“Land ho! Dead ahead!” comes the call from the lookout high up in the mainmast. There is a great cheer from those on deck at the sighting of their homeland—soon all will see wives, families, sweethearts, or at least enjoy some gentle company in familiar and cozy inns.
I had been standing on the quarterdeck, talking to Captain Browning about the weather and the trim of the sails and whatnot, when I heard the call. I added my yelp to the general cheer and dashed up the ratlines to my foretop to gaze out over the bow of the Lorelei Lee. It is indeed the Isle of Wight and we are back on home ground. I take a deep breath and note how I can feel my heart thumping in my chest. It won’t be long now, girl . . .
I sink down and sit with my back to the foremast, and with my eyes on my native land, I pull out my pennywhistle and play upon it—“Rule, Britannia” seems appropriate—and let my mind think on James Emerson Fletcher, whom I might well see very soon.
In my last letter to the lad, I didn’t tell Jaimy about Randall. Jaimy always looks calm and composed, but I know he has something of a temper and more than just a little streak of jealousy as concerns me and my somewhat numerous male . . . er, acquaintances. But he need not worry any longer about Randall Trevelyne, at least not now. Ever since their first meeting, he and Polly Von have been keeping constant company in Boston, enjoying the charms of the city—and each other’s as well. I had put on a show at the Pig and they were there. I played a slow tune on my fiddle, and they danced together there in front of me. It was lovely to see—Randall in his fine uniform and Polly in her Desdemona dress from the Othello production that Fennel and Bean were about to mount, their having made enough money out in the sticks, putting on the revival shows, to do such a thing.
Watching the two of them dance that night, did I feel a slight pang of my own jealousy?
Yes, I did.
Did I have any right to feel that pang?
No, I did not.
But I did, all the same.
Little Mary Faber, that feral child of the streets, who remains a part of me, pops up and asks, Why can’t we have all the pretty boys, Jacky? Why not? But I push her back down and tell her to be quiet. No, I am promised to just one.
I had the darling couple over for dinner on the Lorelei Lee several evenings after we all got back from Dovecote. Amy was not there, being back at school, so it was just the three of us. They were both gracious and exclaimed over the intricacies of the ship and the richness of my cabin and the bounty of my table—a long way from gnawing on cheese rinds pulled from the garbage, eh, Polly? ’Tis a pity that Second Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne must sail soon, but that is the way of things, ain’t it? Same as it ever was, you find what might be the love of your life on one day, then you have to ship out the next—anchors aweigh, me boys, and all that. Boys go; girls stay and are left crying.
But Polly will be looked after in Boston. I have seen to it.
As the land gets ever closer, I swing back down and remount my quarterdeck.
“We should be at Sheerness by tomorrow, Miss Faber, and London the next day,” says Captain Browning, smiling at the thought. It has been a very pleasant crossing, but all anticipate the joys of the land. The captain turned out to be a thoroughgoing seaman, and good company as well. He made some excellent suggestions for changes in the Lorelei’s sail set, which increased her speed and stability significantly, and which pleased me greatly. We had discussed changing the rigging of the sails on the mainmast from fore-and-aft to square sails, but I felt it best to leave her a brigantine. If we were to change her to a brig, she would be less maneuverable than in her current condition, and there have been times in my life that I have felt a pressing need to get away very quickly.
Higgins comes up from below and joins us in gazing upon Merrie Olde England. Back in Boston, I had told him that he did not have to accompany me on this trip—his being a rich man now, and all, and my being in safe and capable hands—but he replied that there was his dear old dad in Colchester, whom he’d like to see. I can understand that . . . and . . . some friends up in Brideshead whom he wished to revisit. Hmmm . . . don’t know about that, but it ain’t my business. “Besides, Miss, you might insist on being married, and I must be there for that. Remember, I am expected to be Best Man at that blessed event.”
Back in the present, I say, “Captain Browning expects we will dock tomorrow, Higgins. Is it not exciting?”
“Indeed, Miss. Well, we’d best start getting you cleaned up and back in proper attire.”
As I follow my very dear Higgins down into my cabin, anticipating a good hot bath and some serious pampering, I see a boat being put into the water. It will carry Captain Browning’s purser, a Mr. Blake, into Bournemouth, where he will disembark and make his way to London overland, to ensure that we have a fine berth waiting for us when we get there, and to announce our arrival, so that all who wish to greet us shall be able to do so.
Oh, Jaimy, please be there!