Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl (12 page)

Back at the farm, Louis had finished cleaning up the mess and the whole place smelled measures better. He had found a brush somewhere and was in the middle of rubbing down Fifi, who appeared to be enjoying the whole affair immensely. “Well then, Louis. You’ve done a fine job here. She’s a lovely Abondance, isn’t she?” Marguerite walked to the pen and leaned in to pet her. Fifi stomped her foot and threw her head away from Marguerite’s hand. A stout woman with bright red hair piled high on her head came panting and chuffing into the farm. She spotted Marguerite and Louis and pointed at the pair.

“You the new help from the
Renegade
?” she asked. “Yes, ma’am, I’m Lady Vadnay, and this is Louis,” Marguerite answered.

“Right, well you are both going to come help me. I’m
Lady
Cook, and I need at least six more hands to get evening meal on before we hit the preparations for tomorrow’s rounds.” She rolled her eyes as she said
lady
in a mocking tone.

“Oh no, I am not a galley worker. I’m sorry. I’m an officer and a Lady, and I do not prepare food.” Marguerite was firm in this point. She stood her ground, hands on her hips. Fifi mooed long and low as if to mock the aristocrat pouting by her pen.

“You may have been all those things on land or even on the
Renegade
, but here on the
Henrietta
, you’re nothing but what Captain B. says you are, and today, that’s a galley hand. Now get those lovely little aristocratic hands off your hips and help me fill these baskets with greens or you’ll get no supper and quite possibly the chute.” The little woman picked up two baskets from a pile near the door and tossed one unceremoniously to the floor at Marguerite’s feet.

Marguerite knew the woman was right. The law of the skies was not the way of things on land. All that mattered up here was your title according to your captain, and neither of her captains was interested in promoting her anytime soon.

She had no choice.

She bent over and picked up the basket. Louis put down the brush and climbed out of the pen. Fifi mooed again.

The rest of the day was much the same. She cut her hand trying to learn to peel carrots; she stubbed her toe while carrying a pot of potatoes and water from sink to stove, and she ended up covered in grease when the ship lurched to starboard and a pot of lard tipped and tumbled off a shelf.

She had to admit that the meal was quite good, considering they were several leagues above ground and even farther from civilization. However, the after dinner clean-up nearly did her in. Even with Louis running circles around her, helping in any way he could, she felt beaten and bloody and even more determined to make Jacques’s life a living hell if she was ever to see him again.

She made her way back to her bunk in low spirits and with a bedraggled appearance. She heard voices coming from all the rooms she passed. Some had doors open, some closed. Some were merry, most sounded tired. It was a crew of mostly women and boys. The
Henrietta
was a galley ship, which meant it prepared food and carried extra supplies for the rest of the convoy. This saved space for the other vessels to carry larger weapons and more men for battles. At supper each night, the
Henrietta
coasted over the other ships and dropped food from a parachute system. In the morning, the ships floated over her deck and returned the shoots and empty containers.

Marguerite hadn’t ever spent much time in the kitchens of the estate where she’d grown up. She took for granted the fact that hot meals showed up on her dinner table and at her bedside at regularly scheduled times. Even at the school, she didn’t think much about where her food came from or whose hands had prepared it. She looked at her own hands. They were white and shriveled like ghostly prunes. Nicks and scrapes here and there lent shocking peeks of blood. To add insult to injury, three of her nails had broken to the quick. She felt wretched.

Ahead of her, the door was open to her bunk. Merry voices drifted down the hall and met her ears. She hesitated; worried that she hadn’t arrived soon enough. What would they say about her underthings? Just when she thought the day couldn’t get much worse, she was now convinced it would.

She decided to meet the problem head on.

Marguerite marched up to the open doorway; head held high and mangled hands on her hips. Their laughter and chatter stopped suddenly when Marguerite appeared. She looked them over carefully before speaking. The three girls sitting on bunks before her were a mixed bunch. Two were mousy with thin watery-brown hair and upturned noses; obviously sisters, but not twins. One sister was broader through the forehead, looked a bit more care worn, and even while sitting down was a head taller than the other.

The third girl was sitting on the bed Marguerite had claimed earlier. She had tight black curls falling in lovely ringlets to frame a creamy brown face. Marguerite was instantly jealous of her hair. When she saw Marguerite, her soft brown eyes grew wide at first, and then narrowed in mischief. “Oh, good! Our roommate is finally here,” she purred.

Marguerite instantly identified her as a new pain in her side. One of the many girls her age whom she could not abide but would have to endure. A troublemaker, a bully, a nasty heart in a pretty package. She bristled as she realized the girl was holding her now dry pink satin underclothes up to her own body and smiling like a cat with a mouthful of canary.

“I’m ever so grateful for the gift you left on my bunk. I haven’t had pantaloons so fine since I left Paris. Ooh la la!” The girl posed and threw her amazing hair over her shoulder. The other two girls laughed quietly. Marguerite took two steps into the room and stared down at the pretty face with the jolly expression.

“Those are mine, and I’d like them back please,” she said. Then she braced for a fight. Back at school and even on the ship ride to New France, every confrontation with these kinds of common girls came with a fight. But Marguerite was used to it now and even though she was exhausted, she was ready to put this horrid person with perfect curls in her place.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you claimed this space. I don’t see your name on it anywhere.” The girl’s eyes twinkled as she smiled a wicked grin. Marguerite leaned over and snatched the pantaloons from the girl’s lap before the girl could react. She pulled open the waistband and flashed her monogram in the girl’s face.
LMV
was stitched in meticulous, scrolling letters across the soft, silky fabric.

“Lady Marguerite Vadnay,” she said with steely defiance. “Now please remove yourself from my bunk and hand over my camisole.” The girl flinched.

Ah ha!
Marguerite thought,
I got her. She’s afraid of me. I am scary!

“Alright, alright.” The girl stood, forcing Marguerite to back up to make room for her in the small space. She tossed the camisole onto Marguerite’s head and scampered up to the top bunk in one quick move. “Calm down. I’m just having a bit of fun with you,
Lady Marguerite Vadnay.
I’m Lucy; that’s Rori and Audrey.”

Marguerite didn’t know who was who, but the sisters raised their hands simultaneously and smiled. She felt suddenly off guard. She wasn’t sure how to respond. It took her a moment to register the fact that it had been a very long time since a girl other than Outil, who was actually just a bot, had been nice to her.

Two more days passed as the ships flew at top speed to the aid of the convoy from France. Rain continued to pound down on the fleet, and high winds pushed them forward at top speeds with minimum fuel needed. The smaller ships tossed back and forth relentlessly, making Marguerite airsick for the first time in her life. If she could just get above deck for a breath of fresh air, she would feel better and get her legs beneath her, but there was no such luck. The high winds and dangerously cold temperatures meant that even the deck boys spent as little time out there as possible with the unrelenting storm.

Even if she could have escaped for a morsel of air not laden with the smell of cow and fishpond, she didn’t have time. The
Henrietta
was a hive of activity at all hours, and she didn’t have a moment of free time from morning wakeup call until she fell into bed at night.

If she thought her hands were a wreck on the first day, she wept over them as she tried to sleep the third night. Her fingers ached from cracks and cuts, and all of her once manicured nails were now gone, lost to shredders and peelers in the kitchens. In a matter of days, her hands had gone from those of an aristocrat to the maws of a dirty washerwoman.

Her bunkmates continued to be kind to her. In fact, almost everyone on the ship was kind, with the exception of Lady Cook, who’d insisted Marguerite and everyone else in the kitchens call her that after Marguerite had arrived and announced her title. Marguerite still wasn’t sure how to handle these women who were kind and even funny. She tried to smile as much as she possibly could and otherwise kept her mouth shut.

She had much more important things to think about than getting along with common aerwomen. Like how to get back at Jacques. It wasn’t enough that she had resolved never to have a thing to do with him again. Her anger had blossomed into schemes of revenge. She wanted to annoy him. She wanted him to feel like she felt—helpless, humiliated, and small. The fond memories she held for him were being persistently mashed to a pulp by the autohammer she used to tenderize the meat every night, and she made little effort to remember what it was she loved about him.

She should have been cataloging weapons, testing trajectories, and preparing for war. Instead, she was scrubbing pots and pans, chopping leeks, and brushing a cow that hated her. At least Louis had stuck around to help her with the manure. Fifi loved him, but every time Marguerite tried to get close, the beast flipped her with her tail or head-butted her, and just this morning she’d kicked her square in the stomach, quick as a whip. Marguerite had never seen a cow move that fast in her life.

She rubbed her still sore ribs with her aching hand. She seriously considered sending a note to her father asking him to come get her, but then she dismissed that thought immediately. She wouldn’t be able to bear his smug I-told-you-so laugh once he had her safely back in the luxury of his grasp. No, she was going to tough this out and get even, and make them all see that she was made of stronger stuff than they all thought.

In the meantime, she was going to have a good cry. She turned her face into her pillow, took a deep shaking breath, and let the tears fall. She tried to stay silent so the other girls wouldn’t hear her and bother her—she didn’t want to deal with anyone right now. She knew at least two of them were asleep, as she heard the soft lady-like snores of tired girls. But when she accidentally sniffed a bit too loudly, she heard the bunk above her squeak as Lucy shifted and then slid down the ladder like a spectre in the night.

She sat on the edge of Marguerite’s bed and put a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Are you alright there?” Marguerite wanted to swat her hand away and tell her to cog off, but she took another deep breath and tried to calm herself instead.

“I know it’s hard being out here. I imagine you aren’t used to this kind of life. Anyone with drawers as fancy as yours hasn’t spent much time doing the kind of work we do on the ship. Are your hands ok? You’re on galley duty, right? That can be murder on the fingers. Hang on a second.” The girl stood up and started rummaging in her trunk then returned and sat on the bed again. “Let me see your fingers.”

Marguerite reluctantly pulled her hands from under her rough wool blanket, wiped the tears from her face, and held them out. Lucy found them in the dark and pulled them toward her and let them rest on her knee. Marguerite could hear her opening a jar in the dark, and a pale red light from the hallway lit a silhouette of Lucy’s lovely curls.

One by one, she rubbed an ointment on Marguerite’s poor fingers and palms. It felt amazing. Lucy was careful and quiet and didn’t push too hard on any of the cuts. “I heard Fifi got you in the gut today?” she asked softly.