comfrey, but it was going to take time for him to heal. In the meantime she would content herself with riding Chessie or her old pony. Chessie was all right, but Sally was dull, with a slow, swinging trot and no canter to speak of. What Annis liked best was to gallop Bits around Central Park under the scandalized glances of passersby.
She had been startled that morning to see the dark-haired woman nodding politely to her as if there were nothing shocking in a young woman riding astride in Central Park.
Mrs. King came pattering toward the pantry while Annis was gathering her ingredients. She was quick and slight, not like any of the other cooks Annis had met, who bore the marks of their profession in full bosoms and generous hips. Mrs. King was no older than Frances herself, with a cloud of brown hair and bright brown eyes. When she was small, Annis had sometimes pretended to herself that Mrs. King was her mother.
“Miss Annis?” the cook said, peering around the corner. “Did you know Mrs. Frances is looking for you?”
Annis paused in the act of pouring dried witch hazel leaves into a clean mortar. “Oh no. Do you have to tell her? I need to make this poultice. Bits strained a tendon.”
Mrs. King clicked her tongue. “Dear, dear. Poor Bitsy. You’ll set him right, no doubt.”
“I think so. Could you put the kettle on? I’ll need hot water.”
“I will, but if Frances comes in, don’t tell her I saw you.”
Annis said, “I would never do that!”
“I know, dear, I know. Just making sure.” Off she went again, and as Annis ground the witch hazel leaves with her pestle and added comfrey and a bit of bay laurel, she heard the clatter of the kettle against the stove.
An Allington stove, of course. The Allington Iron Stove Company was the reason the Allingtons lived in this great stone house on Riverside Drive, with its gables and cornices and mansard roof dwarfing the more modest houses nearby. Annis was well aware how lucky she was to be able to afford her own horses, a private stable, even a suite of rooms all to herself. She was grateful for those things, because they set her free to pursue her ambition.
Her friends at Brearley had all planned grand marriages, with their pictures in the papers and their names in the society pages. They often invited Annis to their tea parties and shopping excursions, but Annis considered those things, and the constant flow of gossip that accompanied them, a waste of her time. She had gradually drifted away from her school chums. She focused all her energy on her ambition, which was to create a bloodline of fine horses. The line would bear Black Satin’s name and bring honor to her beloved stallion. It was going to be respected everywhere.
Bits himself was a Thoroughbred, but neither as high-strung as other horses of his breed nor encumbered by the common fault of a ewe-neck. Annis constantly searched for mares and fillies with dispositions and conformation equal to his, Thoroughbreds or Arabians or one of the other light breeds. She had heard that the Spanish horses, sometimes called Andalusians, were calm and intelligent, but they were impossible to find. She didn’t know anyone who owned one, and she had no one to escort her to the horse markets downtown. It was one thing Robbie refused to do, and she didn’t dare ask her father.
She hurried the preparations for her poultice, wary of Frances coming in search of her. She thought it would be wise to avoid her stepmother until the heat of their argument had cooled.
Frances, clearly in a bad mood, had stopped Annis as she was on her way out to the stables and demanded she change her clothes. “How are we going to become part of the Four Hundred if you dash around looking like a hoyden?” she snapped.
Annis’s own temper had flared at her being delayed. She pulled on her gloves as she answered. “Frances, that will never happen. The Allingtons are new money. We’re shoddies. Arrivistes.” She ignored Frances’s growing frown, her mind already on her morning ride. “Mrs. Astor would turn a somersault in the park before she would invite us to one of her ridiculous balls, and even if she did invite us, I wouldn’t go. I doubt Papa would, either.”
Frances’s cheeks turned pink. “Well! I will never agree with you about that, young lady. I don’t know how you