Set in rural Ireland at the beginning of the 20th century, this novel follows the story of Bridie, a young woman with the ability to communicate with animals. Her gift enables her to stand out in the racing community and she is soon spotted by the owner of a race horse stable and whisked off to England. There she is required to masquerade as a man in order to compete in major races. Meanwhile, her life-long friend Diarmuid becomes embroiled in the conflict for Irish independence, an entanglement that affects Bridieâs own family. When tragedy strikes, Bridie must choose between her career and the home and family she loves.
Set in rural Ireland at the beginning of the 20th century, this novel follows the story of Bridie, a young woman with the ability to communicate with animals. Her gift enables her to stand out in the racing community and she is soon spotted by the owner of a race horse stable and whisked off to England. There she is required to masquerade as a man in order to compete in major races. Meanwhile, her life-long friend Diarmuid becomes embroiled in the conflict for Irish independence, an entanglement that affects Bridieâs own family. When tragedy strikes, Bridie must choose between her career and the home and family she loves.
Capall Ban â The White Horse
Ireland, 1906
âYour mother was a murderer!â The plump, blonde girl shouted, the gaggle of girls behind her giggling with the power of group spite.
Bridie rubbed her apron between her fingers and bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. âNo, she wasnât,â she barely whispered.
âShe was,â the girl insisted. âMe mam said so. And she said I should stay away from the likes of you. Your mam was a murderer and your uncle were a rebel and was kilt dead for it. Your mamâs probably dead too but nobody knows what happened to her.â
Bridie shook her head, âMe mam had to go away.â
A girl from the group sang out, âIf she ainât dead, why hasnât she come back to get you? Didnât she want you?â
Looking down at the ground, Bridie worked her fingers furiously in the rough fabric of her apron. She didnât know why her mother had left her, never written or come back for her. Maybe her mam didnât want her. She could feel the tears begin to spill out of her eyes and watched them hit the ground at her feet. Already she didnât like going to school.
Suddenly a boy, a few years older than the taunting girls, stepped between Bridie and the little harpies.
âShut your gobs you wee eejits. You donât know a thing. Why, Bridieâs mum is an Irish patriot and so was her uncle, both of them fighting for our independence. Bridie has every reason to be proud of her people, which is more than I can say for the lot of you!â With that, he threw his arm around the weeping girl and marched her off.
âAnd who would listen to you Diarmuid OâToole?â the blonde, Aisling, called after him but he didnât deign to answer. After all, he was nine years old and she was only seven.
Bridie had little choice but to trot along with Diarmuid who was towing her along. He took her to the edge of the school yard to was what was left of a crumbling stone wall. Hunkering down on the ground next to the wall and motioned to the space beside him.
âYouâre Bridie Gallagher then,â he announced. âMy grandad was mates with your uncle. They did business together against the peelers, back in the 1890s. It was a terrible shame what happened to Donal Hegarty. He never even had a fair trial. Beaten to death on the road he was.â Diarmuid shook his head, not noticing the huge round eyes of his companion.
âWhat?â Bridie managed to squeak. He turned to her and drew back in surprise.
âDid your people not tell you? Donal was to be taken to Donegal Town for a trial but never got there. Me dad tried to break him free, along with your âŚâ Diarmuid just managed to stop himself. Maybe the lass didnât know that her father had been involved and perhaps, just perhaps, he wasnât the one to tell her.
âWell, your mam then: A rich landlordâs son was threatening to kill a farmer for back rent, rent that had been unfairly raised of course. Your mam stopped him just in the nick of time, she did. She shot that spoiled son herself. Of course, she had to go into hiding or the landlord would have had her swing. Sheâs probably in America now, getting funding for the rising. She canât write you as she is working in secret, you know.â
âHh ⌠howâ the small girl stuttered, âdo you know all this?â
Diarmuid tapped the side of his nose and narrowed his eyes, glancing back towards their schoolmates, chasing each other around the yard.
âI make it my business to know. Iâm joining the rising as soon as Iâm a bit bigger. You and I, we come from families dedicated to an independent Ireland. We shall join the revolution and see the oppressors leave these shores. But you best keep it quiet for now. No point in getting in arguments with yon ninnies over there.â Bridie nodded in agreement, adopting a serious face of respect for the older boy. She was only six, but she knew a soldier when she saw one.
Kathleen had been looking out for Bridie, walking home from her first day of school. She had considered going down the lane and meeting her half way but that would make Bridie look a baby and embarrass her among her new friends. However, she had made some fresh scones and put the kettle on in readiness to sit down and hear all the news of the day. She was disappointed to see her niece stepping along on her own. Surely, the Nolan sisters were at the farm just past them. Wouldnât they have walked home together? But it was early days. Bridie was a bit shy. It would probably take her a few days to join up with a small crew of girls her age.
Taking the girl in her arms and squeezing her tightly, Kathleen then pushed Bridie away from her and asked how her first day at school had gone. Bridie shrugged, looking away from her but then brightened when she smelled the fresh baked goods.
 âAre there scones?â she asked, hopefully.
âThere are indeed. Now sit down here at the table and weâll have a cuppa and a bit of a chat. Youâll tell me all about the other children and what the master is like. Have you learned anything at all today?â
Climbing up on the bench next to the table, Bridie said that she had learned some very interesting things. Kathleen wet the tea and poured two cups. She pushed the scones and fresh cream towards Bridie who enthusiastically began spreading the thick cream on her repast. With a cheeky grin she asked, âJamâ? to which Kathleen got up and took a pot from the cupboard, dolloping a great spoonful onto Bridieâs plate. After allowing Bridie to fill herself, Kathleen reached across and wiped the girlâs face with a piece of cloth, removing the jam stuck to the side of Bridieâs mouth.
Propping her elbows on the table she leaned forward, âNow tell me girseach.â
Swallowing her last bit of scone and washing it down with a great gulp of tea, Bride sat quiet for a moment, fiddling with a spoon on the table. Then she looked up at her aunt and asked, âWas your Donal a rebel?â
âAh,â Kathleen said, âAnd who told you this?â
âA boy. A nice boy. He got the girls to stop teasing me.â
âWhat girls?â Kathleen was immediately incensed. How dare any other child torture her own Bridie and on her first day of school?
âAll the girls, especially a fat, light-haired girl. I think her name was Aisling. She said me mam was a murderer.â
âFor the love of God,â Kathleen slapped her hand down on the table. âThat Maureen McDaid has her nasty ways, spreading gossip along to her wee daughter. The mouth on that woman! Well, Iâll tell her a thing or two. Iâll be right down there tomorrow and give her a piece of my mind, I will. How dare that naughty girl speak to you that way and on your first day too! Do they not go to church? Jesus weeps he does, he surely weeps when people go along like that flapping their mouths.â
Bridie cut in, âIs it true?â
âOf course not. I wasnât there, but your daddy was and Fiona herself came and told me the whole situation. The man was threatening, he was a terrible man, Fiona was only defending herself. And of course, your daddy took the blame but Fiona wouldnât have it. Another woman would have let her husband rot in gaol, or be hung even. But not Fiona, she was a brave soul, that lass. She went straight into that gaol and told them it was herself that fired the gun. She was carrying you at the time and she wasnât about to be having her wee babby in gaol, so she had to go on the run. She brought you to me then and well, Iâm not sure what happened after that but I think your daddy knows. He doesnât like to talk about it love, so donât be pestering him. It makes him ever so sad, but no, your mam was no murderer. She was a lovely, sweet girl that devoted her life to helping animals. Bless her.â
âIs she dead then? Diarmuid said she was in America raising funds for the uprising.â
âDiarmuid? Diarmuid OâToole? Seamusâs son? Oh, that figures alright.â Kathleen let out a disapproving huff. âSo thatâs who youâve made friends with? A rapscallion like that. God help us all.â
Bridie pouted. âHe was nice to me. And he said Uncle Donal was a hero and so was me mam. What is a rapscallion and why is Diarmuid one?â
Kathleen got up abruptly and began clearing the table. âCome along and help me prepare your daddyâs supper. Heâll come in hungry as one of me goats. And none of these questions for him just yet. Iâm sure Diarmuid is a grand lad. Never mind me. Now get along and peel me some tatties.â
While peeling the potatoes, Bridie thought about her mother; not an unusual course of thought for her. Like any child who has lost a parent, she was eager to learn anything she could about Fiona and had plied her aunt with questions.
âWhat did me mam look like?â Small, like Bridie herself apparently. âWhat colour was her hair?â Auburn, more or less. What did that mean? Her auntie had been unsure about the colour of her motherâs hair. Surely that wasnât a difficult question! âWas her mother a good cook?â That was answered with a laugh. âCould she sew?â Again, Aunt Kathleen shook her head, though she smiled all the while. âWell, what was her mother good at?â
 âShe was a healer; a healer of animals mostly and there are still people around these parts that remember her skill, families that survived because Fiona had saved their only cow or pig.â
âWas she as good with horses as Daddy?â
 âAs good as? Why your daddy is a clever man, but he doesnât have half the knowledge Fiona had.â Or used to have.
âDid my mother die, then?â
 âOf course, she did, or she would be here with you darling.â
âThen where is her grave?â But no one ever answered that.
From her father, Bridie got nothing. He wouldnât discuss his late wife. Bridie could almost remember a day when stray dogs had come to the door. One had jumped at Bridie and her father had shot it. Then he had cried, true, loud sobs, pounding his chest. Gathering the dead dog in his arms he had gone off and buried it on a small rise near the top of the field by a fairy ring. People didnât like to go up there as they said you could be taken away by the fae and not come back for so long that all your loved ones would be dead and gone. But her daddy was up there all the time, sitting by the dogâs grave. She had followed him up once and heard him talking, she heard her motherâs name, Fiona, but couldnât make out the rest.
When he came back from these visits, her father sat on his cot in the corner, holding a book that he never opened. He just looked at the cover, ran his hands over it and then put it away in a drawer. When Bridie asked what was in the book, she was told she was too young to know. Before the dog had died, her father hadnât been so sad. Bridie couldnât understand why the death of a stray dog had nearly destroyed her father. He had said something about âshooting her own motherâ[TG3]Â , but that made no sense. Auntie Kathleen explained that Fiona had been over fond of dogs and that killing one made CiarĂĄn feel guilty. Bridie shook her head. It was all too complicated. Maybe the answer was in the book her daddy had, but then why didnât he read it?
It seemed this Diarmuid boy would be a good source of information. He was a lot older than her, being nine and her only six, and he was very friendly compared to the other children. She didnât care if her auntie thought he was a rapscallion, whatever that was.
School was tedious. There was so much sitting and if there wasnât enough turf, the room grew cold. The students all wore fingerless gloves, those that could afford them, but still they found themselves blowing on their fingertips or rubbing their hands together in their laps before writing on their slates. The school master shouted at them to stop fidgeting but farm children were used to a life of physical work and had little skill for sitting still. Diarmuid seemed to find residing behind a desk more painful than most, often leaping up when he had an answer or disagreed with a lesson. He dropped his slate, broke his chalk, even managed to rip his trousers one day when sliding off the side of the bench to glimpse at another studentâs work. He was no stranger to the smack of the teacherâs ruler or even the birch rod, but he never seemed to cry. Pulling up his trousers, he would grin at the class and stroll back to his desk as if he were a grand gentleman taking a walk into a fine restaurant. Once, when Bridie had been holding her fist in her mouth, frightened by the sound of the thwacking ruler, he had turned and winked at her.
Bridie was petite for her age and in the few times she attempted to join in ball games had been knocked over. She could skip rope though, if given the chance but the girls in her age bracket drew away from her, even her cousin Janey, the youngest of Uncle Johnâs children. There was David at 15, who no longer came to school but worked on the farm with his father and Bridieâs daddy. Danny, 11 years old, was the next cousin. He was still at school but paid little attention to his studies, instead concentrating on teasing the girlsâslipping fish into their desks or writing rude words on their slates. Janey was 8, her motherâs unexpected late chick and spoiled all the more for her unwarranted arrival. She always came to school in clean clothes, neatly mended, if mended at all, and hair plaited in two golden tails down her back. Along with Aisling, Janey had a low opinion of Bridieâs mother and even went so far as to say that her uncle was better off without âthe quare oneâ.
Try as she might, Bridie could not fit in with the girls, so she turned to the boys. Boys would talk about horses and were well impressed that Bridie could ride Conall, her daddyâs stallion. None of them had ever sat a stallion, only geldings, though it was more likely a donkey they owned. Diarmuid had ridden neither, as his family couldnât support an equine of any description. It wasnât long before he weaselled a visit to meet the famous Conall.
Bridie was not surprised at the request as she considered her fatherâs stallion an important figure in the community.
âMe daddy is often out with Conall you know. Daddy visits other horses and helps them get well. But sometimes, when he is working with Uncle John, he leaves Conall in the field. You can come on one of those days to meet our stallion, if you like.â Diarmuid couldnât agree fast enough and followed Bridie home one day after school. It had been one of those days when Diarmuid had the ruler to his hand, which was now smarting, but he said nothing of it. Bridie, however, could see how it was flaming red.
âDoesnât it hurt terrible?â Diarmuid shrugged and pulled himself a bit taller.
âAch, itâs nothing. When Iâm in the Irish Republican Brotherhood Iâll get wounds much worse than this.â Bridie didnât want to hear about politics. Her auntie and daddy would read the paper, make âtskingâ sounds or even ejaculations, âHoly Mary, mother of God!â They never seemed happy when they read about the news. Bridie would rather worry about the state of the country when she got older. She did want to see Diarmuidâs hand though. What if she got smacked? What would it feel like? Would she cry? Auntie Kathleen said it was always better to be prepared.
âCan I see?â
Diarmuid smirked at her. âWhat, me hand? Certainly, if you like, but thereâs nothing to see.â He presented his hand to her, as if offering her a dance.
Bridie curtsied and giggled, then took his hand in both of hers, perusing it carefully. There was a splinter below the little finger and the hand was red indeed, and also rather dirty. Nevertheless, she planted a quick kiss on the palm.
Diarmuid stared at his hand, not sure if he was delighted or disgusted. âWhatever was that for?â
Bridie reddened. âTo make it better. Thatâs what me auntie does, kiss it, to make it better.â
The boy continued to gaze at his hand, then he smiled up at Bridie. âWell then, thank you. Me dad never does anything like that.â
âWhat about your mam?â
âAch, she died when I was being born. Itâs just me dad and me.â
This was news. Maybe Auntie Kathleen had mentioned it before, but Bridie doubted it. Kathleen had not encouraged friendship with Diarmuid, something about Diarmuidâs family leading her Donal down the wrong path.
âSo, neither of us have mothers.â
âThatâs right,â Diarmuid agreed, linking arms with Bridie. âThatâs why we have to look out for each other.â
âAnd thatâs why youâre so filthy,â Diarmuid laughed at Bridieâs remark, taking no offense.
âBoys are allowed to be dirty. Itâs only girls that are supposed to be clean.â Bridie eyed him with suspicion. She was sure she had heard Aunt Maire shout at John and Danny to wash up before a meal or sheâd not give them a bite to eat.
When they got to the cottage, Bridie pointed out Conall standing in the field nearest the house and started dragging Diarmuid in that direction. Diarmuid though, looked with interest at the cottage.
 âDoes your auntie not give you a wee morsel when you get home from school? Sure, she must be trying to feed you up, you being so small and all.â
âOh yes, I usually get a slice of bread with butter and a cup of tea. Weâll have some after you meet Conall.â Diarmuid agreed, but only after looking longingly at the cottage, a bit of smoke coming up through the chimney promised warmth and a hot drink.
Conall, the great, grey stallion, did not ordinarily entertain strangers. He had only taken to a few people in his life. Three to be exact, CiarĂĄn and Fiona, Bridieâs parents, and then Bridie herself. Conall lowered his head as the two children came across the field, wet grass dampening their clothes and chilling Diarmuidâs bare feet. Usually, Conall would trot over to Bridie and meet her half way but this time he stood still, considering the new comer:
           Boy smell, hungry. No sticks in his hand. Conall watched as Diarmuid reached out to steady Bridie when she tripped over a stone in the field. That settled it for him. The boy was kind to his Bridie and Bridie was daughter to Fiona, The Listener. The boy could be accepted. He took the last few steps towards the children and offered his muzzle to be patted. Bridie stood on her tiptoes and kissed the soft velvet of Conallâs nose. She reached up and scratched him behind his ear and he let her run her fingers through his forelock. Diarmuid put out a hand but hesitated to touch the great beast. He knew horses could bite and this horse was an enormous stallion. It could kill him with one dash of his hooves. But then remembering that he was really quite brave for a boy of nine, he stepped forward and lay his hand on Conallâs neck. The flesh rippled at the unfamiliar touch and the horse rolled its eye sideways to give Diarmuid a warning glance. Diarmuid stood his ground. Then Conall snorted loudly, tossed his head and galloped off across the field, stopping just shy of the stone fence. Diarmuid had almost fallen backward when the stallion had thrown his head but this time, Bridie had steadied him.
âI think he likes you,â she assured him. âAt least he didnât bite you.â
âDoes he normally bite people?â Diarmuid held the gaze of the horse as it watched him from where it stood by the wall.
âYes, bite or kick, depending on where they are. But he likes you. I can tell.â
âWell then,â Diarmuid chanced a glance away from the horse, hoping it wouldnât change his opinion and come racing back across the field to deal with the visitor, âThatâs good then. Shall we see if your auntie has wet the tea?â
Kathleen took one look at the bedraggled children and told Bridie to take off her boots and threw a rag to Diarmuid. âUse that first on your head and then on your feet. I wonât have mud tracked all over me clean floors. And then both of you over to the wash bowl and clean your hands while I make you some tea.â She had the bread and butter on the table, along with the jamâafter all they had a guestâand a steaming pot of tea by the time the children had more or less cleaned their hands. She took one look at Diarmuidâs dirt engrained fingernails, tsked loudly and shook her head. The poor child had no mother so no wonder and really, she couldnât be hard on the lad. His father, Seamus, had made promises that he hadnât kept, promises that might have saved her Donal, but sure this child wasnât even born then. If he was good to Bridie, as her niece said he was, she would be good to the lad. âEat your fill young man. You wonât get soda bread like that in the shop. And this jam is made by me self as well; meself and our Bridie.â
The children were finishing up and Diarmuid was trying to fabricate a reason to stay a bit longer in the cosy cottage when CiarĂĄn arrived home. He nodded as he walked in, rinsed and dried his hands and sat himself down at the table. Jerking his chin in Diarmuidâs direction he asked, âWhoâs this lad then?â
âThis is Bridieâs friend from school. Itâs Diarmuid, Seamusâs son.â
CiarĂĄn raised his eyebrows at Kathleen, âSeamus?â She lifted her shoulders and splayed her hands. He nodded in reply.
âHe wanted to meet Conall, Daddy. Is that alright? I let him stroke Conall for a minute. You donât mind, do you Daddy?â
âIt wouldnât be up to me. Itâs Conallâs choice. Did he bite you lad?â Diarmuid shook his head, unable to answer through the fourth slice of bread he had stuffed into his mouth.
âGood then. You passed the test. You can be friends with me daughter. But only friends mind you. You understand now?â Suddenly, Diarmuid understood what bravery really meant. He nodded slowly and solemnly at CiarĂĄn. Swallowing the large mouthful he added,
âYes sir. And Iâll look out for her at school sir.â
âDonât be using that Sir business with me, and itâs her cousins that should be looking out for her, not you. But then again, you may be a better cut of lad than her cousins. Sure, Conall has always wanted to take a fair chunk out of them.â
Diarmuid gave a huge sigh of relief and CiarĂĄn let out a short, sharp laugh. Kathleen, flicked a dish towel at her brother and smiled at Diarmuid. âAch, heâs only teasing you lad, no worries.â
âNo maâam, I donât think he is teasing.â Diarmuid forced himself to lift his head and look in CiarĂĄnâs eyes for a brief moment. What he saw staring back were not the eyes of a man who would jest.
After Daddy and Auntie Kathleen, Bridie loved Conall best in the world so it pleased her inordinately that Conall approved of her new friend Diarmuid. Although an immense beast with a vicious temper, Conall was besotted with Bridie and nuzzled her as gently as his big head would allow. Bridie was riding before she could walk, sitting in front of her father as he went looking for stray sheep or ventured to outlying farms to see to their horses.
CiarĂĄn was renown throughout the district for his prowess with horses. He seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to equinesâthey gentled at his touch and he was often able to ascertain an injury or health problem that the average horse or donkey owner could not identify. He knew some herbal healing as well, taught to him, it was said by his wife, who had been a wise woman. Horse doctoring provided a meagre income for CiarĂĄn. He lived on land that his brother, John, held in tenancy for Kathleen and helped pay the rent by assisting John on that land. CiarĂĄn owned nothing of his own, except for Conall, if the stallion could be said to be owned.
*
Today, Bridie was riding along with her father to visit a farmer with a lame draft horse. The heavy work horse was eating the farmer out of house and home but not working for a living. He would be shot if he wasnât fit soon as the farmer could not afford to keep a worthless animal. CiarĂĄn was dreading the visit as he feared the aged horseâs joints were gone and there was little he could do to fix the lameness. He hated to see any animal put down but it didnât do to get sentimental about livestock. They werenât pets. Farmers didnât keep pets.
Bridie had none of her fatherâs worries and was revelling in the brisk trot and thrilled when her father let the horse leap a small wall. Being so high up in the air did not frighten the child at all. She trusted the horse and her father and was having far too much fun to worry about falling off. The wind blew past them, and she felt that moving on Conall, they were faster than the wind. She wanted to crow with joy. It wasnât raining yet; the sun was on their backs and the fields were a lush green. All was good in her world.
At the farmerâs cabin, CiarĂĄn dismounted and then lifted Bridie down. The ground was mucky and she stepped into her fatherâs footsteps to avoid making her own trail in the mud. Conall, with the reins thrown over his neck, wandered off to find some grazing. CiarĂĄn never tied up or tethered the horse as he knew it wouldnât leave him. The farmer came out from the cabin, wiping his hands on his dirty breeches as CiarĂĄn made his way to the stable. They nodded a greeting to each other and gave a grunt that was made out to be hello.
The old workhorse stood with the left hind lifted, leaning towards the support of the stall divider. A cow in the next stall chewed noisily. Flies were drifting around some fresh dung in the dim light of the enclosure. Bridie stood at the entrance as the two men went to the horse and CiarĂĄn knelt beside the upheld leg, palpating the pastern. It was warm to the touch and as CiarĂĄn gently manipulated the hoof the horse drew the leg away.
âHave you tried the plantain poultice I made up for you last time?â The farmer nodded. CiarĂĄn stared hard at him. âHow often?â
âOften enough,â the farmer shifted his own weight, seeming to mimic the horse.
âOn yerself or the horse?â The farmer let out a guffaw of embarrassment.
CiarĂĄn went back to Conall and searched in his saddle bag. He brought out a packet of bark, wrapped loosely in an old newspaper. âBoil this up and put it in his feed. See how he does. Itâs a matter of time but perhaps youâll get another six months out of him.â The farmer nodded and fished a coin out of his pocket, pressing it into CiarĂĄnâs hand. CiarĂĄn nodded back, rubbed the dirt off the coin and slipped it into his own pocket.
On the way home CiarĂĄn slowed the trot to a walk and then pulled up. Bridie looked up at her father with a question and he gestured his head down at the horse they were riding.
âConallâs not right.â
âHow do you know?â Bridie was very proud of her fatherâs ability to read horses and was anxious to learn the skill herself. Her father had by now slipped off the saddle and reached up to lift her down. His answer to her was a shrug.
âDid he tell you himself?â Bridie queried. She often wondered if the horses talked to her daddy. Maybe her daddy had magic. She had heard tales that her mother was a witch and made animals speak to her. Maybe her father could do this as well. That meant she could learn too! Wouldnât it be wonderful to have a special skill that none of the other children had? They might tease her all they wanted but she would know that she had a gift, while they were just ordinary.
Her father was moving his way around the stallion, sliding his hand down each leg feeling for warmth and lifting the hooves, looking for stones. On the rear far side, he found a small but sharp piece of flint which he worked free from the frog.
âAch, that will be sore lad.â He gave Conall an affectionate slap on his broad backside. The horse turned his head and lipped CiarĂĄnâs arm in thanks. âWeâll walk now so Conall doesnât have to bear the extra weight,â CiarĂĄn instructed his daughter. She nodded in agreement but the horse seemed to have other thoughts. He took the sleeve of the small girl between his teeth and pulled her towards him. Bridie looked to her father, who lifted her up onto the horse. âHe wants you to ride, so.â He pulled the reins over the stallionâs head and led him home, perfectly content that his horse would provide a gentle mount for his daughter. They passed a few cottages and he heard more than one old woman pass remarks at the foolhardy behaviour of letting a child sit a stallion on her own but Bridie sat upon the horse like Queen Maeve herself. Her spine erect, she held the mane loosely and though she could not reach the stirrups, she flexed her toes as a proper rider should. She saw children playing in the lane look up at her but she did not deign to wave at them, concentrating on her riding technique as her father had taught her. Surely, she did have a magic daddy and a wonderful horse and maybe she herself was a bit magic.
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 [TG3]I didnât feel the significance of this the first time I read it. Now I do though. Ouch.
The Home Straight by Frances Gaudiano is an exciting novel that tells the story of a young girl living in Ireland in the early 1900s named Bridie. Unlike her family, friends, and community, she possesses the unique ability to speak to animals. This catches the eye of a race horse stable owner who takes her from her rural life to live in England. She wishes to race competitively, but to do so she must disguise herself as a man. This will eventually intertwine with conflict at home, where Bridie's close friend Diarmuid is straight in the middle of the Irish Independence movement. Bridie must decide which is most important - her family and community or her budding career in racing?
This was an enjoyable read with a well developed plot and characters. While I didn't realize this was part two of a series until opening the novel, the story is still enjoyable on its own as an independent work. The best aspect of the book was how there were elements included at the beginning to help readers better comprehend the story. These elements were a page translating Irish Gaelic to English and an explanation of some Irish history. They greatly help aid the readers' experience of reading the story since they explain some context to the events occurring within the novel. The translation page was especially helpful as reference to turn back to during reading. These were very effective additions to the book.
This novel receives four out of five stars for having a strong plot, characters, and writing, while maintaining a reader's interest throughout. Also, by including the extra components to the opening of the novel, readers will be completely engrossed in the world of Ireland during this troubled period in its history. Recommended for fans of historical fiction and intense personal character growth.