by L. A. Meyer
"I swear, Jacky, you have all the personal modesty of a monkey," she says, her voice still thick with sleep.
"A clean mind in a clean body," I chirps all cheerful and bright, and proceeds to towel off. When I am done I dives into my seabag and pulls out my sailor togs from back on the Dolphin and I puts 'em on. It's the uniform I made to wear when we had Inspection and other fine days like port visits. My white duck pants with a drawstring waist and my white duck shirt with a flap on the back with blue piping. My black midshipman's neckerchief goes under the flap and ties in front. I digs deeper in my bag and comes up with my dear old Dolphin cap and slaps it on.
"Ta-da!" I sings and poses, hands on hips. "What do you think? Can I wear it today, here on your little farm?"
Amy opens her eyes and she looks at me and her eyes roll back in her head. "Might as well," she sighs. "You are not going to listen to me, anyway, and I am sure everyone here already knows you for a hopeless eccentric."
I give a delighted squeak, so glad to be back in my old gear, and go over to the mirror and admire myself in it. Not bad for a girl what was a dirty and near-naked urchin not two years ago, but seein' the uniform reminds me of Jaimy and the lads and that takes a bit of the shine off my pride. I miss them all so and I hope they are all right.
I take off my hat and let out my braid and sit on the edge of the bed and commence to combing my hair, facing away so Amy can get up and go do her necessaries. My hair is quite long now—not so long as Amy's, as she could sit on hers if she wanted—and I decides to wear it looser today, maybe just gathered in back by a ribbon. A blue one. To match Lord Randall's jacket, I thinks, with a touch of evil in my thought.
"What service is Randall in?" I asks, all innocent.
"He is a lieutenant in the local militia," says Amy from the sink. "That sounds grander than it actually is—mainly, they just drill and parade around shouting things."
"Still," says I, "how dashing he looked with his sword drawn, ready to storm in and pin me to the wall to save his sister's honor!"
"He was not there to save my honor," snorts Amy. "He was ready to save the family honor, so that it would not reflect badly on him. He cares nothing for me and I care nothing for him."
"Surely that can't be true. That's just brother and sister talk."
"Would you love someone who was a constant torment to you as a child? Would you love someone who gets to go to Harvard College while you are thrown into the pit misnamed the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls? And someone who is squandering that education in favor of drink and sloth and lechery? And finally, would you love someone who planned to marry the darling Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe? Now, would you?"
Now that hits me like a stone on the side of my head.
I mulls this over a bit. So that's why Clarissa didn't destroy Amy that time when I was on my knees before her amid the bags of underwear and Amy stopped her from hitting me. Why rock the matrimonial boat over some harmless fun shaming a mere serving girl?
"So he's really gonna marry the Queen, hey?" I probes.
"Oh yes. It will be the social event of the season. Clarissa's family is quite rich, you know. My father is very pleased with the match. My mother, too. It will put her up a notch on the social scene."
"Where are your mum and dad? I sort of expected them to be here. That's why I was on my best behavior."
Amy snorts and then gradually collapses into helpless laughter, and it occurs to me that this is the first time I have heard her really laugh hard, and it is a most pleasant sound, even if it is at my expense. "On. Your. Best. Behavior," she manages to say and then returns to outright laughter. I didn't think it was all that funny.
Eventually, she calms down enough to say, "They are in New York, for the winter social season. They will be back for Christmas and then will go back to New York and not return until spring. That is why I am in the school: They do not want me here alone; and they do not want me with them in Society."
Amy comes into my view wearing a riding outfit, all wine colored with touches of dark green and very finely tailored.
"Well, look at you, now. Ain't we the grand one, Milady," says I, popping up and going to her and smoothin' back her lapels and the fabric over her shoulders. "Looks like hangin' with the Jack has been good for you. Runnin' from the police and such." I pull out the sides of her jacket. "You'll have to have this taken in a bit."
Amy looks pleased. She blushes and says, "Let us get some breakfast."
Out we go to the kitchen, where Mrs. Grubbs whips us up some fine bacon and eggs and tea and toast, and it's all so rich and fine with the fat sausages and hams hangin' down from the ceiling and the big wheels of cheese all stacked up. There's jars of things put up for the winter and pickle urns and foamy pitchers of milk and loaves of lovely fresh bread, but in my contrary way I thinks about Polly and judy and Nancy and the rest back on the streets of London and how it ain't fair, it just ain't fair that some have so much and some so little.
And it's strange, I thinks, how quickly I get used to all this, like I takes it for granted that I have always lived this way and will always live this way. Even when I know it ain't gonna be true.
We go outside in the warm autumn air and look upon chickens and cows and a new litter of piglets, which I feed a bit of grain, and their squishy little noses pressin' at the palm of my hand makes me wish bacon didn't taste so good. In the henhouse, we take baskets and gather eggs still warm from the chickens. The eggs lie in the cozy little nests and it is like a fine game to collect them.
I meet the people of the farm—the plowboys, the milkmaids, field hands, herders, and all. Dovecote is like a little village, sufficient unto itself—there's a miller and a weaver and even a blacksmith, with little cottages all around for the people to live in. They all seem to really like Amy, and they greet her most warmly. Maybe she warn't always so solemn and gloomy.
There's children, too. Lots of them, and they stare all openmouthed at me, strangers bein' rare here, especially ones decked out in sailor togs, but that's all right, I just whip out my whistle and give 'em a tune and dance a few steps and that delights 'em and makes 'em laugh and dance about. We have a little parade for a bit.
There's some raised eyebrows about my dress, but they get over it.
We're walkin' over to the stables to saddle up Gretchie and Hildy for a ride around the place when a black-and-white thing appears from nowhere and capers all about me. I goes rigid and stands there scared.
"What is it?" I wails. "What does it want?"
"It's just Millie," laughs Amy, grabbing the beast by its ears and—yuck—kissing it. "She's our collie sheepdog and is just the dearest thing."
"Make it go away," I begs. To me, dogs was vicious beings that we fought with over scraps of food on the streets of London. The dog comes back to me and pokes at me with its pointy nose.
"What's it doin'?" I wails. "Make it stop!"
Amy is lookin' at me with a small smile on her face. "The redoubtable Jacky Faber, scared at last." She calls the dog back to her and says, "She was herding you. She wanted you over here by me, and that is how she goes about it."
"I think she was bein' mighty familiar, if you ask me," I fumes.
"Poor Millie, a sheepdog who has lost her sheep," says Amy in a musing way. "And does not know where to find them." The dog rolls its eyes and actually seems to smile under her petting.
Amy's smile is gone now and she continues in a clipped tone, "But it was not poor Millie who lost our sheep. It was Father. With one cut of the cards. Five hundred sheep. And the pasture on which they used to graze. That field over there, beyond the river. That one. Gone. Let us see to the horses." Amy strides briskly toward the stables. I hold my tongue and follow.
We get to the stables and I meet the grooms and stable hands. One of them is the boy that Randall was talking to when we rode up yesterday. His name is Edward and I remember him lookin' real daggers at me when I was prancin' around in my male finery and seemin' to be a
ll tight with Amy. You are not as unloved as you think, Sister.
With Gretchie and Hildy saddled up, we gallop off across the land.
"This is the Neponset River," says Amy, when we pulls up after a while. "It is the border of our land to the north."
"It's lovely," I say, lookin' out over the sparklin' waters movin' down to the sea. "Too bad it's a bit chilly. We could swim ... and look, that huge tree hangin' out over that pool is just beggin' to have a rope hung on it for swingin' out over the water. Do you know how to swim? I could teach you if you don't."
"I do not know. I have never tried. I have never been in the river. It was always assumed that I would catch cold." Amy looks out over the land, back toward the buildings—the houses, the stables, the barns, all laid out neat and tidy.
The dog Millie has followed us out here and is happily dancin' about, chasin' the small birds that burst out of the high grasses. Prolly tryin' to herd them, too.
"You know, Jacky," says Amy after a while, "one of the reasons I did not tell you of the extent of Dovecote is that it is all, in a very real way, an illusion."
I don't say anything. I don't have to. She will get to it.
"My father, Colonel John Trevelyne, a hero of the Revolution, who was at Valley Forge and Yorktown and who was decorated by General Washington himself, has an affliction. He is a gambler, and he is going to gamble away every bit of this. He has been doing it, little by little, but now he is going to bet it all." She pauses. "All. On the Sheik, that horse that is arriving today."
"But, why?" I asks, all mystified. "Why would anyone risk all this on a bet?"
"I do not know why, but it has been getting worse and worse. I think he misses the excitement of the war, or, oh, excitement of any kind. Gambling brings the element of risk back into his life."
"So you're gonna be poor, just like me, someday," I says, and I ain't sayin' it to be mean, just to lend some comfort. "But don't worry, we'll get along. Remember, we're the Fabulous Musical Singing Valentine Sisters, and we will make our way in the world!" I says to jolly her up a bit. "Ta-da!" I sings, but it's weak and I knows it's weak and it don't wash. She seems so sad and downhearted. It's easy to see why she's been so gloomy all along. It's a shame, all this lost for a bit of a tingle.
Amy sits up straight. "Look. He comes. The Sheik of Araby, the Pride of Dovecote," she says with no small bitterness. "And the likely agent of its downfall."
I turn and look and see a group of horsemen coming along the same road we came down yesterday when first I came to Dovecote. There are four men, two on either side of the huge black horse between them. The black horse does not have a rider, only a blanket. They pull up in the stable yard and dismount.
"Father bought him for a huge amount of money in the spring. Then the stallion was brought to Boston by ship, which cost even more money, money that my father has raised by mortgaging our land," says Amy. "The Sheik is a British Thoroughbred with Arabian blood, and he is supposed to be as fast as the wind. There will be a race and bets will be made and my father will cover those bets and if the horse loses, the farm is gone."
The horse his ownself is kickin' up quite a fuss down there—it's takin' two men hangin' on the reins to hold him. He rears up, dragging them forward so that they are in danger of his flailing hooves. He tosses his head back and forth and whinnies. Screams, really. He is some horse.
"When will this all happen?" I asks.
"In the early summer. During racing season, if Father has not already lost everything at the cards and dice before then," says Amy. "Come, Sister, let us go see this Sheik of Araby."
We turn our horses' heads and ride down to the stable, with Millie joyously leading a rather silent pair of sisters.
When we come into the yard, there is a crowd standin' about admirin' the beast. He's got a big body and a long neck and a small, finely shaped head—no common hammerhead he, even I can tell that. As he moves, I can see the big muscles bunching and sliding around under his glistening hide. The stallion is all black except for a white blaze of a star on his forehead, between the black eyes that roll about all wild, showing their whites and making him look hot and fierce and not to be taken lightly.
It's not hard to see the difference between this creature and my poor little Gretchie, who don't like him at all and who ducks her head and shies away, not wanting to get close. Don't you mind him, Gretchie, let's have your little walk. I slides off her back and walks her about a bit so she can cool, and when I can stick my hand in her chest and not find it all sweaty, I leads her back to her stall and sets her up with some oats and combs her down a bit. Then I goes back out to look at the Sheik more close.
They're taking him to his stall now, or at least they're trying, him still puttin' up a fuss and resistin' their efforts to calm him down, him all snortin' and blowin' and generally bein' difficult.
But they finally succeed and there he is, all tucked in, with his head poked out of a little window into the stable yard. There's a cry and a curse as a man behind him in the stall gets a kick, but then things quiet down and the horse seems to calm.
From a barrel of apples tucked beneath an overhang, I takes one and goes over to his Sheikship. There's a stool by where his head sticks out and I gets up on it next to him and puts my hand on his neck. I feel the hard muscles move under my hand as he swings his great head around to fix me with his eye. He don't look pleased.
"Nice horsie," I says, givin' him my best smile. "Here, have an apple."
"Jacky, be careful," I hears Amy warn from behind me. Careful of what?
I holds out the apple and he pulls back his lips over his huge teeth and he bites me.
"Damn you!" I cries, clasping my bitten hand to my breast. "You bit me!" And without thinkin' I takes that same hand and swats him across the nose with it.
"Miss! Please! You can't treat him so!" pleads the head hostler. "He's too—"
"You miserable piece of..." I growls, and then launches into a string of sailor's curses that cause the stable hands to wince and cover the ears of the younger onlookers. I don't remember much of what I said 'cause of my shock and pain in bein' bit, but I'm afraid I took the Lord's name in vain a few times in wishing the damned nag to the lowest levels of Hell, and I think I might have said a few bad things about his mother.
The Sheik looks confused and abashed—it's plain he ain't used to bein' treated this way. He ain't near so fierce lookin' now.
I jump to the ground and pick up the spurned apple and hop back up to confront the horse again. "Now, horse," I says, "let's try it again. Have an apple, and if you bite me again, I will smack you again. And, remember, this is Cheapside Jacky talking to you, horse." I offer the apple on my open palm.
The horse looks at the apple and then looks nervously up at my other hand raised and ready to strike him on the nose should he be so bold as to try another assault on my poor hand. He looks back down at the apple and then, very gently, the Sheik of Araby takes the apple.
"That's better," I say, reaching back and combing his mane through my fingers. "We will get along."
Chapter 21
"Amy."
"Yes, Jacky."
I put my face down on the hay and look over at her. It is raining on this Sunday, our third day at Dovecote, and, after having gone to church, we are lying above in the stable hayloft where it is warm and dry and redolent with the smell of the horses. Faithful Millie lies down below at the foot of the ladder, whimpering because she can't come up.
There is a small piece of board missing on the side of the barn and we lie side by side looking out across the autumnal fields. The fields set up quite a pleasing pattern as they roll down to the sea, and the rain has brought a blush of green back to the earth. The rain has also kept us here another day, which is all right with me.
I'm thinking back on Jaimy and what he wants me to be and on Mistress and on my demotion and I asks, "Am I crude, Amy? Others have said I am, which is why I'm asking."
She waits a little
too long in replying.
"I knew it," I says, and flips over on my back. "I am crude and common and awful and I'll never be a lady. I shall go down and slop the hogs as that is my station in life and I should be glad of it and not try to get above myself."
Amy looks at me for a while, thinking. "It is not so much that you are crude, as it is that you are ... impulsive ... simple ... straightforward ... and maybe a bit too direct and plainspoken for our society. In a charming way, of course," she adds quickly and puts her hand on my arm to show I ain't to take offense. "An unpolished gem, as it were."
"Oh?" I gets up on one elbow to face her direct. "And what do I do wrong that makes me all those things?"
She considers the question, and, at length, she plunges forward. "When you hurt, Jacky, you cry. When you are unhappy, you whine. When you are mad, you curse, and when you are threatened, you resort to violence. You talk with your mouth full and lean over your plate. You dash madly about when an impulse takes you, and you never walk when you can run. You say the first thing that comes to your mind, and the profanity, like with the Sheik yesterday, oh, Jacky, you have just got to stop that."
As if recognizing his name spoken, the stallion wickers and snorts down below. "You hush up, horse," I orders, "or I'll see you salted down in a barrel and served up to poor sailors who'll curse you for your toughness and lack of flavor, I will." I have already cajoled my way onto the back of the Sheik—the stable hands are finding me hard to deny, 'cause of my persistence.
She pauses to take a breath and then goes on. "And that way you have of grinning with your mouth open, looking like a vixen that has just killed a poor goose and is reveling in the blood that drips from her jaws, well ... There, you're doing it right now. Stop it. Please."