cincinnati, or indeed anywhere in Ohio. And he’ll be conspicuous. Every person who sees them will take note of it. Every backwoods oaf who has never seen such a statuesque stallion and never will again; every garrulous townsman—” Clay paced to the window, running a hand through the thick fall of his hair. He stood, eyes unfocused, gazing into the street. Then he turned and nodded decisively.

  “Since this is your responsibility, you must help me to rectify it. We shall have to ride out now and see if we can catch up with him ourselves. If I go alone he will flee from me, and on that horse I am entirely certain he would outride me. That will not do. There is nothing else for it. I will need you to ride with me to persuade him that he is safe. It’s possible—barely—that if we overtake him swiftly we can cover the whole matter up. But we must go at once. Where are your boots? Get them on.”

  In the carriage house, Clay cursed when he saw that Stellamaris had already been given her grain. “You can’t ride her on a full stomach,” he muttered. “You’ll have to take Ryolite.” Ryolite was a speckled thoroughbred, as tough and fiery as the volcanic stone he was named for. He had been Clay’s chief mount till the Mexican War, when he’d been required to buy a cavalry-trained horse named Marquis. As he mounted Marquis, Mary Barr caught sight of a pistol at his waist. Under his coat, she knew that there was, as always, a Bowie knife strapped to his back.

  The horse pranced under her slight weight, unwilling at first to yield to her. She shortened the reins and urged him forward, keeping the pressure on until she felt his response. It was twilight as they set out, the last birds caroling a hectic chorus. The heavy rains had left the air rinsed and cool.

  When they reached the turnpike, Clay urged Marquis to a canter, and Ryolite followed. They were free of the town within minutes, and in an hour the farms had become widely separated, their rolling meadows giving way to acres of woodland.

  The last of the light was draining quickly in the western sky. Clay slowed his horse to a walk and waited for Mary Barr to draw abreast of him. “Since the boy is intelligent, I am assuming he will have stayed off the turnpike while the light lasted, so even though he had almost a full hour’s start on us, his going will have been slower. I’d be surprised if he pressed the horse hard. He would keep something in reserve in case of pursuit. I judge that our best chance is to press on, if you feel able, so that we may get ahead of him and intercept him in that way.” Mary Barr nodded, but her father noticed her strained expression. “Do not overtax your strength,” he said. “If you need to take a rest, we can do so.”

  “No, Father. As you say, our best chance is to press on.”

  They rode for another half hour before passing through a small township. Just beyond the outskirts, Clay halted again at a small track leading off through the woods. He slid out of the saddle, then handed Mary Barr down. “Here is where we’ll catch him up, I believe,” he said. “My best guess is that the boy will have made use of the turnpike once it turned dark. But he will avoid the townships. This track is most likely the one he would use to rejoin the road, since it bypasses the settlement. I say we wait here. We’ll know soon enough if we’ve judged his mind correctly. You will stay by the track in plain sight and call to him. I will take my horse into the woods so as not to alarm him. We’ll have to hope he halts for you and that he listens to reason.” Clay led his horse into the shadows while Mary Barr sat down on a log, straining her eyes and ears for any sign of movement on the track. The log was damp from the rains and within minutes her riding dress was soaked through. She was cold, exhausted, and scared. Was he worth it, she wondered, this reckless, angry boy? Why could he not just know his place as others seemed to do?

  She heard a swoosh of wings: an owl passing, close and silent. Then the cry of a small animal, quickly stifled. The strong and the weak, she thought. Predator, prey. Nature’s way. God’s way. Even the Bible patriarchs had slaves. Who is Jarret to stand against it in this headstrong fashion, when even his own father, who is most injured in the business, accepts it? Why should she sit and shiver in the dark on his account?

  She pulled off her gloves and worried at a broken fingernail. Her father; there was another puzzle. Why had he made it his business to intervene in such a dramatic way? To protect her, she supposed, since she had written the pass and assisted Jarret’s escape. Or perhaps he acted out of animus to her grandfather—surely relations had grown strained over the last few years—anyone could see the rift between them widening.

  The agitation of these thoughts was the goad that kept her wakeful despite a fatigue that weighed on her limbs. The moon rose, marking the slow course of an hour. Her fretting came to an abrupt halt when she heard hoofbeats on the macadam. Someone was coming, but on the pike, not the track. Two horses, not one, and the squeal of metal carriage wheels. She gathered up the reins and dragged her horse quickly back into the trees. Her father placed a hand on her shoulder. The carriage drew closer. Two grays, their light coats gleaming in the dark. She drew a breath.

  “Ten Broeck!” She looked up at her father, her face pale. The carriage slowed. Ten Broeck pulled the horses up to a halt. He must have seen them. Mary Barr felt tears spring to her eyes. They wouldn’t save Jarret now, with this man on his trail. And swift as the thought, the sudden realization that it mattered to her a great deal.

  But Ten Broeck was not looking in their direction. He shook the reins gently and urged his horses forward at the walk. She heard the scraping of a flint and blinked at a sudden flare of light. Ten Broeck adjusted the wick of his lantern and held it up, inspecting the intersection of the pike and the track.

  “Damnation,” whispered Clay. “He is thinking the same as I am. He intends to wait for the boy right here.” Marquis whinnied, challenging the strange horses. Ten Broeck turned. Clay stepped out of the woods and raised a hand in greeting. “Good evening, sir. We are not yet acquainted, but I believe you know my daughter, Mary Barr.” Clay inclined his head, indicating that she should step forward.

  “Indeed, Mr. Clay,” said Ten Broeck, offering a slight bow. “This is an odd place to make a new acquaintance, but I confess I welcome the opportunity to know you, having heard so much of your courage in the recent war, and in the duello.”

  “Exaggerations, I am sure of it. Any man would do the same, who values his life, and his honor.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. I should like the leisure to discuss it with you sometime. But this, as you will agree, is not the time, not the place.” Ten Broeck lifted his lantern and studied the disheveled, shivering Mary Barr. “Surely, your daughter is not well, sir. One wonders why you might subject her to a night ride in these inclement conditions.”

  “My daughter, sir, is my own affair.” Mary Barr knew that edge in her father’s voice. She feared it.

  Ten Broeck bowed again. “I do not suggest otherwise. And I am sure your business is pressing. As is my own. Perhaps,” and he paused, “our business is the same.”

  Clay did not reply, but Mary Barr saw his hand drift to the butt of his pistol.

  Ten Broeck saw it, too, but he went on in the same low, measured tone. “Perhaps we might profitably join forces and increase our chances of success.”

  “Even if what you say is true, which I do not grant, I doubt our idea of success would be the same.”

  “Would it not? Perhaps you misjudge me, and I do not blame you, since we are not acquainted. If I were to say that I hope to spare two young persons the consequences of rash action, perhaps you might soften your view of me. Oh yes. I know quite well why your daughter is here. I learned long ago never to make a substantial investment without taking steps to secure it. I have had eyes on that colt from the moment I decided to buy it. Those eyes saw her forge a pass for the boy and witnessed her aid his escape.”

  Mary Barr gasped. Her father’s grim look hushed her.

  “It seems, Mr. Clay, that your daughter takes after you, in conviction and boldness. I have read your newspaper, and I am not out of sympathy with its views. I have not lived so long in the south as to forget the free-labor virtues of the north.”

  “Then you will let the boy go?”

  “I did not say so.”

  “Then I fear we are at odds after all.” Clay eased the pistol half out of the holster. “Please step down.”

  Ten Broeck didn’t move. He spoke even more quietly. “I do not intend, as you say, to ‘let him go.’ I intend to have him come, with me, to continue to care for and train that horse he loves so much as to risk his life. I will buy him from Warfield.”

  “But his father plans to buy him,” Mary Barr blurted.

  “His father can’t offer such a sum as I. Neither can he put the boy in the way of such experience as I will provide. At Metairie, he can rise in his craft. If he does so, I will allow him to buy his own freedom in due time. And if Dr. Warfield accepts my offer, as I have no doubt he will, nothing more need be said of this night’s foolishness.”

  “And there will be no consequences for the boy? You must assure me there will be no flogging or the like barbarity.”

  “I do so assure you. You may also like to know that while I employ the slaves of other men for various tasks, I do not generally own them. I will do so now only for the boy’s welfare, as I propose to bring him to Natchez, and they are generally hostile to free Negroes in Mississippi, as I’m sure you are aware. My present plan is to establish the horse for training for some months at the plantation of Colonel Adam Bingaman. You are acquainted, I believe; he was first in his class at Harvard and is in the party of your uncle, indeed, he is one of his chief supporters in the Mississippi legislature. His trainer, John Pryor, is, I think, the finest presently working in that profession. He will take charge of the horse’s preparation for the Post Stakes, and the boy will be a valuable assistant to him.”

  “I believe, I hope, you are a man of your word, Mr. Ten Broeck,” said Clay. He let the pistol fall back into its place. “My daughter and I stand ready to assist you.”

  “Father, I . . .”

  “Hush, child. You are too young to remember Delia Webster, perhaps, but the fine citizens of Lexington sent her to rot in prison for helping runaways, and I’ve no doubt they would do the same to you, to spite me, if given the chance. You have nothing more to say in this business, except the words that will help that foolish boy see his best interest.”

  “But they stole his horse!”

  Clay sighed. “Child. Slaves may not own property, so how in this world could it ever be his horse? Negroes cannot race a horse, so how can his father claim ownership of a horse that just now won an important race? And young women cannot engage in wild escapades without the direst consequences. That is the world as it is. If you do not like it, join me in attempting to change it. Otherwise, keep your peace. Mr. Ten Broeck is being more than reasonable here.”