“So what do you think?” I ask of them as our eyes adjust to the semi-darkened interior. There is an empty stage at the far end of the building, with two rows of balconies extending down each side. In the center is an open area, which in Shakespeare’s time would have been called the Pit, the place for the commoner patrons. There will be benches later, but there are none now, as they are under construction by Ephraim Fyffe and his crew of carpenters. We can hear the sound of their hammers coming from outside. A row of windows, high above, circle the interior, but they are presently covered with heavy drapes. “Come, let’s get closer,” I say, and we approach the foot of the stairs. “Does it remind you of anything?”
“Eet looks like that awful Bloodhound,” says Lissette with a shiver.
“Indeed it does,” I reply. “You know that the Hound, itself, was admirably set up as a stage set? The Proscenium, the Balconies, the Pit, and all that? Why, the whole thing was meant to be a play, and so it will be. Our first production is In the Belly of the Bloodhound, as performed by the Emerald Players, and written by Miss Amy Trevelyne. The Chorus is conducted by Miss Hepzibah Van Pelt and it’s directed by Messrs. Fennel and Bean, thespians of great renown.”
As if on cue, the voice of Mr. Fennel booms out, “Act two, scene three. Places everyone! Lights up!”
There is a slight swishing sound as the drapes above are pulled back and the stage is illuminated. Both Clarissa and Lissette gasp and recoil, for there, center stage, in front of a gaggle of white-clad girls, stands a figure clad in a fine purple suit of clothes. It is Sin-Kay, himself. He notices us standing there and he levels a stiff finger and thunders, “You, there! Get in my line! NOW!”
There are times when the rational mind turns tail and runs away in the face of something totally impossible—that time was now for Clarissa and Lissette, for each of them grabs one of my arms in sheer terror, each of them, for an instant, back in the belly of the Bloodhound.
“Solomon Freeman does a fine Sin-Kay, doesn’t he?” I ask, grinning at their sudden discomfiture. Their grips on my arm slowly relax.
It appears the scene being rehearsed is the one in which the slaver Sin-Kay orders the kidnapped girls of the Lawson Peabody to line up as he calls the roll . . . Rebecca Adams, Ruth Alden, Sally Anderson . . . It does not take long to get to Jacky Faber. The girl standing in for me blurts out, “You’re a goddamned dirty slaver!” And then, “Yer nuthin’ but a jumped-up nigra to me for all yer fine and fancy clothes!” snarls Polly Von, up there playing the role of Clarissa Howe. “Now yew get the hell out of heah! There are ladies present!”
“That doesn’t sound like me at all,” says Clarissa, slightly breathless. “Who is she?” nodding toward the actress on the stage.
“Her name is Polly. Polly Von. She was a friend to me, back in London. A fellow gang member of the Rooster Charlie Gang.”
“She is very pretty, in a common sort of way.”
“Well, we did require a pretty girl to stand in for you, didn’t we? ’Else the wrath of the Goddess of Beauty would fall upon us. Yes, she will play Clarissa Howe in In the Belly of the Bloodhound, should you not choose to step into that role. I, of course, will be playing myself. Some of the original Bloodhound Thirty-Two will be in it, as well. Would you like to reprise your very central role? Hmmm?”
She smiles at the notion, probably thinking of the dance she performed on the deck of that ship as a diversion during our attempt at escape—a diversion that worked extremely well—a dance that would have made that Salome of the Seven Veils proud.
“Would you have to place your mouth on mine again? I still shudder to think back on that. Disgusting.”
“’Fraid so, Clarissa. Amy has already written that in. But I promise to suck on a lot of peppermints just before that awful moment so you won’t be offended overmuch.”
She does not reply.
“Let us go have lunch. It should be ready,” I say, and then call up to the stage, “Amy! Come dine with us. Soon it will be time for your graduation!” Amy, clipboard in hand, with several pencils shoved up into her hair, nods, says something to the Director, then joins us as we go back to the Pig to sample whatever delicious things Jemimah has prepared for us.
We bail out of the coach in front of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls and go in for the ceremony, all of us dressed in our black school uniforms.
I had actually intended to wear something a bit more elegant for Amy’s graduation, but, as we finished up our lunch, Clarissa had patted her perfect lips with her napkin, then said, “What you are wearing suits you”—I was still in my serving-girl rig, my usual working clothes when on land—“but go climb into your school dress. If we have to wear these awful things, so do you.” I did it, but found it curious that she should demand that of me.
There are hugs and kisses all around, introductions to parents and siblings, much bowing and curtsying, and general gaiety. Amy’s parents arrive at the last minute and are seated next to the Comte de Lise. Ezra, of course, is here, beaming at what he hopes will someday be his wife. Funny, I don’t see General Howe. Hmmm . . . Eventually, we go to our assigned places in the dining hall, and the graduation ceremonies begin.
A chorus of the undergraduate girls, led by Maestro Fracelli, does an excellent job of the “Gaudeamus Igitur,” sung in Latin, a song often used in graduations, even though Mr. Fracelli had told us it was originally a college-student drinking song. Seems to fit, though.
Gaudeamus igitur,
Juvenes dum sumus;
Post jucundum juventutem,
Post molestam senectutem
Nos habebit humus.
It is a rousing tune, although the lyrics are a bit sobering, saying, essentially, Let us rejoice when we are young, but after a pleasant youth and a troublesome old age, the earth will eventually have us. Right in line with these dour Puritans, I figure . . . Memento Mori and all that. But, hey, how many of us know Latin, so sing on, I say.
The Chorus swings into another verse . . .
Vivat academia,
Vivant professores,
Vivat membrum quod libet,
Vivant membra quae libet;
Semper sint in flore.
This verse extols the school, the teachers, and the students—may they all flourish! I’m for that.
I have Joannie Nichols seated to my left, along with several other girls who do not have family here today. Joannie is fairly jumping out of her skin in her excitement at the prospect of getting out of school for the summer and coming back to live with me—and maybe going for a bit of a cruise on the Nancy B. That may happen sooner than you think, Joannie . . . I meet with Ezra again tomorrow and I know he is not at all happy with the financial condition of Faber Shipping Worldwide.
And, to my right, I am astonished to find Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe. I figure I have seen more of her in the last few hours than I have in years, and I had expected her to be front row, center.
“What brings you to the Orphan Bench, Sister?” I ask of her.
“Daddy and I are not speaking,” she says, nose in the air. “And Mother is in a bit of a tizzy. They are both back in Virginia. They are not pleased with me.”
“Whatever for?”
“I have decided not to marry John Randolph.”
“But I thought—”
“Who cares what you think. Hush, now. It is starting.”
Indeed it is. Mistress goes to the podium and delivers a short speech concerning Learning, Godliness, and The Virtues of Young Womanhood. Then she announces, “Hermione Applegate.”
The girl rises and goes to stand before Mistress. Hermione’s right hand reaches out to take Mistress’s hand, while her left hand, as rehearsed, passes over the other to take the rolled-up diploma. A kiss on Mistress’s cheek, a few words spoken, and the girl steps down and into the arms of her family as the next girl is announced, “Miss Helen Bailey . . .”
And then, on and on . . . Miss Caroline Thwackham . . . Miss Abigail Pierce . . . Miss Ruth Alden . . . Miss Hyacinth Saltonstall . . .
My dear sisters from the school and from the Bloodhound. I have to choke back a tear. I do not know why I am so emotional over such simple things, but I am, I am.
Of course, not all of the Bloodhound Thirty-Two are here. Dolley is off and married to an important politician and has a child, even, and others have previously graduated as well . . . and then there were the three serving girls, Annie, Sylvie, and Katy.
. . . Miss Beatrice Cooper . . . Mademoiselle Lissette de Lise . . . Miss Frances Wallace . . .
I heave a bit of a sigh for Dorothea Baxter, who would have been graduating with the rest but went off last year and married our math and science teacher, Mr. Sackett. Both, of course, were immediately asked to leave the school—booted out is more likely the case. Mistress does have her rules, and that whole scene was definitely, to her mind, unseemly.
Not that it would distress the newly married Sacketts much, as they are both deliriously happy with each other and their studies, not living on much except their enthusiasm for their scientific calling. They manage to pick up some tutoring jobs here and there, and Mr. Sackett is hopeful of a post at the college over in Cambridge. My fishing crews generally manage to give them a few fish or lobsters—we are all sure they carefully dissect the specimens before eating. I had found the couple living in very reduced circumstances in a hovel on Essex Street and have installed them in one of the apartments on the third floor of Faber Shipping, and they have already stunk up the place several times with noxious fumes from their laboratory. Good thing there’s generally a steady breeze from the ocean to clear things out. They sometimes manage to pay their rent . . . sometimes.
. . . Miss Judith Leavitt . . . Miss Christina King . . . Miss Priscilla Cabot . . .
I lean over and whisper to Clarissa, “It was so nice of you to come visit and to offer me a ride today, Clarissa. I really appreciated it.”
She cuts me a glance and curls her lip. “Nice? I wasn’t being nice. Mistress ordered me to pick you up to make sure you showed up, properly dressed. Do you think I would have done it otherwise? Nice? Please, Jacky, spare me your niceties.”
. . . Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe . . .
A rustle of silk and Clarissa rises, to accept her diploma.
Damn! Scammed again! But why would Mistress . . . ?
. . . and finally, Miss Jacqueline Faber . . .
I sit stunned. Wot? Me?
Joannie nudges me to my feet, and, numbly, I march to the podium. I reach for Mistress’s hand, take it, then receive my diploma in my other hand. As I place a kiss on her cheek, she looks me in the eyes and says, “You were a trial to me, Miss Faber, and I think you will continue to be one. But now you will be someone else’s trial, as I have done what I can. Go on your way, Jacky.”
I stumble back to my seat, overcome with emotion, the tears running down my cheeks. The chorus sings the last verse of “Gaudeamus Igitur” as a recessional. I know it has to do with standing up for your school, but my senses are reeling and I take not their meaning . . .
Pereat tristitia,
Pereant osores,
Pereat diabolus