“Missy Memsahib very important person,” says Ravi from his perch on my lap. “Many papers, much confusion.”
“We’ll see about that, Ravi,” says Ezra ominously, “when we get to the bottom line.”
I had picked Ravi up at his school soon after I had landed, the academic year being over. All schools, be they grammar or college, fear the yellow fever, and free their students for the warm months, in hopes that they might survive till the fall session. Ravi, of course, was ecstatic upon seeing me again, and me him. His headmaster pronounced him an excellent student . . . “He is a very bright lad. He had a bit of trouble with the other boys when he first arrived, but his essential goodness eventually won them all over. Of course, the girls all love him, and as regards the rather jealous boys, well, apparently he had learned some handy survival skills in the place where he grew up. I look forward to seeing him again in the fall. Good day, Miss. I remand him into your custody.”
Yes, Sir, the streets of Bombay are every bit as harsh as those of Cheapside.
I take the papers and give them a brief look-over. Fuss, fuss, legal fuss, and more fuss, but all is in order, of course. Thank you, Ezra.
“Well then, we must get to work on the place, mustn’t we?” I say, very pleased with myself. “I believe the carpenters are on their way, hammers and saws in hand, even as we speak.”
We are in the new and bigger offices of Faber Shipping Worldwide, attending to business. It is a fine, three-story brick building at 143 State Street and overlooks the harbor. My maroon, black, and gold sign hangs above the entrance, and some of my people are already living there.
I had directed Ezra to find me a suitable office building, close to him but separate . . . because I’ve got plans. He was delighted to do so for I suspect he’s tired of Faber Shipping trash like Thomas and McGee hanging around his office, scaring away customers. He found for me this splendid place in no time at all.
The second floor is divided up into four apartments, one of which is occupied by Jim Tanner and family, while the third floor is a wide-open loft and attic that I intend to turn into an art studio for myself, and perhaps conduct classes in beginning drawing and painting there. I shall call it the Lorelei Academy of Art. After all, I have studied under Mr. Peet of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, as well as in the studio of Señor Francisco Goya, Spanish artist of great fame, so I do have the proper credentials. I shall teach the classes when I am in town, and when I am not, hey, good artists are a dime a dozen and they work cheap.
The first floor, of course, houses the corporate offices, the front room being a well-lighted space containing a polished wooden counter facing the door, with open ledgers upon it, and inkwells and pens all about for the taking of shipping orders and conducting other such business, Chloe Cantrell, presiding. A painting of the Lorelei Lee in full sail, done by a Mr. Peale, adorns one wall, and one of the Nancy B. Alsop rests on the other. There is a bronze plaque below each with the artist’s name and title of the picture, and I like them both a lot. Good job, Mr. Peale. I rather like your work.
There are private offices in the back, and it is there that I sit with Ezra Pickering, going over the finances.
As we proceed through the seemingly endless stack of papers, Clementine Tanner appears with a tray of tea and cakes. I murmur my thanks as she pours, and we exchange significant glances. We have a history, Clementine and I, concerning an event-filled trip we both took down the Mississippi River not too long ago. She has recently been delivered of a fine baby boy, named James, of course . . . after his father.
As Clementine leaves the room, Ezra sits back and continues. “As Treasurer of Faber Shipping Worldwide, Incorporated, as well as Clerk of Records, may I ask what you intend to do?”
“Well, first I intend to get the Pig back into the pink of condition—new paint all around, new varnish on the tables and bar, nice overhead racks for the mugs and wineglasses. The small stage will be expanded and elevated, the floors sanded and primed. Some small stained-glass panels will be installed in the outside walls to let in a bit more light, and the exterior will be given a bit of a brush up in the way of new clapboards. The upstairs will be converted into modest living quarters for Maudie and Bob, as well as a suite for myself. Additionally, there will be six rooms up there to house responsible patrons and travelers.”
“And the barn next door?” probes Ezra, an eyebrow cocked, his knowing smile in place.
“As for that, I intend to convert it into a theater, a playhouse, for the performance of various theatricals. Since the Haymarket Theater was torn down two years ago, there has been scant venue for such things around town, and I think the cultural life of Boston suffers for it. As soon as it is completed, we shall stage a musical revue—songs performed by Solomon Freeman, Enoch Lightner, and myself. And, of course, fine poetry and stories, and a staging of my playlet, The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden, or Fair Virtue in Peril.”
“It seems the cultural tone of our fair city has just gone up a notch,” says Ezra Pickering.
I decide to ignore the dryness in his tone and continue.
“After that, we have more ambitious plans in train . . .”
“We . . . ?”
“Messrs. Fennell and Bean are, of course, very excited at the notion of our own theater. The dear old hams could scarce contain themselves,” I say. “‘Oh, my dear Mr. Fennell, will it not be the most wonderful thing!’” I mimic. “‘Oh, yes, Mr. Bean, it shall outshine the venerable Globe Theatre itself! We shall do Volpone, Lear . . . Oh, yes, and Herr Mozart’s Abduction from the Seraglio! The possibilities are endless!’”
“One can never fault that pair of thespians for lack of enthusiasm, that’s for sure.”
“True, and I have a few projects in mind, as well.”
“Ummm. And who is in charge of this modest project?”
“Ephraim Fyffe, a fine furniture maker and husband of my dear friend Betsey, is the foreman, and I trust him absolutely.”
Ezra regards me silently for a moment and then says, “You know, Jacky, I have observed that you are very good at making money . . . garnering riches . . . improving your state, as it were. Remarkable, considering that you are a lone, underage female.”
“I have been very lucky,” I say with a sniff. “God looks out for the very young and the very stupid, as the saying goes.”
I know that both of us are thinking of the enormous fortune of gold I had brought up from the wreck of the Santa Magdalena, a Spanish treasure galleon sunk off Key West in the Caribbean, most of which I had turned over to the British Crown, but a good deal of which I redirected into the coffers of Faber Shipping.
Another musing hmmm from Ezra before he goes on.
“I have further observed that you are even better at spending the money you have collected. For instance, there is the purchase of the Lorelei Lee, the new office headquarters . . . the fact that Mr. Higgins has a fine house in Cambridge, as do David and Annie Jones on Cornwell Street. Jemimah Moses continues to buy her children and grandchildren out of slavery. John Tinker is thinking of a ship of his own, and Jim Tanner and Clementine . . . well, the list is long. I, myself, am well fixed, too,” he says, touching the jeweled stickpin adorning his silk cravat, a token of that little trip to the waters off Key West.
“I believe in rewarding my friends,” I say, “whom I find very valuable.”
“Be that as it may, Miss, I must report that there is a bottom to the Faber Shipping barrel. And now with the purchase of the Pig . . .”
“The Pig shall pay his way, I assure you.”
“I am sure of that,” says Ezra, “but I beg you to consider putting an end to expenditures and a moratorium on any more hires.”
“All right, Ezra,” I say, wearily. “Consider it done . . . What else?”
“May I point out a few things under expenditures?”
“Please do,” I say, sitting back, a mite grumpy.
“First, you’ll note the sum of fifty dollars given to Domingo Marin, Spanish sailor, as promised by a note from you, yourself.”
“Wot? I never met the lyin’ sod and I never promised him nothin’!”
“Oh, you’ve never met him, but he did deliver.” With that, Ezra reaches down and pulls up a very worn green glass bottle and places it on the desk. “Does ‘Message in a Bottle’ ring a bell?”
I recognize it instantly—it is the bottle from the Bloodhound—from that time we, the kidnapped and probably doomed girls of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, all crouched about each other in the gloomy Pit, had penciled little notes to our parents or loved ones on what little paper we had on hand. I then rolled them all up and stuffed them in the bottle, with instructions to the finder on top. We pounded in the cork good and tight, covered the top in candle wax, and then I snuck out and dropped it overboard and into the drink with all our best wishes.
“You can well imagine the tearful reading of those poignant notes when the families were gathered about to hear them read. Yes, there were grateful tears all around. Except for Clarissa Howe’s—I hear her request asking her father that she be present at the hanging of Bartholomew Simon was granted. Tears were shed at that occasion, I’m sure, but you may be assured they were only those of that very regretful slaver, and not those of our Miss Howe. I am sure it gave the wretched man an added dose of pain to see her smiling down below, the tables being indeed well turned,” concludes Ezra.
“You, of course, were off at sea. Here is your note.”
He hands me the folded piece of paper. It is a bit water stained, but it is remarkably intact. I unfold and read:
Dear Jaimy,
Remember that girl you said you liked and wanted to marry but you thought was drowned in a boat accident? Well, she didn’t. I’m still alive and kicking at this time. If you get this without seeing me, though, you’ll know our plan of escape failed and I am either passed on or am in some sultan’s harem, dressed in veils and baggy pants and smoking a hookah.
Ha-ha. Just kidding. Really, Jaimy, if I don’t come back, I hope you have a happy life and will think of me sometimes, fondly. I am, your girl always,
Jacky
I carefully fold the note and put it in my bodice. “I shall read it to him when next we meet,” I say, brushing away a tear.
“I wish you both the joy of that happy occasion,” says Ezra, collecting his papers and putting them in order. “Now, what do you intend to do with the rest of this fine day?”
I stand and say, “I am going to see one Arthur McBride up in the Fourth Ward and find out what the rascal is up to. Then Amy Trevelyne and I are off to Dovecote for several days. Pity you cannot join us. I know Amy will not be pleased, even if she will not show it.”
“Alas,” he says, also rising, “but duty calls and I am due in court in the morning.”
“Then I bid you adieu, Ezra,” I say. “And thank you for all you do for me. We shall see you upon our return.”
“I look forward to that time, Miss,” say Ezra, a smile playing across his face. “But I must tell you one more thing . . .”