"You must excuse us, Suh, but my time here is not long, and 'gather ye rosebuds while ye may,' and all that! Off to your chambers then, Milady! Adieu!" Puttin' my arm around Amy's waist, we run, laughing, to the house, over the porch, and inside the door. "Do you have a room?" I ask, startin' to unbutton my jacket.
"Yes! Up here!" Amy is grinning widely and is fully in the spirit of the thing.
We storm up the stairs and into her room. I throw my seabag on the bed and rip it open. I pull out my serving-girl gear and tear off my jacket and shirt and put on the blouse and step into the skirt and on with the weskit and lace myself up tight. I'll get out of the white britches and stockings later.
Done!
I go to the window and look out and see Randall standin' there not knowin' what to do. I open the window a crack and put my mouth to it.
"Oh, Amy," I cries out and lets it go at that.
It is enough. I look out the window and see that he has reached a decision and has drawn his sword and is headin' this way.
"Quick!" I squeaks to Amy. "Stand over here. How's my hair?"
I hears him thunderin' up the stairs and then he's beatin' against the door and then the door bursts open and there stands Randall Trevelyne, sword in hand and blood in his eye. And looking quite handsome, I might add. I've always liked a man in uniform.
"May I present my friend Jacky Faber, from my school," says Amy, all cool and aloof. "Jacky, this is my brother Randall."
I bounce up and down on my toes, about to burst with excitement for the trick played upon this Randall, but I drop my eyes and bob my best curtsy "My lord," I say.
He looks me over quite frankly. He does not bow. "So you would play tricks on me with your serving wench, would you now, Sister?"
"She is not my servant. She is my friend, although she constantly gives me reason to think otherwise."
Randall Trevelyne puts the point of his sword on the lip of its scabbard and rams it home. It is plain that he does not like being made sport of.
"What brings you home, Brother?" asks Amy, all puffed up like a pigeon. "I would have expected you would be at your studies ... or at Mrs. Bodeen's for the weekend."
That gives him a start. It occurs to me that being with me has given Sister Amy another arrow in her quiver in her war with her brother, for war it quite plainly is.
"The Sheik is being brought down early tomorrow," he replies coldly. "Father thought it best I see him settled in myself."
"Ah," says Amy. "The last nail in the family coffin."
Randall whirls on me and says, "Get out."
I bob and duck out of the room.
When I am outside the door I hear them going at it for real. I can't hear it all, but I hear snatches.
"Damned impertinence! Our family's business is not to be spoken of in front of the help!"
"Help? I'll thank you not to order my friends about, Randall!"
"Your 'friend'? A cheap trollop going about dressed as a man is your friend? Then you have fallen in bad company, Sister! You bring something like that here to mock me, to mock our family, to..."
"Our family! Oh, our sacred family! Oh, the holy name Trevelyne, which is going straight to ruin in a..."
I figure I have heard enough, enough to realize that all is not well here at Dovecote. I feel uncomfortable and I head out to find the stables and make sure that Gretchen and Hildy are taken care of proper, walked and brushed down, like.
Then I go to find the kitchen and that is where Amy finds me, helping Mrs. Grubbs, the cook, with the evening meal, and that is where we take our dinner.
Chapter 20
I'm awakened in the morning by the sun streamin' in the window and roosters crowin', and I roll over and stretch and give Amy a poke. I look all around and say, "A room of your own, Amy. Such a thing." She grunts and does not stir.
I don't think I've ever been in a prettier place, all bright and cheerful with new white and blue paint, filmy white curtains on the window, and thick rugs on the floor. There are framed paintings on the wall, mostly of fields and mountains and trees, but there's one of a fluffy white cat and there's one of three oranges in a plate. And, besides the bed, there's a chest of drawers with a mirror over it, a small desk and chair, and a dry sink with a basin and pitcher on top of it. The pitcher has little red roses painted on it, and so does the chamber pot on the floor.
I get up and pull off my nightdress and toss it over a chair and give the pot a visit. There is soap and washcloths and towels laid out on the sink and so I pour some water from the pitcher into the basin and lather up and wash my face to get the sleep out of my eyes. Then I give my armpits and some other parts a bit of a scrub down as well. Behind me, I hear Amy stir and then let out a loud tsk! and sigh.
"I swear, Jacky, you have all the personal modesty of a monkey," she says, her voice still thick with sleep.
"A clean mind in a clean body," I chirps all cheerful and bright, and proceeds to towel off. When I am done I dives into my seabag and pulls out my sailor togs from back on the Dolphin and I puts 'em on. It's the uniform I made to wear when we had Inspection and other fine days like port visits. My white duck pants with a drawstring waist and my white duck shirt with a flap on the back with blue piping. My black midshipman's neckerchief goes under the flap and ties in front. I digs deeper in my bag and comes up with my dear old Dolphin cap and slaps it on.
"Ta-da!" I sings and poses, hands on hips. "What do you think? Can I wear it today, here on your little farm?"
Amy opens her eyes and she looks at me and her eyes roll back in her head. "Might as well," she sighs. "You are not going to listen to me, anyway, and I am sure everyone here already knows you for a hopeless eccentric."
I give a delighted squeak, so glad to be back in my old gear, and go over to the mirror and admire myself in it. Not bad for a girl what was a dirty and near-naked urchin not two years ago, but seein' the uniform reminds me of Jaimy and the lads and that takes a bit of the shine off my pride. I miss them all so and I hope they are all right.
I take off my hat and let out my braid and sit on the edge of the bed and commence to combing my hair, facing away so Amy can get up and go do her necessaries. My hair is quite long now—not so long as Amy's, as she could sit on hers if she wanted—and I decides to wear it looser today, maybe just gathered in back by a ribbon. A blue one. To match Lord Randall's jacket, I thinks, with a touch of evil in my thought.
"What service is Randall in?" I asks, all innocent.
"He is a lieutenant in the local militia," says Amy from the sink. "That sounds grander than it actually is—mainly, they just drill and parade around shouting things."
"Still," says I, "how dashing he looked with his sword drawn, ready to storm in and pin me to the wall to save his sister's honor!"
"He was not there to save my honor," snorts Amy. "He was ready to save the family honor, so that it would not reflect badly on him. He cares nothing for me and I care nothing for him."
"Surely that can't be true. That's just brother and sister talk."
"Would you love someone who was a constant torment to you as a child? Would you love someone who gets to go to Harvard College while you are thrown into the pit misnamed the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls? And someone who is squandering that education in favor of drink and sloth and lechery? And finally, would you love someone who planned to marry the darling Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe? Now, would you?"
Now that hits me like a stone on the side of my head.
I mulls this over a bit. So that's why Clarissa didn't destroy Amy that time when I was on my knees before her amid the bags of underwear and Amy stopped her from hitting me. Why rock the matrimonial boat over some harmless fun shaming a mere serving girl?
"So he's really gonna marry the Queen, hey?" I probes.
"Oh yes. It will be the social event of the season. Clarissa's family is quite rich, you know. My father is very pleased with the match. My mother, too. It will put her up a notch on the social scene."
"Where are your mum and dad? I sort of expected them to be here. That's why I was on my best behavior."
Amy snorts and then gradually collapses into helpless laughter, and it occurs to me that this is the first time I have heard her really laugh hard, and it is a most pleasant sound, even if it is at my expense. "On. Your. Best. Behavior," she manages to say and then returns to outright laughter. I didn't think it was all that funny.
Eventually, she calms down enough to say, "They are in New York, for the winter social season. They will be back for Christmas and then will go back to New York and not return until spring. That is why I am in the school: They do not want me here alone; and they do not want me with them in Society."
Amy comes into my view wearing a riding outfit, all wine colored with touches of dark green and very finely tailored.
"Well, look at you, now. Ain't we the grand one, Milady," says I, popping up and going to her and smoothin' back her lapels and the fabric over her shoulders. "Looks like hangin' with the Jack has been good for you. Runnin' from the police and such." I pull out the sides of her jacket. "You'll have to have this taken in a bit."
Amy looks pleased. She blushes and says, "Let us get some breakfast."
Out we go to the kitchen, where Mrs. Grubbs whips us up some fine bacon and eggs and tea and toast, and it's all so rich and fine with the fat sausages and hams hangin' down from the ceiling and the big wheels of cheese all stacked up. There's jars of things put up for the winter and pickle urns and foamy pitchers of milk and loaves of lovely fresh bread, but in my contrary way I thinks about Polly and judy and Nancy and the rest back on the streets of London and how it ain't fair, it just ain't fair that some have so much and some so little.
And it's strange, I thinks, how quickly I get used to all this, like I takes it for granted that I have always lived this way and will always live this way. Even when I know it ain't gonna be true.
We go outside in the warm autumn air and look upon chickens and cows and a new litter of piglets, which I feed a bit of grain, and their squishy little noses pressin' at the palm of my hand makes me wish bacon didn't taste so good. In the henhouse, we take baskets and gather eggs still warm from the chickens. The eggs lie in the cozy little nests and it is like a fine game to collect them.
I meet the people of the farm—the plowboys, the milkmaids, field hands, herders, and all. Dovecote is like a little village, sufficient unto itself—there's a miller and a weaver and even a blacksmith, with little cottages all around for the people to live in. They all seem to really like Amy, and they greet her most warmly. Maybe she warn't always so solemn and gloomy.
There's children, too. Lots of them, and they stare all openmouthed at me, strangers bein' rare here, especially ones decked out in sailor togs, but that's all right, I just whip out my whistle and give 'em a tune and dance a few steps and that delights 'em and makes 'em laugh and dance about. We have a little parade for a bit.
There's some raised eyebrows about my dress, but they get over it.
We're walkin' over to the stables to saddle up Gretchie and Hildy for a ride around the place when a black-and-white thing appears from nowhere and capers all about me. I goes rigid and stands there scared.