There's now some empty pews on Sunday and people are beginning to talk. Amy tells me that Puritans are now called Congregationalists 'cause they ain't got a central authority, like us Church of England types got the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Catholics got the Pope. Each Congregational church is unto itself alone, and there ain't no higher authority to complain to if you got a problem with your preacher, which is why, I guess, that the Preacher has lasted here. He's a Mather, says Amy, and he's got powerful supporters in the congregation. We'll see.
I went with Amy to spend Christmas at Dovecote, with her and her family. I met her mum and dad, bows and curtsies all around, and I think I acquitted myself well in that regard—can hardly tell me from a real lady now. Amy's mother is sweet and says how nice that Amy finally has a little friend, which causes great mortification in Amy. Mrs. Trevelyne is the exact opposite of Amy—happy, gay, and fluffy—and she is fun to be with. Amy's father, Colonel Trevelyne, is a strapping, thick, tree trunk of a man, given to wearing sporting clothes and smoking big cigars.
A tree, a very sweet-smelling spruce, was brought in as is the new custom, borrowed from the Germans, and we had great fun decorating it with popcorn strings and small candles and bits of crystal. Mrs. Trevelyne had brought back from New York boxes of colored glass balls, and these were hung on the tree, where they gathered and reflected the light from the candles most wondrously. Even the high-and-mighty Randall joined in the spirit of the thing and helped decorate the tree.
On Christmas Eve we had songs and carols and happy conversation, and the household staff and the field people were all brought in and I got up and sang "The Cherry Tree Carol," which everyone said was top-notch, and all received from the Colonel their gifts of money and geese and turkeys to share with their own families on Christmas Day. The Colonel, for all his faults about money and gambling, is not an ungenerous man.
Afterward, when only family and me was left, we exchanged gifts. I gave the elder Trevelynes a miniature portrait of their daughter, the only thing I have to give, really, and they proclaimed themselves delighted. I gave Amy the portrait of Ezra, him sittin' there in profile lookin' all right and proper with his little smile on his lips, and she blushes and all tease her, but I think she likes it even though again she said she's not yet ready for that sort of thing.
Amy, for her part, gave me a large package bound in bright ribbon, and I opened it, and in it was a fine riding habit, all maroon with turned-back lapels of warm light gray and skirt of deepest green. When I say it is too much, I can't possibly accept it, she waves me off with, "It is too small for me now, and I have no younger sister to give it to." Once again I have to blink back tears. I will no longer have to wear the duster in Equestrian class.
Randall Trevelyne has forgiven me, I guess, for having dragged his sister down into the haunts of the poor, for he gave me a fine Spanish mantilla, made of black lace, which he offhandedly said he had picked up in a secondhand shop in Cambridge for almost nothing, but I don't believe him. In return, I gave him a portrait, not of Clarissa, which I would not do, nor one of himself, which he would surely give to that selfsame Clarissa, but rather one of the many I have done of myself for practice. It is shameless, I know, but still I do it and say, with my eyes so low cast down, "Just to remember me by."
It was a wonderful, wonderful time, that holiday at Dovecote. And, of course, I never missed a chance to get up on the Sheik when I was there.
During this winter, too, I went and looked up Mr. Fennel and Mr. Bean, the actors who had given me their card back in the Pig that day. I got put in some small parts like Puck in A Midsummer Nights Dream, and other such elf parts. Being that I can play the pennywhistle sort of fits right into that, and I've got a real smart outfit, all green stockings and a little short kilt and a top that looks like it's made out of green leaves and a pointed green cap. I'm billed as "Jack Tar" so as not to be discovered as a girl 'cause that would be a scandal. 'Cause of the costume and all.
I only do these parts on weekends when I know I won't be caught, as I don't want to be busted again. I do love to take the bows and hear the applause, though. And, it makes me a little money, money that I keep in a little money belt that I have made for myself, which fits flat around my waist. When I get enough copper and silver coins from the acting jobs and from doing my solo act at the Pig on some Saturday afternoons, I change them into the tiny ten-dollar gold pieces, which fit more compact on my belly. I have several now. I take the belt off only to wash.
I do not completely escape the sting of the lash this winter, though. We were all in Household Management class one dreary gray day and I was bored beyond all sense and began making faces and crossing my eyes to make Rebecca Adams, sitting next to me, laugh and giggle, which, of course, she did. But then Mistress rose up and said, "Miss Adams, would you like to stand up and tell us just what you find so humorous about providing a clear and complete accounting of household expenses to your husband? What mirth is to be found therein that we dullards have overlooked?"
Little Rebecca went white as a sheet and got to her feet with great difficulty, as if rising to mount the scaffold and face Eternity itself. She was unable to speak, but only stood there, shaking in mortal terror.
"Come up here," said Mistress, picking up her rod and tapping it on her desk. The poor child looked like she would go off in a dead faint, and didn't move.
I rose to my feet 'cause it was my own stupid fault that this happened, and I pushed Rebecca back down in her seat and said, "Begging your pardon, Mistress, but it was not her fault as I was playing the fool with her." Not waiting for an invite, I marched up the aisle, went around Mistress's desk, and flopped down upon it, my skirts up and my face looking out to the class. It occurs to me that this is what the crowd must look like to those poor sods strapped to the guillotine.
Mistress raised her rod and gave me four and then I returned to my seat. Strange thing, though—Mistress did not hit me hard. It was as if she pulled back on each blow just before it landed. Although it made me wince and I had to snuffle back tears of humiliation as I went back to my seat, the beating did not hurt at all. Strange, that.
Rebecca looked at me with absolute worship in her eyes, and at supper that evening she left her table and came and sat with Amy and me. Then we were joined by Dolley and Martha, who gave my shoulder a squeeze as she sat down.
The winter does wane and the Sisterhood does increase.
I've even been doing some decent needlework. I've worked for some days on the edges of a silk pillow slip, embroidering it with intertwined roses and briars, and a few blue anchors thrown in for good measure. I wonder, as I do the stitching, whether Jaimy's head will ever lie next to mine upon this pillowcase.
Nothing, nothing from Jaimy.
Chapter 37
James Emerson Fletcher, Midshipman
On Board HMS Essex
January 25, 1804
Jacky Faber
The Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls
Beacon Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Dear Jacky,
At least I know that you are not dead, and that is some comfort to me. There was a new group of sailors brought on board the Essex yesterday and one of them was lately come from the Excalibur. I later overheard him regaling his fellows on the fo'c'sle with an account of a girl in Boston racing seasoned seamen through the Excalibur's top rigging. I knew it could be none other than you, my wild and foolish girl. I have chosen not to believe their tale of the girl taking off her dress and diving into the water, and attribute that to the sailors' love of tall tales.
That is the only news of you that I have gotten since we parted. I exchange letters quite often with my mother and she informs me with each letter that I have received nothing from you and I am cast down into darkness each time she so informs me.
Why, if you were on the Excalibur for your sport, why did you not send me a letter by her? I know you to be many things, Jacky, but cruel and hard-hearted and indifferent are not among them. You must tell me why you are treating me so.
I throw myself into my studies to try and get you out of my mind, but I am never completely successful. I shall be testing for lieutenant within the year, but it will be a hollow honor if I succeed.
We keep the French fleet bottled up here, with endless patrols back and forth, back and forth across the mouth of the bay, but they've got to come out eventually, and when they do, well, maybe a cannonball will cure my black despair.
Please write, Jacky, if only to tell me I am no longer in your heart. I am desolate.
Your most humble,
Jaimy
Chapter 38
Spring!
By God it's finally spring! Spring, when a poor girl can poke her head out of her cloak without fear of it bein' frozen off at the neck! Spring so long in comin', oh, cruel winter would just not let go, oh no, he wouldn't! Then suddenly one day the clouds of winter broke and the heat was on the land and the snow patches melted and shrunk and slunk away and then were gone and incredibly there's a green blush on the grass and by God, it's spring! Hooray!
I dance up the path to the stables and say to Henry, "My horse, Henry, my horse! For it is spring and it is Saturday and no one is lookin' and I have my fine riding habit on and I will ride wild and free and I will go downtown and I will—"
"Please calm down, Miss Faber," says Henry. He goes and gets Gretchen and puts the sidesaddle on her and will not hear of any other. "You're a lady again and you will ride sidesaddle or you will not ride at all."
I think I catch a glimpse of Sylvie's skirt disappearing around a corner of the stable. Ah, 'tis spring and everyone's thoughts turn to those of love.
"And I shan't ride till you call me Jacky again, Henry, I won't."
"All right, Jacky. Up you go."
And I'm up and off!
Gretchen and I thunder across the Common and I can feel her beneath me and I know that she is just as glad to get out as me and she fairly kicks up her heels and we go crazily rollicking across the land, hallooing as we go and making general fools of ourselves until we pull up at the dear old Pig and I slide off.
"What's the good word, Maudie?" says I, as I enter and pull back my cloak. I revel in the feel and the look of the maroon riding jacket and I know I am committing the sin of pride, but right now I don't care. It is spring and I think I can be forgiven.
"Death and taxes, dear," says Maudie, full of cheer as usual. I survey the half-empty house and reflect that it ain't as good for Maudie and Bob as when Gully and I played the house, but it ain't as bad as it was before. They'll get by.
"It is our own dear Puck, Mr. Fennel, and looking especially fine!"
"She is indeed, Mr. Bean! A glass of wine with you, dear Puck!"
I spy the two rogues sitting at a table by the fire. Though 'tis spring, there's still a nip in the air. I go over to them and Mr. Fennel pulls out a chair and I sit down.
"A cup of tea will be fine, Maudie, thanks," says I. "What's the news?" It's plain that they are quite pleased with themselves about something.
"We have rented a bigger and better hall, the very Fen-wick, itself, for the season, have we not, Mr. Fennel?"
"We have, indeed, Mr. Bean, and therein our gallant troupe shall reach even greater heights of theatrical glory. We plan to do the complete Lear, not just the ending! How fine will that be! We shall be the toast of Boston!"