Jarret reached up and gently tugged one soft ear and then the other. The young jockey arrived, pale with nerves. Jarret handed him the brushes, even though the horse already gleamed. But nothing settled a man’s spirits as well as brushing a horse, he reckoned. He took a hoof-pick from the peg on the wall and climbed the ladder to his quarters. From his box, he drew out the yellow vest. Working the hoof-pick gently under the stitching, he slit the seam and drew out the banknotes: seven hundred and fifty dollars. At 2 to 1, by the end of the day that could be one thousand five hundred dollars. The price Ten Broeck had paid for him. The price, perhaps, that could set him free.

  He hurried back outside and plunged again into the crowd, which had thickened. He looked around for someone who might take his wager. All kinds of bets were being proposed: bales of cotton, hogsheads of molasses. Jarret sidled past the men wagering the produce of their plantations. He would not find a taker for a cash bet here. One man stood in his carriage, crying up the stakes for his own wager. “Prime field hands, healthy young bucks . . .” Two youths—Jarret’s own age—stood beside the carriage, ankle deep in mud. They gazed ahead, rheumy-eyed and miserable, as the crowd swirled carelessly around them.

  Jarret stared at the young men, their rounded shoulders, their blank faces. At that moment, one of the youths turned and looked at him. Jarret held his gaze for as long as he could stand it. Then he plunged on.

  Before the cotton fields, he would have averted his eyes and passed them by. Now, he knew how easily it could have been him standing helpless in that mud. If his mother had been sold south, if Harry hadn’t persuaded Dr. Warfield to bring him to the Meadows when she died—a thousand chances had to fall into his hands to put him out of the reach of a man who would bet his life away at a racetrack.

  His hand tightened on the dollars in his pocket. How could he think to make a bet with men such as those? He must have been mad to even consider it. People like him were the stakes, not the stakeholders. Which of these men would take seven hundred and fifty dollars from him and not accuse him of stealing it? Even if they did accept the bet, how could he expect that they would pay out, if he won, and not plunder him? Their code of so-called honor did not extend to the likes of him. It was an entire risk. There was no one he could trust. No one he even knew, except for Henri Meichon and Richard Ten Broeck. And what did he really know of them?

  Time was short. He had to be with Lexington. Heartsick, he began to make his way back to the stables. He was almost there when he heard a familiar voice call his name. He turned to see the painter, Scott, making his way toward him.

  “Jarret! I was looking for you. I’m writing up the race for the Turf. Can I meet the young jockey? Will you take me to him?”

  Jarret nodded. “He’s in the stall with the horse. I can take you. But first—can you do something for me?”

  “What is it?”

  Jarret reached inside his jacket and pulled out the notes. Scott looked amazed, then concerned, as Jarret spilled out the history of the money and his intention.

  “Jarret—no. I was just over with that filly. I tell you, when they stripped her blanket, everyone in the stable marveled at her form—she’s a beautiful-made horse and in prime condition. They all say Darley—I mean Lex—isn’t ready. The smart money is all on Sallie. That’s a fortune you have there . . . it’s not wise.”

  “I don’t care if it’s wise or not wise. I need to do it. Please. You’re the only hope I got.”

  Scott stared past Jarret and shook his head slowly. “I don’t know if I should.”

  Jarret, desperate, raised his voice. “I ain’t got time here. I got to get back to the horse. Do this for me. I’m begging you.”

  Scott reached out and took the money. Jarret turned and ran to the stable. Scott looked down at the thick wad of bills in his hand, then reached into his own threadbare jacket and recovered a few rumpled notes and some coin and made his way to find someone who would be glad to take this foolish wager.

  As Jarret ponied Meichon to the starting wire, he didn’t hazard a glance at Sallie Waters. He could sense the energy of her, the blur of strutting, prancing movement as she tried to pull free of her own accompanying pony. But he did not turn his head to look directly. He could not afford to lose faith, in case Lexington sensed it.

  When it came time to let Meichon go on alone to the starting wire, the boy was all atremble. “Don’t you worry. Just remember, he wants to win. You just got to let him do it.” Meichon nodded.

  The two horses plunged and turned and finally came level. The steward dropped his hand, signaling the drummer, who tapped the start. Sallie made a dash to take the track. Lexington, exhilarated by her challenge, sprang forward. The two horses matched each other stride for long, swift stride. Wet earth and sand flew up from the track, spattering the jockeys’ vivid silks till horses and riders were a brown blur of mud and muscle. As they lapped to the stand, the time was a swift 2:12, remarkable in the deep mud. In the second mile, Lexington began to pull ahead. He was two lengths in front as they passed the stand a second time. The clock disclosed that Lexington had actually increased his pace, to cover the second mile in 2:10. Sallie was laboring now. The jockey plied the spur and whip unmercifully on the struggling mare, though any practiced eye could see the heat was lost. Lexington loped home an easy winner.

  Jarret rushed up to take the horse. Meichon’s French family clustered around him. Two of his brothers—strapping lads, unlike their tiny sibling—plucked him from the saddle and hoisted him onto their shoulders.

  “Attention!” cried Ten Broeck amiably. “Il a une autre course! Ne le laisse pas tomber!”

  Jarret walked the hot horse past the astonished crowd, many of whom, noting the ease of his breathing and the swiftness with which he cooled out, rushed to make new wagers. By the time of the next heat, the money was 100 to 10 in Lexington’s favor.

  This time Jarret did take the opportunity to look carefully at Sallie as she came up to the start. She was a magnificent mare, perfectly proportioned and beautifully muscled. But she was exhausted. Her head drooped. The jockey was plying the spur just to get her up to the line. “That ain’t right,” Jarret said out loud. “Where’s her owner? Why don’t he scratch her—save her for another day. Any fool can see she sure ain’t winning today.” But Jarret didn’t know what Smith looked like. He scanned the crowd for Ten Broeck. He caught sight of him by the rail, surrounded by admirers, deep in conversation. Jarret called out, but the crowd noise was too much. He couldn’t get his attention.

  “Henri, you good?” he said. Meichon nodded, no longer trembling but confident and resolved. Jarret let him have the reins and headed toward the rail. Ten Broeck turned to him, smiling with anticipation. But when he saw the concern etched on Jarret’s face, his expression became grim. “What is it? Is something wrong with the horse?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd.

  “Not ours, he’s fine. It’s that filly. She looks bad. I think she’s like to founder. They should scratch her.”

  Ten Broeck gazed in the direction of the filly. He frowned. “I think you’re right.” Then his face hardened. He shrugged. “That’s Smith’s business. If he wants to hand me the winnings, so be it.”

  “But it ain’t—” Jarret didn’t get to finish. At that moment, Sallie’s jockey finally dragged his reluctant mount level with Lexington under the wire. The steward’s hand fell, the drum tapped.

  Within less than a minute, what Jarret had seen was clear to everyone. Lexington flew ahead. Soon, he was running alone, even though Sallie’s jockey flogged and spurred her till her flanks ran red. Meichon, perched high on Lexington’s back, rode hands down for two miles of the three-mile race. Without his jockey asking for effort, and without competition from his distanced rival, the horse pushed himself, running for the joy of it. He made the muddy three miles in 6:24:5—just one second longer than the first heat.

  Lexington strutted from the track amid cries that this was the best horse ever to race at Metairie. Sallie, trembling, bright beads of blood dripping from her sides, staggered to her stall. She died there that night, broken and exhausted.

  MARTHA JACKSON

  East Sixty-Ninth Street, New York, New York

  1955

  When Martha opened the door to her apartment, the crisp scent of lemon oil told her that Annie, her three-day-a-week housekeeper, had been cleaning. But Saturday wasn’t one of her regular days. Martha threw her keys onto the hall table and called out a greeting. “Annie? You here?”

  The young woman’s low voice responded from the kitchen. “Yessum. I surely can leave now if it’s not convenient for you.”

  “That’s not necessary, Annie, you go right on ahead.” She walked through the paneled sitting room, noting that Annie had oiled all the woodwork until it gleamed. She was meticulous. In the dining room, she’d refreshed the flowers, removing the blown roses and rearranging the buds in a pleasing tousle.

  Martha paused at the kitchen doorway. Annie stood at the sink, humming softly as she polished silverware, unaware of her employer’s considering gaze. The girl was thin—too thin. With her cotton shift hanging loose on her spare frame, she looked like a wraith in a Walker Evans photograph. She claimed to be eighteen, but that seemed doubtful. She had the promise of beauty—fine bones, luminous eyes—but it was a child’s beauty that hadn’t yet bloomed into womanliness. Because Martha Jackson moved in the penurious circles of the art world, she was more aware of the bite of poverty than most wealthy people. Perhaps the child wasn’t getting enough to eat. She would have to see to that.

  “I didn’t expect you today.”

  Annie turned, startled. The ladle she had been polishing clattered onto the drainboard.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” She glanced down. “It’s just, I got myself a new client, starts Monday, so I thought I’d come do for you today since you said you would be gone the whole weekend.”

  “The painter I was visiting took ill. That’s why I’m back early. I don’t mind that you’re here. But surely you’re working yourself too hard. Six days a week. You need more than one day off.”

  “Seven days, ma’am. I took on a Sunday situation last month.”

  “Annie, if you need a raise, I—”

  “No, no, ma’am. That ain’t—isn’t—it at all. You already pay more than most others I do for. It’s just that I need to make a little extra right now. My brother, back in Ohio, he’s fixing on going to college next year.” She smiled shyly. “He aims to be a doctor someday.”

  “And you’re helping with the cost of that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I hope he appreciates it.”

  “Oh, he does, ma’am. He works hard himself. He’s been going to school by day and working as a night watchman all this year, and before that he stocked shelves for the local grocery.”

  “Well, that makes two diligent workers. Your parents must be proud.”

  “They was, ma’am. They passed. My father four years ago, and my mama just before I came on up here to the city. So it’s just me and Charlie.”

  “I’m sorry, Annie. I had no idea. I know what it means for a girl to lose her mother. I wasn’t much older than you when my mother died.”

  “It’s all right, ma’am. My great-aunt took me in. She don’t see too good, so I do for her in return for my room and board. I live with her, up in Harlem, since her boys are all grown up and left home.”

  Martha was vexed with herself. How could she have likened her loss to the loss of this girl? Their situations were nothing alike. Her own grief had been cushioned by resources that ensured her life changed as little as possible. The same Irish maids who had always cared for her continued to do so. She did not have to leave her home until she chose to go away—eagerly, avidly—to Smith College.

  “I hate to see you working yourself to the bone. I would like to help. Financially.”

  “Oh, ma’am. I couldn’t ask that.” Annie looked down. Her hand balled around a piece of her apron. “But there is one thing—you selling paintings and all. There’s this painting we got, my family, I mean to say. We always had it, all the way back to my great-great-grandma day, though no one heard tell how she came by it back then. We’d consider selling it, to help Charlie.”

  Martha formed a mental image of some sentimental daub, the kind of painting—maybe even a reproduction of a painting, would Annie know the difference?—that might be in the possession of a rural Black family of slender means. She quickly arranged her face. She didn’t want to appear snobbish.

  “Well, you know I deal in contemporary art—” Martha stopped herself. Why would the young woman know that, or care?

  “Oh yes, ma’am,” Annie interjected. “I come in by the gallery and spend a little while every time, on my way up here. For sure, this painting of ours isn’t anything like what you got there—”

  “You visit the gallery every time you come to work?”

  “Oh yessum. I got into that habit just soon after I come to work for you. You had that lady’s painting hanging in your sitting room—that one that was all patterns that seemed to move—and I come to like it a good deal, looking at it, so I thought I might come to like some of the other ones if I spent some time with them.”

  Martha smiled. She had hung a Brigid Riley for several months before the successful opening of her Optical Art show that had coined the name of a new movement and launched several promising careers. But the gallery currently featured de Kooning’s exuberant, voluptuously distorted women. Even many of his fellow artists found the series provoking and distasteful.

  “And do you? Like them?”

  “Well—” Annie hesitated, her good manners at war with her essential honesty. “Not so many, to tell the truth.”

  Martha laughed. “That’s all right. Not many people do. But I’m glad that you take the time to look. And in return, I will be happy to take a look at your family’s painting and give you an opinion on its value, if I can. Bring it by any time.”

  “Oh, thank you, ma’am. We’ll have to fetch it up here, but me and Charlie’d be obliged. I meant to ask you this long while.”

  Martha didn’t want to give unrealistic expectations. “Well, you know, the art market is fickle. I’m sure your painting is very good, but even some very fine works don’t fetch much money. Style of painting, even subjects—they fall in and out of fashion, you know.”

  Annie smiled shyly. “I guess you’ll like the subject of this one, any case. I know you like horses since you got all those photographs in your bedroom. The lady in the long dress jumping that horse just as if they two can fly.”

  “That lady was my mother. That was her horse.”

  “Oh, ma’am, I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. I keep those pictures because I like to remember her that way. She loved to ride that horse.”

  “That right? Well, that’s something. Because the painting we got, it’s of a horse. And he’s got four white feet, just exactly like that one your mama’s riding.”

  TEN BROECK’S JARRET

  Metairie, Louisiana

  1853

  It was hard to watch, but Jarret couldn’t turn away. The teamster slung his chains around Sallie Waters’s hocks. Jarret winced as the metal bit into her fine sinews. Sallie’s young groom had been helping the teamster, but now he stepped out of the barn, crying. Jarret understood how he felt. He wished there was some comfort to offer. But he couldn’t think of any.

  Two large draft horses stood uneasy in their traces, snorting and twitching, misliking such proximity to death. When all four of the filly’s legs were secured, the teamster gave a gruff “Walk on.” The draft horses moved forward, the chains clanked taut, and the corpse scraped along the barn boards. At the Meadows, Jarret had seen to the burial of several horses, and it was never an easy or pleasant duty. But they had always been older animals, spavined and spare from the ailments of age. He’d never witnessed the interment of a magnificent young thoroughbred like this one.

  Lexington, in his stall, gave an anxious whinny, pinning his ears and rolling his eyes. Jarret turned away from the pitiful sight of the dead filly, her tongue, lolling from her mouth, dragging in the dust toward the fresh-dug pit. He reached up and laid a hand against Lexington’s neck. “She was ill used,” he whispered. “But it ain’t your fault. You just did your job, is all. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s all those ones of us got rich off of her having the life flogged out of her.”

  Scott had turned up late the previous night, flushed and glassy-eyed. He’d found his way to Jarret’s room, knocking too loudly and drawing abuse from the early rising grooms sleeping below. Scott was in good spirits, even in drink. He handed over Jarret’s winnings with a rueful grin. “Wish I’d had a stake like yours. Double nothing is still nothing, and that’s close to what I made. Ten Broeck’s the one whose hands are getting tired, counting all his cash. The gatemen told me he cleared three full barrels of dollars as gate receipts, not to mention five thousand from Smith’s losing wager, and whatever money he might have chanced elsewhere today, which, if you can credit backstretch gossip, was considerable. If you want to speak to him about buying yourself out, I think you’ll find him in a receptive mood.”

  Jarret said nothing. It was just as likely, he thought morosely, that with all the cash Ten Broeck had just accumulated, his own offer might seem trifling.