I lie in my bath, ah, yes, my good hot bath, which feels . . . ahhhh . . . oh, so fine. They had delivered on this lovely bath, which I knew would not be easy for them—finding the tub, then hauling the pails of hot water—but they did it and I am glad. It is the first real bath I’ve had since Dovecote, and I am enjoying it to the fullest. That and still being alive to enjoy it.
I sink down farther into the tub and think back to Dovecote, the estate of Family Trevelyne. I had taken to staying there with my dear friend Amy Trevelyne between voyages on the Nancy B, so as to avoid being nabbed by British agents in Boston—a lot of good it did me in the end, though, as here I am, very well and completely nabbed. The end of summer was lovely at Dovecote, but, sadly, I was denied the company of Randall Trevelyne, which I would have much enjoyed. He had a ferocious argument with his father and stormed out of the house and has not been seen or heard from since. Amy is very worried about him, and I, too, hope he is all right, as he is a rash and a roving blade, and not at all temperate in his ways.
Oh, Randall, I . . . I hear the door open and I cross my arms on my chest as a woman comes into the room. She did not bother to knock, but I suppose I must get used to the fact that I am the Admiralty’s property now, body and soul, to use as they see fit.
“Stand up, girl,” she orders. She’s a small, very tightly wound woman of some age, dressed all in black, which seems to be the color of choice around here. She has an accent of some kind, which I can’t quite place, along with an authoritative air of someone who is not used to having her orders disobeyed. Oh, well, I was about done with the bath, anyway.
I stand up.
She regards me with an appraising eye as I step out dripping and reach for a towel to dry myself. What is this, then?
The clothes I was wearing when I had been brought here were sent out for cleaning, and I pity the poor washerwoman who’s got that job. In the meantime, a nightshirt has been scrounged up for me to wear until tomorrow when I shall go shopping for new, very fashionable clothes. And believe me, I do not intend to spare the expense. If I’m to be a courtesan, then I intend to be a fine one. The fact that King George’s treasury is paying for it makes it ever so much better.
Somewhat dry, I reach for the nightshirt, but she says, “No. Do not put that on. Walk over there. I must examine the muscles, the tone.” Mystified, I do it. I mean, everybody knows that I’ve never been particularly shy in that regard, especially when it’s only in front of an old woman, so what the hell.
“Put the arms over the head. Now out to the side. Turn around. Make an effort to be graceful. Um . . . They tell me you are accomplished in country dances?”
“I have been told that,” I say through my teeth, growing a bit resentful. If she asks me to demonstrate, I shan’t do it. I mean, in my present state of undress, my dignity and all.
“Um. That might help. Stand on your tiptoes. Now extend the right leg back. Um. Now the left. All right, girl, you may put on your clothing.” And with that she goes over to rap on the door. I pull on my nightshirt just in time, as the door opens and Mr. Peel comes into the room.
“Well?”
“I vill do it,” says this woman. “She is fit and trim. Give me two weeks and she vill be suitable for the back rank of the corps de ballet, nothing more, but she vill not be a disgrace. Four hundred pounds sterling. Have her in my studio Monday morning at eight. With the money. Goot evening.”
And with that she sweeps out.
Mr. Peel nods with obvious satisfaction. “Madame Petrova has agreed to take you on as a student. That is good.”
“May I pronounce myself less than overjoyed?” I ask.
Two workmen come in to lift up the tub and take it to the window and pour it out. I hear curses from some unfortunate passersby below. Then the men carry out the tub and leave me alone with Mr. Peel. I perch on the edge of what will prove to be my bed for the next several weeks.
“You may pronounce yourself anything you want. However, you will go there and you will do your best.”
“I have always tried to do my best, Sir, in any kind of performance. You will find that to be true.”
“That is all very well. Now here is my cloak. Wrap yourself in it, as we are going to meet with the First Lord again.”
I wrap the thing about my shoulders and pad out of the room and into the hall in my bare feet. The team of Carr and Boyd are there, of course, and soon I discover that they will always be there. Almost always.
Down the hall we go, then it’s into the office.
The First Lord of the Admiralty is back at his desk, looking over some papers.
“Ah, Miss Faber. I assume you have refreshed yourself?”
“Yes, my Lord. I am now quite fresh.” I seat my newly refreshed bottom in his chair before him without being asked. It has been a long day, and I do not give a tinker’s damn about the propriety.
“Well. We must go over some of the conditions of your . . . employment. I take it we will see no more exhibitions of violent behavior from you?”
“No, Sir, I have given my word in this matter, and I always keep my word,” I say, “as opposed to others I have met in this room.” I glance over at Mr. Peel.
He comes over and asks, “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“It was in this very room that I was given a Letter of Marque, I thought, in good faith. It proved not so. Why should I believe anything you say now?”
“That was a different set of circumstances. And you must admit you contravened the terms of that agreement by your taking of the Emerald without any permission whatsoever.”
“Well, that is all water under the bridge, and since you are holding all the cards, I will sit back and listen.” I fold my hands on my lap and look attentive as any schoolgirl.
“Harummph . . . You are to take lessons in the French form of dancing from Madame Petrova. You will receive further instructions from Mr. Peel on how you are to conduct yourself when you get to Paris. He is expert in such matters. Messrs. Carr and Boyd will accompany you wherever you go in the city. You have a strict six o’clock curfew. If you are in public, you will wear a veil—it is a common thing with some of the finer ladies here and will not cause undue comment.”
I nod in understanding of the unspoken reasons for the veil.
“When you get on French soil, there will be a gentleman there who will be your contact. He will make himself known to you and will direct you in your actions and you shall communicate to him the information you have gathered.”
“And that information will be . . . ?”
“We must know what Boney is up to. When he begins to form up and to move his army. We must know where they are going and what they intend to do. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Sir, I do.”
“Do you further understand what you must do, what we all must do, is anything to keep Napoléon Bonaparte from ever setting his foot on this island we call England? Anything.”
Heavy sigh. “Ah, yes. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. Yes, I get it.”
That little speech raises a lordly eyebrow. He gives a small cough and continues. “Good. Now as to the conditions. You will be conducted to Madame Petrova’s studio each day except Sunday, when you may attend—”
“May I meet with my grandfather, the Reverend Alsop, and others at my Home for Little Wanderers and take part in services there?” I already know the answer.
Lord Grenville looks to Mr. Peel and, even though I can’t see him behind me, I know he shakes his head.
“No, I’m afraid not,” says the First Lord. “Secrecy and all, you know.”
“Then it would be my greatest hope to worship at Saint Paul’s Cathedral. That was the church of my youth and it would give me great comfort to go there again, considering the danger into which I am very shortly going to be put.”
“Well, I’m sure that can be arranged under proper supervision,” says Lord Grenville. I’m certain he again looks to Mr. Peel for confirmation. Whether he gets it or not, I cannot see, for he is behind me.
Ha! Church of my youth, right! Saint Paul’s, which wouldn’t let the likes of my filthy street-urchin self in the front door on any kind of bet. No, the only way I ever got into that place was in the winter with Rooster Charlie and our gang burrowing in through the catacombs to gain a bit of warmth—and maybe a shot at what might be in the poor box, which wasn’t much, the cheap buggers . . .
“Well, maybe, under proper supervision,” says Mr. Peel, coming around to face me. “But be warned . . .”
“I know the deal. I know what happens. If I escape, you will hurt the ones I love, so therefore I will not escape. Besides, as I have said, I have given my word and I know the terms of the agreement.”
“All right then. Tomorrow you will be taken out and new clothing will be bought for you.”
“And tomorrow, if it please you, Sirs, I would like to inform Mr. James Fletcher’s family of his impending repatriation and arrival, as it would give them a measure of joy. You did say you would let me see him before I go off to France.”
The First Lord again looks to Mr. Peel, and the younger man puts his hand to his chin to ponder this for a while. Then he answers, “Very well. But you must go veiled and not tell them who you are. When Mr. Fletcher arrives, if he is still alive, then as a Royal Navy Officer, he can be sworn to secrecy and can be expected to swear his family to the same, but not till then will you reveal yourself to the family. Understood?”
“I understand and I thank you,” I say with a slight bow of my head. Then I look to Sir Grenville and put on the big eyes. “My Lord, the six o’clock curfew will confine me to many long hours in my room alone, and if I might have some books and some pens and paper, it would give me great comfort.” Just a little flutter of the eyelashes, not too much.
He is interested, as I knew he would be, from what Mr. Peel had said of him earlier, about his being more involved with his library than in torturing prisoners.
“Why, yes,” he says. “What would you like?”
“Well, I have not yet been able to obtain a copy of Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler, and I do desire to read that, for both its practical advice on the science of fishing, as well as for its philosophical asides. Boswell’s Life of Johnson has also eluded me since I’ve been away from my country for so long. And Mr. Pope’s poetry . . .” Here I manage a blush. “I hear it is quite scandalous. I don’t know if I dare, Sir . . .”
“Why, my dear, I have all those titles! Have you read Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels?”
I reply that I have not, even though I have. “I hope to name you my literary guide, my Lord, during these last weeks that I will spend here in my native land.”
“Well! I do have some books near at hand, and I will get them for you.” With that Sir Thomas Grenville, First Lord of the Admiralty, and Leader of the British Royal Navy, a man who has the ear of King George, Himself, rushes from the room to get Jacky Faber some books.
When the door closes behind him, Mr. Peel looks at me, again with a very appraising eye. “You are a piece of work, aren’t you?”
“Well,” I shrug, all innocent, “we all ride our little hobbyhorses, don’t we, Mr. Peel?”
When at last in bed, curled up, knees to chest, in my usual ball of anxiety, fear, and doubt, I reflect that at least this bed is more comfortable than that coffin in which I spent last night, and for that I am glad. I am also glad to still be alive. I do miss having Joseph Jared at my side to calm me when I start screaming at the phantoms that come to visit me in the night, though. Oh, I know they will come tonight, too, but only the guard outside my door will hear as I thrash about and shriek out my terrors.
Before I fall asleep and surrender to the night dreads, I think of my mates still back in that prison, and I fear for them. I cannot imagine what they must have felt when that executioner, next to the guillotine, held up a head for them to behold . . . a head they had to believe was mine.
Davy . . . Joseph . . . I hope you didn’t do anything rash, I hope . . . Oh, God, I am so very hard on my friends . . .