He takes that same hand and kisses the back of it. Then he rises. "Well, it appears that we're going to be doing this the proper way, after all. I am now off to inform my family and to publish the banns."
"Oh Jaimy, sit with me a while longer yet ... It has been so long."
"I would love to do that, Jacky, but I must go. There are many things for me to do. Any number of things to set in train. We will want this done right."
I don't care how right it is done, Jaimy. I just want you and me to be together for good and ever...
"I'll want my grandfather to marry us."
"Of course, dear. I shall inform him straightaway of your safe return. Your Home for Little Wanderers is on the way to my parents' house, and I will stop there to give all therein the joyous news."
"And if it could be at Saint Paul's ... maybe ... well, I'd like that a lot." Sure I would—the church that wouldn't let my dirty little urchin self in the front door back in the old days will now receive my grown self in all its glory. Money and position talks, evenin church ... Maybe especially in church.
"You rest up now," he says, placing my hand back on my chest. "It's plain that you've been through a lot."
There is a light knock at the door. "Ah, here's Higgins," says Jaimy, rising, then leaning down to place a kiss on my rather damp and probably very salty forehead, "with your breakfast. Till later, Jacky. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Jaimy, and be careful. I can tell you, this is a very rough neighborhood ... And please give your family my regards—your father, your brother..." and especially your mother.
It is not long after Higgins has propped up my sorry self on pillows and I have ravenously devoured everything on the tray that he had laid across my belly that the door again pops open, and I am overjoyed to see a very familiar mop of flaming red hair atop a hugely grinning freckled face come bursting into my cabin.
Mairead! Oh joy!
Chapter 4
The next week is a flurry of activity. There are old friends to visit—Oh Grandfather, how good it is to see you!—provisions to get on board the Nancy B., and much clothing to buy, such as a wedding trousseau, no less! And there's nothing like the prospect of a little shopping to get Jacky Faber up and off her duff, that's for sure.
I am invited by Jaimy's father to come to dinner, and I accept even though Jaimy doesn't want to put me through the ordeal. But I say, Hey, if she's to be my mum-in-law, then we're both gonna have to get used to it.
Sure enough, throughout the entire meal, his mother sits there stiff as a ramrod, barely eating a bite or speaking a word. Which is good, for what she wants to say is that I lack breeding and am not a fit match for her son. That I have driven a wedge between him and her, and that he has forsaken her house for mine—the Nancy B., such as she is.
The devilment, though, wells up in me as I include her silent self in my hopefully bright and charming conversation, pretending that she is graciously joining in.
"...and Mrs. Fletcher, if you could have but seen Jaimy's heroic rescue of my poor self as I was hanging there, choking in LeFievre's noose. Ah, yes, he was every inch the hero while he disregarded the bullets that were flying all about him as he swung his gleaming sword at that horrid rope..."
Cheers all around, but nothing cracks her reserve; and I know what she is thinking, for I can see it in her eyes: Another minute at the end ofthat rope would have served you very well and done us all a world of good, you insolent little guttersnipe...
Well, to hell with her, then. I think it will always be thus. However, I believe I have won over the hearts of Jaimy's father and brother George, as well as the rest of the company, as they listen raptly to my stories and join me in joyous song.
'Course the fact that Amy's fourth book is a sensation out on the London streets doesn't help much with Mother Fletcher, either...
Earlier on, sitting in my cabin after I had fully recovered from my bout with that fever, Higgins looked at my head, sighed, and set to work getting my hair into some sort of reasonable condition. What there is of my hair, anyway—it was cut to a length of scarce half an inch last August due to an unfortunate encounter with bad men, much tar, and many feathers; and here it is November and still it is only about five scruffy inches long. He takes his scissors and trims up the mop to even things out a bit. He casts his eye upon the result and pronounces himself satisfied.
"There. That makes it look like it was intentionally cut short, you see," says Higgins, fluffing my hair with his fingers. "The latest style on the Continent, as it were. Better than wearing one of your ghastly wigs."
"But Higgins, surely women wear wigs as well as men," I counter. "I could wear a wig to the wedding. The powdered white one."
Higgins shudders. "They were in fashion ten years ago. They are not in fashion now," he says, firmly. "The look now is au naturel, and you certainly do look natural."
"You mean like a natural savage, don't you, Higgins?" I pout, while still enjoying the feeling of his brush in my hair.
"Do not worry, Miss. The bridal veil will cover your shorn locks at the wedding, and till then, when you go out in public, you can wear your mantilla, so as not to cause a scandal," he advises, reaching behind me to pick up a book, which he lays in my lap. "Or more of a scandal than you already are."
I gasp and pick up the book, fearing that I already know exactly what it is, and sure enough, there on the lurid cover is the title, In the Belly of the Bloodhound, Being an Account of a Particularly Peculiar Adventure in the Life of Jacky Faber, by Miss Amy Trevelyne. I notice that she did not add the "as told to" bit, since she would have gotten most of the information for this book from the girls of the Lawson Peabody, and not from me, since I was nowhere around. Amy is nothing if not precise in naming her sources.
A lot of the revenues that support the Home, now that I am not out buccaneering, come from the books that she has written concerning my exploits. Amy Trevelyne, well-fixed herself, has directed that all profits from the books go to the Home, so I can't really complain. And after all, I really did do most of that stuff.
I see that the cover is decorated with a pretty good wood engraving, showing a girl who, I reckon, is supposed to be me, stripped to the waist and lashed to the mast, about to be flogged insensible—which I had been. But ... let's see what else...
I open the book and begin quickly thumbing through it, looking with dread for certain things that I fear might be in there. Surely she could not have put that part in it, that bit with me dropping my drawers in front of Mick and Keefe ... Oh, no, surely she did. For a self-described bluenosed New England Puritan, she sure ain't shy about layin' out all of Jacky Faber's crimes against proper behavior for all to see, and, Hey wait, I didn't go that far! And hold on, what about that kiss with Clarissa? Flip, flip, flip ... Of course, there it is. In detail. Geez, Amy, couldn't you have lied a bit and reported I had at least some of my clothes on? And, oh, Clarissa's dad is gonna love the hell out of this if he ever sees it. Heavy sigh. And Mother Fletcher, don't even think about it...
Higgins casts an amused eye on me.
"I'm sorry, Higgins. I do try to be good."
"I know you do, Miss, and sometimes you succeed."
There is to be a reception at the dining hall of the London Home for Little Wanderers, and afterwards Jaimy and I shall take ourselves off to a place where no one can find us—I have in mind a cozy seaside cottage at Bournemouth—and we will be gone for a long time. A very good long time. When we get back, we shall get started on things.
I had taken Higgins's advice and had a long talk with Jaimy. Two days after we got back to London, I had him pick me up and take me to the Admiral Benbow Inn for lunch. The Benbow isn't an elegant place, but I wanted us to meet there for it is not on Jaimy's turf, but rather on mine, 'cause we've got to get some things worked out.
We go in, take a table, and order. He looks about at the humble interior, then looks at me and raises his eyebrows in question.
"We gotta talk, Jaimy," I say, "about what's gonna happen to me after we get married."
"Well," he says, "I do have my eye on a nice set of rooms for you to stay in, over on Aldersgate, and I am sure you'll be quite comfortable."
I say nothing to that for a moment. Then I say, "Listen to me. All I want, Jaimy—all I ever want—is to stand by your side, wherever and whenever the world allows us to do so..."
He reaches over to put his hand on mine, and I put my other hand on his and continue.
"...but I just can't sit around and knit when you're far off at sea. You are still in the Royal Navy, you might remember, and no telling when you might be sent off for months, maybe years ... No,Jaimy,hear me out, please."
He nods and waits, and I go on.
"Here's what I propose. I will continue to run the Nancy B. back across the ocean, except this time not carrying cargo but men—Irish men."
"Why? Whatever for?"
"To work in Boston. They're filling in the Back Bay and they're desperate for workers. The Irish are going through another famine, so they are desperate for work. It's to everyone's advantage. The Nancy B. could be fitted out to carry a hundred men."
"But if there's a famine, how could these men pay their fares?"
"They wouldn't have to. Faber Shipping would take their indenture, and they could pay us back after they find work."
"How do you know they would pay what they owed?"
"Ha. Woe be to any man who failed to pay his debt. I've got John Thomas and Smasher McGee, remember. They would be quite formidable enforcers."
"You seem to have it all worked out," he says, doubtfully.
"Yes, I have. I've talked to Ian McConnaughey, and he says he could handle the Irish end of things while my Mr. Ezra Pickering would do what was necessary in Boston—making sure there was work for the men the instant they stepped off my ship."
"But the danger, Jacky. Your ship is so small."
"She is a very sound craft, Jaimy, as you well know. And if we make a year's worth of successful trips, we would be in a position to buy a bigger ship—maybe a bark or a brigantine—and then we could haul four hundred men at once and make some serious money. And as for danger, a person can die as easily from a fever caught in the streets of London as from a storm at sea. What do you say, Jaimy?"
"But ... I don't want a wife of mine ... working."
I look at him severely. "That's your class talking, Jaimy, not you. I used to stand right outside this place, with my hand out, begging, Jaimy. I ain't too proud to be in trade. I ain't too proud to work."
"I know that, Jacky, and I never want you to—"
"You don't want me to wither and die, do you, Jaimy? 'Cause that's what'll happen to me if I'm put down in some stuffy rooms to be a good, dutiful wife. You know that ain't me, Jaimy. I'm a member of the seagoing brotherhood, too, Jaimy. Don't you remember?"
"I remember, but—"
"Know this, Jaimy," I say, withdrawing my hands from his, "I'll not give up Faber Shipping."
Our eyes lock, and we gaze at each other for a long while.