In The Belly Of The Bloodhound (8 page)

It’s plain to me now: Ezra had told me that those two had been banished from Boston, their license to practice their dubious trade as private investigators having been revoked after their dealings with the Reverend were brought to light. According to the town fathers reviewing the case, snatching me, a landless, underage girl, was perfectly all right and completely legal—as[_ long as I was delivered to the person who had hired them,_] which was Colonel Trevelyne, not the Reverend. So it was merely a question of bad business practice, a breach of contract, not out of any concern for me or my wishes in the matter of my disposition. Go figure…

So Beadle and Strunk must have set up their nasty business again in either Philadelphia or New York and seen the posters when they were tacked up in those places. Recalling me from our last encounter, they figured that I’d probably be hiding out in Boston, where I knew my way around, and since they knew what I looked like, they came up here in hopes of a quick reward.[_ Hey, sell her once, sell her twice,
] they must have joked, winking at each other as they climbed into the coach that would bring them here,[
this girl’s a walking industry for us, she is, and bless her for that._]

I step out and start walking down State toward the[_ Star._] Beadle and Strunk walk toward me. I wrap my mantilla more tightly about my lower face and cross the street so as to avoid the men. They notice this, and I see Beadle nudge Strunk and nod in my direction. Then they both quicken their pace and come at me.

I gasp and spin and start running back up State.[_ “Stop, there! You stop!”
] I hear behind me, and I reach down and pull my skirts to my waist and turn on the speed. I dash past the Plow and Stars and then there’s Mr. Yale’s print shop, and then the good old Pig and Whistle, and I’m leavin’ ‘em behind ‘cause nobody ever catches Jacky Faber in the riggin’, or on foot, neither, and then I step on a cobble wrong and trip and go head over heels and I cry out in pain and get up lame. I hear shouts of triumph behind me.[
We’ve got ‘er now, by God!_] but I hobble on and duck down into the alley between Mrs. Bodeen’s and McGraths, and I can hear ‘em pantin’ behind me. I go to the end of the alley and then I stop and turn to face them. I fold my hands in front of me and I stand there quiet as they come puffing into the darkness of the narrow space.

“Ah, dearie, now that’s a good girl,” says the one named Strunk. He pulls a small length of rope from his pocket. “You just stand right there and be good. Put your hands out in front of you now and…”

...And then John Thomas and Smasher McGee step out of the shadows behind Beadle and Strunk. In their hands they hold heavy belaying pins, and their dark, grim faces are set. There is scant mercy to be seen in either of them.

I turn away from the sounds of struggle and head back to the school. And as I walk, I do not limp, for I didn’t trip over no cobblestone back there on State Street, no, I did not.

Did two bodies wash up on the next morning’s tide? I don’t know, as I didn’t ask. I do know that I never again laid eyes on Beadle and Strunk.

I know also that things will soon grow even hotter for me here and that I must get Jim and the[_ Morning Star_] to Dovecote to lay over till spring. And I will have to stay in the safety of my school.

That’s what I gotta do.

And so it was that Jim and I and the[_ Star_] went back to Dovecote—me to stay till school started again in January, Jim to stay there with the boat, at least until spring.

Jim had recovered enough to travel the next day, so we left early in the morning, right after a big breakfast, with Peg and the girls all fussing over him, which I know he enjoyed, although he blushed and said he didn’t. Jim had to eat slowly, carefully placing the food between his bruised and split lips, but at least those two rotters didn’t get any of his teeth. He might limp for a day or two, but he’s young; he’ll get over it.

On the way down to the[_ Star,_] we stopped to buy Jim his heavy jacket, blue cap, and boots. And I bought him a bit of blue ribbon to tie back his curly brown hair.

We found the traps and buoys I bought the day before piled on the dock next to the boat as promised. We loaded them on board and I returned to the chandler’s once more to buy some rope and blue and white paint. The money belt that I wear about my waist is getting very light.

Star
log, December 4. 09:30. Under way on starboard tack from Boston to Quincy. Winds light and from the south. Will have to tack all the way to Dovecote.

Back at Dovecote, the farm kids find Jim to be an exotic—a handsome boy who wears a striped jersey, bears evidence on his face of a recent fight, walks with a swaggering roll in his step, and knows how to sail a boat. The boys, of course, want to pound him, it being in the nature of boys to do that, but I asked Edward, the stableboy I had known from before, to keep the others from beating him until he has fully recovered from his wounds, and then they could. They agree, and by the time he has healed, they are all friends and so they forgo that particular male ritual, as I thought they might. The girls, on the other hand, have something else on their minds, oh, yes, they do, and I know for sure there is more than one calico bonnet cocked in his direction—my female sense has noticed that Claire, the thirteen-year-old daughter of George Findley, the head hostler in the big stables, has for certain set her own sights on our unsuspecting Jim. We are not there many days before the clever Claire has taken his blue cap and embroidered[_ Morning Star_] on the headband in white thread for him.[_ Smart girl. For that you shall get all of Faber Shipping’s needlework contracts. Right now we need a new flag for our masthead. White background, two foot by three, with blue stitching. A fouled anchor, see, like the one I’ve drawn here…_]

All in all, Jim Tanner does not lack for companionship. Nor do I.

And so December passed.

Jim’s first task was to paint the buoys, which he did in the Great Barn with Claire in attendance, of course, oohing and aahing over his skill with the brush. Then, after the paint had dried, we rigged and baited our traps and placed them out in the bay. It was with great joy and anticipation that we dropped them over the side, one by one. We vowed that we would not check them for three whole days, but when we stood on the shore and watched the buoys bouncing all jaunty out on the waves, well, we couldn’t wait and were out on the second day, pulling them up. We didn’t catch anything that day worth keeping, just some small crabs and trash fish, but it was wildly exciting, seeing the traps surge out of the cold water and wondering just what they might hold. Over the next few weeks, we moved the traps around till, at last, we did begin to draw some riches from the sea.

Amy is my constant companion, but Randall always seems to be around, too, which I really don’t mind. Oh, he’s always looking for ways to get me into his bed, or at least to that place we were that time down on the banks of red roses when…Well, never mind. It was just a close thing, is all, but now it’s mostly banter, wordplay twixt the two of us, like,[_ So, Jacky, all I have to do is go over to England, put my sword through this Jaimy Fletcher, and then you’ll consent to be my mistress?
] And me back at him with[
Which you might not find such an easy thing to do, milord. Lieutenant Fletcher also has a sword, and a very fine one, too…Perhaps his blade would slide between your ribs, instead. Hmmm?_] All of which is all right, being just words. I mean, I know Randall would cheerfully seduce me and bring me to ruin, but he wouldn’t force me. He is a gentleman, after all, and I think, beneath all his rascally exterior, good at heart. I do notice, though, that in his fanciful future plans for me, it is always as mistress, never as wife. The scoundrel.

Colonel and Mrs. Trevelyne have returned from the city and pronounce themselves delighted to see me again, which is big of them, considering the fact that I almost caused an international incident when last I was in their house. I think they put up with having me around mostly because I seem to bring some cheer to their children.

Christmas approaches and we have a fine, deep snowfall, and horse-drawn sleighs are rigged and we bundle up and go out caroling and wassailing. It is great fun, careening about the countryside and pulling up in front of houses, their lighted windows buried up to their sills in the snow, us piling out, getting into a group somewhat resembling a chorus, and belting out “Good King Wenceslaus,” to the great hilarity of all. We are then invited in, to great house or small, and if the people within have a treat to give us, they give it. If not, then we give treats to them.

Toasts are drunk—in the rich houses, great bowls of wine that have spices like cinnamon and clove and nutmeg in them, and little pieces of toast floating, a piece of which is gathered up with each cup, and hence, a toast is said and drunk—and eaten, if the chunk of toast ends up in your mouth. In the poorer houses, some simple cakes are offered and we accept them in the spirit in which they are given. When we go, we leave more than we take.

Amy says that in the country, this custom is not just for fun—though I do find it great, glorious fun to be crammed in the back of a crowded sleigh, wrapped up in mufflers and scarves, thigh to thigh with Randall, his arm around my shoulders, all of us singing at the tops of our lungs, our breath, puffs of white fog in the cold winter’s night. No, another reason for this practice is that it is an excuse to check on your neighbors without them taking shame or offense, to see if they are going to get through the winter all right—for we stop at the poor cottages, too, as well as the rich ones. To see if old Widow Crenshaw has enough wood stored in her shed, or if the Winslow family has enough food put up in their root cellar to feed the four children till spring, and if not, then steps are quietly taken to make things right—stacks of wood cut the proper size for the fireplace for some, sacks of potatoes, beets, and a few hams brought in for others. I find I like my country friends more and more, day by winter day.

Christmas Eve comes and we decorate the tree in the Great Hall and sing more carols, and all the people of Dovecote come with their children and we have a huge roaring party. The hall has a small stage on one end, and it doesn’t take long for Jacky Faber to be up on it and doing a set. When I finish with a flourish of fiddle and dancing feet, I get generous applause, which, as always, warms the very depths of my show-off soul.

Christmas Day is quieter, with just family and me. We have a great feast, then later, when we are seated about the fireplace, we exchange gifts. I get some lovely dress fabric from the Colonel and his missus, a fine new fiddle bow from Amy, and a silver comb-and-mirror set from Randall. I protest that it is all much too much, and I can only give them something small and worthless: To each, I give a piece of the whalebone scrimshaw I had made on my whaling voyage. A naval battle scene goes to Colonel Trevelyne, an angel playing a harp to his wife, and a spouting whale to Amy. All say they like them and shall display them proudly.

When I give Randall his, I ask him to unwrap it in private, and he looks intrigued and slips it in his pocket, but the Colonel will hear nothing of it—”Come, come, let him open it now! We’ll have no coyness here! Say you will allow it, my dear!”

I blush and nod.

The piece that I gave to Randall pictures a very saucy mermaid sitting on a rock. She is playing a pennywhistle, and, well…maybe she looks a bit like me.

The holidays are behind us and we are back at school.

Being January, it was too cold to take the[_ Star,_] so we had to come by coach, and we clattered up Beacon Street and piled out at the front door of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls. The vile Dobbs came out, surly and ill-tempered as ever, and carried our bags inside and put them in the foyer, whereupon they were carried up to the dormitory by the serving girls, all of whom I warmly embraced, having once been one of their number and treated very kindly by them as well. The vile Dobbs was not allowed up there without Mistress being with him, thank God. He gave me an especially black look, me having caused him some trouble in the past.

More coaches were pulling up, and other girls were getting out of them, and many fathers and mothers were saying farewell to their daughters, the mothers primping them up and the fathers shaking fingers in their faces, no doubt telling them to be good. As if we could be anything else but good here.

Now there is another, louder clatter of hooves from outside and I peek out the little side window and see that it is none other than Clarissa Worthington Howe, being delivered in a full coach and four. It seems that I am not to be spared the joy of her company, after all. The door is opened and out steps a large man, finely dressed and one plainly aware of his own importance. He reaches up a hand and it is taken by Miss Clarissa, a vision of pink-and-white silk-and-chiffon loveliness as she floats to the ground, light as a feather. That big fellow must be her father, poor man.

Father and daughter see each other off with bow, curtsy, and quick peck of a kiss, while five large trunks are put on the pavement. Dobbs begins hauling them inside.

I step away from the window and wait for her to come in.

“You be civil, now, Jacky,” warns Amy, who stands by my side.

“Oh, I will be, Sister, and I will be careful, too. I well remember our past encounters.” I have a neat, semicircular scar on my forearm, a mark left upon me by Clarissa’s perfect and oh-so-well-bred teeth when she sank those selfsame teeth into me. I don’t really blame her for that, though, since at the time, I was trying to beat her senseless myself. But I do blame her for plying me with strong but oh-so-sweet-and-smooth bourbon liquor at the great ball at Dovecote, she pretending that we would be friends from then on, and me, stupid me, believing her and drinking down what she offered to my trusting self. Oh, yes, I do blame her for that, and I know that things ain’t over between us, count on it.

“...and don’t scratch my things, my man, or I’ll see your pay docked. Damn, could you be any more clumsy and slow? The help here, I swear.” I hear Clarissa say this to the bent-over and mumbling Dobbs as she sweeps into the room before him. He puts down the trunk and heads out for another. “You, there she says to Annie and Sylvie, who have just come back into the room. “Take this trunk upstairs. You know where it goes. Do it.”