Some of the girls giggled at this, which only made the archery mistress frown more deeply than ever. “Enough!” she said sharply, raising her arm until Hilary’s toes were barely touching the floor. “There is a limit to the amount of nonsense I can abide, and you, Miss Westfield, have reached it. I’m sure none of our students are interested in setting sail on the High Seas.”
“I’m interested.” Rosie Hatter stepped out of the crowd. Hilary could have hugged her. “I’d like to learn how to duel like that.”
“So would I,” said the girl with her hair in braids.
“And so would I.” The music mistress stood up from her harpsichord bench. “I thought that pirate battle was terribly thrilling; didn’t you, Pauline?”
The dancing mistress wrung her hands. “It was rather graceful,” she said grudgingly.
By now, nearly thirty girls had stepped forward to join Rosie. In their petticoats and cardigans, they didn’t look much like any pirates Hilary had met before, but she didn’t mind one bit. In the corner of the room, Claire was practically bouncing with joy. Even Charlie looked pleased. “Would you mind letting us go?” Hilary asked the archery mistress. “We’ve got lessons to teach, and I’m eager to get started.”
Reluctantly, the archery mistress released her grip. “I won’t have you girls catching yellow fever or forgetting to bathe, do you understand?”
The schoolgirls curtsied prettily. “Yes, miss,” they said all together.
“Hmm,” said the gargoyle, studying them. “Teaching these people to shout might be more difficult than I thought.”
Hilary laughed, though she suspected the gargoyle was right. “We’ve got loads of work ahead of us,” she said, “but it will be entirely worth it to see the look on Captain Blacktooth’s face when our crew arrives in Queensport Harbor.”
* * *
WESTFIELD HOUSE
QUEENSPORT, AUGUSTA
Dear Hilary,
It seems as though it has been ages since your last visit. The gray weather has dragged on interminably, and I find myself rather lonely without you here to tear up the drapery and reduce the drawing room to rubble. I quite miss your funny little gargoyle as well, for Westfield House has been crawling with spiders since he departed.
So many people do not seem to care for honesty these days, but I hope you will not mind if I am honest with you, Hilary. When your father was first sent to the Royal Dungeons, naturally I hoped for his release. As the months wore on, however, I began to enjoy my perch at the top of the household. My busy schedule of hosting parties, performing charitable works, and visiting with friends left me very little time to miss your father—and I must admit that eventually, I did not miss him at all. My fainting fits had become far more rare during his absence, and I had only locked myself in my wardrobe three times in the past year. In short, my dear, I found myself enjoying life without James Westfield far more than I ever enjoyed it with him.
As I suspect you noticed, I was quite furious on the morning of your father’s return, and I have been wrapped in a gloom ever since. How wise you were to leave the house at once! Since that day, your father has been sharper and more demanding than ever, and he behaves quite rudely when he is home. More and more, however, he is not home at all. His volunteer work with the Royal Navy requires him to travel often to Tilbury Park, though I cannot see quite what the Tilburys have to do with the navy. I would ask your father about it if I had any hope at all of receiving a truthful answer.
I have been reminiscing about our own visit to Tilbury Park last summer, and while I cannot say that I enjoyed the pirate battle that occurred there, I did feel proud of myself for leading all those poor guests to safety. I believe it was a real accomplishment! Lately, I have caught myself thinking that it might be pleasant to accomplish something else one day.
I hope you will keep my silly thoughts in confidence, Hilary, for I would never dare mention them to the High Society families of my acquaintance. I suspect, however, that you may be able to lend a sympathetic ear.
Your loving
Mother
* * *
* * *
PIRATE HILARY WESTFIELD
TERROR OF THE SOUTHLANDS
Dear Mother,
I recently received your letter, and I have an idea that I hope will improve both your circumstances and your mood. Before I propose it, however, I think you should find a comfortable chair to sit in—the divan in the blue parlor, perhaps? Ask Bess to stand nearby with a pot of tea and a tray of smelling salts. You should probably keep your folding fan close at hand as well. If there are any visitors staying at Westfield House, please ask them to leave for a moment or two. (I’m sure you won’t want them to be disturbed if you begin to shriek.)
Are you prepared? Very well. Here is my idea:
Have you ever considered becoming a pirate?
Love,
Hilary
* * *
CHAPTER NINE
BEFORE LONG, THE classrooms and corridors of Miss Pimm’s finishing school were filled with all sorts of unladylike activities. Girls whistled sea chanteys on the way to breakfast and sat in the hallways mending the holes they’d torn in their stockings during swordplay lessons. With Miss Pimm’s blessing, Cannonball Jack led daily excursions to the Blunderbuss, where he instructed a small but determined group of girls on the finer points of cannon firing. With the archery mistress’s reluctant approval, Mr. Partridge oversaw extra rounds of target practice that lasted until dusk; only once did he return from the pitch with an arrow lodged in his hat. The gargoyle’s students worked diligently on their seafaring language, though they still said “Excuse me!” after every “Arr!” or “Blast!” Miss Greyson and Mr. Stanley conducted magic tutorials for those who weren’t yet comfortable with their golden crochet hooks, and Claire spent every spare moment buried in textbooks of magical theory.
Even Charlie had become considerably more cheerful. He still grew tense every morning before leaving Wimbly-on-the-Marsh, but his nerves seemed to fall away as soon as he began to explain the difference between a cutlass and a broadsword, or the etiquette of dueling. His lessons proved to be so popular that Hilary could hardly make her way up the school staircases without running into pairs of girls fencing up and down the steps.
Most of the girls who’d stepped forward in the dancing classroom took part in the piracy lessons, and each day they brought a few more of their friends along with them. Even those girls who preferred not to go into battle volunteered to sew pirate clothing, mend their classmates’ cuts and bruises, strategize over maps of Queensport Harbor, or prepare Miss Pimm’s ship, the Dancing Sheep, for battle. The embroidery mistress remarked to anyone who would listen that she had never seen anything so shocking in her life, but even she had stitched a furtive skull and crossbones onto her handkerchief. “It seems that piracy has become something of a fad,” Miss Pimm remarked drily. “I wonder if it will linger as long as last year’s craze for opera.”
Even if it didn’t, Hilary hoped it would last at least a few more weeks. Her crew was growing by the day, but she still didn’t have nearly enough supporters to challenge Captain Blacktooth. She spent each morning overseeing lessons at Miss Pimm’s and working on her Buccaneers’ Code, but in the afternoons she left the school grounds and tried to muster up as many potential pirates as she could.
One sunny Thursday, she and the gargoyle ventured to the Pemberton market to talk with would-be scallywags. She assured the fishmonger that as president of the VNHLP, she would stop the League’s ships from attacking his trawlers, and she promised to negotiate fairer prices with the greengrocer, who sold most of his oranges to pirates fearful of scurvy. After a whispered conversation behind a towering stack of lettuces, both men agreed to join Hilary’s crew. The weavers and jam makers claimed that a life on the High Seas left very little time for weaving or jam making, and the butcher seemed far more interested in Hilary’s cutlass than he did in Hilary, but the baker confided that she had always longed
to abandon her flours and yeasts for a more adventurous career. To Hilary’s delight, she vowed to become a pirate on the spot.
“Who knows?” Hilary remarked to the gargoyle as they left the market. “We may recruit two hundred pirates yet.”
“I’m not sure I liked the way that butcher was looking at me,” the gargoyle said. “I’m sure his mouth was watering. By this time tomorrow, he’ll be making a fortune selling juicy gargoyle steaks to all the cooks in Pemberton.”
“He’d better not!” said Hilary. “If he so much as lifts his cleaver in your direction, I’ll warn him off.”
“I’d appreciate that,” the gargoyle said. “Where are we going next?”
Hilary turned down a skinny lane that led in the opposite direction from Miss Pimm’s. According to the rusted signpost, it bore the unfortunate name of Anklebone Alley. She wasn’t entirely familiar with this part of Pemberton, where the air smelled of cooking meat, damp earth, and sharp, sour things she preferred not to identify. “I thought we’d walk down to the bay,” she said, “to inquire if any members of the Royal Augusta Water Ballet are interested in becoming pirates.”
“That’s a good idea,” said the gargoyle. “They’re already excellent at treading water.” He looked around at the moss-covered stone buildings that lined the alley. “Are you sure you’re headed in the right direction?”
“Of course! A good pirate always knows which way is north—or south, in this case.” Hilary squinted up at the sun, which hung in the sky over the right-hand row of buildings. “It’s just a matter of observing one’s surroundings.”
“Oh, well, I can do that,” the gargoyle said. “I can see there’s a tasty-looking patch of stinging nettles by the side of the lane. I can see you’re going to refuse to let me have them for a snack. And I can see a suspicious-looking gentleman lurking behind that cottage, even though he thinks I can’t.”
Hilary stopped walking. “What did you say?”
Before the gargoyle had a chance to repeat himself, a pair of black-gloved hands reached out from behind her, took hold of her arms, and pulled her out of the alley.
“Drat and blast!” cried Hilary. “Let me go!”
She tried to reach for her cutlass, but the hands held her fast; she couldn’t even twist around to catch a glimpse of her attacker. In her bag, the gargoyle snapped his jaws together. “I’m trying to bite him,” he called up to Hilary, “but he’s not cooperating! He won’t even let me have a nibble!”
The gentleman sounded as though he was trying to say something, but Hilary wasn’t interested in listening. Instead, she raised her right leg in front of her, swung it backward as hard as she could, and kicked him squarely in the knees. With a shout, the gentleman let go of Hilary’s arms, lost his balance, and tumbled into the patch of stinging nettles.
“I think,” the gargoyle said shakily, “he might have overheard me.”
“I think you’re right.” Hilary walked over to the nettles and looked down at the gentleman. He lay facedown in the dirt, and his elegant suit looked rather the worse for wear. “I also think his clothes are far too fine for a common cutpurse.”
“Maybe he stole them,” the gargoyle suggested.
“Ow!” said the gentleman, who was still being stung by nettles. “I’m not a cutpurse!”
“Then what are you?” Hilary asked. “Get up and explain yourself before I let my gargoyle chomp on your earlobes.”
The gentleman rolled out of the nettles, saying “Ow!” several more times as he did so. Hilary drew her cutlass in case he tried to run away, but he did no such thing; instead he scrambled to his feet and gave her a miserable little bow. “Hello, Terror,” he said. “I suppose I should have sent my calling card in advance.”
“Sir Nicholas Feathering.” Hilary eyed his scratches and stings, but she didn’t lower her cutlass. “I hoped you’d put your kidnapping days behind you. If your fellow Mutineers have sent you here to snatch me, I assure you I won’t be snatched.”
“You’ve got it entirely wrong,” Nicholas protested. “The others didn’t send me; they don’t even know I’m here.” He put a hand to his cheek and flinched. “What the devil did you push me into, a hornet’s nest?”
“I wish I had,” said Hilary. “However did you find me?”
“The Terror of the Southlands isn’t exactly difficult to track down. I made some inquiries—and once I reached Pemberton, I used this.” Nicholas pulled a polished golden ball from his pocket.
Hilary lifted her cutlass to his chin. “Put that down immediately.”
“Sorry!” Nicholas yelped. He backed away and set the magic piece down at his feet. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, Terror. I only wanted to help. That is, I still do want to help, but your cutlass is making it rather difficult.”
The gargoyle was glaring at Nicholas and showed no intention of stopping. “I don’t trust him,” he said. “Do you trust him, Hilary?”
“Not even a bit.” Hilary lowered her sword a fraction of an inch. “But I am interested in what he has to say. I suppose we should let him explain himself before we have him shipped to the Dungeons.”
“Thank you,” said Nicholas. He sounded truly relieved. “I should have known you wouldn’t be happy to see me, but I had to speak to you at once. You see, I . . . well, I’m not sure I want to be a Mutineer anymore.”
Hilary stared at him. “Whyever not? Don’t you want to rule the kingdom?”
“Not particularly,” said Nicholas. “I never have, really; the whole idea of ruling doesn’t appeal to me. It seems like quite a lot of work, to tell you the truth.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “It appeals to Philomena, though, and when she asked for my help, of course I agreed. I didn’t know there’d be kidnappings or battles.”
“But you’ve been a Mutineer for ages now,” said Hilary. “If you disapprove so heartily of kidnappings and battles, why didn’t you leave the group at once?”
“I couldn’t! Mrs. Tilbury said she’d ruin me—ruin the good name of all the Featherings. She can do that, you know. That group of hers, the Coalition of Overprotective Mothers, they spread rumors faster than the Scuttlebutt can print them. And I couldn’t leave Philomena. No one should have to face Mrs. Tilbury alone.” Nicholas shuddered. “She’s not a pleasant woman.”
“So I’ve gathered,” said Hilary. Her arm was growing sore from holding up her cutlass, but she didn’t dare put it down. “Go on. Don’t you want to explain why you’ve had such a convenient change of heart?”
Nicholas hesitated. “I was there,” he said. “That night at Tilbury Park. I saw Philomena launch Alice out of that tree.”
From the look on Nicholas’s face, Hilary guessed that being pushed into a patch of nettles was the nicest thing that had happened to him in quite some time. “I thought I saw you at the window,” she said carefully.
“I knew Philomena had a temper, but I never imagined she’d truly harm anyone. She swore to me that Alice wasn’t hurt, but—well—is she all right, Terror?”
“Her arm is broken,” Hilary said. “You needn’t look so horrified; she’ll be perfectly all right in a few weeks. If you’re fortunate, perhaps she won’t have to wear bandages at your wedding.”
“I don’t know if there’s going to be a wedding.” Nicholas slumped against the cottage wall. “I used to think I could rescue Philomena from her wretched mother, but now I’m not sure she’s the rescuing type.” He sighed. “I can’t bear to tell her, though. She’s been in a sour mood for months, and I suspect that if I break our engagement, she’ll leave me in the path of an oncoming train.”
“So you ran away?” the gargoyle asked. “I don’t blame you. If I had to marry a Mutineer, I’d run away too—or at least I’d hop.”
But Nicholas shook his head. “Running away won’t do me much good. If I don’t want Georgiana Tilbury chasing me across the kingdom with her antique magic shoehorn clutched in her fist, I have to pretend that I’m perfectly happy with the Mutineers’ plans. I do
n’t speak much to the others on the best of days, and I believe they prefer it that way. I watch them, though, and I listen. That’s why I’ve come to see you, Terror.” Nicholas looked from one end of the alley to the other. “I thought you might be interested in making a deal.”
Hilary narrowed her eyes. “In that case, I’m sorry you’ve gone to so much trouble. I don’t deal with villains.”
“Not even villains who hope to reform themselves?”
“Especially not them,” said Hilary. “I’m acquainted with a few of them already, and they simply can’t be trusted.”
Nicholas wiped his glove across his face, leaving a smudge of dirt and dust on his brow. “I could tell you what Captain Blacktooth is planning,” he said. “I could tell you how to defeat him. Don’t you think that information is worth having?”
“Well, yes,” Hilary admitted. “Despite what you may have heard from my father, I’m not entirely foolish. But I’m sure you’ll be wanting something in return.”
“Only a bit of protection. I’ll need your word that you and your crew will defend me from any Mutineers who find out about our arrangement.”
“That’s all you want?” Hilary frowned. “You really aren’t very good at villainy, are you?”
“Well,” said Nicholas, “there is one more thing. Could you put in a good word for me with Alice? She hasn’t spoken to me for months, and I’m starting to miss her ridiculous stories. I know she’ll do whatever you advise, Terror.”
Hilary was familiar with lies, for pirates lied frequently and well. She didn’t think Nicholas was being untruthful, but she had trusted him once before, and he had tried to send her to the bottom of the sea as a result. She lowered her sword, but just to be cautious, she put her foot firmly on top of the ball of magic.
“How can I be sure that you’re not only here to find out what I’m up to?” she asked. “For all I know, you’ll tell me a pack of tales and run back to Captain Blacktooth with everything you’ve learned about my plans.”
The Buccaneers' Code Page 12
