My Bonny Light Horseman

by L. A. Meyer

  "Gentlemen," I ask, yawning and rubbing at my eyes, "wherever did you get off to? I was fearing for your safety, as this is a very rough neighborhood."

  They say absolutely nothing, just stare stonily forward. The driver clucks at the horses and we are off, returning to the Admiralty, and, hopefully, to a good dinner with Sir Grenville.

  "Don't worry, lads," I say as I snuggle down between them, "I shan't peach on you to Mr. Peel." I lift the veil for a moment to plant a kiss on each of their impassive cheeks as we ride back in silence.

  The letter I gave to Tink? Oh, yes, here it is:

  Unknown Person in Some Degree of Peril

  London, September 1806

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I will keep this letter short and anonymous for reasons that should be obvious. Suffice to say that a Certain Person Who I Hope Is Dear To You did not die under the guillotine recently, no matter what the reports from France of her demise might indicate.

  Please send word to certain Persons in the United States, especially to Mr. Ezra Pickering and to John Higgins, that I am not yet dead, even though I may well deserve to be so. However, it would be best if this information is kept secret for a while.

  Please give the bearer of this letter money for passage to America and provide him with a Letter of Reference from me to Mr. James Tanner that begs him to employ this same messenger in some sort of seagoing fashion, as he is a thoroughgoing seaman in spite of his infirmity.

  Please give my love and regards to the children and to Mairead and Ian as well.

  I will not be able to correspond for a while, but do not worry about me.

  All my love,

  J.

  Chapter 19

  The next morning I am again off in the carriage, this time to Madame Petrova's dance studio. Carr's and Boyd's unusually flinty gaze adds little joy to the ride. This time they make certain that both entrances to the carriage are firmly latched.

  Madame's studio consists of a number of large rooms with polished wooden floors and absolutely no furniture or decoration. A metal barre runs around three sides of the room, the other side being a bank of windows. I know she has classes, too, with other girls, as I hear them out there going through their routines, but I am not allowed to mingle with them. No, I take my instruction alone, just me and the Witch Petrova.

  On that first day, I am given a sort of body stocking to wear along with a pair of blunt-toed shoes that lace with ribbon about my ankles and then the instruction begins.

  "Place your left hand upon the barre. We will now learn the Positions of the Feet, and how to move between them. Then the Positions of the Arms. Now First Position is..."

  I'm given lessons in just how the poor feet should be twisted and the soon-exhausted arms lifted and held out just so, and then told to practice these things till noon, whereupon she sweeps out of the room to attend to her real students. Three hours of this! I shall die!

  But I don't die, I just do it.

  After a lunch of hard bread, cheese, and cold tea, we go back at it again. Madame is not pleased with my progress and is quite free with her cane.

  At five o'clock I'm brought back to my room, aching in every muscle and bone. I flop facedown on my bed and do not move until I am called to dinner. I'm afraid I'm not very good company.

  I suffer days and days of this treatment, progressing from the security of the barre to dancing in the center of the room. Beginning with the bourrée, a simple series of gliding steps on my tiptoes, I advance to grands jetés, big leaps in the air, then she pronounces me ready to learn the rond de jambe en l'air et l'arabesque. When she gives that command, I must lift my arms into the air and then slowly lower them in a sweeping circular motion until my turned-in fingers touch the tops of my thighs, at the same time letting my knees bend slightly, turning my legs into coiled springs. I hold that a split second and then, throwing my arms back up again, I leap to my toes in Second Position, my legs stiff as any mainmast backstay. Then I come off pointe, allowing my knees to lower my body slightly. Then I leap out of the crouch, smoothly landing en pointe on my left foot, my right leg in the air. I hold this, steady as any rock, feeling the instep of my left foot bulge with the strain.

  So far, so good...

  Then slowly, slowly, I begin moving my right leg, bent at the knee through the arc of a circle to my right and then bring it up behind me, at the same time letting my torso move forward and down, my back arched, my chin up. My left hand gracefully coils upward as I again bring my airborne leg up behind me, toes level with shoulder, completing the arabesque.

  Ha! exults I to myself. How's that, you old crone? I release myself from the arabesque, returning to Fifth Position, my arms slowly floating down to my sides.

  "Pathetic," says Madame Petrova. "Do it several hundred more times, then I will be back to see if there is any improvement."

  Grrrrr...

  After a week and a half of this torture, I once again take my dinner with Sir Grenville and again we are joined by Mr. Peel.

  After all pleasantries are exchanged and the dinner is served, we engage in a spirited discussion concerning Dr. Sebastian and the drawings I had done for him—one of the reasons I had the Doctor sprung was that I wanted my drawings to be published. Sin of Pride, I know, but I put a lot of work into those things. At dinner, I described Dr. Sebastian coming off the Dauntless after the battle was done and we were taken, him clutching the leather portfolio to his chest as we were led down into the hold.

  "A true scientist, through and through!" proclaims Lord Grenville. "Oh, it shall be so good to see him again!" It is then that I realize that Dr. Sebastian did not need my help in getting released, oh, no, he did not. "An excellent story, Miss. Another glass of wine with you?" Of course, Sir.

  The good Sir Grenville has been supplying me with books during this time, as well as paints and brushes, so I can more profitably spend my evening and weekend times. I have done a portrait of the First Lord and he pronounces himself enormously pleased. I hope his wife likes it. Once during this time at the Admiralty, Mr. Peel came to my room, flipped a book down on my bed, gave me a significant look, and then left. It was a potboiler named Under the Jolly Roger, Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber, as told to Miss Amy Trevelyne, the book mentioned by Midshipman Shelton back on the Dauntless.

  Heavy sigh. When I had gotten ready for bed that evening, I had picked it up and spent a good part of the night reading it by flickering lamplight. And, no, Amy, dear sister, you didn't leave anything out.

  As I closed the book on the last page, I recalled recent times back at Dovecote, after I had just returned from my Mississippi run. Amy and I had spent many happy hours lying back in the grass, me telling her of the events on the slaver Bloodhound. Another heavy sigh. I guess there will be yet another book, and I am sure she will have interviewed the other girls who lived through that adventure and nothing will be left out of that story, either. Oh, well, I am what I am, and those who don't like me can leave me alone.

  "Actually," Mr. Peel had observed when he was dropping the book on my bed, before leaving me to my evening ablutions and prayers, "it presents your case rather well."

  But at this particular dinner, Mr. Peel gets down to business.

  "You will be placed in a small dancing troupe that plays at some of the more, well, less-artistic venues. You'll be performing before audiences at private parties, if you catch my drift. The men at these events will not be in pursuit of high art, but rather will be more interested in the dancers themselves when they come out the stage door at the end of the night. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, I do, Sir," I say. Lord Grenville looks away, seemingly more distressed than I. Not true, but I can act a part.

  "Madame Petrova has been given the choreography of the dances the troupe performs, so that you will know them when you get there. Do not worry. She has said you are up to the task. After all, as she so derisively sniffed, it is not exactly the Paris Opera."


  Again I nod and lower my head. Shame blushes my cheeks.

  "Please, dear," says Sir Grenville, "perhaps it won't be so bad."

  Mr. Peel leans back in his chair and says, "You might find this bit of information interesting: We have learned that the story of your death under the guillotine has spread throughout the fleet..."

  Spread by you, no doubt.

  "...and it is reported that men are lining up at tattoo parlors to have a certain design put on their flesh: It is of a kitten, a plainly female kitten, wearing boots and hat, sword in hand, with the word Vengeance underneath. What do you think of that?"

  "Almost makes me wish I did perish," I say. "For the sake of the Fleet's fighting spirit."

  "Well said, even if it is a lie," says Mr. Peel. "We know your instinct for self-preservation to be quite strong, and we will all be counting on that when your mission begins, which will be very soon."

  At that I put down my fork. "Soon, Sir? But..."

  "The prisoner exchange has been effected. Your Mr. Fletcher still lives and will arrive in London within days. You will see him, so then our part of that particular bargain will have been kept. You will leave on your mission at dawn of the following day."

  My sleep that night was ruined.

  Chapter 20

  I got the call two days later, in the early afternoon, at Madame Petrova's. I had been doing exercises at the barre, which I have come, against all odds, to enjoy. I had placed my left foot about three feet from the base of the wall and hooked the heel of my right foot on the barre itself, which is slightly below my shoulder height. I'd begun bobbing my upper body toward my outstretched leg, getting closer with each bob. The muscles of my legs and back flexing and loosening with the exercise gave me a certain feeling of pleasure. After a bit of this, I'd brought my torso down to recline full length on my leg, my chin resting on my shin just below my knee.

  Then I reversed the positions of my legs and had run through the exercise again, and then...

  ...and then it was all over. Madame Petrova came into the room and ordered, "Get dressed. They have come for you."

  I think I know what has happened and my heart starts to pound. Jaimy is back!

  Madame pivots on her heel and strides to the door. I assume she is going to walk out of my life without another word, but, no, she stops with her hand on the doorknob and turns to me. "I know you tried your hardest," she says. "You could have been a dancer." With that, she leaves the room and I see her no more.

  Thank you, Madame, for your instruction.

  I'm halfway back into my riding habit, just cinching my skirt and buttoning my jacket, as it were, when Carr and Boyd burst into the room.

  "Blimey, lads, a little privacy for a poor girl!"

  "Right, right, just get it on, and let's go."

  Two of the hardest caramels I've ever tried to chew, and I didn't get 'em softened even a bit. A good lesson to you, girl, that your charms do not always work wonders.

  I am taken directly to Number 9 Brattle Lane. The carriage door opens and I jump out to rush up the stairs, followed closely by Carr and Boyd. Carr lifts the knocker on the door and raps for me. In a moment a girl, a servant by her dress, opens the door to admit us.

  "You are expected, Miss, upstairs."

  I have been in this house before and at that time I was, without ceremony, thrown out into the street by Jaimy's mother. I do not know what to expect this time, but I do not care. I will see Jaimy.

  On the second-floor landing Jaimy's father, brother George, and Dr. Sebastian are gathered deep in conversation.

  "Yes, it was a severe concussion, but he seems to be coming out of it," says the Doctor. "He drifts in and out of consciousness, but he is lucid for longer periods of time now than he was a week ago. I think it bodes well for his future recovery, but one never can tell with these things. We only hope for the best. I will be at your disposal to render what help I can. The primary thing is to have him rest, put cold compresses to his head, and above all, keep him still—let him not rattle his brains, as that could prove disastrous ... and what is this, now?"

  Dr. Sebastian says this upon seeing my veiled self come marching up the stairs.

  "Good day, Mr. Fletcher ... George," I say as I come into their midst. I pull my veil to the side. "Dr. Sebastian, it is so good to see you. May I see James Fletcher now?"

  Dr. Sebastian's mouth falls open. "But ... but ... I saw you taken away ... I saw the blade rise ... and fall ... I ..."

  "No, Doctor, that was not me, but if your scientific mind ever permits prayer, please offer up something for that poor girl who did die under the hissing steel that day, as I have prayed for her soul many times myself." I go up to him and put my lips to his ear and whisper, It was a ruse, Doctor. We have a very creative Intelligence Service, as you well know. Now let us get on with this.

  "In here, Miss," says Mr. Fletcher, opening a door. "He has been unaware of his surroundings since he was brought from the ship this morning."

  Dr. Sebastian, recovering himself from his encounter with the supposedly dead me, explains, "I gave him a sedative to keep him still on the journey. He should be coming out of it soon." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "So good to see you again, Miss."

  I give the Doctor a pat on his arm as I enter, and there is Jaimy, lying still on a bed, clean sheets pulled up to his chin.

  Oh, Jaimy, please wake up, please...

  I go to kneel by his bedside, take his hand in mine, and look into his face while tears stream down my face and I hear as if at a distance...

  "No, not her. Anyone but her! Not here. Put her out! She has turned my son against me."

  "Mother, she is the reason he is here now and not in some filthy French prison. Do you not know that?" I hear Brother George say.

  "I don't care. I'd rather he be lying there than have my blood mixed with hers. I will not have it! Do you hear?"

  I tear my eyes from Jaimy's face and through my film of tears look into the face of his mother and the old rage rises in me again. She is sitting on the opposite side of the bed, holding his other hand as she glares at me with the purest hatred.

  I look right back at her and say defiantly, "I love your son and he loves me, and I don't think there's too much you can do about that, Mrs. Fletcher. It's true that I grew up as a beggar on the streets of London and I still have what you might consider to be rough ways. But I have made my way from there to here, and I believe I deserve some respect for that." I pause and look back at Jaimy again, but see no change—he continues to sleep. "Blood? My blood mixed with yours? I learned in the past couple of years that my people were from the north of England, and my grandfather was a vicar in a church. My blood's as good as yours, but that is all by the board—I don't believe in blood, or bloodlines, or any of that nonsense. Some of the best people I have met in this life have come from the basest of origins, and some of the worst from the highest birth." I turn back to Jaimy, who is much more important to me than some bitter old biddy.

  Jaimy stirs and rolls his head from side to side, and then his eyes open and all else in the room fades into insignificance.

  He recognizes his old room and an expression of joy crosses his face when he realizes it might not be a dream. He sees his mother, his father, his brother ... and then he looks at me. His eyes widen in total and complete surprise and the name he says first is...

  "Jacky ... I dreamed I saw you ... back where? A prison? I don't know ... where...?"

  "Just hush, Jaimy, and lie back, you must rest," I say and squeeze his hand. "Oh, Jaimy, I'm so glad. I was so afraid."

  "James," says his mother, "do you not know me? Please tell me you do."

  "Dad? George?" he says, looking wildly about till his eyes light on Carr and Boyd with arms crossed, leaning against the wall. "Who are those men? What are they doing here?" asks Jaimy, looking from Carr to Boyd with great suspicion. He might be foggy, but he is not totally stupid.

  "They are members of the Intelligence Branch o
f our Service, Jaimy. They are my personal escort," I explain with a rueful smile. "Do not worry. They are decent men."

  "But why?" asks Jaimy, his mind not yet completely clear, I can tell. It takes a while for the tincture of opium to take leave of your brain. Poor Jaimy, soon you shall be happy to be back with your family again. I give you permission to forgive your mother.

  "I must go away, Jaimy. I have made a deal."

  He cuts his eyes to mine, and I know his mind is now absolutely clear. "They took you ... and you made a deal ... for me. That's why I'm home."

  "Not only for you, Jaimy. There are other reasons, other people."

  "I won't have it, I won't..." He tries to get up.

  "Please be calm, James," begs his mother. "You must rest or you will harm yourself."

  I place my hand on his chest to hold him down. "They finally caught me, Jaimy, they did, and I have many things to answer for, and now I must go where they send me."

  "But where are you going?"

  "Ahem!" warns Mr. Carr, behind me.

  "I can't say, Jaimy. I am going away, but I will return to you, I promise, and you must vow to do your best to get well." I put on a smile, but the tears again are beginning to trail down my cheeks. "Just let me sit by your side for a bit and hold your hand."

  "Ten minutes, Miss," says Carr, pulling out his pocket watch and gazing at it. "Curfew." He nods to Mr. Boyd and they both turn their backs and face the wall.

  Jaimy's father comes and takes his wife by the arm. "Come, Adelaide, we must give them ten minutes alone."