“Thank you, lad,” I say. “Put it on the table here and go refresh yourself at the bar. You will find the cakes quite good. Give my thanks to Mr. Fyffe when you get back to the shop.”
The boy goes gratefully to the spread on top of the bar, thankful for an unlooked-for treat, while I examine the box.
It is simple, yes. Crude, no. It is made of fine-grained pumpkin pine, dovetailed at each joint, very light for its size but sturdy, and sanded to a light sheen. The top fits snug, but lifts off easily, and the interior is filled with aromatic cedar shavings. I stick my nose in and breathe deeply—Ahhhh, yes . . . Won’t this be a dainty thing to set before a King! Or in this case, a Governor . . . and it will not contain four-and-twenty blackbirds, oh, no . . . It will be just one simple gift . . .
Rising, I call out, “Molly! Be so good as to run down to the Nancy B. and have Jim Tanner hitch up Old Dobbin to our buckboard and bring it up here. Oh, and have it loaded with some shipping crates from our storeroom—it doesn’t matter what, just make sure Faber Shipping is stenciled plain on the outside of them. Thanks!”
As she leaves on her errand, I head upstairs to my rooms. Once there, I take out watercolors and white paper and make a simple label:
To Governor Christopher Gore
State House, Boston, Massachusetts
with compliments from
Faber Shipping Worldwide
State Street, Boston
That accomplished, I take my glue pot and affix the label to the top of the box and begin work on another label. This one, vertical in nature, with a border of grape leaves all around:
Lavender Blue
An Ambrosial Mixture of
Fine Herbs and Liquors
__________________
Bottled on the Estate of
Carnegie Bros. LTD,
Glasgow, Scotland
Exclusive Purveyors to
His Majesty, King George III
I don’t think Georgie would mind awfully much my using his name in this way, having met him once and having found him a most agreeable sort of fellow, in spite of his being King of England, and all.
That done and blotted dry, I cut it out and put glue to the back and slap it on the front of one of my Extra Special bottles. It looks good there, I decide, and then I take a red candle, light it, and drip the wax all about the neck of the bottle till it forms a right colorful and elegant cap. Then I place the bottle into the box, cradled in its nest of fragrant cedar curls.
The top is brought down and tapped into place with the small nails so well provided by Ephraim Fyffe. All is in readiness.
I go back downstairs with box under arm and find that Molly has returned with Jim Tanner, Old Dobbin, and the loaded buckboard.
“Here, Jimmy, tuck this box back there between those two crates. That’s it. Molly, go get a broom.” Mystified, the girl ducks back in the Pig to get one. “All right, now back up on the seat with you both.”
When they are again seated, I place the business end of the broom next to Molly’s hip with the stick placed through the crates such that its end rests against the back of my special box.
“Now, Molly, take the wagon back to the Nancy B., which will cause you to go by Skivareen’s. When you go past their door, push back on the broom, which will cause the box to tumble out. There’s plenty of bumps in the road there, so it won’t look suspicious. Maybe it would be best if you were singing a lusty song to show your attention was elsewhere. Got it? Good. Now go.”
The buckboard, with Faber Shipping Worldwide proudly painted on its side, rattles on off and I go back into the Pig to await their report.
They are back inside a half hour with smiles on their faces.
“It went off without a hitch, Skipper,” says Jim Tanner. “Molly here give it the old heave-ho when we passed the doorway and over it went. There were a few of the scum hangin’ about outside when we went by . . .”
“But there weren’t none standin’ about when we came back after unloadin’ the other crates,” crowed Molly Malone. “And the box was nowhere to be seen. Nay, Jacky, the box is surely inside Skivareen’s.”
I allow myself a deep chuckle of low, evil, and vindictive satisfaction.
Heh, heh, heh . . . Call me a Cheapside whore, will you, Pigger?
Chapter 38
J. E. Fletcher
Representative, House of Chen
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Journal Entry, July 29, 1809
Against all good sense, of which I admit I have very little, I have decided to give her one more chance.
I know I am setting myself up for another fall, but I cannot help it, for I saw the play In the Belly of the Bloodhound last night and it fairly tore my heart out. Oh, yes, the privations suffered by those poor girls were enough to bring a tear to the most hardened eye, but that was not what struck me to the core.
It was the scene in which she was recounting her past adventures on the Wolverine to help her classmates pass the long nighttime hours in that foul hold, and she spoke to the audience, but she seemed to speak directly to me.
“I reached out an arm and pulled him in by his collar and closed the door and threw the latch and we both fell toward the bed, and I said, ‘Fill your eyes with me, Jaimy, and then kiss me. And kiss me hard and long for it may be for the last time!’
“And he does, oh yes, he does.”
That scene elicited many a gasp and sigh from the female members of the audience, but it almost unmanned me. It was then that I resolved to give it one more try. After the performance, I went back to my rooms and penned the following letter:
James Emerson Fletcher
Boston, Massachusetts
Jacky Faber
The Pig and Whistle Inn
Boston, Massachusetts
Dear Miss Faber,
Yes, Jacky, I have been in Boston for quite some time now, incognito as it were, for reasons that will become apparent to you. The following letter, which I penned to you upon my arrival, and which I intended to convey to you upon the day of my departure, will explain all.
Dear Jacky,
This will be the last letter I shall send to you. I shall conduct the business I must accomplish here in Boston, and then I shall be out of your life forever.
The reason for my change of heart will soon become clear to you. It goes like this:
Having taken lodging at the headquarters building of Faber Shipping, I went out into the town to secure a place of business for my patron, and, having found a suitable space on State Street, I put down money, signed the necessary lease papers, and went to the Pig and Whistle for what promised to be an excellent lunch.
Feeling in high spirits on a very fine day, I hobbled back to my lodging, soaking up the old familiar sights and looking out over the harbor in hopes of spying the returning Nancy B., but, alas, that was not to be, and more is the pity—for if I had spotted you down at the docks, all this would not have happened.
As it were, I climbed the stairs to my rooms and was about to enter when I noticed that the door to your studio was ajar, probably left that way by a cleaning woman. Thinking you would not mind, since we soon would be sharing all things in our lives, I went in to look about.
It was a very pleasing, light-filled space, and I can see why you chose it for your workspace. Wandering about, I spied a very nice portrait in progress of a ship’s captain, a large sign laid out proclaiming Wilson Bros. Ships’ Chandlers, and some drawings, which I took to be student work arranged about on wooden easels. Then I spied a leather tube, which looked a lot like a nautical map case.
Thinking that it might be a chart of your recent travels, which I would find most interesting, I took off the cap.
Indeed, I did find the contents most interesting . . .
It was neither a chart nor a map. No, it was nothing more than the end of all my hopes that you and I might share a life together. How much, just how much, Jacky, can one man take, even a man such as I, who in the past has overlooked and forgiven some of your more outrageous transgressions?
I spread the canvas out on the workbench and it lay there, glowing in the afternoon light pouring through the tall windows. Beneath the reclining nude figure of the girl are these words, La Maja Virginal. Con todo mi amor. Amadeo Romero, 1808.
I do not have much fluency in the Spanish language, but it does not take much to figure out that Con todo mi amor means “With all my love.”
I stood there and steamed in inchoate rage. Yes, I can well imagine what “all my love” meant in this case—all of you, from top to bottom, given up to this damned Amadeo Romero and, yes, to Joseph Jared and Richard Allen and all the rest of your mob of male “friends” whom you have successfully explained away in the past. Oh, yes, you have a glib tongue, Jacky, but I don’t believe it will be able to explain away this one—and no telling where that lying tongue has been.
I slammed my rod down hard on the bench top, the green-eyed Monster of Jealousy in full possession of me. No, Master Kwai Chang, I cannot follow your teachings, I cannot let go of this thing that tears at my mind. I cannot. I am not a worthy student, I know that now. I know that I am merely a beast, driven by my passions, by my rage, and I shall remain forever so. I am sorry, Master, but that is the way of it.
I compliment this Señor Romero on his skill—the resemblance is striking, for it is definitely you lying there, Jacky, mocking me with your smile, no doubt about it. If I had ever once thought that I would rejoice in once again seeing you in your natural state with your Brotherhood tattoo proudly on your hipbone, I was dead wrong.
A great sadness fell over me. I rolled up the painting and put it back in its case. I retreated to my now unhappy room to pen this letter. I will drop it at the Pig and Whistle the day I leave Boston, after I have completed my business here.
I now put you out of my mind, Jacky. Only bitterness remains . . .
In sorrow,
James Fletcher
I had fully intended to leave you and this town forever upon the arrival of Mr. Chen’s ship, but I have decided to give you a chance to explain some things so that we might again be reconciled.
With that in mind, I suggest a meeting at the corner of State Street and Cornhull at eleven o’clock on Wednesday. Should this not prove a good time for you, I can be contacted at House of Chen Shipping.
Thank you for your consideration of my request,
Your Humble and Obedient Servant,
James Fletcher
After making up a packet of these letters and stuffing them into an envelope labeled “To Miss Jacky Faber, Pig and Whistle Inn,” I took myself up to that establishment for lunch, and after having eaten, I placed it on a shelf where I knew her employees stacked her correspondence for her later perusal, as I have watched her take the daily mail and read it while she sipped an afternoon glass of wine and prepared for the evening activities.
There was no one there except for Molly Malone, who was in the kitchen cleaning up, and Clarissa Howe, who never pays me any attention, anyway, so I quietly leaned my envelope up against the other mail on the shelf. Then I made my way back to my rooms.
Either way, Jacky, this is it for good and ever . . .
Chapter 39
Ezra Pickering comes into the Pig and Whistle for dinner and he is not wearing his usual small smile. No, today his face wears an unabashed wide smile.
“I have news, Miss Faber,” he announces, fairly chortling. “Wonderful news!”
“Well, sit yourself down, Mr. Pickering, and have some good strong coffee and fine pancakes and sausages,” I say, “and tell me all about it.”