by L. A. Meyer
“Because, Sister, I want him and me to reunite, for what I hope will be the final time, alone, and not in front of a roomful of people. It would not be fair to him to show myself then. It would have been a blow to his pride if he were to seem unmanly in front of others. Believe me, I know a lot about male pride. No, Amy, I want to do it this way.”
“Perhaps, dear, you could wait until we have the Preacher here before you and him . . .” I suggest as my friend strips off her clothes.
“Nay, Sister, I have waited long enough, and so has he,” she says, peeling off her black Lawson Peabody school dress and stepping out of it. “If I hesitate for even a moment, I’m sure a troop of Royal Marines will appear up over that hill with orders for him to return to his ship to sail away forever. Or Professor Tilly will show up with one of his silly kites to send me aloft again . . . or legions of black-robed Men of God will take me and hand me over to black-hooded hangmen waving their nooses . . . or Naval Intelligence will want me to spy again, or . . . Damn!”
Her foot gets caught on the waistband of her drawers and she falls over on the floor in her haste to get them off. Accomplishing that task, she gets back to her feet and whips her undershirt off over her head. She lunges to her seabag and rummages impatiently through it and at last says “Ha!” as she draws out some sort of faded . . . Aha! I see that it is indeed the fabled Kingston dress . . .
“. . . Or a Mike Fink, or a Constable Wiggins, or aCaptain Scroggs, or the Spanish Inquisition, or Napoleon Bonaparte himself, or any of hundreds of others who want to be done with me for good and ever. No, Sister, I must go now.”
She puts her arms through the short, puffy sleeves and flips the flimsy dress over her head. It slips over her body, covering her nakedness . . . well, at least it covers her from bottom of breastbone to top of knees.
She fluffs up her hair and sticks a leg out the open window, then turns to face me. “You see, Sister,” she says, “I gave my vows long ago in a goldsmith’s shop in Kingston,Jamaica, and I have kept those vows, in my way. Give me a moment’s head start and then tell Polly to send him up. And if you will be so good as to do me a great favor, Amy, I’d like you to keep everyone out of the barn for a good long while, as we’ll be needin’ the hayloft.”
Then she grins that oh-so-familiar open-mouthed, foxy grin of hers, and is out the window.
I go to the window and watch my dearest friend race up Daisy Hill, her hair loose and blowing in the breeze, her legs flashing under the hem of that ridiculous rag of a dress. In less than a moment she is gone from my sight.
I heave a great sigh and go back to the parlor and give the nod to Polly. She catches my eye and says, “Yes, Sir, it’s at the top of the hill. In a very pretty place, I . . . I think you’ll take much comfort there.”
She stifles a sob and takes her hands from Mr.Fletcher’s arm, puts those same hands to her face, and collapses in tears into a nearby chair. It’s a bit overdone, Gentle Reader, you will agree, but let it go, for it is just such a joyous time and all can be forgiven their excesses. Mr. Fletcher’s back is to me, so I am able to slip out of the parlor and back to my room, unseen. I go again to my window and look out. In a few moments, I see the poor, bereftLieutenant James Fletcher trudging up the hill, a world of sadness on his shoulders. He will come down from that hill a much happier man, and I wish him the total and absolute joy of this day.
Well, ahem! There are things that must be done. First, I must go back down to see that a basket of bread and cheeses and cold meats is prepared, which will be discreetly set at the foot of the ladder to the hayloft. Several bottles of wine, too, are added, as those two will need more sustenance than just love and love only.
I’ll go outside to the place where the barn is missing a few boards, the same spot where she and I, snug in the hay, used to lie side by side and look out on the green fields of late summer to dream our dreams, and I will softly call up to her that there is refreshment below. No, no, Gentle Reader, do not think me forward. I know her, and I know her appetites, and I know she will not mind that slight invasion of their privacy.
Some thin sheets and blankets will be provided, too, for the night might turn chilly, and it is entirely possible that they will not emerge till morning. Although they will be wrapped up in each other’s warmth and buried deep in the hay, their cuddling might not be enough to serve them comfortable, on this, their wedding night . . . or almost wedding night.
Oh, I expect the lovers will come out tomorrow morning, sated with love, for the time being, at least. They will be disheveled, with straw poking out of their clothes, leaning into each other as they walk down the path to the house. We will take her from him to clean her up and get her into the wedding dress, and we will prepare for the ceremony and the wedding banquet. She will sparkle and be gay, but all will know that what she really wants the most is to run off to the hayloft with her Jaimy again. After all is said and done, we will let them go.
Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself. There are more things to do, for we have this wedding to plan on very short notice.
First, I must send a boy to fetch Reverend Sturgis to perform the ceremony. Though it will be a day or two late, I’m sure that even in our strict society she should still be permitted to wear white, as the act of marriage was close enough in time to the legal contract of marriage. Not that she would care one whit whether the dress be white or scarlet, but she would care very much if they succeed in putting a baby in her belly this day—and it is very possible that they will. She’ll want the child to bear the father’s name, no matter what she says now. So I must have our Dovecote girls put together a white gown and veil. It will be simple, with a high neck, straight front, and gathered back, I think. She may protest, but I will be firm. She will not be married in that Kingston rag, not in my house she won’t.
I ring my little bell, and when the girl knocks and is told to come in, I say, “Charity, please tell Mrs. Grubbs that we’ll be putting together a wedding and reception for, maybe, fifty . . . no, sixty people, tomorrow or the next day. Yes, we’ll need all the fatted geese and turkeys, so make preparations. Yes, dear, it will, indeed, be a grand time for all. Off with you now . . .”
Oh, yes, and a man must be sent immediately on horseback to Boston to inform her friends that they will be going to her wedding and not to her funeral, which news I know will be received most joyfully. I have been informed that the Lorelei Lee has made port in Boston, and I am sure she will be loaded with all her Boston friends, to be brought here to Dovecote for the celebration: Peg Mooney, Sylvie and Henry Hoffman, Annie Jones, and Betsey and Ephraim Fyffe; and, of course, Joannie Nichols and the entire student body of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls. RebeccaAdams is still in attendance and it’s entirely possible she could persuade former President and Mrs. Adams to join us in that happy celebration, as they live not far away. I know old John still enjoys a good party. And Chloe Cantrell and Solomon Freeman and Daniel Prescott and the rest of her various crews. I can just imagine the introductions . . . Mr.President, may I present John Thomas and Smasher McGee, both able-bodied Yankee seamen.
Oh, and Maudie and her man Bob from the Pig and Whistle, can’t forget them, and Jemimah Moses, too, as well as many, many others. I know that Jacky will be overjoyed to see each and every one of them. In fact, I don’t expect her eyes to be dry for days, as she is famous for crying most copiously during times of great happiness.
Bridesmaids? Mairead McConnaughey, of course. And Joanie and Rebecca and Annie and Betsey, and yes, Molly Malone; and it is to her that I wager Jacky will throw the bridal bouquet.
Ringbearer? That will be little Ravi, for sure. Turban and all.
And that other master plotter, Mistress Pimm—she with her Underground Network of Pimm’s Girls and the Cordelia dress switch they accomplished—shall be Matron of Honor, and well she should be, having taken on Jacky Faber, who was, without doubt, the Lawson Peabody’s most difficult student, and having succeeded in both her education and h
er refinement.
Best Man? I am sure that James Fletcher will choose John Higgins, and I am equally sure that Liam Delaney, Jacky’s old sea dad on the Dolphin, will be glad to act as father of the bride and will joyously give her away, in probably vain hopes that she will finally settle down.
And as for the groomsmen, well, there are Davy and Tink, the present members of the Dread Brotherhood of Ship’s Boys of HMS Dolphin, plus Jim Tanner, IanMcConnaughey, James Fletcher’s First Mate on the Cereberus . . . and let’s be a little evil here, shall we? How about Arthur McBride, Mr. Fletcher’s constant thorn-in-side? Hmm . . . ? Or Cavalry Major Lord Richard Allen? I’m sure he will be good for a few ribald jabs in regard to his PrincessPrettybottom . . . There will be enough from those two to keep Mr. Fletcher very red-faced in his effort to keep his emotions under control. Maybe some of Jacky’s wickedness is rubbing off on me.
My wedding present to her, and to Jaimy, will be that little piece of land that adjoins Dovecote to the west. It is on the river, and she will appreciate that, I think, always having a connection to the sea. The land was left to me by a great-aunt, and I have little use for it. They will have a cottage built there, with green fields and red roses all about. Whether Mr. Fletcher will be able to keep her in it is quite another thing, but at least it will be a place for her to rest between voyages.
The Reader will have noted that I did not mention either Brother Randall or myself, in any capacity, as we might well be otherwise occupied during the coming festivities. Who knows, Dovecote may have more than one wedding this week. And maybe more than two.
Ah, Dear Reader, I know my mind rambles and my pen wanders aimlessly over the page, but I hope you will forgive me, as I am in a state of complete and utter joy.
Well, there goes Edward off to Boston in a rattle of hoofbeats and a cloud of dust to spread the great good news. Tucked in his vest is a special letter that I had quickly penned and given him to deliver. It is addressed to my dear Mr. Pickering, and in it I inform him that Miss Amy Trevelyne will be most glad to wait on him upon his arrival, as I am now ready for that sort of thing.
All is in train—the riders dispatched, the preparations begun. The Nancy B. lies out on the bay, waiting to take the two lovers off to wherever in this world they wish to go, no longer star-crossed. Of course, I do not know for sure that this is what is going to happen, but I do not think I will be proven so very far from wrong.
However, Dear Reader, if you are a person of a doubting nature, fear not, for you shall know the truth of it in the following way: If you find no further entries in this journal by my hand, then you will know that my predictions were found to be perfectly and absolutely correct.
Researcher’s Note:
The above is the last page in a recently found journal “AnAccount of the Life and Times of the Adventurer Miss Jacky Faber, Otherwise Known as Bloody Jack,” which is stored in the archives of Radcliffe College, Cambridge, Massachusetts, and was used extensively in the doctoral thesis of Rebecca Byrnes Adams, PhD, “Early Eighteenth-Century Women Poets and Their Times,” published by University Press in 2004. The journal was found, carefully bound in black ribbon, in a chest in the attic of Trevelyne House in Quincy, Massachusetts, now a National Historical Site, and bequeathed by the Adams family to Radcliffe College, along with many other invaluable notes and papers. Dr. Adams is a direct descendant of the author. The manuscript is signed, “Mrs. Amy Trevelyne Pickering, in Her Own Hand, November 10, Eighteen Hundred and Nine.”
Chapter 48
I run up the path to Daisy Hill, then slow to a walk next to the fresh grave there at the top. I put my hand on the simple board that someone had put at the head of the grave and that bears the words . . . SHE WILL PLAY THE WILD ROVER NO MORE.
Poor Gully. I know you meant well and I do hope there really is a place called Fiddler’s Green and you are there now and happy. And I’ll wager there’s some fiddle repairman there who can put the Lady Lenore back together—maybe the same old Italian who made her in the first place will do her up again. Wouldn’t that be something? Shall I sing you a verse or two before my Jaimy comes up here to join me?
And I sing in a soft voice . . .
I’ve traveled this wide world over
And now to another I go.
And I know that good quarters are waiting
To welcome Old Rosin the Beau . . .
Here’s the verse you always liked to bellow out, Gully . . .
My race on this world is now over.
And up to Heaven I’ll go.
Send up a hogshead of whiskey,
To welcome Old Rosin the Beau!
And I hope you are, indeed, welcome, wherever you are, Gully, and . . . Uh-oh! He’s coming!
I dive into the bushes that grow at the crest of the hill, to hide and to wait.
I do not have to wait long, for soon my dear JamesEmerson Fletcher comes along, his shoulders slumped, his face a mask of sorrow and pain. I part the high grass to watch what he does. Oh, Jaimy, it’s been so long, and I’m sorry, but I just want to savor this moment so that I can remember it forever. I’m sorry, but it’s my nature, and I do want to do it this way. It’s wrong of me, but just a little longer, a little bit longer, Jaimy. You’ll see, you’ll see.
Jaimy walks up to the crest of the hill and goes to the grave. I see him read the simple epitaph on the rough board that was put up at the head of it.
He shakes his head and then bends down and kneels on the grass next to the freshly turned earth and begins to talk to me.
“I’m sorry, Jacky, I . . . I . . . was too late,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “I was always just a little too late for you, always a step behind, never able to catch and hold you and protect you and . . .” He stops talking and simply stares down at the head of the grave for many moments and then finally says, “I hope and pray you are in a better place and looking down upon me now.”
Oh, I am looking down upon you, Jaimy, with all the love I have in me. And as for that better place, well, the hayloft will have to do, my dear, and I think we will find it just the finest of bowers.
Then he reaches his hand into his jacket . . .
Uh-oh! I have already seen this day someone willing to follow me into the next world. No, Jaimy, not you, too . . .
But it is not a pistol that he brings out, it is a ring—a match to the one I wear on a chain about my neck. They are the rings we placed on each other’s fingers that wonderful day in Kingston, all those years ago.
I part the bushes and step out into the light and stand next to the marker at the head of the grave. Startled, he turns his head at the sound of my footfall on the grass. MyKingston dress blows about my knees and I put my hands behind my back and I say to him what I said on that same day in Jamaica. “Hullo, Jaimy . . . So what do you think of your saucy sailor girl now?”
His eyes widen and his mouth drops open. I do love astounding this dear boy.
“Jacky . . . No, it can’t be you . . . It can’t be . . . They killed you . . . I must be seeing a . . .
“No, Jaimy, I’m not a ghost from our past. My good friends came in the nick of time to save my poor self, as they have done so many times before. Stand up, Jaimy, and hold me. You’re gonna see that I’m quite real.”
And I’m trying not to cry, Jaimy, at this, my happiest of moments, but I feel the tears coming anyway. Unbidden as they are, they are tears of joy, pure joy.
“Please, Jaimy, come hold me . . .”
For I am alive and the blood still flows in my veins and the love of my life has come to join me . . .
“There’s nobody here to keep us apart anymore, love, no, and there won’t be, not ever again. So come put your ring on my finger, and we will be wed.”
He rises to his feet and he opens his arms.
Oh, Jaimy, you are so splendid, so beautiful . . .
“Come kiss me, Jaimy, if you love me . . .”
And he does! Oh, yes, he does . . .
Author’s Note
And so little Jacky Faber sails off into the sunset, her fondest wishes now come true—well, most of them, anyway—but is our wild girl finally done roving? Is this the last of our impetuous little lass? If it is, I will miss her, for I assure you I enjoyed every minute I spent recording her wild adventures. Gone for good? Well, she does have a way of popping back up, you know . . .
She did get her Bombay Rat and her Cathay Cat, and yes, she saw her Kangaroo, and all that, but wait . . . what’s that up there? Can’t you see it? Just around the curve of the winding road, the bend of the river, just over the edge of the horizon, there . . .
Sail on, sailor girl.
Visit www.hmhco.com to find all of the books in the Bloody Jack series.
About the Author
L. A. MEYER (1942–2014) was the acclaimed writer of the Bloody Jack Adventure series, which follows the exploits of an impetuous heroine who has fought her way up from the squalid streets of London to become an adventurer of the highest order. He and his wife, Annetje, operated an art gallery near their home in a small fishing village on the coast of Maine until 2013. Visit his website at www.jackyfaber.com.
