Another of the new ones is Hepzibah Van Pelt, from New York, who came to the school expressly to study with Maestro Fracelli. She is totally devoted to music and quickly becomes Signor Fracelli's trusted assistant. I am in a string quartet with Hepzibah, she being first violin, and me being second. That makes my Lady Gay mad, but not me and I tell her, You be a lady now, Gay, and we'll follow these little bugs on the page, and we do it. It is very satisfying to play in this group, seated in a circle, to come in at the right time, and to hear the Lady Gay's sound blend and meld with the others, her single sound mixing to make something different, something more than the sum of the parts. Christina King, a quiet, decent, modest girl, is on cello, and Caroline Thwack-ham is on viola—and, yes, she is the granddaughter of that very same Judge Thwackham who sentenced me to be publicly whipped for indecent behavior, but who, thanks to Ezra Pickering's excellent lawyering skills, suspended the sentence, conditioned on me not getting in trouble again. The sentence still hangs over my head, though, should I mess up, which is always possible. We work on Herr Mozart's String Quartet in B Flat, the Hunt Quartet, and some of Herr Haydn's stuff, too. There sure are a lot of Germans in this business, I'm thinking as I grimly saw away on poor Lady Gay, but, hey, they seem to be good at it, so why not? But what are we Brits especially good at? Architecture? No, the French have it all over us on that. Art? No, we ain't a patch on the Italian artists when it comes to painting and sculpture and stuff. What, then? Ah, I conclude glumly, it's war, bloody war, and mostly war at sea, at that.
"...in the theater at Athens, the chorus would be located..." Mr. Yale drones on and on, and I try to keep my forehead from hitting the desk again. It's not that I find the classics deadly dull—actually I like all that stuff about those fighting Greeks. We are going to put on one of the ancient plays. We'll get all dressed up in white robes and stuff and wear laurel wreaths around our brows and I know I'll like that. It's just that we've had a few almost warm days and I've got the urge to be out and about so bad I can hardly stand it. I can hear Lady Gay, in her fiddle case up under my bed, calling out to me: Jackeee ... Jackeee ... Let us be away to the merry dance ... There are taverns down below where we haven't yet played, where we haven't yet sung, where you haven't yet danced. Come take me up, Jacky, pick up your bow and let us fly ... Jackeeeeeee...
You be good, Gay, and I'll sit here and try to be good, myself. Cheer up; Art is next.
And speaking of being good, or at least making a show of being good, we all go to church every Sunday morning, and prayer meeting on Wednesday evenings. Since it is not far, we march in two columns along Beacon Street and then down Center Street to the Old South Church, where the girls of the Lawson Peabody now go to get their souls scrubbed clean, their last church having burned, and—ahem—the less said about that the better. Since all thirty of us attend this church, there are plenty of young men who have suddenly decided that this is the very congregation where they wish to do their praising of God. So, eyeing the boys, and them eyeing us, makes church almost fun. When I'm not looking over a particularly fine stretch of britches over a well-turned male tail—Look at that one over there ... Coo, he's a fine one, pretending to be reading his prayer book while he's cutting his eyes over here. Hah! Caught you, you dog! Here's a wink for you, lad—when I'm not doing that, I look about the interior of the place. Amy tells me there was a lot of revolutionary stuff that went on in here before their revolution from us awful Brits—fiery speeches and raucous meetings and such. This is the place where a bunch of Bostonians dressed up as Indians and went out hallooing into the night to dump a lot of perfectly good tea in the harbor, all over a silly tax. I notice that they dumped the tea and not the rum, and I am sure there was a tax on that, too. I said this to Amy and she didn't say anything to that. The place is plain, but pleasing in its proportions: high windows, big raised dais for the preacher to lecture at us from. There's lots of fine, polished wood in the pews, like what's under my hands right now, smooth as butter. It sure ain't a lot like Saint Paul's Cathedral back in London, with its stained-glass windows and huge high dome. Me and the gang weren't allowed in that place, 'cause they thought we'd rob the poor box, and they were right in thinking that. We did get in, but not during regular hours, oh, no. It was hard getting into Saint Paul's. It would be easy getting in here. Already I've spotted a couple of ways—cellar windows easily cracked open; hell, our Hugh the Grand could've ripped that door off its hinges with one hand—and we probably could have gotten in through that belfry up there, for the Lord knows we weren't afraid of heights ... and there's the poor box over by the door and it looks full ... Now, now, that was then and this is now. Be good.
Ah, my poor, good, simple Hughie, where are you now? When I was back in London I found out what happened to some of the old Rooster Charlie Gang, but not you ... only that you had been taken by a naval press gang. Well, I've been taken by a press gang, too, so I know what it's like, Hughie, and I hope things worked out for you. Are you out at sea, where I wish I was right now instead of sitting here listening to some old preacher yell at me for sins I ain't committed yet? Are you happy? I hope so.
It was on one such Sunday that Amy took my arm as we came out of the church and said, "Look down that street there. See where those streets come together?" I replied that yes, I did see that. So what? "That is where the massacre took place, right there in front of that building. Before the Revolution, some patriots had assembled to protest acts of the British government and a squad of Regulars was called out to put down the demonstration. Snowballs were thrown at the soldiers and the order was given to fire on the crowd. Five men were killed, and six wounded..."
"I, myself, have always found it a good policy not to throw things at men in uniform who are carrying guns."
"That is not my point," she said, giving me a poke. "My point is that the first one to fall in the Boston Massacre, the first man to die in the American Revolution, was a black man. A black man named Crispus Attucks. Now look over there."
I followed her gaze, and over there stood Clarissa Howe with her slave. She had brought the girl with her that day to wait outside the church till services were over.
"I take your point, Sister." I sighed and thought, What I can't understand is why Mistress Pimm would allow this to go on in her school. Well, it was not my place to ask, and so I didn't.
I grow ever more restless. I cannot go to The Pig. I cannot go and act in Mr. Fennel's and Mr. Bean's theatrical company, even though they have asked for me. I cannot go anywhere without a suitable male escort. Me, who's had upwards of two hundred men under my command. I cannot go pulling traps with Jim, for there have not been any more school holidays that would allow Amy and me to escape back to Dovecote for a spell. Randall, of course, could serve as escort as far as I'm concerned, but not for Mistress, as she is not stupid and knows Randall for what he is—a straight-out rake.
Yes, I chafe under the confinement. While it is true that Little Mary, orphan of the streets, is glad of a safe, warm bed and good food, to be sure, and it is also true that Jacky Faber, student, apprentice lady, and sometime sailor is glad of the fine instruction and warm companions, Tonda-lay-o, Queen of the Jungle and the Ocean Sea, ah, that one, she is not happy at all.
But then, one morning, all three of me find my problem solved.
It is at breakfast on the first Monday in March, and all of the girls at our table are chattering away—Elspeth about the fun she had the past weekend at home, Rebecca about the new kitten that's been adopted downstairs, and me about this and that—when Betsey appears at my elbow.
"Your pardon, Miss, but there's a gentleman to see you. Mistress is with him in the foyer."
What?
"It's an English gentleman, I believe," says Betsey. "From the way he talks, I mean."
My heart takes a leap. Could it be Jaimy? Oh, dear God, please!
I put my hand on Betsey's arm. "Betsey! Is he in a Navy uniform? Is he wearing a blue jacket?"
"No, Miss. He's a very large man, and dressed very fine"
My heart returns to its normal position, but still thumping.
"Is it your young man come to carry you off?" gushes Elspeth, delightedly. Rebecca, also, is wide-eyed with curiosity.
I shake my head sadly. "No, dear. Jaimy is tall but rather slight of build. No one would ever call him large. Pity."
I tap my lips with my napkin, put it beside my plate, and rise.
Eyes follow me as I get up and go out. The circle of friends about Amy and me has grown, and the girls who gather about Dolley Frazier are friendly and good to me and mine, but there are some who have absolutely no use for me at all, and it ain't just Clarissa and her crew. I lock eyes with Constance Howell, as I brush past, and see nothing but contempt in her gaze. I had known her slightly from before, a very religious girl, given much to outspoken prayer, who has, if anything, gotten even more pious since I have been away. It's plain that she, too, has read about my wild and wanton ways in Amy's little book. I reflect as I leave the dining hall that having one's life laid out for all to see sometimes ain't the most comfortable thing in the world. Ah, well. "Them what's don't like me can leave me alone," as the song goes. I put on the Look and exit the room.
I'm puzzled as I go down the hall toward the foyer. Mistress knows that the British authorities are looking for me, she certainly wouldn't ... would she?
I peek cautiously into the foyer, ready to bolt if the caller looks suspicious, but standing there, gloves and hat in hand, is a most glorious sight...
"Higgins! Oh, dear, dear Higgins!" I shout as I leap upon him and throw my arms around his neck and rain kisses upon his face. "You could not be more welcome!"
"It is good to see you, too, Miss," he says, as cool as if we had just parted yesterday, instead of in the aftermath of a horrific battle. "However, I do have to breathe"
I relax my grip on his neck a bit, but I can't be stopped. "Higgins! What has happened? What about Jaimy? The Home? My crew? Our friends—"
"Ahem..."
This from Mistress, who, I now notice, is standing off to the side and not at all approving of this display of affection.
"You will calm yourself, Miss Faber," she says, her tone severe, "and you will explain this to me."
I reluctantly let go of Higgins's neck and slide back down to the floor.
"Mistress Pimm, may I present my great good friend and protector, Mr. John Higgins," I say, dipping down. "Higgins, Mistress Pimm, Headmistress of the Lawson Peabody."
Mistress acknowledges this with a slight nod, her arms crossed on her chest.
Higgins bows deeply and says, "I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mistress Pimm. I have heard many good things about you and your fine school from our mutual friend here. But may I point out that while I rejoice in having Miss Faber name me as her friend, I am also proud to announce that I am in her service, as her personal servant, as well."
The eyebrows of Mistress Pimm go up. "A manservant? For a young girl? Is that not somewhat irregular?"