Jarret didn’t understand the words, nor, at first, the outstretched hand Jacques extended. Did he expect Jarret to hand him the lead rope? That would be unwise, in this crowd. Then, to Jarret’s complete astonishment, the man grasped his hand and pulled him into an embrace, kissing the air on either side of his head. “Bienvenue—welcome in New Orleans. M’seiur Rishar wishes that you to come first to ’is ’ome in ze city, and après, we go to Metairie, where you will live, n’est-ce pas?”

  Ten Broeck’s town house was a handsome structure of claret-colored brick with three tall, shuttered doors opening onto a narrow verandah trimmed with iron lace. The carriage house behind was cramped, but well provisioned. Lexington was restive in this new stable, so Jarret took up grooming tools and set about a calming rubdown. Ten Broeck emerged from the house then, greeting him as he strode across the narrow courtyard. “Lead him out for me, will you please, Jarret?”

  Jarret brought the horse out into the courtyard. Ten Broeck walked around him. “You’ve done well,” he said. “To keep him in such fair condition after a severe colic. I am indebted.”

  “He’s well enough, but he ain’t fit for racing. Not so soon. You said he wouldn’t be raced for near on a year.”

  “That is what I said, and what I intended. But I have such an opportunity that I may not refuse it. It’s a matter of honor, in fact.”

  “No honor in pushing a horse who ain’t fit,” Jarret blurted.

  Ten Broeck slowly drew his gaze from Lexington and fixed it on Jarret. He flinched under the force of it. Yet he would speak, since the horse couldn’t.

  “No honor, and no profit, neither, if he gone get beat.”

  Ten Broeck’s frown deepened. He clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his head. Jarret could not go back, so he plunged forward. “He ain’t never been trained to run three-mile heats. And that filly a full year older and raced all season. It’s too much to ask of him, coming off a colic.”

  Ten Broeck’s gaze was hard as basalt. Jarret struggled to meet it. He would not, could not, break and look away. In the pregnant silence, the only sound was the ring of the horse’s hoof as he stamped on the cobbles, trying to dislodge a fly.

  “You do not varnish your sentiment.”

  “Nossir.”

  Ten Broeck drew a linen square from his pocket and dabbed his brow. Jarret felt his own sweat—from the warming morning, but also from fear—dripping down his face.

  “An uncommonly blunt young man. I could take a vast exception.” He paused. Jarret clenched his hand on the lead rope, so Ten Broeck wouldn’t see that it trembled.

  “I could. But I don’t. In fact, I am glad of this want of tact. I value your candor. Nevertheless, the horse will race. And since you are frank with me, I will do you the like courtesy. Mr. Louis Smith, of Alabama, offered to buy Lexington from Dr. Warfield shortly before Willa Viley and I made our offer. Mr. Smith was offended in the extreme that his prior bid was rejected and ours accepted. He was so ungentlemanly as to speak behind my back of some kind of corrupt dealing. I began to think I might be obliged to call him out, a prospect I did not relish. Unlike the hotheaded son-in-law of your former owner, I am no adherent to the code duello.

  “Fortunately, he has provided another way to resolve the matter. In his animosity, he has proposed what I believe is a very unwise wager. A match race against his Sallie Waters filly in which he will put up five thousand dollars to my thirty-five hundred. Those are rich odds, I’m sure you will agree. Since this city is not above rejoicing in a grudge match, I also expect to do very well off the gate at my racecourse, whatever the outcome on the track. And there is another element, beyond money. Smith’s filly beat my Arrow, another son of Boston. It was an extremely narrow win and I intend to have satisfaction for it. It will be three-mile heats, yes, but only two such races. I saw your horse break the start and run two miles at the Phoenix, then cool out in less than five minutes—yes, I timed it—and go on to distance some of the best three-year-old thoroughbreds in the country. I don’t see that Lexington will be overtaxed. We do have a week yet to condition him, after all. I will be glad to have your opinion on how we might best proceed with this. You may set out your thinking for me when we ride to Metairie in the cool of this evening. In the meantime, you may like to walk about the city—” Jarret grimaced. Hadn’t Jack called the place a Gomorrah? Ten Broeck noted his expression and smiled. “I recall: you said that you are not one for towns. You will see something of it this evening in any case, when we ride out. Till then, do take your rest in the grooms’ quarters—I have asked that a pallet be made available to you—and avail yourself of some nourishment. I hired my chef away from a family of Creole aristos, who were most put out with me. He is a fin gourmet, very talented, I think. I have asked him to set aside some of what he has prepared for my own dinner, since you may like to try the local cuisine.”

  Ten Broeck turned and strode to the house. Jarret stood staring at his retreating back. The man was a bafflement. “Take his rest” in the middle of a working day, with the sun full up? Offered food prepared by the chef, rather than a piece of fatback handed him by a scullery maid? Life had taken a strange swerve, seemingly.

  And yet, after he had seen to Lexington’s hay and water, there was nothing he could do other than be in the way of those sweeping the courtyard, pumping water from the wellhead, or tending to a tidy garden of culinary herbs. He was, he realized, hungry, so he approached the kitchen door and knocked shyly.

  An elderly maid, her hair tied up in an elaborate lace rigolette that matched the cuffs on her linen blouse, waved him in and indicated a place already set for him at a scrubbed deal table. She ladled a fragrant stew into a ceramic bowl and set it before him with a smile and a “Bon appétit.” When Jarret plied his spoon in the steaming gravy, he could recognize neither the meat nor the vegetables. Still, the aroma was enticing, so he downed slippery oysters, tender crawfish, and glutinous okra. He found it delicious even as his mouth tingled from unfamiliar spices.

  He walked back to the grooms’ quarters. His plan was to keep out of everyone’s way, and it seemed like the best place to do that. He would keep to his resolution and practice his reading. He had no intention of falling asleep, but his full belly and the unsettled night gathered all together and descended on him. He did not feel the Bible slip from his hand.

  Ten Broeck’s voice seemed to come from far away, muffled, like someone calling from the shore to a swimmer underwater. Jarret came to the surface from one of the deepest slumbers he could remember. The light had waned. It was late afternoon. He sprang to his feet, wiping a thread of drool from his mouth. What must the man think of him? He was mortified.

  But Ten Broeck seemed entirely untroubled. “Good nap?” he said. “You’ll feel the benefit of it later.” He picked up the Bible from where it had fallen. “I was glad to learn of your interest in becoming a lettered man. I myself was schooled by a stern Hollander devoted to the birch more than the book. These are skills that will avail you. It was a good use of your time, since things with Pryor did not go as I had expected. Entirely my fault. The barber, Johnson, tried to warn me. Had I listened, you and the horse might have been spared something. Ah well.” He flipped the Bible pages idly. “Not much for Scripture, myself. Prefer the pagans. The Greeks and Romans have some wonderful tales with a good deal more lovemaking than the Hebrews. I will try to find you something less edifying and more entertaining on which to hone your abilities. The groom has already tacked up for you. It’s just three miles, a nice leg stretch for the horse, I think. Shall we go?”

  They rode together through the narrow streets. It was slow going, picking between pedestrians and hawkers with handcarts. The city had a mood quite different from Natchez, mellower, and yet more intense than the quiet precincts of Lexington, which seemed to Jarret like a village compared with this teeming, heaving place. Everywhere, there was commerce. From a makeshift stand, a man with a strange accent hawked oranges, which Jarret had seen before, and bananas, which he had not. Nearby, a woman ran a coffee stall, the aroma of her roasting beans sharp in the heavy air. Canals carved their way between the streets and children dropped lines into the ditches. From a store selling only birds, a cacophony of parrot shrieks. Women with trays balanced on their heads called out their wares, figs nestled in fig leaves or pralines fragrant with burned brown sugar.

  They passed by a large storefront, advertising men’s apparel. A group of well-dressed Black men stood in a tight cluster. As they drew closer, Jarret realized the men were chained, a coffle of the enslaved being dressed up for the auction block. “They’ll have those clothes off their backs again as soon as the hammer falls,” Ten Broeck said, clicking his tongue and urging his horse to a trot.

  At last they turned onto a wide, elevated road, its broad, pale surface crusted with pulverized oyster shells that gleamed in the low afternoon light. The shell road ran between swamps bright with iris and deep green palmetto. Ten Broeck encouraged his horse to a canter and Lexington cocked an ear back to ask permission. Jarret brushed his heel in answer, and Lexington flowed into his liquid, rocking-horse gait.

  Very soon, the massive grandstand of Metairie rose in the distance. Jarret marveled at the magnificence of the structure. At the gate, the attendant bowed to Ten Broeck. He waved in acknowledgment. “This is Jarret, from Kentucky, my new deputy trainer,” he said. “He is to come and go as he pleases. Offer him all assistance.”

  Deputy trainer. Jarret’s surprise to learn of this sudden promotion was such that he accidentally gave a check to the reins. Lexington stopped midstride, waiting for the next instruction. Ten Broeck, thinking Jarret had halted to take in the scene, pulled up. He rose in his stirrups, surveying his creation. “See the Ladies’ Pavilion? I’m quite proud of that. Entirely my idea. Previously, the Creole demoiselles were not allowed to attend the races. The aristocratic mères did not think it a suitable entertainment for young ladies. But I put down carpet, velvet chairs, silken drapes, and mirrored walls, and now tout le monde is happy to come here. Many a fine pair of kid gloves has been wagered in that pavilion.” As they paused, a string of laborers passed in front of their horses, pushing barrows. Ten Broeck acknowledged the men with a wave. “They have been spading sand into the soil of the track. I do that before each big race. Makes for a lively footing. Our times here have been remarkable. I had to redesign the entire track. Used to be impossible to see the horses for half the race—they might as well have been running in the next parish. Let’s go on. I’ll introduce you to Henri Meichon, the jockey, and then one of the grooms will show you the stables, and where you are to stay. The farrier is to come in the morning, to fit racing plates.”

  The young jockey waited for them near the backstretch, shifting his slight frame from foot to foot. His eyes widened as he regarded Lexington, and his tense little face eased into an awestruck grin. “Creole,” muttered Ten Broeck. “Talented, lot of heart on the track, little confidence off it. Not much experience. He will rely on your instruction.” Dismounting, Ten Broeck, who was not a tall man, loomed over the tiny jockey.

  “Good evening to you, Henri. I trust we did not keep you too late? I know you have an early start, and your maman will not thank me for keeping you from her good cuisine and your well-earned bed. This is my horse I told you about. You will note that I did not exaggerate his qualities. I confidently expect you to ride him to victory for me in Friday’s match race. And this,” he said, “is my Jarret. He knows the horse. Follow his advice in every particular, as if his instructions were my own.”

  As a groom led Jarret and Lexington into the large, airy barn—everything at Metairie had been rebuilt since Ten Broeck bought it—Jarret tried to ignore the dissonant clanging of Ten Broeck’s words. My horse. My Jarret. New grandstands, new barns—did the man just buy up everything he wanted in this world? Jarret wondered how it could be possible to have so much, just from gambling on cards and horses. If a man could win all this, then maybe he could lose it. What if he decided to wager Lexington away, or the two of them? They were his property, just like the barn.

  Lexington’s stall was ready for him, his name already engraved on a brass plate, the bedding laid thick and the manger filled with fresh hay. There was a bunk room for the grooms in a shed row against the stables. But when Jarret, having seen to the horse, began heading that way, the boy took his sleeve and shook his head. “Trainers live up yonder,” he said, indicating the ladder to the hayloft. At either end of the large loft was a room. Jarret’s box had already been placed at the foot of the bed in one of these. It was spacious and whitewashed, with a window overlooking the track and the bayou beyond. There was a table and chair, a washstand with a porcelain bowl and pitcher, and a bed covered in a quilt with patterning he recognized as flying geese from one that Beth had made for Harry not long after their wedding. On the table was a newspaper. When the groom left, Jarret picked it up and sounded out the words of the masthead: Turf, Field and Farm. He recognized the name. It was the journal that the painter Scott sometimes wrote for. Ten Broeck must have arranged for it to be put there: perhaps this was the kind of less edifying reading he had promised.

  Jarret sat down gingerly on the bed. A real mattress, not a shakedown. He fingered the quilt. The pieces were made from striped work shirts of the kind his father used to wear. Jarret wondered what Harry would think if the distance between them collapsed and he could see his son in this fine room. “I might be Ten Broeck’s Jarret,” he murmured to himself. “But I sure is high come up.”

  In the morning, the sun rose pale as a pearl. The bayou mist bloused over the paddocks. As Jarret gazed out the window, it seemed to him that the horses were suspended on clouds.

  The farrier arrived with the sun—a hatchet-faced Irishman whose skinny arms and bony knees hardly fit him for his trade. With his scarred leather apron flapping against thin shins, he seemed dwarfed by the bulk of the horse. But he lifted and stretched each leg with an effortless confidence, and under his hand Lexington relaxed into a sleepy trance. Body bowed, hoof held secure between his thighs, the farrier prised off a worn shoe with a flick, sending it ringing on the flagstones. Then he worked the rasp over the horn of the hoof, exposing gleaming whiteness. With deft taps of his mallet, he secured the thin racing plate and nipped off the nail tips. Lexington stood loose in his skin, his head drooping as the farrier asked for each hoof. When the man was done, he ran his hand through the silky mane, murmuring, “There’s a good lad.”

  Jarret wanted to work Lexington a little before the young jockey arrived, so he saddled him up and led him out onto the racecourse. He had meant to go easy, a gentle canter, but Lexington liked the unfamiliar springy track and Jarret could feel the urge for speed as he lengthened his stride. That power and willingness reassured Jarret. Perhaps he might be ready for race day after all.

  When Meichon arrived, Jarret slid off and threw the boy up in his place. Lexington quivered at the unexpected lightness. Jarret wanted to see what the boy could do on his own before offering instruction, but he noticed that Meichon’s hands shook as he bridged his reins. As the horse cantered out and accelerated, the boy sat low and stiff, deep in the saddle. “He’s ’fraid,” Jarret thought to himself. “That ain’t good. Where’s that heart Ten Broeck say he got?”

  After a couple of lengths, Jarret signaled Meichon to the rail. “One thing you got to know: this horse wants to win. All you got to do is let him. Get on up off of his back, especially at the start. Find your own balance and let him do his work. Way you sit now, you get in his way. He likes to stretch way out—low and flat. But he can’t do that if you is sitting down on him like a pile of bricks. He can’t get his hind end to work. Get on up out of the saddle—yes, that’s it—just like that. Now go. Show me.”

  By the second day’s training, Henri had begun to get used to the new posture. Jarret was watching, pleased, when Ten Broeck materialized at his side. “You’ve turned my little Frenchman into a monkey,” he said. “Ungainly look. But no matter how it looks. They don’t wager on who is most elegant in the saddle.”

  Rain set in that night, and by morning the track was a mire. Lexington didn’t care. He was gaining strength and stamina every day. He flew through the muck, sending spouts of water shooting from the sodden soil. It was still raining on the last day of training. Jarret called for only light work, for which Meichon, muddy and miserable, was grateful.

  The rain eased off by sunrise on Friday, and Ten Broeck ordered a battalion of workers out to shovel water from the track, press down the divots, and drag the entire course with hessian sacking to soak up as much liquid as possible. “Lexington is a mudder, we know that, but I won’t have Smith say I neglected the track in order to favor my own horse.”

  Carriages began arriving midmorning and risked bogging to the axles to find a good vantage in the infield. Ladies, the fine fabrics of their frocks hitched as high as was seemly, picked a precarious way across a hastily laid boardwalk to the well-appointed shelter of their pavilion. As the race hour approached, Jarret made his way among the crowd, trying to get a sense of the betting. All the money was on Smith’s mare, Sallie Waters. The bettors knew her. She had been campaigned with great success all season. Just twelve days earlier, she’d easily won a two-mile heat race. The odds were 2 to 1 against this unknown, inexperienced Kentucky stallion. As far as Jarret could tell from the overheard gossip, only Ten Broeck and a few of his intimates had anything on Lexington at all.

  At first, Jarret did not want to entertain the notion. But it would not leave his mind. Two to one. He pushed through the crowd back to the barn to groom Lexington for the race. When he was done, he stood in front of the horse, nose to nose. He didn’t generally stand there—a horse’s peripheral vision fails to encompass that spot—but he felt compelled to look Lexington in the face, being to being. In his mind, he posed the question: “Can you do it?” The horse twitched his ears forward, arched his strong neck, and inclined his head, as if to nod yes. Then he turned his head sideways, regarding Jarret with an eye whose expression clearly said, “Why ask? You know I can.”