Curse of the Blue Tattoo: Being an Account of the Misadventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman and Fine Lady

by L. A. Meyer

  And this time around we really let go.

  After the last lap, I pull up the Sheik, all hot and frothing but still ready for more, but no, that's it for now—George had waved the flag and I knew I had to bring him in or else not be allowed to get up on him again.

  Sheik's capering around, wheeling and whinnying, and he rears up on his hind legs, but I soon get him calmed down by whispering in his ear and patting his sweaty neck. As he's standing there blowing, I slide off and hand the reins to ... what?...

  It is a tiny little man, no bigger than me, wearing the silken colors of Dovecote Farm—green and white striped top, tight white knee pants, white silk stockings, and a green cap. He wears also a little man's cocky grin and says, "Ain't it a wonder, a female jock," and since I don't hear an accent, he must be another Cockney.

  "Hullo, jock," says I. As we stand, I look directly level into his eyes, something I ain't used to doin'. "London? Cheapside?"

  "Couldn't be more right, Missy. Peter Jarvis, called Pete. Sometimes Petey. Whelped and weaned in Ludgate. You, too?"

  "Takes one to know one," says I, patting the Sheik on his flank. We lead him, all blowin' and snortin', on a coolin'-off walk. "Jacky Faber, Blackfriars Bridge."

  "You lived near the bridge?" He looks quizzical.

  "Under it," says I.

  "Ah," he says, and he don't press it. "You ride real fine, Miss. The nag seems to like you."

  "That's some horse. Is he the best you've ever seen?" I ask, wanting the real expert's opinion.

  "He's right up there, Jacky," he says, looking up with admiration at the Sheik. "But, then, any horse can be beat, given the wrong day, the wrong rider, the wrong luck."

  When we're done walking the big horse, we go back to the stable and I see Randall waiting by the racetrack gate. Not that he gives any indication that he's waiting for me, exactly, just sort of lounging about and surveying the scene and talking with some others.

  I follow Petey into the stable and we put the Sheik into his stall and I get his oats and put some in his trough and he eats.

  "I wonder why you get on so well with the horse, Jacky," says Pete. "He'll do things easy for you that he won't do for me."

  I thinks for a bit and then says, "You know, it may sound stupid, but I think it's 'cause he knows I'm a girl."

  Pete raises an eyebrow.

  "Aye, and don't think this rogue don't know it. Aside from runnin', gettin' with the mares is his main occupation. So he knows."

  "Ah, what's the big difference?" asks Pete, the track-hardened jockey. His age, after you get over his boyish size, is about thirty, thirty-five.

  "The difference is, with male jockeys, he sees competition, like ... and so he acts that way. He runs good for you 'cause he wants you to see just how good he is, so you'll go away in shame. With me, he sees someone he wants to ... well, impress. He wants me to admire him ... and like him." I blush a little at this speech, but I think it's true.

  "Pretty deep there, jack-o," says he, laughing.

  I laugh, too, and think how long it's been since I've been called by that Cockney name.

  I spend a good deal of the rest of the afternoon with Pete, learnin' the tricks of the trade, listenin' to his stories—and that time at Ascot when I was on a big dumb hammer-headed black, and four o' the bleedin bastards had me boxed in against the wall and I...

  He's a good sort and we become fast friends. When I leave the stable, night is falling and Randall is no longer at the gate.

  I go into Amy's room and she is sitting there scratching her quill in her manuscript, as she calls it. She rises and we dress for dinner.

  We take our evening dinner with Randall at the great long table in the grand dining room. Amy wanted to take our dinner in the kitchen, all jolly and easy like we usually do, but Randall insisted, so here we are. I like being here, and look about like any simple country girl. Candles are lit in a crystal chandelier above the table where we sit, and the lights from it reflect warmly on the polished top of the huge table. It reflects, also, on the fine china and silverware laid out before me. At least I know what to do with it now, and don't have to cringe in fear.

  There are about twenty, twenty-five chairs ringing the table, and we three sit in the middle, Amy and I together, and Randall across from us. There are windows at the end of the room and they are covered with thick red drapes, gathered with gold cords. Behind me is a big double door that opens on the hall and through which we came in, and on the other side is another set of wide doors that open on what seems to be a big, dark ballroom. What a thing, I thinks, to go to a real ball in there.

  "So how go your studies, dear Brother?" asks Amy. A soup is brought and placed in front of each of us, and I lay into mine thinkin' I just might keep my mouth shut just now and let these two go at it. "I'm sure you are finding Homer and Virgil most exciting."

  "Boring," says Randall. "How goes the girly school? I'm sure you're finding your courses in the changing of the baby's nappies quite entertaining?"

  A man in livery—a footman? Randall's valet? the butler? I don't know—comes to serve the wine.

  "And you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow to me.

  "I like my French and I love Art and Music. Could do without Embroidery, though, and as for Household Management, which is where the changing of a diaper might someday come up, well, Amy and me don't like it much, but all knowledge is useful, is what I hold. And as for Equestrian, well, you know I like that. I've gotten so I can do medium jumps now." I figure a little girlishness wouldn't hurt just now, and I flutter my eyelashes and clasp my hands all helpless and flighty. "It's dreadful scary, but I can just do it."

  "Indeed?" says Randall, puffing up till I swear his waistcoat buttons will pop. "Well, perhaps we shall ride to the hounds in the summer." He raises his glass and looks at me over the rim.

  "Only if you spare the fox, Sir." I raise my glass in return and look back at him over my own rim. "Or the vixen. Whichever one is being chased."

  "That would depend on how fast the vixen runs." Randall smiles lazily.

  "Or how clever she is in evading capture," says I.

  He nods his head in a kind of bow.

  Two girls with trays come in and serve the meat, potatoes, and greens. I take some and thank them. They dip and go.

  Randall notices this and I know he wants to say that I'm too familiar with the servants but he don't.

  "Another glass of wine with you, Jacky?" Randall is feeling good, I can tell.

  "Just half, please." The man fills my glass halfway. "Thank you." I take my water glass and top off the wine, turning it from deep red to pink.

  "A travesty," snorts Randall, leaning back in his chair. "Leave it," he says to his man and the man places the bottle on the table and leaves the room.

  He turns to his plate and shovels some in and while he's chewing and tossing back the wine, I think how different he is from his father, as different as Amy is from her mother. Well, maybe it's only in appearance that they are different, Randall being tall and slim and the Colonel being medium-sized and built like a door. But I got to admit they got the same arrogant kiss-my-royal-bum look in their eyes. The Colonel was civil to me over Christmas, but it was plain that he had very little use for such as me.

  Randall pushes his plate away and wipes his mouth and fills his glass again and lobs the mortar: "The Sheik will race all comers on Saturday, April the nineteenth."

  Amy drops her fork to her plate.

  "Yes, and Clarissa will arrive here at Dovecote, the day before. You know Clarissa Howe, do you not, Jacky?" He smirks, obviously recalling the grand tea party at the school.

  I own that I have had the pleasure of her acquaintance. I look over at Amy. She is not happy.

  "You will excuse us, Brother," says Amy. She throws her napkin down and rises.

  He takes out a long thin cigar and curls back his lips and places it between his teeth. "Perhaps we'll retire to the piano room?" He looks at me with his sly look.


  "Perhaps not," says Amy, and brother and sister glare at each other as I get up, a bit more regretfully. Pity. I was having fun.

  So. We will return in a month to see a fine horse race, where the Sheik will certainly conquer all who dare to challenge him...

  ...Or we will witness the fall of the House of Trevelyne.

  That evening, after we're dressed for bed and I'm brushing out Amy's long, black, shiny hair, I ask, "What's a piano, and why does it have a room?" She has already brushed out my hair and I have put on my mobcap, which now has an anchor worked in blue thread on top of it—might as well use that embroidery, I figure. Although I still ain't near as good as the other girls, I got to admit it looks right smart. I think Faber Shipping, Worldwide shall use that as its flag. The Blue Anchor Line, from Cathay to Bengal, from the rocky shores of New England to the sandy beaches of Mexico, from the—

  "Come. I'll show you." She gets up and puts on her own cap and takes up the lamp and goes to the door.

  We creep down the broad staircase and down a hall and into a darkened room. Amy goes forward and puts the lamp down on a big ... what? It's got four thick legs and is flat on top and is all rich and smooth and glossy and warm and...

  "It's called a piano," she says, sitting down at a bench in front of the thing and lifting a wooden cover that slides back to reveal a row of gleaming black and white keys. "Or, actually, a pianoforte, which is Italian for 'soft-loud,' which is appropriate because, unlike my harpsichord, it can make a note loud or soft depending on how hard you hit the key. Like this." And she strikes a white key hard and lets the sound die out, and then does it again, only this time lightly and the note is much quieter.

  "That's wonderful," I say, and can barely keep my fingers off the keyboard. "Can you play something?"

  "Well, Father has only recently brought it here, but I have started a few things," she says, shyly. "Like this pretty little tune. It's by Ben Jonson, from back in Shakespeare's time, and is called 'Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.'" She arches her fingers above the keyboard and brings them down and plays and fills the room with rich and sweet sound. After she plays the melody, she sings a verse:

  "Drink to me only with thine eyes,

  And I will pledge with mine.

  Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

  And III not look for wine."

  I am sitting all wrapped up in the music and don't notice when the door opens and Randall comes quietly in, but Amy does and she stops playing.

  "I was about to ride up to the tavern in Braintree," says Randall, "to find more convivial company than was available around here, when I heard the noise."

  "Please leave, Randall. We are not dressed," orders Amy.

  "No, wait," says I, rising and facing him. "It is just Randall, and if I am your sister, Amy, is he not then my brother, and all is right and proper? Isn't that right?"

  A bow of agreement from Randall, a snort from Amy, but she don't press it.

  "Shall we have a song, then? Have you a good voice, Randall?" I asks.

  "I have a passable baritone," says he. "What would you like to sing? 'The Riddle Song'? 'Captain Marshall's Courtship,' 'The Maid Who Lost Her Cow'...?"

  "Ah no, Sir, none of those songs where the maid sets forth these riddles to try to protect her virtue from the advances of the man and the man is not supposed to be able answer them but he does, the rascal, and the girl always loses and we both know what she has to do then." I plant my finger in the center of Randall's chest and push him back. "No, Sir, we shall not sing those. Perhaps we will dance, instead.

  "Amy," I say, "that pretty song you were playing, the one about 'drink to me only'...Could you play that again, please? For me?"

  Amy turns back to the keyboard and, with a reluctant sniff, begins to play. I turn to Randall. "Shall I teach you a simple country dance, then, Lieutenant Trevelyne?" He seems willing.

  "Very well, put your right hand here on my waist. No, here on the small of my back—a little higher, please ... that's it. And put your other hand in mine and then we move together, like this. Your feet make a pattern like this—watch me, I'll lead, and then when you get it, you'll lead. Good. Shuffle, shuffle, and turn. Smooth and light. See, by pushing and pulling me with your right hand, I know what direction you're gonna go in, and I can follow, and we glide about together like this. Isn't this nice?"

  I think he finds it nice. I'm liking it, too. When we started the dance, there was some space between us—there ain't no such space now. When the music comes around to the beginning again, I start to sing the verse into his ear: "Drink to me only with thine eyes..."

  He brings his face to mine and I pull back, but he comes on further and I lift my fingers and place them on his lips and lightly push him back. He retreats and we dance like that until Amy finishes.

  She makes it plain that she is done by pulling down the keyboard cover. "Good night, Randall," she says firmly.

  Randall bows and I curtsy.

  "Good night, Jacky."

  "Good night, Mr. Trevelyne. You be careful tonight."

  "I shall. Thank you for your concern. I look forward to showing you about tomorrow." He bows and leaves.

  I sit down on the bench next to Amy again and put my head back and smile in the darkness and let out a sigh and ... "What?" I say to Amy, who seems right steamed about something.

  Chapter 41

  The next morning, after chapel, I say I'm gonna go give the Sheik a pet and Amy goes off to our room and when she's well off and gone, Randall appears. He had sat between us during the service. It seems he never passes up a chance to make Amy angry.

  "May I show you around Dovecote now, Jacky?"

  "I think dear Amy has shown me most of it, Mr. Treve-lyne," I say, all demure in my lovely riding habit that Amy gave me, my soul newly scrubbed free of sin, but I have no intention of letting him get away. I had spent most of the service checking out the fit of his clothes from the corner of my eye. It's none of my business, but aside from the flaws in his character—arrogance, a tendency to swagger, false bravado and all—he is really a most beautiful boy, and, deep down, I think a very sweet one, too.

  The young groom Edward brings out Randall's horse, a big bay gelding with a good head and fine white boots all around that Randall has named Comrade. Randall puts his foot in the stirrup and smoothly mounts.

  "She cannot show you the place like I can. I know of places she does not know. Come"—and he extends his hand. There is no mention of rigging up a buggy, I notice, like I know he would for Clarissa. Well, we must know our place.

  "Wait. I'll go get..."

  "No need," says Randall. "Climb up here behind me. Comrade can carry us both."

  I consider this for a moment and then I hand my hymnal to the groom and say, "You'll keep this for me, won't you, Edward?" He nods, but he don't look happy. He sends a glare in Randall's direction and I lean over and whisper, "Oh, don't worry, Eddie, I can take care of myself."

  "All right, Mr. Trevelyne, go over by that feed box, if you would," I say, and he does.

  I put my foot on the box and then leap up behind Randall onto Comrade. I get settled with a leg to each side and wrap my arms around Randall's middle and says, "So, show me."

  Randall touches Comrade with his spurs and we are off.

  It is a glorious spring day with all the world rejoicing in it. There is a steam rising from the ground and the birds rise with it and whirl and sing and we ride down along the river till it meets the ocean, and the sea is as blue as any sky I have ever seen. There is a long beach made flat and smooth by the tides and we gallop along it, tossing up sand, and Comrade even goes into the water and I squeal at the spray thrown up by his hooves and I pound on Randall's back and tell him to stop it, my clothes are going to be ruined, and we go back up along the riverbank and Randall points out a boathouse that he says has several small boats in it, and I say maybe I'll teach him to sail if I come back here in the summer and he says I must.

  We go farther along the
river, leaving the main houses of Dovecote to our right and then far behind.

  "Where are we going now, Mr. Trevelyne?" I ask from behind him. I twist my head around. There don't seem to be any buildings or anything else around here.

  "Please call me Randall, Jacky. I think we know each other well enough now to do that."

  "Very well, Randall," I say. "Where are we going now?"

  "I thought I might show you a spot that was quite dear to me in my youth. A place where I used to come to read and think and be by myself with my thoughts and dreams."

  Aw, ain't that sweet, I thinks, the young lord off by himself dreaming like any silly boy or girl. I look up at the back of his head with its black curls looping over his collar. Without thinking, I hugs him a little tighter.

  We come to a bend in the river, the bank of which is covered with bushes that are already putting out their leaves. Randall pulls up and, throwing his leg over his mount's head, he slides off and then reaches up for me. Before I can lift my own leg and slide off in my usual manner, he reaches up and grasps me by the waist and lifts me up and off and puts my feet on the ground.

  I look about and there's an opening in the thick bushes, leading to a dark glen within.

  Uh-oh...

  "Randall, I don't know..." Suddenly I ain't quite so brave anymore.

  "But Jacky, this is the place I want to share with you."

  "Mr. Trevelyne, I've got to tell you that I am promised to another," says I, all prim. "And I think you've been promised to Clarissa Howe."

  "Of course, my dear," he says, his hand still reaching for me. "This is only a little visit between friends—think of us as brother and sister sitting on the banks of the river to rest from the ride and to have a nice talk. You did say last night that if Amy was your sister, then I am your brother?"

  "I guess," I say.

  "We have to be friends, Jacky. You're not like other girls—prissy and afraid of their own shadows—no, you're different, you are, and I knew the minute I saw you the first time, dressed as a midshipman and so pleased with yourself that I thought you might just explode with joy ... and when you were onstage at that tavern, so confident, so unafraid..."