by L. A. Meyer
“So,” I announce, taking two pieces of fine watercolor paper from my seabag, as well as my paints and brushes, “I shall start with Cathy first. Come, dear, sit over here in the light. That’s it. Now tilt your head a little more that way. Perfect! And, yes, we will certainly put our Amy in the picture, too! Captain Blood, attend to your science, and I will be with you in a while.”
People may say what they want about my skill in portraiture, but one thing I know: I am fast. The many times I have suffered with fidgety kids, bored men, and arrogant royalty have taught me to get the important stuff down quickly and accurately, or else forget about your fee, girl, ’cause you ain’t gonna get it. One-Sitting Faber, I style myself, and I try to live up to that.
I quickly sketch in the shape of her head and the set of her shoulders, then come in with a wide brush laden with a wash of burnt sienna to lay in the planes of her face . . . now some raw umber, darker pigment on thinner brush to start delineating her features. I know what I have to get done now, while the model sits before me, and what I can save till later when I am working alone. It is good that Edgar is quietly studying, for a change, as I really need to concentrate.
As I work away, the door opens and Bert Olnutt comes in. I had asked him to stop by, as I had a small project for him. “Hello, be right with you . . .”
Now to the placement of the eyes—and thank you, Maestro Goya, for your kind advice on how to do this—and the dark line under the upper eyelid and . . .
YEEEEOUCH!
“Close the windows!” I screech, my cupped hand to my left ear. “I’ve been stung by a wasp!”
Damn, that hurts!
Mr. Olnutt slams the windows shut and comes over to me. I have dissolved into childish tears. Oh, how I hate to be stung by a spiteful bee!
“Here, lass, let me see. We should try to get the stinger out. That way it won’t swell up so much.”
I let his gentle hand remove mine from my poor ear. He looks for a moment, and then his gentle voice hardens as he says, “Ain’t no stinger, Miss, and you wasn’t stung by no wasp.”
He crouches down and picks up something from the floor and shows it to me. It is small and round and hard. It is a common dried garden pea. Both Bert and I look at Edgar, who sits hunched over at his desk, for all appearances a scholar intent on his studies. Bert makes an angry move toward him, but I stay him with my arm across his chest.
“Nay, Bert, forbear,” I say, going to stand over Edgar. “Let me handle this. It’s not worth your job.”
“That was very mean of you, Edgar.” I sniff, wiping away a tear. “Very mean. You could have put out my eye.”
Staring straight forward, he says nothing. Cathy, observing all this, has started quietly weeping.
“Hand it over, Edgar,” I say, holding out my hand, palm up. “I don’t want you hurting anyone else.”
He still does not move, but Mr. Olnutt does. He pushes Edgar aside and pulls out the top middle desk drawer, shoving it roughly against Edgar’s belly. Lying within is the reed Edgar had cadged from Mr. Filibuster’s Emporium, as well as a handful of dried peas.
Bert Olnutt grabs the peashooter in his strong right hand and crushes it in front of Edgar’s hot eyes.
“This job ain’t worth puttin’ up with a brat like you.”
I put my hand on Bert’s shoulder and take him back to the door before he follows his impulse to give Master Edgar Allen Polk the thrashing he so plainly deserves. On the way over, I take up my painting of Cathy.
“Here, Bert, is what I need: three frames to fit watercolor paintings of this size, ready to hang. With glass. Nothing fancy, mind you.”
“Three?” he asks, looking over at the two kids.
“Three, Bert, and I’ll need ’em tomorrow. I know it’s short notice, but thanks; you’re a dear.” I plant a kiss upon his cheek and he leaves, his anger dissipated.
“Very well,” I say, going back to my easel and seating myself before it. “Edgar. Sit in that chair there. Yes. Go do it now.”
A bit mystified that I do not pursue his criminal use of the peashooter any further, he rises and does it.
I labor away at the portrait, extra working brushes held in teeth and hair, intent on getting only the face and head down right. After a bit, I fling the paper aside as if in exasperation, saying “Damn. That one wasn’t working out. Can’t win ’em all. Let’s try again.”
I go to my bag and pull out a fresh sheet of paper and start again, and this time I work over the whole painting, so that, during breaks, Edgar can see both the figure and the proud naval costume and sword evolve. I put a swirling flag in as background, and, perhaps emboldened by my timid response to his attack upon my poor ear, he orders, “Make sure that flag is The Raven’s own Jolly Roger,” and I meekly nod assent.
Eventually, the chimes ring for lunch and I am free for the afternoon. Edgar bolts off down the stairs, but Cathy lingers, her eyes all teary.
“What is it, dear?” I ask as I sit cleaning my brushes.
By way of answer, she comes around and puts a wet kiss on my wounded earlobe and says, “I don’t want you to go away. Just because Edgar was mean. I love you, Governess.”
“Aw, that is so sweet,” I say, wrapping my arms around the dear little thing. “Don’t worry, Cathy, I’m not going away. Not yet, anyway. So dry your tears and go down to lunch. Your aunt Felicity will be waiting. And yes, tomorrow we shall have an excursion. I promise.”
I would like to run off to the Whale’s Tale for a raucous afternoon of strong ale, bellowed sea songs, and the good company of my seagoing brethren, but alas, I can’t do that. However, a nice quiet cup of tea at the White Rose doesn’t sound too awfully bad, either.
Before I enter the Rose, I stop in at Mr. Filibuster’s and purchase some candy—a large bag of the round multicolored treats—in fact, enough to satisfy any boy’s craving for sweets.
That small task accomplished, I go into the White Rose and am warmly greeted by the landlady, who introduces herself as Mrs. Tibbetts, and I am seated by a window as I requested. There I have an excellent view of the street and the life thereon. Tea and cakes are brought, and I settle in to review my mail—both incoming and outgoing. First toEzra’s . . .
Ezra Pickering, Atty. at Law
Union Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Miss Annabelle Leigh
General Delivery
Plymouth, Massachusetts
Dear Miss Leigh,
I hope this letter finds you safe and well. I trust you have received the letters of recommendation that you requested. Higgins hopes that they will suffice . . .
(Indeed they did—Master Forger Higgins has certainly not lost his touch. Mr. Polk accepted them without comment.)
. . . and assures you that we are doing everything possible from this end to clear you of that ridiculous charge.
To that I add my own assurances. I will tell you of our efforts in more detail later, but I wish to get this off as quickly as possible.
Your most respectful, etc.
Ezra
And then there was Amy Trevelyne’s slightly more emotional letter . . .
Miss Amy Trevelyne
Dovecote Farm
Quincy, Massachusetts, USA
Miss Jacky Faber
Plymouth, Massachusetts
My dear Jacky,
You cannot know, dearest Sister, how distressed I was to hear of your current distress. Again I trouble the senseless heavens with my vain entreaties. Why, oh, why cannot your life, dearest Jacky, proceed in the orderly fashion usually ordained for those of our sex?
Yes, I know, in the past you have heard me rail against those strictures that bind us females, that relegate us to a secondary role in society, literature, science, and all worthy pursuits of the mind, but maybe, just maybe, in your case, they might be in order, if only to prevent what seems to be your headlong rush to disaster.
Oh, how I long for those halcyon days of yore, when we would lie about the hay
loft at Dovecote, laughing and singing—you telling me tales of your travels and me writing them down. I know now that I was harsh in my judgment of your actions at times, and I bitterly regret my spiteful tongue—you are what you are, and I love you to the depths of my being.
My only comfort is that our very able Mr. Pickering is hard at work on the case and expects a happy result. Hoping the same, I have begun a journal detailing this woeful period in our lives.
Happy? Will I ever be happy again? I know I will not—not until you and I are reunited.
Your loving sister,
Amy
Geez, Amy, I’m thinking as I fold up her letter and put it in my handbag, don’t you know by now that a little of Jacky Faber goes a long way? Hope I’m worthy of your journal.
Finishing up my tea, I withdraw from my bag my own letter of reply, which I intend to post today . . .
Miss Annabelle Leigh
General Delivery
Plymouth, Massachusetts, USA
Ezra Pickering, Esq.
Union Street
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Dear Ezra,
Here’s hoping all is well with you. Things are going well here, as well as can be expected. However, there is one worrisome hitch—we have here in Plymouth a very nosy postmaster who very forthrightly questioned me on the propriety of me, a single female, receiving letters from a male (you). I put the fussy little bugger straight right off, you may be sure, and I am equally sure he did not violate the sacred trust of his office by opening your letter, but . . . he is friendly with my employer, Mr. Polk, and seeks to curry favor with him, as Banker Polk is a very powerful man in this community.
That being the case, I think it would be wise if you would send all future correspondence to me, Annabelle Leigh, in packets under Amy’s name. That will protect my good standing as spinster governess, as well as giving you a good excuse to visit Dovecote. Big wink on that . . . nudge . . . nudge . . .
On to the business of Faber Shipping in general and the Pig and Whistle in particular. I have run across a very interesting process called “carbonization,” wherein plain water is made bubbly by pouring vitriolic acid over plain chalk and then adding the water to be so treated. Or something like that. Put our two staff (freeloading) scientists, Dorothea and Mr. Sackett, on it. See, the thing is, when carbonated water is mixed with fruit syrups, it makes the whole concoction much tastier. And having no alcohol in it makes it suitable for children, as well—and for bluenose churchgoers, too. We could close the Pig on Sunday mornings—some citizens have always hated us for selling booze then—and set up a stand outside. I’m sure we’d get the church crowd—Jemimah Moses’s Story Hour, too . . . Have Molly Malone set it up. If Ravi’s back, send him out with baskets of wooden nickels. I am sure we would prosper with this, if only in a small way.
Anyway, tell Amy I miss her and will write at length but cannot right now due to press of events.
I know all of you are doing your best to get me out of my latest mess, and I hope you know how much I appreciate your efforts.
I am, your most devoted friend,
Annabelle
A movement outside my window catches my eye, and I quickly settle up with Mrs. Tibbetts, pick up my umbrella, and am off.
It is recess time at Plymouth Public School and the lads are playing rugby. I watch for a while, determining who is the head boy, and when there is a break in the action, I signal him over with my bumbershoot. We have a quick discussion, which is profitable to both sides.
After all, all boys love candy.
Chapter 14
“Today, for our excursion, we are going to the White Rose Tearoom,” I say, planting my round hat on my head and picking up my umbrella. “Shall we go?”
“A tearoom?” sneers Edgar, who’s been a perfect monster all morning. “What kind of girly excursion is that?”
“Don’t worry, Captain, I just know you’re going to have a fine afternoon. And yes, Cathy, you may bring Amy with you. Ready? First to the post office, then to the White Rose. Shall we go?”
We do, with two of us hand in hand, singing, and one of us hanging back, grumbling.
Yesterday afternoon, when I was at the post office, I had pointed out to Mr. Fussy Postmaster that the letter I was posting to Ezra was to thank him for getting my references. I added that he could check with Mr. Polk if he wanted, but he replied, “’Tweren’t none of my business,” and I agreed with him on that but did not say so. Old busybodies, they’re everywhere, sticking their pointy noses where they don’t belong. I went back to my room at Polk House and worked on my portraits of the children and soon had them done to my satisfaction. After they had dried, I handed them over to Bert Olnutt for framing.
Having some time to myself, I penned a quick letter to Amy Trevelyne, telling her once again not to worry about me. Intending to post it the next day, and it being a bit before dinnertime and the return of the children, I had then picked up my cosmetic kit and headed downstairs to see Mrs. Polk.
I found her in her bedroom, propped up in her bed, looking out the window, an unopened book of verse lying in her lap.
Unbidden, I entered and chirped, “Sit up, Missus, and let’s have a bit of a go at you with a touch of the old powder and blush.”
Surprised, she smiled wanly. “I don’t think you should waste your time on me. Not with that sort of thing.”
“Nonsense. All us women need a little fixing up every now and then. But first, take this.”
“What is it?” she asked as I handed her a little glass of very dark purple liquid.
“A simple restorative, Ma’am, nothing more.”
She swallowed it and said, “Umm. Like candy.”
Others have said that, Missus . . .
It was, of course, a dose of Jacky’s Little Helper, Tincture of Opium, cut with Mr. Filibuster’s blackberry syrup. A bit of color had come into her cheeks.
“And now,” I said, opening my kit and taking out the soft powder brush and applying it to her cheeks, “a touch of this to soften your excellent cheekbones a bit . . . and now just the slightest hint of rouge there, and on the lips . . .”
She let me do it, yet protested, “But, Miss, all your efforts will be in vain, for my husband no longer finds me . . . attractive.”
I gave a good snort on that one. “He found you attractive enough to get you with child three times, didn’t he? Now, hold still while I do your eyes.” I ran my thin kohl brush through the tiny dish of dark brown paste and applied it to the lower edge of her upper eyelid—not too much; this is Plymouth and not Rangoon, after all—and then sat back to survey my handiwork.
“Good. Now a quick brush of your hair . . . Yes, let’s pin it up a bit there, and let the curls hang by your face like that . . . and will you take a little dab of jasmine perfume? There, right behind your ears, and you may keep the bottle. Don’t be silly, I’ve got tons of the stuff . . .”
Actually, I do have a lot of jasmine perfume—my ship, the Lorelei Lee, brought back an enormous amount of that essence on her return from the Orient. I know that unscrupulous members of my crew have tapped into FaberShipping’s supply of that heady scent to work their lusty way into the hearts—and beds—of many a wayward lass. I suspect that randy Arthur McBride has pilfered an entire cask for his own rascally use.
“There,” I said, rising. “I believe I hear Miss Felicity’s coach, and I must see to the children. If you feel up to it, you should rise and dress for dinner. I suggest the mauve dress with pink trim. You look just smashing in that.”
Later, when presenting the children dressed for bed, I could see that she had taken my advice and worn the mauve. If she did not look positively radiant, she certainly looked a lot better, and, I suspect, Mr. Polk did not go out to his club for the evening.
“Is it not a glorious day, children?” I enthuse as we emerge from the post office and head for the White Rose . . . slowly head for the Rose, as I want to time this just right. We are on a board w
alkway that runs along a low wall that, in turn, runs along the playground of Plymouth Public School.
“We shall have tea in just the finest little porcelain cups with pink roses around the rim,” I say, prattling along in my most annoyingly female way. “And they have these cunning little cakes that I swear just melt in your mouth.”
This bit of drivel is greeted with a squeeze of the hand from Cathy and with a groan from Edgar.
“But I don’t want to go to a stupid teahouse,” he grumbles as the doors of the schoolhouse open and the kids pour out, right on schedule.
“Oh, Edgar,” I purr. “Do not worry, for you are not going to the Rose, just Cathy and I are.”
“But what . . . ?”
Oh, you will see, you little worm, you will see . . .
Six of the schoolboys swarm over the low wall and come toward a very shocked Edgar Allen Polk.
“Hey, Eddie, we were lookin’ for you!” says the grinning head boy, whose name I know is Roscoe. “We need another lad on the pitch! Come on!” Two of the other boys grabEdgar by his arms and haul him roughly over the wall.Roscoe gives me a broad wink, while Edgar fixes a look of the purest hatred upon me
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.”