by L. A. Meyer
For my part, I give him my little finger wave and say, “Play nice, Edgar. We’ll be over there at the White Rose when the game is over. Toodles.”
Edgar disappears into the scrum, and Cathy and I slip into the Rose.
After the three of us are seated—Cathy, Amy, and I—Mrs. Tibbetts brings me a cup of strong tea, and a cup of sweet mint tea with grenadine syrup for Cathy, which she avidly slurps down. She makes short work of the cakes as well. I let her enjoy—we shall begin learning teatime manners at a later time.
As we enjoy the offerings, I notice the same shy little girl I had seen on my first visit peeking around the corner of the kitchen door, and make note of it as Mrs. Tibbetts approaches our table and asks if she might speak with me.
“Of course, Missus. Please, sit down.”
She does, and gets to the point right off. “I know that you have taken on the task of being governess to the Polk children . . .” Here she cuts a glance at Cathy and continues, “And I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you have stayed with that thankless job. You see, Mrs. Polk was . . . is . . . a special friend to me, and I fear for both her health and her very life. You see . . .”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Tibbetts, for a moment,” I say, turning to Cathy. “Cathy, would you like to take your doll and show her to that little girl over there? Her name is . . .”
“Chelsea,” says the landlady.
Cathy glances over and then slides out of her chair, taking Amy over to visit with Chelsea. Cathy is small and young, but she does not lack for courage.
“Go on, Missus. Sorry to interrupt.”
“The rudeness is all mine, Miss Leigh, and I am sorry to intrude, but, you see, I am rather distraught over the decline of my dear friend Patience Polk,” she says. “Oh, if you could have seen her when we were both younger! She was bright and gay and vivacious, the very flower of our society . . . Then she married Mr. Polk, who, as you well know, is the exact opposite of all that . . .”
“We both know that husbands can appear cold and distant to those outside the family. I do not believe he abuses her. And he provides well for her and the family.”
“I know, I know. He is not the problem,” she says, with a grim set to her mouth. “It is that child.”
“I assume you mean Edgar?”
“Yes. He was born a year after the marriage, and things have gone downhill for her ever since. The boy, instead of being a joy to his loving mother, developed into a monster, completely breaking her spirit. Catherine was born three years after the boy, and though a perfect angel, the birth broke Patience’s health as well. And now another is on the way. I just don’t know what is going to happen to my dear friend . . .” A tear is working its way into the corner of her eye.
I put my hand on hers. “Do not despair, Mrs. Tibbetts, for there is hope. Only yesterday I attended to Mrs. Polk and . . .”
I describe to her my visit with Patience Polk, telling of how the sparkle returned in a small way to her eyes under my poor ministrations. I do not mention the dose of Jacky’s Little Helper. That potion I had left in care of Midge, the housekeeper, with strict instructions to give Mrs. Polk a mere ounce, no more, each day at four o’clock, to improve her mood.
“Oh, if you could but stay! So many have come and gone because of that wretched boy!”
“I have no intentions of leaving, Missus, but who can presume to see the future?”
“If it is a question of money,” she says, embarrassed, “I could supplement your income in a small way. I know your pay must be meager.”
I have to smile at that, thinking about the state of my wealth and the holdings of Faber Shipping Worldwide on both the sea and land. I could buy and sell this woman and her pretty little teahouse ten times over. But then again, she is in her place of business, and I am not in mine, however rich I might be.
“Thank you, Missus, that is most kind,” I say, putting my hand on hers once again. “But I have enough in that regard.”
She nods, then looks around and says, “Where is the little beast, anyway?”
“I arranged for the local schoolboys to welcome him into their manly midst,” I say, glancing in the direction of the schoolhouse. “He is there right now, enjoying a brisk game of rugby football.”
“What! That little sissy? They’ll eat him alive!” she says, incredulous.
“No, they won’t,” I murmur, with a sly smile. “I made sure they won’t leave any marks on him—none that show, anyway. Actually, I expect him anytime now. I just heard the school bell ringing, to call the students back from recess.”
Sure enough, a very disheveled and very angry Edgar Allen Polk bursts through the door. He is sweaty and dirty, with scuff marks everywhere—except for his face.
“Ahoy, Edgar,” I crow. “Did you have a good scrum with Roscoe and the lads? I bet you showed them what for, eh? Bully for you!”
“I will get you for that,” he hisses. His normally carefully combed hair hangs lank and twisted against his furious face. “I will tell my father tonight, and he will send you packing, which he should have done when you first got here. I promise you—”
“Now, Edgar, mind your manners,” I say, calmly rising and calling out for Cathy. “Come, Cathy, we must go. I am sure Chelsea will invite you back for another visit very soon. Adieu, Mrs. Tibbetts. I hope our little talk has set your mind somewhat at ease regarding your friend.”
“It did, Miss Leigh, but—” says Mrs. Tibbetts, looking a bit worried at the fuming Edgar.
I take her meaning and laugh. “Do not worry. I have many arrows in my quiver. Till some other time, then. Cathy, Edgar, come along.”
And along we do go, back to the House of Polk.
“You’d better be packed,” warns Edgar, “’cause you’re gonna be gone as soon as my father gets home. Count on it. I hope you have to sleep in the street tonight with the rest of the beggars.”
“And you’d best get cleaned up for dinner, Edgar, as you are a bit of a mess,” I say, unconcerned. “And as for my baggage, you know my seabag is always packed. See, there it is right there.”
There is a light rap at the door and Bert Olnutt comes in, bearing framed pictures and a hammer.
“Ah, here’s our Mr. Olnutt with your portraits ready to hang,” I pipe. “Would you like to see them?”
Cathy nods in joyous anticipation.
I give Bert the signal and he turns her picture around. She yelps in delight at seeing herself painted all in ribbons and bows, with jolly daisies all around. She bounces over and plants a loving kiss on my cheek by way of thanks.
“Thank you, dear,” I say. “Now let’s see if Edgar gives me a kiss for his portrait.”
He does not.
“It doesn’t matter,” sneers Edgar. “I’m still gonna see you gone. You, too, handyman, for busting my peashooter and calling me a brat and . . .”
Then his expression changes from one of righteous indignation to one of complete horror. Yes, I had done two portraits of the lad, one heroic, and the other, in keeping with the custom, picturing him as a girl. He is in a lovely yellow dress, with white petticoats, holding a bouquet of roses. His hair is curled with yellow and white ribbons entwined, and the top of his head is crowned with a big pink bow.
He is speechless, but I am not.
“Oh, your mother is going to just love that one,” I chirp. “Mr. Olnutt, let’s put them up in the entrance hallway, where all may admire them. And see, Edgar, so that there’s no mistake in identifying you in years to come, I even put your whole name, Edgar Allen Polk, on your portrait. As a matter of fact, I invited Roscoe and the lads from the school over anytime they needed an extra lad on the rugby pitch. Surely they will want to see it. Bert, please put them up high enough such that no one can take them down.
“So what’s it going to be, Eddie? You know the deal. This portrait or the other one? Hmmm?”
The shoulders of Edgar Allen Polk slump in absolute and total defeat.
That evening, as I pres
ent the children to their parents, freshly scrubbed and in their nightclothes, I relate the events of the day . . .
Cathy met and had a fine playtime with the daughter of your friend Mrs. Tibbetts, and bold Master Edgar here insisted on joining a group of the local boys for a fierce game of rugby and acquitted himself most admirably. He especially distinguished himself at goal, and the boys invited him back! Isn’t that so, Master Edgar?
Master Edgar agreed that it was, indeed, so.
Chapter 15
Miss Annabelle Leigh
General Delivery
Plymouth, Massachusetts. USA
October 4, 1809
Miss Amy Trevelyne
Dovecote Farm
Quincy, Massachusetts
Dear Amy,
Greetings and salutations from your wayward but loving sister!
All continues to go reasonably well here at Polk House. It’s been several weeks now since I fled Boston in some haste. Isn’t it ironic, Amy? Way back when I first got to Beantown and the Trevelynes were in danger of losing Dovecote to heavy debts, remember when I asked you what you would do if you were kicked out and on your own? You replied that you’d have to leave the Lawson Peabody and take a dull post as a governess to somebody’s children, and here wacky Jacky is the one who actually takes such a job! What a crazy world!
Anyway, an update: While the girl, Cathy, is a joy, the boy, Edgar, continues to be a monster. Every now and then I pull a trick that beats him down for a while, but he soon charges back, mean as ever. He is a worthy adversary; I’ve got to say that for the little beast. He has announced that he no longer fears the Bed Monsters, so I informed him that those demons sometimes had “familiars”—bats, cats, and such—that did their bidding when the monsters were otherwise occupied dismembering and devouring other naughty little boys. He scoffed at that, but I think it gave him something to think about in the dark of night.
It was about a week after I had brought him to heel with the double portrait threat that he was up to his old tricks again, but wait—I shall tell you how it happened . . .
I was down in the dining room with Mr. and Mrs. Polk, having a cup of tea with them after their dinner and relating the events of the day regarding their children’s activities, when we heard a shuffling of feet on the floor above, one of Edgar’s early tricks for disrupting the peace of the household.
“Ah, poor Edgar is a bit restless tonight,” I said, rising. “I’ll see to him and be right back.”
I went up to his room and found him in bed, looking defiantly up at me, daring me to say anything. I said nothing as I sat down on the edge of his bed. Then I said, “Tsk, tsk, Captain, it appears you have been eating cookies in bed, as you have crumbs all over the front of your nightshirt. Here, let me brush them off. There. Now try to go to sleep. All right?”
With that, I went back downstairs. I was pleased to see Mr. Polk with his hand on his wife’s, and she almost sparkled in her blue dress, with white trim at neck and wrists.
I had scarcely sat back down when from above came a horrified SCREECH! and “NO! NO! GET OFF ME!”
Once again I stand, saying, “Poor little man. He must be having a nightmare. He is so very high-strung . . .”
But Patience Polk rises, too. “I will go see to my son.”
And so she does, and we hear no more from him this night.
Hearty chortle. What I had done was, early in the evening, I had put a heavy doorstop in front of Blackie’s little cat door so she could not get out for her evening prowl. Then when I went up to see to Edgar, I spread catnip, not cookie crumbs, over his front. Later, when he closed his eyes for a moment, he felt a sudden weight on his chest. His eyes snapped open again only to find a large black cat sitting on his chest, claws holding him firm, and snarling, with white fangs bared; hence, the scream.
Yes, I am indeed the Nanny from Hell.
But enough of my battle with a little boy . . . (heavy sigh). One thing I do pine for is the male companionship of grown-up boys. Jaimy’s off to London to try to save both my reputation and my neck, and Randall’s all wrapped up with Polly Von. Lord Richard Allen is in Virginia, on Clarissa’s plantation—damn her eyes—and Joseph Jared’s down in New York, duty bound to another ship. It’s not that I could see any of them, mind you, for it would blow my cover for sure, but still . . . another heavy, heavy sigh . . .
In that regard, I know that Ezra Pickering is bending all efforts to get me out of my current jam, and as I am on the run, I cannot thank him enough in my usual fashion. Therefore, I officially delegate you, Amy Wemple Trevelyne, to be my proxy, and so you must do it. I order you to place a nice warm kiss upon his cheek the next time he comes to Dovecote. That, and enjoy a nice candlelight dinner, just the two of you. Do it for me.
Anyway, that’s it for now. Regards and love to all,
Your loving sister,
Annabelle
This being my afternoon off, I seal up that missive to Amy and go to the post office to mail it, a lightness to my step and a song in my heart.
After posting my letter, I am delighted to find that I have a packet addressed to Annabelle Leigh from Amy herself. I can feel from the heft of it that it will contain something from Ezra, too.
Then, as I gaze upon it, my happiness fades and a sense of dread comes over me. An edge of the envelope has been lifted and is curled. It’s as if it had been steamed open and a clumsy attempt had been made to reseal it. I look over at the Postmaster, but his face betrays nothing.
Now, wait, you. This could be nothing—a rough mail run from Boston to here—the weather has been damp, after all . . . But then again, Amy Trevelyne is as meticulous about small things as you are careless. She would never send a letter that was improperly secured. The blue seal with the letter T on the back is intact, but . . .
I may be acting overly careful, but so be it. In the past, my careless attitude has been my downfall many times, so I know I cannot let my guard down here.
I had planned to visit with Mrs. Tibbetts at the Rose for a nice cup of tea and conversation, but I quickly change plans. Instead I go to Mr. Filibuster’s Emporium and purchase a tin of ship’s biscuits, two bottles of good wine, another pint of paregoric, and several dry sausages.
“Planning a picnic, Miss Leigh?” asks Mr. Filibuster.
“Sort of,” I reply, and leave to go back to my room to repack my seabag.
Yes, Mr. Filibuster, I hope it is for nothing more than a jolly picnic, but . . .
Chapter 16
It has been several days since my concern over the envelope, and nothing has happened, so maybe everything is all right. Maybe I was just worried about nothing. Maybe . . .
It is after lunch and we are back in the classroom, Cathy hard at work on her letters, Edgar drawing more bloody eyeballs. I sigh, pull out his math book, and make ready to force him into fractions, the multiplication thereof, when I notice a wagon being pulled up across the street. As it is rather cool today, the windows are closed. It is cool enough, in fact, for me to shed my Lawson Peabody dress in favor of my old serving-girl rig of loose white shirt, brown leather vest, and black skirt. It feels good, and my Lawson Peabody outfit could use a cleaning, for sure.
I look out, and the wagon seems to be a simple workman’s cart, probably there to pick up trash. But then the driver steals a quick glance up at our window and I go rigid.
Uh-oh . . .
After a moment, a man in a dark suit comes up on horseback, dismounts, and ties his horse to the wagon. He, too, looks up.
This is it, then. No mistake.
I force myself to be calm as I lift my seabag and put it on Edgar’s desk.
“What are you doing?” he asks crossly.
“Never mind,” I say. “Just stay out of the way.”
I look out the window again and see that the man who had arrived on horseback is joined by several others, one of whom is the Postmaster, looking righteous and smug.
I tear open my seabag and pull out the
two primed pistols that lie within, as well as the bandoleer, into which are inserted twenty small white charges. I put that around my neck and over one shoulder. Seeing me place the pistols on top of the bag, Edgar’s eyes grow wide and his jaw drops.
I wait. I do not have to wait long.
The headman down below picks up a speaking trumpet and holds it to his lips. “I am Sheriff Williams and I have a warrant for your arrest. We know you are up there, Jacky Faber. So come down peacefully and no one will be hurt.”
I pick up a pistol in each hand and shove their barrels through two of the windowpanes, the glass falling to the street below.
“You can cram that warrant up the Postmaster’s bum, Sir!” I shout. “And how’s this for peaceful?”
With that I fire my starboard gun—wham!—and the Postmaster’s hat falls off his head. The reports are extremely loud in the enclosed classroom, and Edgar flinches at the sound. As for the postman, it was not my bullet that toppled his hat but his own fear, as my pistols were not loaded with ball. Good for the false bastard.
“She has killed me!” he shrieks, his hands to his unhurt head. Just to make sure there is no mistake about taking me easily, I fire my port pistol—wham! All down below take cover behind the wagon as I rip two charges from my bandoleer and reload—again with powder and cap only.
“Edgar! Pick up my bag and head for the back door! Now!”
“Wha-wha-what . . . ?”