Curse of the Blue Tattoo: Being an Account of the Misadventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman and Fine Lady (36 page)

The show-off in me wants to turn around and see what he thinks of my work, but I don't have to, as I hear him draw in his breath sharply.

"No, no ... not too pretty at all. Not by half, dear Annie. Trust me, this will warm many a lonely night."

"Good-bye, Davy. God be with you. Be safe."

"Good-bye, Annie. I will write to you. I will be back."

I turn around and he has his hands on her shoulders and she has her arms around his waist.

Davy plants a final one on her forehead and they part and he lopes back to his ship. I did not think it would happen, but my chest tightens upon seeing Davy bound up the gangway, him lookin' again all gangly and boyish 'mid all that cruel machinery of war. He leaps up into the top to his
station on the main royal yard, he raises his fist and shouts down, "Good-bye again, dear Annie, and good-bye to you, too, Jack! Bless the Navy and up with the Brotherhood forever!" I raise my fist in return.

The Sisterhood, too,
I thinks, as I gathers up Annie and we ride at a much slower pace back to the school. We take a different route so we don't have to say, "Sorry" to anyone we might have run over on the way down.

We get back. We are not caught. I cover for Annie as she goes back up on the widow's walk to watch the ships leave the harbor and put to sea.

Davy's gone and the fleet's gone and my letter's off and I guess things will settle back to normal, or as normal as things get around me. Sylvie and Henry are forever sneakin' off and moonin' and spoonin', and Annie heaves great sighs heavenward to the gods and goddesses of love.

I'm keeping busy doing miniatures of all the girls to make up for all the times I've said "
Cover for me!
" on my way out to some mischief. And I'll do a Henry for Sylvie and a Davy for Annie.
And
an Amy for Ezra. But I won't tell her who it's for, 'cause, as she always says, "I'm not ready for that sort of thing yet."

I take all my miniature paintings to Mr. Peet for his comments and he shows me where I've done right and where I've gone wrong and he gives me hints on how to do better. I keep up with my arithmetic and pass my homework sheet in to Mr. Sackett, who corrects it and hands it back, and I study French with Monsieur Bissell when he and I can find a moment.

It is such a moment when, having finished the morning chores, I find time to talk to Monsieur Bissell about some
problems I've been having with the French language and we are both leaning over a desk and he's explainin' to me why the verb "to be" goes through so many twisted versions. "It's just like English, Jacky. In English we say, 'I am, you are, we have been, we are, he is, they are, we will have been, they...'"

There is a rustle of black silk and a coldness in the air, and I turn my head fearfully about. It is Mistress standing there.

"Is this part of your duties?" she demands, knowing very well the answer.

I stand and say, "No, Mistress."

"She is a good and willing student, Mistress," says Monsieur Bissell, gallantly.

"Thank you, Monsieur Bissell," says Mistress. "Faber, go to my office."

Oh Lord, I'm gonna get it now.

I follow her to her office and advance to the white line and put my toes on it and then flop down on the desk and pull up my skirts, feeling very sorry for myself. A tear works its way out of my eye and it goes across the bridge of my nose and falls to the blotter on Mistress's desktop. I breaks the rule about talkin' to her without bein' told to but I don't care, I'm just gonna get beat anyway. "I don't know why you want to hurt me so, Mistress, I really don't. I'm middlin' good. I do my work, I do, you won't find me shirkin' any of it." I sniffs. "I was just trying to learn."

I wait for the sting, but it does not come.

"Oh, do be quiet and stand up, girl," says Mistress. She sits down as I straighten up in confused relief.
What?

She looks at me standin' there quiverin' for a while, and
finally she says, "You thought, did you not, that I did not know what you were up to?"

What did she find out? The Pig? The singing, the dancing? Oh no...

"I d-don't know what you mean, Mistress," I quavers.

"You see, I know everything about my school. Everything," says Mistress. She has a pen in her hand and is tapping it on the edge of her desk. "For instance, I know that you have continued your studies, when, as a serving girl, you were not expected to do so."
Tap ... tap ... tap.

"Yes, Mistress," I admits, hanging my head and looking contrite.

"And, furthermore, I know that you have been tutoring young Rebecca Adams."
Tap ... tap.
"Yes, Mistress."

She lets me stand there some more, wonderin' what she's gonna do with me.
Tap ... tap.

"Actually, I find all that quite commendable," she says at last, and relief floods through me. "You will continue to help Miss Adams. Set aside an hour each day, as she needs it. She is too young to be here, I knew from the start, but it is hard to say no to Mr. Adams. I would send her back home, but her family is overseas on diplomatic duty. Do you think she can catch up on her studies?"

"Oh yes, Mistress," I say. "She is a bright girl. She is coming along nicely. She just needs some help and some kind words."

"Which you shall provide. I cannot have the other teachers give her individual instruction as it is not a profitable use of their time." Still she taps.
Tap ... tap ... tap.

"Yes, Mistress, I will be pleased to do it."

Mistress continues to regard me. "So you see, do you not, that I know
everything
concerning my school?"

I think she is saying this with some satisfaction, almost smiling, in fact. And still
...tap ... tap.

I think, as I stand there waiting to be dismissed, on what she does
not
know about her school, or about me. I think back on what Ezra told me that last time in his office, about the Preacher closing in on me, and I decide to press my luck.

"Then you know, Mistress, that Preacher Mather has petitioned the Court to gain custody of me and my assets."

The tapping stops.

Although I am staring over the top of her head, eyes cased, as is my usual posture when standin' on the Line, I can see well enough that she did
not
know that. I go on.

"Please don't let him take me, Mistress. I don't want to go over there. I want to stay here. Please, Mistress."

Saying that, I feel my eyes get all hot and I think I'm going to cry 'cause I really meant what I said.

"Look at me, girl," says Mistress, and I drop my eyes to hers and I see the fury in them. I sense that she is outraged to the very marrow of her bones. "Tell me. Have you learned humility?"

"Yes, Mistress," I manage to say.

"And have you learned that your conduct reflects not only on your own reputation but on that of the school and all in it as well?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Do you now have a clear notion of what it means to be one of my girls?"

"Yes, Mistress, I do."

She continues her steady gaze into my eyes. I want to look away, but I can't. At last she speaks.

"Very well then, Miss Faber, you may come back upstairs and resume your studies."

It hits me like a club and I am staggered.

"And, Miss Faber, please do your best to make the transition smooth. Without your usual histrionics."

"Yuh—yes, Mistress," I manages to stammer.

"Very good. You are dismissed."

Mistress turns in her chair and faces away from me, and I turn on my heel and go out into the hall, my mind all awhirl. I place my back against the wall and try to collect myself.

My thoughts are spinning wildly about my head, but one thing stands out:
She is trying to help me.
I don't know if she intended to reinstate me before I told her about the Preacher or not. I don't know if she's thinkin' about my money. I don't know if she just hates the idea of
anyone
messin' with her school. I don't know nothin'. I just know she is trying to help me and she has bought me some time, and I thank her for it.

I take three deep breaths and then I stand up straight. I put on the Look. I turn and go to my room. I take my school dress from my sea chest and carefully unfold it and lay it upon my bed. I take off my serving gear and put it neatly away. I put on my school dress once again.

I go back down the stairs, and hearing the chimes, I go in to dinner.

The day of my reinstatement as a possible lady, I walked into the dining hall, the Look in place, and I headed for my old spot next to Amy, who looked up in complete surprise and then delight. The ladies and the serving girls looked and wondered at seeing me once again in my apprentice-lady rig, and as I got to my chair, Dolley Frazier rose from hers and started clapping and then Martha Hawthorne did the same and then little Rebecca and then others till the place resounded with their applause. Clarissa, of course, sat in stunned silence, a sour expression on her face. Annie and Betsey and Sylvie were serving and beamed their pleasure at my joy with their broad smiles.

Mistress came in and marched to her place and called on me for the grace and I gave it, thanking the good Lord for the food and for all those, both upstairs and down, who have bestowed on my poor self the precious gift of their caring love and friendship.

That evening, the Preacher was not at the supper table, nor would he ever again reappear there this winter. Two girls are called each night to dine with Mistress, instead of just the one.

***

The next morning, I got up early, washed, dressed, and went down to the kitchen, where I knew the staff would be having their breakfast. They looked up in surprise as I took a tray of eggs and went around serving them to show that Sisterhood is more powerful than any notions of class or standing, and Rachel says, "Now that you're a teacher as well as a fine lady, shouldn't you be sittin' at the head table, then, Miss Faber?" and I say, "You'll call me Jacky when I'm down here or I'll tip this platter of eggs over your head, and won't you make a fine bride for your Mr. Barkley, then, Miss Rachel?" and the other girls hoot and laugh and all is easy between us.

And so we passed the winter, the Dread Sisterhood of the Lawson Peabody and I. We attended to our studies or did our duties, depending on whether we were lady or girl. We read. We painted. We stitched. We had oceans and oceans of time, and we filled our hours with music and song and talk, endless talk. And I waited for a letter that did not come.

The snows came at last, and I do not have to fear them as I did when I was on the streets of London. We are quite cozy here, with all four fireplaces blazing away, and it is pleasant to study and stitch in front of the glowing fires and maybe roast a potato on the edge of the coals for a hot treat.

Course, with the snow on the ground I can't haunt the Preacher no more, not the way I was, 'cause the snow would show my footprints on Janey Porter's grave and then the game would be up, as ghosts don't leave tracks. No, I must content myself with putting on my black burglar's outfit
and, on those dark nights when the moon is down and the snow has slid off the church roof, crawling over and scratching at the tiles over his head and giving out a piteous moan or two. The Preacher still has the night watchman making rounds now and then, but he can't see me up on the roof.

I see the Preacher every Sunday, of course, and he seems to be coming apart, piece by piece—he is a shadow of his former self, with sunken cheeks and black circles under his eyes. His hands shake as he turns the pages of the Bible up on the pulpit. I would pity him if I could, but I know what he's done, and I can't.

There's now some empty pews on Sunday and people are beginning to talk. Amy tells me that Puritans are now called Congregationalists 'cause they ain't got a central authority, like us Church of England types got the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Catholics got the Pope. Each Congregational church is unto itself alone, and there ain't no higher authority to complain to if you got a problem with your preacher, which is why, I guess, that the Preacher has lasted here. He's a Mather, says Amy, and he's got powerful supporters in the congregation. We'll see.

I went with Amy to spend Christmas at Dovecote, with her and her family. I met her mum and dad, bows and curtsies all around, and I think I acquitted myself well in that regard—can hardly tell me from a real lady now. Amy's mother is sweet and says how nice that Amy finally has a little friend, which causes great mortification in Amy. Mrs. Trevelyne is the exact opposite of Amy—happy, gay, and fluffy—and she is fun to be with. Amy's father, Colonel
Trevelyne, is a strapping, thick, tree trunk of a man, given to wearing sporting clothes and smoking big cigars.

A tree, a very sweet-smelling spruce, was brought in as is the new custom, borrowed from the Germans, and we had great fun decorating it with popcorn strings and small candles and bits of crystal. Mrs. Trevelyne had brought back from New York boxes of colored glass balls, and these were hung on the tree, where they gathered and reflected the light from the candles most wondrously. Even the high-and-mighty Randall joined in the spirit of the thing and helped decorate the tree.

On Christmas Eve we had songs and carols and happy conversation, and the household staff and the field people were all brought in and I got up and sang "The Cherry Tree Carol," which everyone said was top-notch, and all received from the Colonel their gifts of money and geese and turkeys to share with their own families on Christmas Day. The Colonel, for all his faults about money and gambling, is not an ungenerous man.

Afterward, when only family and me was left, we exchanged gifts. I gave the elder Trevelynes a miniature portrait of their daughter, the only thing I have to give, really, and they proclaimed themselves delighted. I gave Amy the portrait of Ezra, him sittin' there in profile lookin' all right and proper with his little smile on his lips, and she blushes and all tease her, but I think she likes it even though again she said she's not yet ready for that sort of thing.