by L. A. Meyer
We're heading up State Street over to Ezra Pickering's office on Union Street, and I'm looking around at all the shops and signs and such when I notice something. Not something that's there—something that isn't there.
"Amy," I asks, "how come there ain't any orphan beggars around this town? In London we'd be knee-deep in 'em by now."
Amy keeps peering down every alleyway as if she expects a parcel of rogues to leap out at us at any second. Satisfied, for the moment, that none are poised for such an attack, she says, "Well, it is because anyone who is orphaned and has no other relations or means is generally given to a farm family in the outlying towns. Many times on the frontier, beyond the Alleghenies. The farmers put them to work in exchange for their keep."
"That's good for the orphans, then?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes they are taken in and treated as a member of the family. Adopted, even, or they marry into the family when they are old enough," says Amy, scooting across a dark alleyway. "Sometimes, though, they are just worked like indentured servants."
I reflect that if I was an up-and-coming young orphan instead of the grizzled and battle-hardened veteran orphan that I am, I'd still choose to take my chances here in the city rather than out there in the woods.
"And there is the New England Home for Little Wanderers, and for those boys big enough to lift a shovel, they are filling in the Mill Pond in the northern part of town. They're scraping off part of Beacon Hill to do it and anyone who can lift a wheelbarrow can—"
"Hey! Ahoy! It's the little nightingale from the Pig!"
"By God, 'tis!"
Uh-oh.
There's three men standing in front of us, grinning and lifting their caps and it looks like they are seamen and they look a little familiar, like maybe they were in last night's crowd, and by the way they are weaving, it looks like they've had a few.
"Oi believes ye be right, Seth Hawkins," says the man in the middle. "The one what could sing and dance so pretty it fair broke me poor heart, it did!"
"Aye, you were right blubbering in yer beer, ye were, Amos, ye sorry sod!" says his mate, slapping him on the back.
"Don't care," says the one named Amos. "She put me in such mind of my own dear daughter back home who I may never see again that I could not hold back the tears..."
"She may have put ye in mind of your daughter, but that didn't stop you from tryin' to steal a kiss!" roars the other man.
I do remember this crew, I thinks, and I did have to be right nimble to stay out of their reach when I was helpin' Maudie durin' our break, but I did feel there was no harm in them for all their bawdy behavior. I sneak a look at Amy—she looks like her most terrible fears have come true. Ah, well.
"Gentlemen," I says, all bright and brave, "I am very pleased that you enjoyed our show, but now I must bid you all a good day, 'cause me and my sister must be gettin' back to school, and if we're late we're sure to get a whuppin'." I hear Amy let out a whimper behind me.
"Ah, Miss," says Seth Hawkins, "if ye could give us just one tune, for we right now are going back to the ship and we sail on the tide and may never see land nor ale nor pretty young things ever again." He takes off his cap and gives me the mournful eye.
"Very well," says I, and I draw out my pennywhistle. "Just one now, mind." And I tears into "The Queen of Argyle."
Seth and Amos link arms and whirl about in some demented dance while the other hoots and hollers and Amy tries to sink into the masonry of the nearest building.
We're rippin' along pretty good and I adds a few steps of my own and I'm headin' for the end of—
"TWEEEEEEET! You! Stop there!"
Oh, Lord.
"Cheese it, boys, it's the constable!" shouts my trio of admirers, and they fly off down the street. They could've saved themselves the trouble 'cause it's me that Wiggins is after, not them.
"Run, Amy! If he catches me I'll be tied to the stake and whipped for real! This way!"
I grab her arm and we pounds down the alley and out into some yards that I sort of recognize and I heads through some rose arbors and out another alley and onto Union Street. I spies Ezra's office and haul Amy through the door and into Ezra's office sayin', "Save us, Ezra," and out the back door and through the backyard and through some gardens and then on to Water and then up High, but the constable keeps after us, movin' real well for such a big bloke, I gotta say. I sees somethin' up ahead, maybe a way out of this.
"That stairway, Amy! Head for that!" I shouts, and we makes it to it and storms up the stairs and through the door. I slams it after us and throws the lock, me back to the door. Amy's breath is comin' in huge gaspin' rasps and her eyes are wild in her head.
There is a woman there, sitting at a small desk. She looks up slowly, unruffled by our sudden disturbance.
Soon there is a loud poundin' and a tryin' o' the lock.
"Hide us, Mrs. Bodeen, please!"
Mrs. Bodeen calmly gets up and goes to the window and pulls the curtain aside, ever so slightly, and looks out.
"All right. I'll take care of it. Get in that room there." She points to a room at the end of the hall.
I grabs Amy's arm and we runs down and dives into the room. I puts me back to the door again and closes me eyes and takes a couple of deep breaths and then I opens me eyes. Everything is yellow.
The walls are yellow and there's a yellow dresser with a yellow pitcher of water and a yellow basin, a yellow chair, and...
I hear a rustle of cloth and a wave of a very familiar perfume rolls across the room and breaks across my nose.
"Why, if it isn't my Little Miss Precious, come to visit her dear aunt Mam'selle Claudelle day Bour-bon. And she's brought a little fray-und with her. How nice."
Lord.
I turn and look, and there is Mam'selle herself reclining on her bed, wearing a yellow day dress and snuggled up against big, fluffy yellow satin pillows, which I'm guessin' is silk cause it's all kind of shiny. She is holding a little lapdog, which being white has somehow escaped the yellow brush. It does, however, wear a yellow ribbon around its neck.
Well, I sighs, let's tough this out as a lady, shall we?
"Good day to you, Mademoiselle," I says, and dips a bit and turns to the astounded Amy. "May I present my very good friend, Miss Amy Trevelyne? Amy, this is Mademoiselle Claudelle de Bour-bon of the New Orleans Bour-bons. She was kind to me when I was in prison."
Amy recovers enough from her astonishment to dip and shakily say, "Enchanté, Mademoiselle de Bourbon."
"Charmed, I am sho-ah," says Mam'selle, moving her head to make her golden earrings jangle. "What a lovely little friend you have, Precious, and she even speaks Frey-unch." She pets her little dog and looks up through her impossibly long eyelashes. "Shall I call you Little Miss Dumpling, then, Little Precious's special fray-und? Yes, I believe I shall."
Mam'selle pats the bed next to her. "Now, come over he-ah, both of you, and let me relieve you of some of your garments ... It's rather warm in here, don't you think? Would you like some refreshment? Hmmm?"
"It's a lovely room you have here, Mam'selle," says I, moving out to the center of the room and looking about.
"Why, thank you, Precious," simpers our hostess. She looks at Amy cowering by the door. "Does my apartment not make it plain that I am for the discriminatin' gentleman, the one who desires somethin' rare and refined and exotic in the way of female companionship?"
"It does, indeed, Mam'selle," says I, tryin' to think of somethin' else to say.
Mam'selle puts her finger to the side of her nose and looks at me all tender. "I can see by your clothing that you have had a fall in your station in life. Poor, poor little Miss Precious, it is such a hard life, isn't it? Why don't you come over he-ah and put your dear little head in Mam'selle's lap and I will pet you and caress you and make it a little bit better. Now doesn't that sound good, Precious baby?"
Actually, with her singsong purring voice and my tiredness from the events of the day, it does sound kind of good, but ther
e's a light knock on the door and I shakes my head to clear it of Mam'selle's soft and insinuating voice.
"You can come out now, girls," we hear Mrs. Bodeen say from the other side.
Amy has the door open in a flash and is outside in an instant. I pause to thank Mam'selle for her kindness and to apologize for Amy's rudeness in not saying good-bye 'cause she is scared and don't know her way around yet.
Mam'selle smiles and says, "That's all right, Precious, I understand. Just you be careful now, because I am quite fond of you and I know you to be one of those that aren't scared when maybe sometimes they should be scared, hmmm?"
We go back out into the foyer. Mrs. Bodeen looks at us and shakes her head.
"Girls, don't you know you've got to pay off the police?"
"Please, Missus," I says, "we warn't doin' nothin', just singin' and playin' in the street, we warn't..."
"Still got to give John Law his bit, Miss. Anyway, he's been taken care of." Mrs. Bodeen casts her shrewd eye over the both of us standin' there. "If you're ever looking for full-time work, girls, you know where to come. I run a clean house."
I don't have to look over at Amy to know that she is brick red in the face and ready to fall through the floor. "Everyone knows you run a clean and honest house, Missus," says I, my face hot, too. "And we thank you for the invite, but we're still in school and..." I trails off, not wantin' to offend her who has just saved us.
Mrs. Bodeen lets a knowing smile come to her lips as she looks me over.
"I recall you from the jail," she says, dryly. "You do get around for a schoolgirl, don't you? Ah. Here's our Mr. Pickering, come to collect you."
I had not expected to arrive in Ezra's office in quite such an inelegant fashion. If he could have brought me in by the scruff of my neck, I'm sure he would have.
Amy weeps quietly in her chair, her hands coverin' her face, and I'm sittin' here all straight with my hands folded in my lap and my best Jacky-takes-her-punishment look on my face. We are both a bit mussed from our run. I stick out my lower lip and blow away a lock of hair that has found its way into my eyes.
Ezra, sitting at his desk, is looking at me most severely. I have finally managed to erase his little smile.
"It is possible that you are insane," he says. "Perhaps I can have you committed to the female asylum. That might keep you out of the Preacher's hands."
"I was told that music wasn't against the law in Boston," I says in my defense.
"No, but creating a public disturbance is against the law."
"We warn't doin' nothing but—"
"If you had been caught, you would have been taken to court and charged. You would then have been thrown back in jail, a place I recall you did not enjoy overmuch the last time you were there, and I do not have the slightest doubt that the Court would have declared you a wayward child. The Preacher's petition of guardianship would then have been immediately granted and you would have been taken directly to his house. After you were taken out and caned, that is. Remember, you were convicted of lewd and lascivious behavior, and although the sentence was suspended, it would be carried out if you were arrested again. Does any of this make sense to you?"
Amy whimpers all the more on hearin' this. I swears there's a steam of shame risin' off her like a fog. She may be in a state of fatal mortification. She was barely able to produce a decent curtsy when I introduced her to Ezra.
All right, Ezra, all right. I get it.
"I am sorry, Ezra...," I say, and put on my best I'll-be-good look.
"Sorry. Hmmm." He picks up his quill and points it at my nose. "Shall I describe the rod? It is about three-eighths of an inch in thickness, and although it is called a cane, it is actually quite whiplike. You would be put on your knees and your back bared and your hands tied to the post. You would have to use your elbows to prevent your shirt from slipping forward and baring your breast to the crowd. Not that you'll care about that after the first stroke of the cane. Constable Wiggins swings the rod, and he makes it no secret that this is the part of his job that he finds most pleasing. Especially if the victim is a young and pretty girl. As the welts begin to form, succeeding blows would cause them to bleed and, eventually, scar. Is that a sight you want to present to your future husband? Your Mr. Fletcher?"
"No, Ezra, I don't," I whispers and hangs my head, and this time I takes it to heart.
"All right," he says, and sits back in his chair. He allows the half smile to return to his lips.
"The Preacher was back in court today to press his case. Once again, I was able to keep things up in the air, pending an inquiry by the Court. Of course, if he gets wind of your actions today, I'm sure he will press even harder, you exhibiting delinquent and immoral behavior and all."
He pauses, and then he goes on. "If he came over to take you without a court order, would Mistress Pimm hand you over to him?"
"In a minute," I says. "To her I am nothing but a serving girl."
"Hmmm," says he. "Then maybe it would be better if you could leave the school for a short period of time. For the weekend. Till we see how the wind blows, as it were. I'd rather be working to prevent you from being taken than working to try to get you back. He can't do anything more today, and neither can we, the court being closed and not being open again until tomorrow, Friday at nine. You would not have to leave till morning. Is there anyplace you can go? I regret that propriety prevents me from offering you shelter here, me being a bachelor and all." He looks at Amy when he says this.
I says, "I can stay at the Pig and Whistle and..."
"That would not be appropriate," says Ezra in a warning tone.
I'm wonderin' what's wrong with the Pig when Amy comes up with, "We will go to our farm. In Quincy. She will be safe there."
Ezra smiles and brings Amy to her feet and escorts her to the door. "That will be perfect, Miss Trevelyne. Please visit with me upon your return."
I nod and go to the door.
"Please be good, Jacky," he says in parting.
"I will, Ezra, I promise," I say. At least, I'll try.
"Coo, Amy, this will be such fun. We shall slop hogs and sleep in the barn and ... you do have hogs, don't you?"
"Yes, we have hogs," says Amy, her voice weary with the events of the day, "but we also have a problem. There is no coach to Quincy tomorrow. How shall we get to the farm?"
"Why, we'll just take Gretchen and Brunhilde," I says. "Henry Hoffman trusts me. I've been helpin' him with the stables, the brushin' of the horses and stuff. It's only an easy day's ride, you said, so what's the problem?"
"Two girls can't go riding off alone in the country, not without a male escort." She sighs, weary, also, of my lack of knowledge of New England ways.
I think for a minute, and then I says, "I know someone who'll escort us. So put it out of your mind. We've got to stop in here for a moment."
We've come up next to the Pig and Whistle as I planned, takin' a route back that would bring us here.
Amy gasps. "No more, please, Jacky, I can't take any more." She's close to tears, I can tell.
"Now, don't worry. I've just got to get a message to someone. Come on."
We go in and there's Maudie at the bar and I says, "Good day, Maudie, could you tell Gully I ain't gonna be able to play this weekend as I got to leave town right quick?"
"Don't worry about it none, Jacky. He's back in the slammer again, and he'll be in for a few days, at least. He took a swing at the constable," says Maudie, sadly. I know she's thinkin' of the lost business.
"I'd be glad to do a solo act, Maudie, but I really..."
"That's good of you to say, Jacky, but you go on. We'll see you when you get back."
And we're back outside. "I won't even ask what that was about," says Amy, as we trudge back up the now familiar path through the Common to the school.
As we are about to duck back in through the kitchen, I have a thought and say, "You know what, Amy?"
"What?"
"I think our Mr. Pickering
likes you," and I give her a nudge with my elbow.
"Oh, Jacky, please," she says, as she heads upstairs.
At lights-out I imagine them all down there kneeling by their bedsides saying their prayers, their white nightgowns ghostly in the moonlight, and I know Amy is thanking God for her deliverance, relatively intact, from a day with the wild and wanton Jacky Faber. I kneel down beside my bed, myself, though it is not my way to do so, and I call down the blessings of heaven on my long list of names, starting with Jaimy and Davy and Tink and Willy and Benjy and Liam and Mum and Dad and Penny and ending up with Snag and Burnt Tom and Johnny No Toes. This night, I adds another. "And please bless and keep by your side Janey Porter, a young girl cut down in her prime, who you know never did no wrong. Amen."
Amen.
Mistress taps her cane twice on the floor and they climb into their beds and are quickly snugged up and very soon asleep. Me, too.
Chapter 19
"Now, you just be outside the back door in half an hour and I'll go get our escort," says I to Amy, all excited to be off to visit Amy's place. She don't look too happy just yet and I knows it's 'cause she's ashamed of the dirty little farm where she comes from but she don't know the places I've been so it will be all right. "Tonight we shall sleep in your barn all covered with hay!"
Amy nods. "All right. And I'll leave a note for Mistress saying I'm feeling poorly and we are off to home for a few days. She won't care if we go, but she'd care very much if we didn't tell her we are going."
"Tell her we're off to Timbuktu for all I care," I says. "Out back. Half an hour." I pick up my seabag and sling it over my back and rattle down the back stairs.
"You have a good time, Jacky, but you be careful of those handsome plowboys!" sings out Annie as I tear through the kitchen. It's my weekend off, and they're gonna cover for me today and on Monday till I get back. They know I'll make it up to them.
A wave to all and a promise to be good and a quick peck on dear Peg's cheek for havin' bagged up some sandwiches for us and I'm out.
