by L. A. Meyer
It is not likely he will try, for his covers are now up to his eyes. I stand to take my leave.
“So, Edgar, I am sorry I brought them here, but what is done is done. You know the rule: Make no noise and they will not be able to follow the sound of your voice and so find their prey.”
I go to the door, but before I exit, I turn and say, “Please hearken to what I have said. I would hate to come up here in the morning and find an empty, bloody bed. What would I tell your poor mother? Sweet dreams, Edgar.”
I close the door behind me and go down to rejoin Mrs. Polk for that cup of tea.
From above, all is silence.
Chapter 11
The Journal of Amy Trevelyne
Dovecote Farm
Quincy, Massachusetts
Begun September, 1809
Dear Reader,
I am beginning this journal to record what I know of the most recent peregrinations of my dear friend Jacky Faber. You might know of her earlier exploits from the biographical novels I have previously published concerning her wild adventures. The fact that I have no idea where she is right now and have no means of communicating with her are the reasons I have commenced this record. Another reason, I am loath to admit, is that I have a great sense of foreboding concerning the future well-being of my dearest friend—I am not superstitious, but she has tempted Fate far too many times, and I fear she may be brought to account this time. I feel I owe it to future generations to record what very well might be the final chapter in her life. Though I hope I am wrong.
I know that she is in serious trouble, for once not due to indiscretions on her part, but rather to machinations on the part of her many enemies. As to her whereabouts, I can only rely on the bits of information I am able to glean from conversations with Mr. Ezra Pickering, her friend and attorney.
Do not fear, gentle reader, that this journal will fall into the wrong hands, thereby leading to the capture of Miss Faber and causing her grievous injury, for I shall keep these pages in a secure casket under lock and key. I would never wish to cause her even the slightest injury, as I hold her in my heart and soul with all the love therein.
I pray for good news.
Entry dated September 19, 1809—signed Amy Trevelyne
Chapter 12
The morning goes reasonably well. We have oatmeal for breakfast—a glop of hot cooked meal in the center of each bowl, surrounded by a moat of warm milk, and topped with a sprinkling of coarse brown sugar. Not bad, but it could be better. I make a note to buy some maple syrup later, when we go out into the town.
As soon as my charges and I tromp up to the classroom, Edgar corrals me in a state of high indignation.
“There ain’t no such thing as Bed Monsters, you,” he says, finger in my eye. “I looked this morning, and there wasn’t nothing under my bed. So there!”
“Mind your grammar, Master Edgar,” I say, pulling the math book from the shelf and placing it on his desk. “Everybody knows that at first light of dawn Bed Monsters slink away to their dank pools of slime, far below in the fuming cracks of the very earth itself. They rest up till darkness comes. Then once again they take up residence ’neath a poor boy’s bed. Everybody knows that. Everyone who’s still alive, that is. Now, let us attend to your math.”
He remains unconvinced. “Then why don’t they go after her?” he asks, gesturing toward his sister, who happily babbles away in her cubicle. I had lined out the rest of the alphabet for Cathy and she has mastered the first five letters, singing them as a song. She is a very bright little girl. I have also made a simple drawing of her cat, and she is enthusiastically copying it.
“Because . . .” I say, as if exasperated, “the Bed Monsters like only boy meat. Girl flesh is too soft for them . . . Gets stuck in their teeth, like.”
“Still don’t believe,” he mutters, arms crossed in firm resolve.
Ah, yes, young man, it is easy to be so brave in the cold light of day, but tonight, when darkness comes creeping stealthily into your room like a black cat on quiet paws, well, we’ll see then, won’t we?
“Anyway, never mind that,” I say brusquely. “We must now get to our math. ’Bout time we got into some geometry. Here . . .”
He looks at me warily. “You’re not going to weasel out on it, are you? We are still going out this afternoon?”
“No, I am not . . . as long as you keep your part of the bargain. Now look at this. It is something that Captain Blood will find very interesting.” I find a stray piece of paper on his desktop, and upon it I draw a right triangle.
“Bet he won’t,” retorts Edgar, all sullen.
“And I bet he’ll find it very practical, Sir. It is called the Py-thag-gor-ean theorem, and it is just the most elegant thing. Ahem.” And I recite: “A squared plus B squared equals C squared . . . or . . . the sum of the squares of the two sides is equal to the square of the hypotenuse, or the longest side.”
“So?”
“So? Watch this.”
With that, I label the legs of the triangle A, B, and C. Then I draw a boat’s hull and sail at the end of the lower leg, a lump of land at the other end, and then, at the top of that leg, a crude cannon with a puff of smoke at its mouth.
“Now, suppose the dread pirate Captain Blood brings The Raven”—here I point to the boat—“up to this port”—here I point to the lump of land—“and intends to raid the town. But then he discovers that the port is not helpless, for here, at the top of a battlement, rests a mighty cannon that prevents him from entering the harbor.” I point then at the smoking cannon.
“But Captain Blood is not dismayed, for he knows his math. He already knows the distance from The Raven to the land, as well as the height of the battlement, because of the chart he had earlier snatched from a helpless merchant captain who had knelt at his feet, begging for his life. The bold Captain Blood then takes pencil and paper and figures out not only the distance from his mightiest cannon to the gun that was annoying him, but also the very angle of elevation that his own cannon should be. To the amazement of all, he bellows, ‘A triple charge of powder, me hearties, and crank ’er up to thirty-three degrees! Now, FIRE!’ The cannonball flies and the shore gun disappears in a cloud of smoke and hot iron shards . . . Astounding! The legend of Captain Blood spreads even wider over the seagoing world, and The Raven is able to run right into the harbor to spread destruction all around: stealing booty, taking hostages, putting the town officials to the sword, and all the rest of that pirate stuff.”
“Really?” asks Edgar, squinting at the formula.
“Really,” says I, turning the pages of the math book to the proper spot. “Start here on how to take square roots. Then we’ll get on to the fun stuff.”
He picks up pencil and commences to work.
All goes well till noon, whereupon we have a nice lunch, after which I plunk round hat on my head, tuck umbrella under my arm, and take Cathy by the hand, and we lead Edgar out the front door.
Ah, it is good to get out in the sun and air again, plus I’ll be able to check my mail. Tomorrow is my day off, so if I get any word from Ezra, I’ll be able to write out a reply and get it right off. All is good.
“Master Edgar, get up here and walk with the rest of us,” I order, to no avail. He has fallen about ten yards behind Cathy and me as he slouches along, head down, with hands jammed in pockets.
“Won’t,” he says. “Someone might see me.”
“Wot? Who cares who sees you?”
“I do. Can’t be seen walking with girls . . . or a governess.”
His eyes are shifty in a way I have not seen them before. Then I follow one of his worried glances and realize just why he is concerned—up ahead, the boys of Plymouth School are out playing football.
Ah, that question of male honor again, even in one such as Edgar—all pretense aside, is one at heart a stout, brave lad, or merely a miserable coward?
“Well, it doesn’t matter, for here we are at Mr.Filibuster’s Fine Emporium. In with you both now.”
I shove them into the store, to Cathy’s great delight at all the bright colors and fine things for sale, and to Edgar’s obvious relief.
I arrange the children on stools to either side of me at the soda counter and order our drinks from the smiling Mr. Filibuster. “A cherry soda for our little princess here, and a blackberry one for me. Edgar, what will you have?”
“Rum,” he answers firmly, back in character.
“I’m afraid we do not have that particular flavor, young man,” says Mr. Phineas T. Filibuster, with a wink at me. “Not at this counter, anyway. Will a foaming glass of root beer do?”
Edgar grunts a grudging assent, and Phineas T. goes to make up the concoctions while I ask of Edgar, “How come you don’t go to the regular school with the rest of the boys?”
“My father does not want me associating with ruffians is why.” The lad sniffs. “And I agree with him on that. We Polks are a cut above.” I know he is quoting his dad, but I don’t know if he’s fully convinced of its truth.
“Ah, here we are!” I exclaim as our sodas are brought and placed before us. “Aren’t they lovely?”
They are indeed. Cathy looks in wonder at hers—all bright cherry red in its crystal glass, bubbles racing up the inside to pop at the top where floats a little piece of ice.
“Thank Mr. Filibuster, Cathy,” I say, in true governess fashion.
“Thank you, Mr. Filly-buster,” says Cathy.
Well! A complete sentence out of her! Bravo, Cathy!
Our host, from his side of the counter, notices that Cathy does not know quite what to do with her cherry soda. There are no handles on the glass for her to grasp, but, curiously, there is a reed, of all things, stuck well down into the ruby liquid, its end sitting up at the top.
“Here, Missy,” he says, leaning over and taking up the reed and holding it out to her. “Put your lips on the straw and suck up the soda through it. It’ll work, you’ll see. Why, it’s all the rage in New York.”
Her cheeks draw in and then puff out as her eyes widen in delight when the sweet soda hits her tongue. I believe a heartfelt mmmmmm is heard from the tyke.
“Not too fast, now, dearie; make it last,” urges a beaming Mr. Filibuster. I apply the straw to the Faber lips and suck it up. Oh, it is so wondrous good! I exult to myself when the fizzy blackberry flavor hits the Faber mouth. Further study is definitely required.
No complaints from Edgar, either, I notice. Actually, when he is halfway through his root beer soda—I figure the “beer” part of the flavor appealed to his manly nature—he asked of our Mr. Filibuster, very politely, mind you, if he might keep the reed.
“Of course, young man,” he pronounces grandly. “We use them only once here at our Fine Emporium.”
I finish up my excellent drink with a loud slurp at the bottom, then stand to do some shopping while the children are finishing theirs. Mr. Filibuster follows me about as I choose my purchases.
“I’ll need a pint bottle of paregoric . . .”
“Yes, some Mother’s Little Helper,” he murmurs, eyeing the restless Edgar and taking a brown bottle down from a shelf. “Perfectly understandable in your situation.”
“And some maple syrup,” I say, and a small gray crockery jug is added to the side countertop. “I’ll also need a bottle of your excellent blackberry flavoring . . . and lastly, a packet of catnip, if you have it.”
“I do,” he says, with some satisfaction, putting a small brown packet on the pile.
“Oh, won’t kitty have ever so much fun with that!” I exclaim, handing over my net shopping bag, into which he puts my purchases, then he starts totaling up my bill. “Oh, and three pieces of penny candy, please.”
He nods and we go back to the children, whereupon he places upon the counter a clear glass gallon jar filled with brightly colored round candies and invites them to choose one each. Cathy, going with a proven winner, reaches in to take a red one and pops it into her mouth. Edgar the Bold goes for a black one, while I take green. Yum, lime . . . for a true British Limey, even.
With our cheeks distended from their sweet cargo, we take leave of Mr. Filibuster and head out into the day.
“I suppose we’re going back home now,” grumblesEdgar, kicking at a stone. The lads from the school are back safely inside now, so he does not have to worry about being seen by them.
“Not just yet, Captain,” I say, pointing up the street with my umbrella. “First I wish to go to the post office to see if I have any mail.”
“Humph!” he snorts. “Who would write to a dried-up old spinster like you?” It does not take him long to revert to form.
“I have two sisters, both dried-up old spinsters like me. We like to exchange embroidery patterns. It keeps our minds off the husbands we did not get.”
As we walk and talk, we go by a kiosk selling newspapers. While I am buying one, Edgar walks to the back and calls out, “Hey, look at this!”
And there it is . . . pinned to the rough wooden wall . . .
WANTED FOR TREASON
The Notorious Pyrate
JACKY FABER
$500 Dollar
REWARD!
FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO HER ARREST AND CONVICTION ON CHARGES OF TREASON.
She is almost 5 ft. tall, has sandy hair, often cropped short, and bears many Scars. She is Considered to be armed and dangerous.
Do not Try to apprehend her. Contact local police.
“Now, that’s somebody you should be like,” sneersEdgar, pointing up at the damning sheet, “not like some silly governess, afraid of her own shadow.”
Damn, they sure didn’t waste any time, did they? Five hundred bucks, eh? They must really want my sorry butt.
I reach up to pull down the sheet and hand it to Edgar. “Here. If you like that Jacky Faber and her piratical ways so much, hang this on your wall, so you might admire it all day long.”
“Gee, thanks,” he says, eagerly folding the broadside and shoving it into his shirt front.
A bit concerned, I march forward to the post office, and the kids follow me in.
Hmmm . . . I notice another of those posters on the wall, but I can’t do anything about that, other than ignore it. Hey, I’m in deep disguise, so why should I worry?
Advancing to the Postmaster’s window, I demand, “The mail for Miss Annabelle Leigh, if you please.”
He is a fussy little man, who wears spectacles low on his narrow nose, and pants pulled high by suspenders that rest on his thin shoulders. He turns and paws through a rack behind him. Presently, he chooses a thick packet and places it in front of me.
Hooray! I see that it is from Ezra!
As I reach for it, he pulls it back, saying in a prissy little voice, “This is highly irregular. A single young woman receiving messages from a man.”
What? At first I am stunned. Then I grow angry and fix the little worm with my best Lawson Peabody Look, saying, “While it is true that Ezra Pickering is, indeed, a man, he is also an attorney who handles affairs for the school I attended. You will notice that I have been appointed the governess of these children. Their father, Mr. Polk, whom I am sure you know well”—probably got you your goddamn job—“requested that I write to him for my references, and I have done so. That is what is contained in this packet,” I conclude through clenched teeth as I clamp my hand on the letter and bring it to me.
And mind your own business, Mr. Postmaster!
Steaming, I grab Cathy’s hand and we exit the post office to head back to the House of Polk.
Chapter 13
“What are we going to do today?” asks Edgar, without much interest in the answer. “Besides wasting my time.”
“’Scursion?” asks Cathy, hope writ large on her dear, open face. She has not forgotten her wonderful cherry soda.
“Afraid not, dear. This is my afternoon off, but your aunt Felicity is coming over to pick you up in her coach-and-four to take you both off for a nice ride in the country. That’s an excursion, too, you know. And the fre
sh country air will do you both good. Won’t that be nice?”
Edgar sighs and grunts, but Cathy claps her hands delightedly. I have met their aunt Felicity—she is a formidable old dame who scares Edgar into good behavior, but who dotes on Cathy. I believe she sort of approves of me, since I have lasted for a while, but she appears to be withholding judgment on that.
“So what are we going to do till then? Something boring, I’m sure.” I note that he has that WANTED poster tacked up on the wall next to him. He has drawn some bloody cutlasses and severed heads in the margins.
“In addition to our usual studies, we are going to do some painting.”
“Painting? That’s stupid girly stuff,” he says.
“No, it isn’t,” I say right back at him. “Wouldn’t you like your picture to be up there on the hall wall with the rest of your illustrious ancestors, sword in hand, tricorn on head, looking every inch the bold sea captain?”
He snorts, but he does not say nay to that prospect.
I had noticed on my first evening here at Maison Polk that the walls of the long hall were, indeed, covered with framed portraits of some very stern-looking forebears. The pictures are easily separated by the era in which they were done—the early ones are dark, crudely painted on slabs of varnished wood, and are simply framed. They portray fierce, scowling men in black clerical garb with high tab collars, while the women look equally forbidding—neck-high dresses, black, of course, with what looks like white doilies tight about their thin, reedy necks. The more modern ones are on stretched canvas and are much more elegantly presented in highly carved gilded frames, and the people presented therein are more finely dressed—the steely-eyed men in grand uniforms of many colors, holding swords or spyglasses, or perhaps with their hands on globes and maps, and their women, beautiful in silks and satins and riding habits of every fit and hue. Then there are the portraits of little children. Curiously, though, through the years, it has been the custom that little boys, up to a certain age, are often portrayed in girl garb—dresses and ribbons and curls and all that. Even now, they still do it. There are a few of them on the Polk wall as well.