Chapter 45

Amy wakes up with a huge, worried, shuddering sigh and gets out of bed. We get up and get ready without speaking much. There is not much to say. We can only hope that Petey is better.

Breakfast is a grim affair. I eat, she don't. I put my hand on hers. "Don't worry, Amy, it'll be all right, either way."

"I know," she says. "I just wish it was over."

Well, it will be over at two o'clock, five hours from now, 'cause that's when the race is to be run.

"Come, let us walk down to the sea. It's a fine day. It will take your mind off things." And we do it, and we sit on rocks by the shore and take off our shoes and stockings and wade in the gentle surf. The sea, as usual, calms me, and it calms Amy, too.

The grandstand is full, there's trumpet blasts and horses are being paraded around and there's excitement and gaiety in the air. There's finely dressed women with parasols and there's fine gents decked out in bright jackets, smoking cheroots and hallooing to one another, some placing bets and others covering them. There's plenty of men who look slightly shady and there's some women that wouldn't look out of place at Mrs. Bodeen's, too. And, oh, look! There's a pair of Royal Navy officers! Next to Amy's mum and dad. They must be guests. A captain, no less, and a lieutenant! I must get next to them later to see if they know anything of Jaimy. Maybe at the ball tonight. And they brought some midshipmen with them. We'll have dance partners tonight, that's for sure.

The Trevelynes and their party are in a boxed-off area, I guess to keep the riffraff away from the quality. Well, it ain't gonna keep this piece of riffraff out. "Come on, Amy, let's join your family." She don't want to, but I prod her and up we go.

The Colonel is in his finest uniform and his wife is a froth of pink silk and Randall looks absolutely smashing in a dove gray velvet jacket and Clarissa, of course, is the very picture of beauty in white with touches of lavender. I am in my school dress, it being the only one I have except for my blue one that I made on the Dolphin, and that one I'm saving for tonight's dinner and dance. Amy has lent me a fine hat, 'cause us ladies can't be in public without one and I sure can't wear my mobcap or my school bonnet to somethin' like this.

Besides the Royal Navy crew, there's bunches of other swells and nobs about, but nobody introduces me to none of 'em. Guess it's 'cause of the excitement of the moment. That midshipman looks like he'd like to be introduced, though, but of course he can't move from his spot. These boys weren't brought here to have fun—they was brought to serve the Captain and the Lieutenant. The Captain is a loud, garrulous fellow, but he seems a decent sort, for a captain, while the Lieutenant is a tall, thin, dark cove who's got a pair of mustachios that he continually twirls as his eyes go over the nearby girls. I know what's on his mind, and it ain't horse racin'.

Randall is standing at the rail with Clarissa on his arm. She must have forgiven him, or maybe she just considered it his right as a lord of the manor to cover whatever lower-class girls he wanted. Or maybe Randall came up with a real good explanation, which I wouldn't put past him—he's a clever one, he is, as I know right well. Whatever, she sends a glare in my direction, which I return with a smile and slight, ever so slight, curtsy.

I go to the rail myself, but not close to the young lovers, as I don't want to get into a down-on-the-ground-hair-pullin'-face-scratchin' fight with Clarissa just now, what with everything goin' on, and if I know anything about proud Clarissa by now, it's that she wouldn't be afraid to do it anyplace, anytime.

So I look out over the track, and the jockeys are starting to get on their mounts, the little men all in their colorful silks, each one different depending on the farm they're racin' for. I look around for the green-and-white stripes of House Trevelyne, but I don't see none—I don't see Pete, neither.

Uh-oh.

There's the Sheik, dancin' and prancin', but it's a groom what's leadin' him about, not Petey. I look at the Colonel and he's lookin' down at the track, too, and his mouth is set in a grim line around a cigar that is clenched tight in his jaws.

I spy the groom George working his way through the crowd toward us and I know what that means: Petey ain't gonna make it. I hope he ain't dead, 'cause I've grown fond of the little man. George leans in and says something in Colonel Trevelyne's ear and the Colonel nods curtly and bows to his party and leaves the grandstand, but before he does, he motions for Randall to follow him.

I grab Amy's arm and pull her along. "Let's go, Sister. Things are going wrong and we must do what we can."

"But what...?"

"Petey ain't gonna make the race." I turn and look at her, and her face is now empty of all hope. "Please, just go along with whatever I say, no matter what. No matter how crazy. Will you do it?"

She nods and follows me out of the box, her face ashen.

We hit the ground and race toward the jockey rooms and we meet the Colonel and Randall as they are coming out of Petey's room.

I give Amy an elbow and hiss at her, "Ask them what's the matter." as it ain't my place and I don't want to spook 'em.

"Father. What is the matter?" she says.

"Jarvis can't race. He's barely conscious," growls the Colonel. He takes his cigar and throws it to the ground. "Damn it! Damn it all to hell!"

"Can't you forfeit? Call off the bets?" asks Amy without much hope in her voice.

"I can forfeit, but I cannot call off the bets, and what, Daughter, gave you the idea that you can talk to me in this way?" His face is bright red and his tone is dangerous.

"I shall ride him, Father," says Randall, and he begins to unbutton his jacket.

"Aw, you're too damned heavy, boy, you'd surely..."

It is time, Jacky, I says to myself, and I pulls out my asafoetida bag and clutches it in me hand and I steps forward.

"Beggin' your pardon, Colonel Trevelyne, but I have here in my hand an answer to your problem." I ain't used to talking up to large powerful men, so my voice shakes a bit.

"What?" shouts the Colonel, shock and outrage on his face as he stares down at me.

I pushes on. "I have this here powerful voodoo potion that I picked up when I was sailin' on the Caribbean Sea," I says, and waves the bag decorated with its strange symbols in front of him. "It's powerful strong magic, Sir, as it was put together by Mama Boudreau, herself, a most famous hoodoo conjure woman."

"Let me see that," orders the Colonel. He reaches out a meaty paw for my bag, but I shrinks back and holds the bag tighter to my chest.

"Oh no, Sir! Don't mess with the gris-gris, Sir, it's very dangerous in unschooled hands. It's very powerful stuff and no tellin' what would happen." I shivers and looks all scared at the very thought.

"Rubbish," says he. "Has this girl ever been to the Caribbean?" he asks Amy. It looks like he is ready to grasp at straws.

"Yes," says Amy, and then, incredibly, she says, "she has often spoken of her knowledge of the mysterious arts of that region."

The Colonel squints at me. "It's powerful enough to cure someone as sick as him?"

"Sir, it was made to raise the dead. It may not cure Mr. jarvis, but it will get him up."

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "All right. Go get him up. And hurry."

Ah. And now for the hook.

"I have terms, Colonel Trevelyne, and you may not like them." I'm puttin' up a brave front, but I'm shakin' inside. To talk to a colonel like this...

"What! What terms, girl?"

"If I rouse up Peter Jarvis enough so he can get on the Sheik and win the race, you must swear, on your honor as an officer and gentleman, to never again bet on anything. Not a penny, not a pound, not a dollar, not a dime. Nothing wagered ever again."

He balls his fist and lifts it high above me. "Why, you insolent piece of baggage...!"

I cringe and hunch my shoulders, and wait for the blow, but the blow does not come.

"Father, please!" say both Amy and Randall together.

I open my eyes. The Colonel is standing there, and he is a bit shrunken, like the air has gone out of him.

I have no mercy. "Do you so swear?"

"Yes," he says, quietly. "I swear."

"All right," I say, all brisk. "Amy and Randall, I'll need your help. Randall, get everybody out of Petey's room." I cross my arms at the wrists over my chest like I'm a voodoo princess and I put my head back and slit my eyes and start into a low chant, "Hey-ya, hey-ya, hey-ya, hey!" over and over and follow them in.

We surge into Petey's tiny room and there are people in there standing around him lying there in the bed. Petey's mouth is open and his face is gray and he looks half dead. "Everybody please leave," says Randall, curtly. They look confused. "Out!" he roars this time. "Now!" And out they go, falling over each other in their haste. Randall's blood is up.

As soon as the door is shut, I say, "Randall, put your back to the door and let no one in! Amy, help me!" and I flip my hat to the floor and start to struggle out of my dress. "Randall. Turn around!"

Petey's silks are hanging on the wall with his boots beneath them. Amy has undone the buttons on the back of my dress and I flip it over my head. Off with the shoes and stockings and I pull off my slip and—"Randall, turn around!" Oh, to hell with it, there's no time! I put my thumbs in the waistband of my flouncy drawers and pull them down and step out of them. I reach for the silk pants...

"Don't ... don't let 'em..."

Petey's talking! His eyes flutter open. I dash to his side. "Don't let 'em what, Petey? Don't let 'em..."

But he passes out again and there's no time to try to bring him back.

I go to the wall and get the silks. I sit on the edge of the bed to pull on the white stockings and then stand and tug on the tight pants and buckle 'em below the knees, then the loose, blousy green-striped top, which'll hide what I got up there. On with the boots—they're a little big, but they'll serve.

There's the call of a trumpet outside. Hurry!

I take the white silk scarf I had seen last night when I visited Petey and I wrap it around my lower face. "Tie it in back, Amy! It can't fall off or all is lost!"

"But why...?"

"'Cause the other jocks won't race against a girl, is why! Male bleedin' pride, is why! Now, tie it! Tight!"

She does it. I take the green cap and cram it way down on my head and head for the door, Amy, terrified, in my wake.

At the door, a red-faced Randall stands and says, "I..."

"Later, Randall," I say. "Let us out and let no one else in. When we come back we'll give three raps and then two. Got that?"

He nods and opens the door and we rush out.

There is a roar from the crowd as I head for the track and the Sheik. I stop halfway there and make a great fakery of dou-blin' over and coughin' loudly, as if seized by a spasm. I steal a glance up at the Colonel, who is back in his box lookin' at me and standing a little straighten I give it a few more coughs, as deep and disgustin' as I can make 'em, makes a show of bein' a bit weak and wobbly on me pins, and then I go to the Sheik and put my foot in George's intertwined hands and I'm up in the saddle, and Oh, he knows me, he does. The Sheik gives me his big rollin' eye and whickers a greeting as I get my feet in the stirrups and settle in and take the riding crop from George and stick it in my right armpit. I don't want this small whip 'cause I wouldn't want to use it on the Sheik, but I take it anyway 'cause it'll look wrong if I don't. I pat his neck and he dances around a bit—he is ready to go, no mistake.

"Glad you could get up there, Petey," says George. "I had my doubts, for sure." He adjusts the cinch on the saddle. "Now watch out for the big bay horse—that jock Muir from Tenbrooks Farms don't mean us no good. At the start you'll have him on your right, and that bastard Thayer over there on that hammerheaded roan'll be on your left at the start, so you know what that means."

What? What what means? I thought we just started running and the fastest horse wins and that's the Sheik, who'll run away from all the others and we'll win. All of a sudden I'm thinking that there might be more to this and maybe I don't know what I'm doin'. I want to blurt out to George just who I am sitting up here and what the hell is he talkin' about, but the fewer people what know about this the better, or the secret will be out and the race will be forfeit and all will be in vain, so I just give a low grunt and another cough.

"I'd go wide on the first turn if I was you. You'll lose some ground but the horse'll make it up on the straightaways. Good luck to you, Pete. There's a lot ridin' on this."

I nod and grunt and throw in a racking cough and there's the trumpet call for the horses to parade by the grandstand and I take the reins and somehow get him in line and it's all I can do to keep him there. What with all the other stallions and mares around, he's in a fine lather and in no mood to be good. Fine. It's his job to win the race, not to be good.

We come off the line and head for the starting positions. The crowd noise is nothing like anything I've ever heard—there must be a thousand people here, counting the grandstand and those circling the track. Grooms take hold of the bridles and pull the horses to their spots, and it is a very brave groom who puts his hand on the Sheik's bridle. We are third in from the rail, it having all been decided by the drawing of lots, and George was right about the two to either side of me—they look like the meanest of blokes and they're both glaring at me. I can't let 'em look too close, so I coughs and leans forward and hisses in the Sheik's ear, "Scream, Sheik, scream!" and he rears back on his hind legs and does just that, he screams out his defiance to all those who would dare to come here to his own kingdom and challenge him, to shame him, and to take his mares. It is a fine show.

"Mind yer mount, jock!" shouts Muir.

"Sod off," growls I, as deep as I can. "Mind yer own nag!"

A tall man with a red sash across his belly goes to the end of our line and then takes ten paces forward. He has a pistol by his side. All eyes are on him now, so I don't got to worry about Muir or Thayer peerin' at me.

The man holds up his hand and the crowd falls silent. He takes a deep breath and bellows, "Ladies and Gentlemen! The race is to be twelve furlongs, once around the track and up to the finish line in front of the grandstand." I look forward and see the white line drawn with lime on the track! He raises the gun, "Ready." There is a hush. All us jocks point our tails skyward and lean forward.

He fires! The crowd roars as twelve thousand pounds of muscle, hide, and bone surges out of the gates, and the first thing that happens is that Muir brings his horse a sharp left, right into us and forces the Sheik to miss his footing and stumble, and Thayer on the other side does the same thing and the Sheik almost goes to his knees, and Muir and Thayer pull ahead of us. The Sheik screams in anger and I can hear his teeth snapping at the other horses, but I urge him forward—run now, fight later—and he gains his footing and his muscles gather under me and he charges down the track after the rest of them. A sob chokes me—I messed up, I messed up bad—we are dead last!

But the Sheik don't sob and cry—all he wants to do is run and beat the others back to wherever the hell they come from and he don't care about nothin' else and he flies down the track with his ears laid back, and by the time we are approaching the first turn, we have passed one, two, now three, four! We are catching up! We are flying!

We lean into the first turn and I see that Muir and Thayer are running first and second, with a big chestnut running third. There's a short straightaway before the next turn and we pass two more horses, leaving only the front three. As we get close to the middle of the turn, Thayer, who's on the inside, lets his mount drift a little to the right, leaving an opening at the rail.

An opening! If we can get through there we'll save distance being on the inside 'cause there's less ground to cover and we'll be in the lead and we won't never let go of it! I urge the Sheik forward toward the opening and he goes for it. Poor trusting horse to have such a poor stupid rider. As soon as we get close, Thayer pulls back to the rail and Muir comes alongside to the right, and I realize to my horror that we're trapped! Boxed in!

That's what Petey was tryin to say—"Don't let 'em box you in,"you incredibly stupid girl! And George said, "Stay outside on the first turn!" Oh, why didn't I, why do I always think I know everything about everything and all I ever really do is make a hash of things!

As we come out of the turn, Thayer slows his horse, just a little, not so the people in the stands could notice and cry foul, but just a little bit slower so a horse can come up behind us to keep us from escaping that way and the chestnut can come up on the outside to take the lead. It's a setup! A scam. I've been scammed again! Muir and Thayer never had no thought of winnin' the race! All they wanted to do was keep the Colonel's horse from winnin'! Stupid, stupid, stupid...

The chestnut is now four lengths ahead, now five, and if he gets too far ahead, there'll be no catchin' him even if I do get out of this. In desperation I veer the Sheik to the right to try and force Muir away enough to break free, but Muir don't move. Instead he brings up his crop and crack! he brings it down on my leg, and it's like a hot poker was laid there. The pain shoots up me side and into me head and I lets out a howl of pain and sorrow and desperation right into the Sheik's ear and he hears it and the muscles of his neck swell up and he darts his head forward and bares his teeth and clamps down on the arse of Thayer's horse up there in front of his nose. The roan screams and breaks stride and there's an opening, and this time we make it through. We are free!

But the chestnut is now at least twelve lengths ahead and we're in the backstretch.

"Catch him, Sheik!" I shrieks. "Catch him!" The leader is so far ahead I despair of closing the distance, but I urge the Sheik on anyway, bouncing up and down in the saddle, tears of pain and desolation runnin' out the sides of my eyes—how could I have been so stupid—and the Sheik pounds on ever faster and I can feel his hatred for the horse ahead of him and I start to babble, "Oh come on Sheik come on boy he's gonna beat you he's gonna shame you he's gonna take your mares he's gonna beat you boy," and the horse pumps faster and we've gained a length or two but that horse up there ain't no scrub, neither. He's fast and he's strong and he's at the end of the far stretch and he leans into the last turn and clods of dirt are flying up at us from his hooves what are diggin' out to the side as he leans. But we don't care, we just pound on and the white rail posts and the screaming people standing and waving their arms flicker by in the corner of my eye like they ain't even real, just pieces of a crazy dream—come on boy come on boy—and we're in the last turn, too, and we go right up to the rail 'cause there ain't nobody to box us in now and we gain another length in the turn, and when we come out of it, we're only four lengths behind!

The roar of the crowd in the grandstand hits us like a wall when we turn onto the homestretch and the race for the line. We're only four lengths behind but that'll be enough to doom us if the chestnut don't weaken, and he ain't showin' no signs of that, no he ain't, so I keep babblin'. "Beating you Sheik he's beating you," and the sun is in our eyes now and "He's gonna beat you boy he's gonna beat you to the bright shinin' sun he's gonna beat you," and I know I ain't makin' no sense but it don't matter. What matters is that the Sheik would rather die than lose and he finds the strength somewhere down in him and now we're up to two lengths and now one. The other jock is flailing away with his whip but it ain't doin' him no good 'cause we're gainin', and now the Sheik's nose is up level with the chestnut's flank and now up to the jockey's knee and now the horse's shoulder and the crowd is howling. There's the white line up ahead and now we're neck and neck and now we push forward by a nose and then by a head and then are goin' away, and then the line flashes by underfoot and...

We win!

I pull the Sheik back and slow him down and turn him so I can get back to the clubhouse, but he don't want to quit just yet, no he don't—he rears up and screams out all the rage and defiance that's in his bloody, glorious heart. No, he ain't done yet at all—he wants to get at the other horse and fight him and beat him into a bloody mess. He squeals in anger as if to say, "I didn't catch him just to let him go. Let me go!" and it's all I can do to hold him till George and his grooms come runnin' up to take his reins and calm him down.

Uh-oh.

The grandstand is emptying and people are pouring onto the track. I slide off the dear Sheik's back, give a few coughs, and wipe the tears from my eyes with an end of the scarf and wave off the grinnin' George's "Well done," and head for the clubhouse. I take three steps and then fall down in the dust, and this time I ain't faking. It's the pain in me leg, but I get right up and start a runnin', limpin' lope for Petey's room 'cause I see the Colonel bearing down on us but I can't let him catch me and fold me in his manly embrace, which is what the big, burly, grinnin' fool seems intent on doin'.

There's Amy and she throws her arm around me and helps me the last several yards. She gives the signal rap on the door and we fall into the room. Randall puts his back to the door again and looks at us with a big question in his eyes—and I don't think he really wants to hear the answer 'cause he's lookin' at me with the tears runnin' down through the dust on my face and he fears the worst.

"We won," says Amy, and Randall lets out a huge breath and sinks down a ways on the door. I whip off the scarf and go to the washstand and splash water on my face. Stop crying, I tell myself, don't mess it up now. It's just the excitement. Stop it. And I do, and I dry my face and straighten up and go to Petey's bedside.

"Pull back his covers," I orders. Amy furrows her brow in question. "Just do it!" I say, and she does it.

Poor Petey's skinny legs lie there helpless, the black hair on them standin' out sharp against the dead white of his skin. I swing the riding crop back over my shoulder and bring it down as hard as I can on Pete's right thigh. Amy gasps at the sound of the whip hitting flesh.

Petey's eyes pop open—I didn't think he'd wake, but he does. I kneel down by him. "Sorry, Petey, but you got that on the near turn. Muir give it to you. You won, Pete, you got that? You won and Muir give you that welt on the near turn."

"That son of a bitch, I'll get him for that," says he, all weak. A small smile comes to his lips. "Nice tattoo, Jack-o."

"You rogue," says I, putting my hand to his forehead. He is covered in sweat now, but his head is cooler. The fever has broken. "Worse luck. You'll prolly get better." His eyes close again.

The pounding on the door is loud and insistent.

"We can't keep them out forever," says Randall, his back to the shaking door. "You'd better hurry and change." His arrogant smile is back.

I cuts him a narrow-eyed glare. Right, Randall. I reflects that the I-know-Jacky's-got-a-tattoo-and-I-know-where's-she's-got-it club has just added two new members. Only one show for you today, Mr. Trevelyne.

I turn away so that my bare back is all that's for him to look at as I take off the silk top and flip it to Amy. "See if you can slip that over Mr. Jarvis, if you would, Amy."

She goes to do it, and since there's a little more time for a bit more modesty now, I take my dress and pull it on over me and then reach up under and pull off the pants and stockings. Carefully pull off the pants—the welt looks all purple and wicked, but there ain't no blood and that's good. I fling the silks to the floor as if Petey had just thrown them there on his way back to bed. I bundle up the rest of my clothes and tuck 'em under my arm. The cap goes on the bedpost and, "Button me up, Amy!"

"All right, done! Let 'em in, Randall!"

Randall steps back from the door and people pour into the little room, showering the half-conscious Pete with praise and congratulations. The Colonel was first in and he rushes over to Petey and shakes his senseless hand, and Amy speaks up with, "He will need salve for his leg, Father," and the Colonel nods and says that all saw the blow and that damned Muir shall never ride a horse at Dovecote again. A groom hustles over with a jar and the covers are pulled back and all around the room there are gasps at the soreness of the slash. Well, maybe I didn't have to hit him that hard...

A man who has to be Mr. Thayer bursts in and shouts, "Your horse bit mine! That's a foul!"

"Your nag had his fat, slow ass in my horse's face, and that's even more of a foul!" retorts the Colonel, puffing up. "And if you'd like to continue this discussion with pistols on the field of honor, then say one more word, Sir! One more word!" But Mr. Thayer don't say that word but instead turns red and storms out. Needless to say, he and his lady will not be joining us this evening. And how much sure money did you lose today, Mr. Thayer, hmmm?

Colonel Trevelyne looks over and sees me standing there. "Get these girls out of here. This is no place for females!"

I put the back of my hand to my forehead and close my eyes like I'm a poor, weak female about to swoon from tossin' around heavy spells and stuff, and Amy leads me out saying, "The poor thing needs rest," which, of course, I do.

The sheets feel so cool and nice, and I feel I could lie here forever in this delicious doze, their light weight resting smooth and easy on my skin. A great wave of tiredness sweeps over me like it always does after the wildness that comes on in me slowly ebbs away.

"Yeow!" I say, without meaning to. Amy has turned back the sheet and is putting some salve on my welt.

"I am sorry," she says. "I should be saying it serves you right, you could have been killed and all that. But I did not say that before you took the ride, so I have no right to say anything at all. Except thank you."

"Aw, g'wan. All I did was go out and ride a horse."

"That, and extract that promise from Father."

"Do you think he'll be as good as his word?"

"He will. Male honor and all that." Amy looks about her room and I know she is seeing it in a far different light than she did this morning, or anytime in the near past. Go ahead, Amy. There's no sin in loving your own littie room.

There's a tap on the door and then it opens and Randall walks in.

"Randall! She's not dressed!" says Amy, and she brings the sheet back over my leg. I bend my other leg at the knee to make a tent so that the salve don't stick to it.

"Oh, it's all right," I say, all sleepy and drowsy, running my tongue quickly over my lips and parting them slightly in my best Dying Juliet's last-gasp pose. "The sheets are to my chin, so what's the harm?"

Randall comes over to the bedside but he don't say nothing, he just looks at me. He reaches down and, with one finger, gently pulls a lock of hair from my face. I smile all weak and frail.

"What can we do for you?" he finally asks.

"What?"

"How can we repay you? What will you have?"

I goes to say I don't want nothing, but then I changes my mind and says, "The silks. I want to keep the silks."

I don't know what he says to that, 'cause I slip off to sleep.

Later, when I wake up, the silks have been cleaned and are folded on my seabag, and by them is a pair of supple black riding boots. And they fit, too.

"We shall dance and we shall be gay. That tall midshipman is rather cute, don't you think?" I'm all rested up and ready to go to my first ball. Little Mary Faber, late of London's better gutters, is dressing for a ball with Captains, Colonels, Lieutenants, swells of all kinds, and the finest of Ladies, what a thing.

"Ah yes," smiles Amy, "Miss I-Am-Promised-to-Another Faber." Amy's been smiling a lot since the race and that is good.

I feel a wave of sadness slip over my gaiety, and I am quiet. Yes, and no word from the one I am promised to for over nine months. Not one word. Amy says mail comes to Dovecote on Monday, but I dare not hope.

"I shall be good," I say. But I shall also be gay.

We had crimped up our side curls with the curling iron warmed on the cooking fire in the kitchen, being careful to stay out of the way 'cause mighty preparations are being made for tonight's dinner and Mrs. Grubbs ain't puttin' up with no silly girls, not even if one of 'em is the daughter of the house. There's steamin' pots and great joints of meat, but thankfully, no little suckling piggy. Her serving girls are being run ragged and well I know the drill, so we get done and get out. But not before I lifts us a couple hot cherry tarts from a tray. Ain't lost me Cheapside touch.

We then go up and watch the doings in the great hall—men stringing banners and a chamber orchestra setting up their music stands, and that's sure to be a treat, dancing to music provided by someone other than myself. The men have also set up a long table with crystal goblets set out on it and another man brings in a huge punch bowl in the center. The great chandeliers are being lit and the place just glitters with light ... and promise.

Entering the dining room we find the table set, with the silver polished and the gold-rimmed plates placed just so, and the wineglasses winking in the light so cheerily. I walk around the table, peering at the name cards.

"Hmmm..." I muses. "I think there's been some mistake. You and I are all the way down at the end. Surely whoever did this didn't know I must sit next to the Royal Navy officers to get the news. So we'll just put this Mrs. Cabot in my place at the end. Who is she, anyway?"

"An old lady, but—"

"Good. She won't notice. And we'll put me next to this Captain Humphries and we'll take this Mr. Adams and put him here..."

"Jacky, you can't put an Adams down at—"

"I just did. And I'll put you in his place next to that Lieutenant—what's his name ... oh, Flashby, the one with the mustachios. And Clarissa is there and Randall there, and I believe we've got it right now.

"Our work here is done," I say, all grand. "Let us go dress for the ball, dear Sister."

We are dressed and ready to go. I have on the blue dress that I made myself and I know that Amy does not quite approve of it, being as low cut as it is, but it is all I have. My hair is up and my dress is on. I am powdered, pampered, and perfumed.

There is a tinkling of a bell in the hall. It is time.

"Are you ready, Miss Faber?"

"I am, Miss Trevelyne."

We put on the Look and glide down to the dining room.

We enter the room and introductions are made, bows and curtsies all around, and then we go to our places. The place is a blaze of color, what with the ladies in their finest and the gentlemen in their jackets that go through all the colors from bright blue to deep purple, light mauve to kelly green, but never, oh never, red. None of these Yankees want to risk being taken for a redcoat. I mean, the war is over long since, but some things linger on. The naval officers are, of course, in blue with much gold.

I am handed to my place by Captain Humphries, who's beaming and twinkling away at me, having already consumed a good deal of wine, I'll wager. He pulls out my chair and I sit. Would it pain him to know that he had just performed a courtesy for a ship's boy, I wonder?

I settle in and grin at Amy across the way. She looks absolutely wonderful in her rig, a black silk thing with red ribbon worked into the bodice and puffed sleeves, and I think she knows it. She has the Lieutenant on her right and Randall on her left and Clarissa next to him. Clarissa, of course, looks gorgeous and is laying the charm on all about her. She even smiles upon me, which makes me wonder what she's up to.

The grace is said, the wine is poured, toasts are drunk to the host and to several of the guests, and the soup is served and the conversation begins.

"Isn't it wonderful that Amy could have two of her dear classmates from Mistress Pimm's here?" warbles Mrs. Treve-lyne from the head of the table. The three of us allow that it is indeed wonderful.

"How is the old witch?" says a woman with hooded eyes and parted lips a few chairs down.

Ah.

"Mistress is well, Madame," says I, taking a chance. "You would find her skill with the cane is quite undiminished." Laughter all around. Whew, I'm glad that went over well.

I take some soup and look across to see that Lieutenant Flashby has taken an avid interest in me ... or at least in the rise and fall of my chest. I sneak a quick look down to make sure I ain't dribbled something down there, but no, it looks all right.

Each of the officers has a midshipman standing ramrod straight behind their chairs, to get them anything they might need, but it's mainly for show: This is what Royal Navy discipline looks like, Yankee rabble.

"Expecting weevils?" says the Captain, his eyebrow raised in question.

"Excuse me, Sir?" I say, confused. "I don't underst—" Then I realize I've been tappin' my biscuit on the tabletop without thinkin'. Damn! "I'm sorry, Sir, it's an old habit."

"That's all right, Missy. Here, a little more wine with you." He gestures and the tall midshipman goes to the sideboard and takes a bottle and fills my glass. Too bad. I had meant to fill my glass with water to dilute the wine, but I didn't get to it in time. Ah, well. Next time. I take a sip.

"So, schoolgirls, eh?" says the Captain, and then he leans in close and whispers, "Thanks for being here. I thought for sure I'd get stuck next to some old biddy and I sure didn't come all this way to talk to ancient dames! Har, har!" He laughs out loud at his wit and I gulp and nod. Under the table he places his hand on my leg and gives it a squeeze. I gulp again. I don't know what to do about it.

The soup bowls are taken away and the main courses brought. The Captain, needing both his hands to dig in to his dinner, frees my leg and I squirm and move a little out of his range. I know the serving girls a little bit now and I wink at them in thanks as I am served. They know me for one of them, and I think they delight in my being here.

Clarissa speaks up. "Perhaps, Classmate, you'll tell us something of your family." She smiles sweetly and brings her glass to her lips.

Uh-oh... I look at Amy but she shakes her head and mouths Not me, and then I look at Randall and he just looks back at me as if he's mildly interested in my answer. Clarissa, however, looks me right in the eye, and there is a wicked merriment in her gaze. She knows, and how she knows, I don't know—prolly looking through Amy's scrib-blings when she wasn't around.

I lift my chin and say, "I have no family. I was orphaned as a young child."

"Oh, what a pity!" says dear Mrs. Trevelyne. "Who took you in?"

"No one took me in," I say. I put my hands in my lap and look down at them. "I was left on my own." I know what's comin'. A pity. This would have been such fun. Oh, well.

Amy tries to change the subject. "Captain, could you tell us of the exotic ports you have—" but Clarissa rides right over her.

"But what did you do, you poor thing?" she purrs. "Left on your own as you were?"

I stick out my lower lip and say quietly, "My parents died when I was a little girl and I was put out on the curb to live or to die. I fell in with a gang of street children and I ran the slum streets of London with them for several years." I put my napkin on the table and look Clarissa in the eye. "You ask me what I did, Clarissa? I was a beggar and a thief. What kind of beggar was I? I was a naked beggar and a filthy beggar. Any kind of beggar you can imagine and I was it. I begged pennies and I stole bread. I lived under a bridge, but I had good mates in Rooster Charlie's gang, I did, a lot better mates than some I have now."

I take a sip of wine and I will my hand not to shake in rage as I continue. "Actually, if you must know, I was a better thief than a beggar. I stole bread and I pickpocketed fancy handkerchiefs and I stole clothing off of clotheslines and I stole anything that would keep me and my friends alive. In fact, I picked pockets at the very foot of the gallows, the gallows that were sure to be my fate someday."

The whole table is lookin' at me with open mouths, their knives and forks and glasses held motionless in midair. It would be comical if this were a play, which it ain't.

"Then I find it a shame, dear Jacky, that you did not remain in your chosen profession," purrs Clarissa.

I look at her without expression. "It is true, Miss Howe, that my estate was very low. So low, indeed, that it was very like that of the slaves you hold in bondage. Except that I was free."

There are rumblings around the table as some of the guests realize that Clarissa and I could actually go at each other, right here and right now, and they try to soothe ruffled feathers with there, there, and all right, now, and suchlike.

But Clarissa is not to be soothed.

"Free? Ah, yes. Free," says Clarissa, tilting her head as if what I had said amused her. "Free to beg. Free to steal from honest folk. And free..." Here she pauses and her tongue flicks over her upper lip as if she is about to taste something delicious. "Free to have yourself tattooed."

There is a common gasp from the guests at the table.

"Why don't you tell us about your cunning little tattoo, Jacky?" says Clarissa, relentlessly plowing on. "What is it? An anchor? How daring of you, Jacky. I do declare you leave all the rest of us poor girls far behind in the pursuit of new fashion."

The game is up now, for sure, for there are no tattooed ladies in this world, not outside of freak shows. I get to my feet and I turn to my hostess. "Mrs. Trevelyne, you have been nothing but kind to me here at Dovecote and I thank you for it and I beg forgiveness if I have brought dishonor to your table. I am sorry. Sometimes I get above myself. I'll be excused now." She sits there stunned.

I get up to leave the room but a rough hand comes down on my bare shoulder and shoves me back down in my chair.

"Oh, nonsense!" says Captain Humphries. "Sit down! That's the best story I've heard all day!"

I take up my napkin again and look over at Mrs. Treve-lyne, but she's just all a-goggle with the turn of things and simply takes another dainty sip of her wine.

"So how did you get from there to here? From the rags to the riches? From an urchin in the streets to a neatly turned out young lady in the very bosom of New England society?" the Captain booms out. "We must hear! Leave nothing out!"

Before I say anything I turn to my hostess again, "Please, Mrs. Trevelyne, if anything said here causes you pain, just tap your knife on your glass and I will be out of here in an instant. All right?" She manages to nod. I look at Amy and she is stunned. I look at Randall and he is astounded. I look at Clarissa and she is smirking. I look at Lieutenant Flashby and he has left off looking at my chest and is instead peering at my face, as if trying to figure something out.

"Actually, Captain Humphries, I had a bit of very good luck," I say. "I had the great good fortune to be taken into your own service."

"The Royal Navy?" he says, perplexed. "How? In what capacity?"

"First as ship's boy, then as midshipman, on board the..."

"It's Bloody Jacky Faber, by God!" shouts Lieutenant Flashby, bringing the flat of his hand down hard on the table. He points his finger at my nose. "It's the Jackaroe!"

"Wot! Can it be? The girl from the Dolphin?" says the Captain, all incredulous. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes!" says the Lieutenant. "Look! She's still got the mark on her neck where they tried to hang her." That scar has mostly gone away, 'cept when I get excited, like now, and then it flares up all red. I pull my hair around to cover it.

"Is it you?" asks the Captain.

"I don't know ... yes, I was on the Dolphin, but I had no idea my poor adventures had—"

"Oh, Trevelyne, you dog!" says the Captain to the Colonel, who's sitting there like he's been hit with a bludgeon. "You set this up for us, didn't you! Oh, what a fine thing! It's too perfect!" The Captain's hand has found my leg again, higher up this time, but I am too amazed to move.

"But this can't be..." I stammer.

"Oh yes!" says the Captain, giving my thigh an affectionate squeeze. "It is the talk of London, it is all around the fleet! On all the broadsides! You there, Padget! Sing a few verses of the song! 'Jackaroe'!"

Midshipman Padget, the pretty one, flushes in mortification. He will, of course, obey, as he would obey if his Captain told him to drop his breeches and waddle around the table clucking like a chicken, but he does not have to like it. He fixes his eye on a wall lamp, and dying a thousand deaths, he opens his mouth and gives forth:

"She brought herself unto the dock
All dressed in men's array,
And stepped on board a man-of-war
To convey herself away,
Oh, to convey herself away."

I am completely astounded. The melody sounds like a faster version of my "Ship's Boy's Lament," done in a major key instead of the minor. I think I hear Liam Delaney's hand in this.

"'Before you come on board, Sir,
Your name Yd like to know.'
She smiled all in her countenance,
'They call me Jack-a-roe.'"

It warn't like that at all, I'm thinkin'. I have recovered my senses enough to reach down and lift the Captain's hand off my leg. He does not seem to mind. He merely uses the hand to refill my glass. Sailors, I swear, be they Captain or be they seaman, it's all one and the same. Midshipman Padget launches into what proves to be the last verses.

"'Your waist is light and slender,
Your fingers are neat and small,
Your cheeks too red and rosy,
To face the cannonball'
Oh, to face the cannonball.

T know my waist is slender,
My fingers neat and small,
But it would not make me tremble
To see ten thousand fall.'
Oh, to see ten thousand fall!"

"Poor Captain Locke," I say, after the applause for the mortified midshipman stops. Poor Jaimy, too, what he must think, he being so upright and all. And I can well guess what his mother must think. I take another deep swallow of the wine to calm myself. Next time I must water it.

"Poor Captain Locke, nothing! He has drunk for free on that story for months!" chortles the Captain. "He has a grand speech on the matter—I myself heard him deliver it at our club." Captain Humphries puffs up and puts his hand to his chest like a grand orator. '"I will bear the ridicule of any man who has stood on a ship's burning deck with the masts coming down and the air thick with hot can-nonballs, a man who has smelled the foul breath of the cannon and seen the scuppers run red with the blood of his friends, yea, a man who has seen all that and yet did not run and hide to save his own life. I will suffer that man's insults and call him brother. But should any man who has not seen those things, one who has sat comfortable at his table with his pipe and his dinner while we were on the cruel sea, should such a man dare make sport of me or the Dolphin or any who were on her, then I will gladly meet with him in the morning and cheerfully put a hole in his unworthy chest! I put it to you like this: The girl stood by my side in the heat of battle and she did not run!'" The Captain finishes and lurches to his feet. "A toast! A toast to Bloody Jacky Faber!"

All cheer and rise and I try to sink into my chair. Amy beams at me over her glass. I look over at Randall and see that he is stricken to the core. Uh-oh. I see that male pride has been wounded and is in need of repair. I know he is thinking that for all his arrogance and posturing, it is I who have faced combat and come out of it with some honor and he has not yet been tried, and he wonders, in his heart of hearts, just how well he will perform. After the toast Randall sits down heavily and seems to sink within himself. At his side, the good ship Clarissa is in flames, her plan for the sinking of the good ship Jacky having gone awry. She crosses her arms and looks straight forward in a storm of anger.

More wine is poured, the dessert brought, the Captain's hand is back, and the Lieutenant has resumed his leering, but I am soon saved by the announcement that the dance is about to begin and all are invited to the main ballroom. I toss off the rest of the wine and rise up on the Captain's arm and am escorted in to the dance, my head up, eyes hooded, lips together, teeth apart, the finest of the ladies.

Many more people pour in the door to the ballroom and are announced as the band strikes up the first tune. There are people, both young and old, from all over the county, as this is the ball of the year by all accounts. The place fairly glitters with light and color and wild excitement.

First we have a Virginia reel, which is good 'cause it frees me up from the clutches of Captain Humphries, who's a good sort in his way, but I really want to get close to that pretty Midshipman Padget—to ask him if he's heard of Jaimy, of course—so during the reel when there's two rows of dancers and everybody sort of gets to touch hands with everyone else for a moment, I give his hand a squeeze.

On the next dance, a minuet, he comes up to me and, blushing, asks me to dance and I bat my eyelashes and say yes, and then we go to the floor with the other couples and we dance and it is lovely and he is so pretty and nice, but I wish so much that Jaimy was here with me to see all this. He would look so dashing and I would be so proud. After the dance I ask Mr. Padget if he knows of Jaimy, but, alas, he reports that he does not.

My gallant escort takes me to the punch bowl, which has a big chunk of ice floating in it, and he gets me a cup of punch and it's good and I wonder what's in it, but I don't wonder long because I am stolen from the midshipman by Lieutenant Flashby for the next dance, and he is a very good dancer and is very charming and smells of cologne water, but somehow I don't quite trust him. Then there's another dance, a quadrille, and another partner and my head is spinning and I have some more punch and I have a vague notion of Amy coming up to me and warning me about something but I can't remember what it is...

And then there's another dance, and then, wonder of wonders, Clarissa comes to me and says, "Oh, don't mess with that silly punch, dear Jacky. Here, have some of this. We call it a julep, yes, we do. A mint julep, as a matter of actual fact. Oh yes, Jacky, it is just the very best thing. No, no, there's no rum or whiskey in it, just a little of our own fine bourbon ... Here, refresh yourself, you must be exhausted, poor thing. You dance so well, I declare you put the rest of us to shame, you really do ... you really are the belle of the ball, Jacky ... Let me get you another, why, it's no trouble at all, dear Jacky..."

I taste it and it is sweet and smooth and cool and good and it must be all right 'cause it's not harsh at all, not like rum, which burns its way down, and this is just so lovely. Why, it's just like that root beer. "Oh, thank you, Clarissa, I'm so glad we can be frens ... er ... friends." Only it's soft, so soft. Another dance? "Well, Sir, I be delighted. 'Scoose me, Clarissa. Sir, let us whirl onto the floorn..."I mean, floor, I mean ... I don't know what I mean. "Whoops, I'm sorry, did I stumble? Isn't this all so lovely isn't this just the best night ever, isn't this just the finest..."