by L. A. Meyer
I bury my face in her breast, and the tears come, as I remember all the kindness she has always shown to me, her poor wayward girl, and just then Annie comes down the stairs and into the kitchen, bearing a large empty tray, and I know she has just come down from the dining hall, where dinner is being served to the girls.
Seeing me, she gasps, then says, "Jacky! Can it be you? Is it possible?"
I wipe the tears from my eyes and go over and take the tray from her hands before she drops it, as I know she will when she hears my news. "Yes, it's me, dear Annie, and—"
"Jacky, have you heard anything—"
"I think you had best just go out through that door right now, Sister, and your question will be answered," I say, grinning from ear to ear in anticipation of her joy.
Her mouth pops open and her eyes go wide and she says, "You mean..."
I nod and she flies across the room and out the door and then lets out a squeal of pure, absolute joy.
"Davy! Oh, dear God! Davy!"
I go over and pull the door shut. "Sorry, Peg, but I think you're gonna have to do without Annie for a few days, and Clementine, too, I'm afraid, 'cause Faber Shipping's back in town."
Peg laughs. "That's all right, Jacky, we've got lots of girls. Oh, it's just so good to see you, dear! Where have you been and what—"
"I'll fill you in later, Peg, but just now let's fill up this tray and let me carry it up to the little darlings."
While Peg is preparing the platter with some very tasty-looking meat dishes, I shed my cloak and shawl and let the red tresses spill down over my shoulders.
"Well," says Peg, with some disapproval in her appraising eye, "ye don't look like half a tramp, now, do ye?"
I give her a saucy wink, like any true strumpet, pick up the tray, and head up the stairs and out into the hall. I meet two other serving girls coming out of the dining room as I head in, new girls whom I do not know, and who look in wonder at me in all my garish splendor. I give my head a shake so that the ringlets hang more in my face and I gaze about me.
The girls are all seated, as are the teachers at the head table, awaiting the arrival of Mistress Pimm. And here are all my dear sisters, I'm thinkin', and startin' to mist up. Here's Martha and Julia and little Rebecca and Rose and...
...there's Amy...
I blink away the tears and head over to where she is sitting. Unlike the first time I laid eyes on Amy Trevelyne, she now has company at her table—Dorothea and Elspeth and Priscilla, among others—but again she has her nose in a book. Well, we'll soon fix that.
I see that I am attracting considerable attention. Heads are raised and elbows nudge ribs and pointed glances are cast my way, which is as it should be—I do love being the center of attention.
Dear little Rebecca Adams is seated next to Amy, chattering away, a chattering that stops mid-chat as I approach in all my tacky glory.
She looks up at me, her big eyes round, as I tap her on the shoulder and say, "Well, hain't ye the pretty one, Missy," loud enough for all to hear. "Yes, ye are, but roight now whyn't ye take yer pretty li'l butt outta that there chair so's a real laydie kin sit 'er arse down?"
The room is dead silent as a stunned Rebecca gets out of her seat and I plunk myself down in it.
Amy's nose is now out of the book and staring at what she can see of me 'neath this red mop.
"Allo, Miss," I says, echoing the first conversation we ever had. "Me name is Jacky Faber and I'm new 'ere and perhaps you'll be tellin' me why we gots two spoons 'ere?"
Her mouth drops open in a very un-Amy-like way as I reach up and pull off the wig, revealing my still-short locks and my very foxy grin. "Perhaps you'll be givin' yer old mate a bit of a hug and kiss, then?"
The place explodes with excitement. It's Jacky! She's back!
I rise and Amy throws her arms around me and I throw mine around her and Rebecca joins in the hug, too, and there are cries of welcome back! and hooray, Jacky! and...
There is the sound of two sharp raps of a cane on the floor—Mistress Pimm has come into the room. The noise stops. Ramrod straight as always, and no grayer than last I saw her, she casts her eye about till it finally falls on me.
"Take your places, all of you," she says, her voice low, her gaze expressionless, seemingly not surprised by my sudden appearance. The girls shuffle about to again stand behind their chairs. When all is quiet, she continues.
"I see that our wandering child has returned to us, and that is good. I will now ask her to give us the grace. Miss Faber, if you will."
I clasp my hands in front of me and begin. "Thank you, Lord, for this food that we are about to receive and for which we are most grateful," I say, about to sail into my usual glib performance. But this time, as I look out over their faces, I suddenly find I cannot do it. All my dear sisters ... I try, but I cannot. It's all too much ... too much.
I choke up.
"And th-thank you all for the kind friendship y-you have sh-shown me over the years ... and..."
I bury my face in my hands and sob away. I did not think this would happen, but it did. I thought I was hard, but I am not. I am not...
"Perhaps, Miss Howell," I hear Mistress say, "you will complete the grace, as Miss Faber seems overcome with rather unseemly emotion."
Miss Howell, Connie Howell, the very pious girl who has had very little use for one Jacky Faber in the past, steps up and delivers. "Dear Lord Jesus, thank you for bringing our lost friend back into our midst. It needs must make us think of the parable that You Yourself spoke unto us, that of the Shepherd and his Lost Sheep—how ninety and nine sheep were safe in the fold but how the true shepherd went out looking for the one lost lamb, and when he did find it, he layeth it upon his shoulders, saying to his friends, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost.'" She pauses, and then simply says, "Amen."
I always thought that I could sling scripture around with the best of them, but Connie sure nailed me this time.
"Amen!" chorus the other girls, and all take their seats.
"Thank you, Miss Howell," says Mistress before she herself sits down. "We shall all take our dinner, and after that we shall call upon Miss Faber for a recounting of her recent travels. I fear that scant other, possibly more worthy, instruction shall take place this afternoon, but so be it."
We have our dinner, and when we are done, I stand up and do it, and I lay it on.
"Oh, you my sisters, attend to me,
You who have braved both wild and stormy seas,
and suffered the cruelest of tyrannies.
And you who have suffered durance most vile,
Take a cup and offer it up and listen now
to a happier tale of work, song, and travail,
on a trip down the American Nile..."
I may not be Virgil, but I can lay it on good and thick.
Chapter 10
Lieutenant James Fletcher
Onboard HMS Dolphin
Approaching Boston Harbor
Massachusetts, USA
Jacky Faber
Onboard the schooner Nancy B. Alsop
Somewhere in that same Boston
Dear Jacky,
Well, I shall probably see you very soon, as we are no more than a day's sail from Boston. I say "probably" in the event you have been carried off by Hottentots, wild Red Indians, Pyrates, or some such, which, given the happenings of the past three years, is not entirely unlikely.
We had smooth sailing on the way over and I only hope that the mission to which you have been committed will play out as smooth, but I have my doubts as to that—there is talk amongst the officers about this device that is going to be loaded aboard and I have uneasy feelings about it. I overhear Dr. Sebastian saying things like "heavy atmospheric pressure" and "being so small, she won't need much air." Just what part this "device" will play in this supposedly purely scientific expedition, I do not know, as I have not been told. But I can imagine who the "she" is.
The ship's company did prove
convivial—except for Flashby, of course, but he has kept his distance from me, at least for now. I believe he knows I shall not pass up an opportunity to call him out and he does want to provoke me. I know you would not like to hear this, Jacky, but the scoundrel has exercised what turns out to be his considerable, if false, charm, and is well liked by the other officers. Even I have found it hard to suppress a laugh at some of his stories and jokes told at the mess table.
Captain Hudson is an excellent commanding officer, firm but fair and a thoroughgoing seaman. He has told me that I will not be confined to the ship when we reach Boston, saying that Intelligence be damned, he's not going to treat a gentleman like a common unrated seaman, and for that I am grateful. When in Boston, I shall be able to take you out to dinner, if not to bed. I should greatly prefer the latter, but I must accept my lot.
Well, I must go on watch now, and so I will conclude. Should the Fates prove kind this time, I shall soon be able to place this letter in your hand, and that prospect soothes my worried mind somewhat.
In any case, dear one, till we meet again, I remain yr most humble and etc....
Jaimy
Chapter 11
"...and that is how I almost got married," I say, heaving a huge, theatrical sigh and wiping away an imaginary tear. "End of story. Sniff."
"I am sorry for you, Sister," says Amy Trevelyne. "But I am glad that you found your way back to us and have regained your good spirits in spite of it all."
We are up in the hayloft of the big barn at Dovecote, the estate of the family Trevelyne in Quincy, Massachusetts. It has always been one of our favorite places to lie about and talk and to tell each other our hopes and dreams. We have just gotten back from a fine ride about the meadows and fields in the late fall air and I am lying sprawled on my back in the still-warm straw and it feels oh so lovely. The horses we rode are being cooled and curried and put up by the stablemen below, and I feel a bit guilty about it—for one who was born common and raised as a beggar, I certainly find it easy to slip into the ways of the rich. I pick up a tasty-looking piece of new hay that still has its head of bearded barleycorn on it and I stick it between my teeth and chew on the end, musing on the happenings of the last six weeks—London, the outfitting of my vessel, the leave-taking, the journey over, and our arrival back in dear old Boston.
"Still, Amy, I wish the marriage had happened," I say, shaking my head to get it back in the present.
"You are only sixteen years old, Sister, you have time enough," says Amy.
"Lots of people get married at sixteen. Younger, even."
"Yes, but the quality do not."
"Oh? And I am suddenly of the quality?"
"You'll do," she says, and goes on. "Martha Custis married George Washington at age twenty-nine. Of course, she was a widow, but even before that, when she had wed Daniel Custis, she was two years older than you. And our second president, John Adams, became interested in Abigail when she was fifteen, but they didn't marry until she was twenty."
"Umm," I say, reserving judgment on that. "And what about you?"
"I am not ready for that sort of thing just yet," she says, as she has so often before. I take that with a grain of salt but hold my tongue, for now.
While I'm stretching in the warm straw, Amy sits cross-legged next to me with her portable writing desk balanced on her knees. She bends over the paper laid thereupon, writing away furiously, pausing only to ask me pertinent questions as I relate the happenings on my recent trip down the Mississippi River. Finally, we are done.
"And with a last, full-throated, stentorian bellow, Mike Fink disappeared around a bend in the river and I saw him no more. End of story, thank God."
"Well, there are a few gaps to be filled," says Amy, still scribbling away, "but I suppose that will do for now."
I put my hands behind my head and look off into the high rafters. "And just how scarlet will you paint me this time, Amy?" For one who has never yet been caught breathing hard in an amorous situation, she is certainly not loath to portray my poor fallible self in such a way.
"I only write down what you tell me, Jacky."
Uh-huh, and with a few literary embellishments here and there...
"Well, I'm sure Mother Fletcher will be delighted," I say, imagining the sheer joy that Jaimy's mother must have felt upon seeing my wedding to her darling son turn into a shambles. I look at my dear friend through narrow eyes. "You have become quite the literary sensation, Miss, both here and in London. I hear your works are to be translated into French, even."
"Well," says Amy, "my family is quite mortified, you'll be glad to hear. It's not done, you know. One such as I to publish, I mean." She writes down another few words and sniffs a ladylike sniff. "If the literary establishment will not publish my poetry, then it will have to put up with my ... prose efforts."
I knew that Amy had sent a sheaf of her poems to a Mr. Thomas Wentworth, the editor of a high-toned Boston literary journal, and he sent them back saying that she "ought not publish," for various reasons, chief of which was that she was a young girl of gentle birth and because of that her efforts could not possibly be up to snuff. Last week I was at my local bookseller's on Cornhull Street and I managed to find some of Mr. Wentworth's writing. I can tell you one thing—Thomas Wentworth may be a fine and righteous Abolitionist, but as a poet, he ain't a patch on Amy Trevelyne's snowy white drawers.
"Your very purple prose efforts, Sister," says I, squirming deeper into the wonderfully warm hay. "And speaking of marriage prospects, quality or not, how are things between you and our fine Mr. Pickering?"
She blushes, but before she can say her usual "I am not ready for that sort of thing right now," there is a bit of a bustle down below, and whose head should pop up at the edge of the loft but that of Ezra Pickering himself.
"And what do we have here?" he asks, smiling his secret little smile. "Two dewy country maidens taking their ease in the new-mown hay. How charmingly rustic. May I join them?"
I laugh and say, "Ah, yes, just two simple milkmaids are we. Come on up." I glance at Amy and see that she is not at all displeased at Ezra's arrival. Not at all ... Hmmm ...
He sits down next to Amy. "Can I hope to be invited to dinner, Miss Trevelyne, since I came all the way here?"
"You may, Mr. Pickering," she says.
But I take it further. "You have news, Ezra, else you would not be here."
"That is true, Miss Faber," he says, dusting some chaff off his perfectly tailored sleeve. "HMS Dolphin has docked at Long Wharf and your presence there tomorrow has been ... how shall we say ... 'requested.'"
Chapter 12
It was Solomon Freeman who brought Ezra Pickering over to Dovecote in the Morning Star yesterday, and it is he who brings me back in her today.
"I am honored that the great Lord Othello deigns to convey my poor self back to Boston," I tease, leaning back against the gunwale, watching him trim the sail and tend the tiller. I note that he has become quite expert in small-boat handling since last I saw him, and I compliment him on it. "How good of His Lordship to come all the way across Massachusetts Bay just for me."
Solomon laughs and adjusts the sail a bit, steering a course for the Boston docks. "Well, I may play the warrior Othello on the stage, but you, Miss Faber, are still the boss of Faber Shipping here in the real world, and so I will come pick you up anytime you want me to."
Higgins and I had taken in the play several nights ago and Solomon was magnificent—every inch the victorious general in the beginning, every bit the broken man brought down by treachery and his own jealousy at the end. Mr. Bean plays Iago, and for the duration of their play, I hate him.
It caused a bit of a scandal in Boston, of course, but it shouldn't have—a black actor playing a black character, what could be more natural?
After the final curtain, I joined the cast for a bit of carousing at the Pig and Whistle and got in quite late, but it was good to see Messrs. Fennel and Bean again, as well as Chloe Cantrell, my friend
and Faber Shipping's part-time secretary.
Yesterday, in a little side office at Dovecote, Ezra and I had some time to go over the affairs of Faber Shipping Worldwide, he being the Clerk of the Corporation and all. We went over money on hand (not much); the state of our equipment—boats, traps, lines, et cetera; rates of pay for employees—Solomon had to hire several wharf rats to help with the trap hauling, me having most of the able-bodied men with me across the sea; the going price on lobsters, clams, and fish; profit and loss, profit and loss, till my head spun. But Higgins did sell off that china at a good price, so, at the end of it all, we get to meet the payroll and go on.
"Maybe this new expedition will yield something for us," I said, putting my hand on his arm. "Maybe some crumbs will fall through the cracks. Never can tell. We'll see..."
"Well, if anyone can nudge those crumbs toward those cracks," Ezra said, chuckling and gathering up his papers and stuffing them back in his valise, "it is you, Madame President. And now I believe we are being called to dinner."
That evening, Colonel and Mrs. Trevelyne received me most cordially at their table, even though I know they do not entirely approve of me as a suitable companion for their daughter, Amy, or, God forbid, a suitable match for their son, Randall. Of course they were overjoyed to hear my news of their hotheaded son, who had disappeared in late summer after an argument with the Colonel over Randall's performance, or lack of it, at college. I'll wager he'll come back with his head a good deal less hot after having seen that awful slaughter at Jena-Auerstadt, I'm thinking.
Having stormed out of Dovecote, Randall had wrangled a letter of introduction to an important general in Napoleon's army out of Lissette's father, le Comte de Lise, and so ended up as a light horseman on the march to Germany. With me. Pressed for details, I recount how shocked Randall and I were to meet each other that day in Marshal Murat's tent and how, some days later, we both rode in Murat's cavalry charge on the Prussian lines at Jena. I told them of Randall's bravery and how he saved my very life. I know Colonel Trevelyne was pleased to hear that. I also told them of my last meeting with Randall and of his stated intention to resign his commission and return to Dovecote. I know Mrs. Trevelyne was pleased to hear that.
