I think that's what was said, but when I ask Betsey about it later, she just shakes her head and won't say a word. And neither will Peg.
Chapter 14
It ain't long till Annie and Betsey Byrnes invite me to go home with them to spend the night and Mistress says all right 'cause she really don't care what her serving girls do, even though she makes sure I'm locked up tight every night. And Sylvie comes over, too, 'cause she lives just down the street from them, and we have a fine dinner with their parents and their younger sisters and brother and one older brother whose name is Timothy who seems right pleased that I came over. Their father is a shipwright so we got a lot of things in common and we get along well, and their mother is a fussy, jolly sort, who makes sure everyone's got enough to eat, and beams proudly over her merry brood.
After dinner we play ring games and tell riddles and I pull out my pennywhistle and give 'em a few tunes and songs and raps out some steps and then we gathers about the fireplace and pops popcorn, which is the most wondrous and tasty thing and which Betsey says the early settlers learned from the Indians back when the Indians was being nice before the British started paying them to ... and then she reddens and clams up, having forgot for a moment, I guess, my history and place of birth, but I laughs it off and packs in more of the salty popcorn and sings a few more songs. Timothy sits next to me by the fire and we hold hands for a while till it's time for us to go to bed. He's a sweet boy and I give him a peck on the cheek as we leave for upstairs. Then we girls get dressed for bed and have a great giggling good time in their big old feather bed, all of us, Annie and Betsey and Sylvie and even the little ones, Eileen and Gabby and Antonia, who are so thrilled to be with their older sisters on this night of merriment that we fear they shall never sleep.
But sleep they do and then we sit up cross-legged and light one candle and talk of the boys they got their eyes on, with great snickerin' and teasing back and forth. Annie and even shy Sylvie are quite frank in reeling off their list of boys who they might look favorably on, but Betsey keeps her secrets, she just smiles and shakes her head and looks off. They tell me I should marry Timothy 'cause he's taken a shine to me and he's a good boy and has got a trade and they'd love to have me for a sister-in-law, but I have to tell 'em I am promised to another.
Course they drags every detail of my recent misadventure out of me and I warms to it, being a natural show-off and storyteller, and I prolly shouldn't but I really gets into the tellin' of it, and they squeals and covers their mouths with their hands in shock and delight when I tells 'em about Mrs. Bodeen's girls and specially about Mam'selle Claudelle day Bour-bon. Then I puffs up like the judge and tells that part, usin' a deep voice for the judge and a high squeaky one for the constable and a sweet one for Mr. Pickering, and they says how could you be so brave to take all that, and I say I warn't brave at all as I was on the edge of wettin' my pants at any moment during the whole thing and they can take that as the truth, and amen to that.
Then I puts Jaimy's ring in my ear with great ceremony so that I knows that I looks like a pure buccaneer to them, and then I tell them about the Brotherhood and the Dolphin, as I sure don't owe Mistress no promise about not tellin' about my past to these girls. I tell them about the Brotherhood oath and I tell 'em to each spit in both of their hands, and they say, "Yuck," but they all do it and so do I and we all clasp hands mixin' the spits and I say all deep and magical-like, "This being the forming of the Dread Sisterhood of the Lawson Peabody, each what pledges to the others that they will in all ways watch out for each other and never to betray another member but always help them and keep them uppermost in their hearts, and so say you one, so say you all." And we all say, "Amen," and drag the word out long and long.
And then I tell 'em all about that time in Kingston and how Jaimy and me's got an understanding about gettin' married and I get ohs and ahs and wide eyes when I tells 'em almost all about Jaimy and our hammock and our other spots on the Dolphin, and Sylvie up and says, "So you've bundled, then, Jacky?"
More snorts and stifled giggles from them all.
I sit up and say, "You will tell me what 'bundling' means and then I will tell you if I have done it or not." I am watchful. I don't mind bein' teased, but...
Annie clears her throat and puts on a teacher tone. "Well. There's a lot of farms around here that are so far out on the frontier that the girls don't ever get to see any boys 'cept her own brothers for maybe years at a time." She takes a deep breath and goes on. "Sooooo ... when there's something like a barn dance or something, and a boy and girl spark a bit ... weeeeellll, if that happens and it's agreeable to the parents, then later the boy is invited out to spend the night at the girl's farm ... aaaaaaaand, if all goes well at dinner, then..."
"Spit it out, Annie," I says, gettin' impatient with all this hemmin' and hawin'.
She finally gets it out in a rush. "Then the boy and girl go to bed together and sometimes there's a board down the center of the bed and sometimes there's not, but usually they keep their nightclothes on and spend the night in just talking and maybe a little kissing and stuff, but no more than that, and if they find in the morning that they still agree, then they set up a date to get married and then they do and they go off to start their own farm. We never do it, of course, 'cause we're city girls and there's plenty of boys around here."
"You Yankees never cease to amaze me," I say, and after I have thought on this a bit and thought back on my own case, I say, "Yes. I have bundled and I did find it most pleasant."
There's hoots and I get called "Tacky Hotbottom" and there's pillows thrown and shrieks all around until, finally, down below, the father of the house takes up a poker or some such thing and gives the floor beneath us a few sharp raps and issues a muffled threat to beat us all to sleep if we don't quiet down and let a poor workingman get his rest and why was he cursed with daughters, and we do it, we blow out the candle and quiet down. We settle into the big bed with the big fat feather-tick blanket over all of us. Feeling all their bodies, both big and little, snugged in around me, their breathing growing slow and even, reminds me of the old kip neath the Blackfriars Bridge in London, with Polly and Judy and me and the rest, 'cept it's warm and clean here and our bellies are full, and there it warn't like that at all.
As I fall asleep with Jaimy's ring in my fist, I hope with all my heart that he and I still got an understanding. My letter is on its way to him, the one where I told him about my disgrace and told him I ain't never gonna be a lady, and he ain't gonna like that, no, he ain't gonna like that at all. Oh, I could've written lies about how good everything was going but I don't want to lie to him, not now, not ever. And if it comes out that he don't want me no more because of it all, well, I'll deal with that when I find out for sure.
Chapter 15
Tonight I resolve to check out the widow's walk, which is what the girls tell me the porch thing on top of the school is called. I had spotted the stair rig hanging up in the rafters overhead in the shadows at the other side of the long attic room the first time I was brought up here but hadn't worked out how to get it down. I had thought the ladder was fixed up there permanent to keep people from going up there, but tonight, when I bring the candle over for a closer look, I see that the whole thing is counterbalanced with weights and that a pull on the rope hanging from it brings the whole thing smoothly down to my waiting foot. I climb up toward the hatch above my head and when I reach it, I give it a shove. To my surprise, it opens and I see stars above me. I go up through and stand and look about.
Annie says porches on tops of houses like this are called "widow's walks" 'cause that's where women whose husbands are at sea pace about and worry and fret and look out across the ocean in hopes of seeing their husbands come home safe. The name, of course, hints at the fact that many of those husbands don't come back safe, or even come back at all.
I stand there and look out over the sea and hope I ain't a sort-of widow. I hope with all my heart that Jaimy is safe and has warm clothes and
is in good health. I hope he's got a plate of good food in front of him and a glass of good wine in his hand. I hope all that, I do, and if you want to call that a prayer, so be it.
The town is all spread out beneath me, lights in bedroom windows twinkling and going out, one by one, and the sea glinting under the light of the full moon, which has just risen and sits low over the water. It is a lovely, warm night and a slight breeze blows my skirt about my knees as I stand there and hope my hopes and dream my dreams.
I look for faithful Polaris, which should be right—
A light in the church catches my eye. The window is right below the belfry, and in the light stands the Reverend Mather. He seems to be shouting and gesturing wildly with his arms.
I duck down so he don't see my silhouette against the bright moonlit sky and I watch him through the branches of the big tree that stands between the church and the school, touching the roofs of both.
Sometimes he's at the window and sometimes he steps back, but he keeps coming back and waving his arms and pointing, always pointing at something outside, and I can see that he's shouting and his face is contorted but I can't hear the words. Maybe he's practicing his sermon for Sunday? No, he can get real worked up in those when he's telling us what sinners we are and how we're going straight to hell, but he don't get this worked up, no he don't.
By the way he snaps his head around it looks like he's talking to someone or arguing with 'em, but I get the creepy feeling that there ain't nobody in that room but him.
Now he's back at the window and he keeps pointing and pointing and jabbing his finger over and over again, and this time I try to follow his point and my eye goes over the churchyard and over the wall and it lands on the unmarked grave that Amy and I had seen that day by the churchyard, now a little mound of moon shadow in the gloom.
Chapter 16
We've just finished serving dinner and we're piling back into the kitchen with the dirty dishes, chatterin' and banterin', and I takes my position at the steaming tub and starts in to washing the dishes when all of a sudden there's a silence and I look sideways and I see that Amy Trevelyne has come up next to me. She does not look as if she has been sleeping well. She pokes me in my side and says, "You said you were going to be my friend. You were my friend. And now you are not."
I lower my head and say in a low voice, "We can't, Miss. I'm downstairs, now. Surely you know that things have changed?"
"That should not matter. What about all your talk of sisterhood? What about the spitting and the joining of those hands? The oath? Was that all false? Was it all a game? All a lie?"
"It was in a different time and place, Miss. I ain't complaining," I say, not looking at her. "Why should you?"
I put the scouring pad to the pan and start in to scrubbing. "Please, Miss. You're making me and the others nervous."
She sucks in her breath and I hear the rustle of her skirts as she rushes out.
We get the dishes done and are about to do some laundry when Peg up and says, "Jacky. That lawyer friend of yours was by today and said for you to drop by to see him when you get a chance, his office bein' on Union Street, right next to the Oyster House."
Hmmm, I thinks. What's up?
"So," says Peg, "go down and get some fish for tomorrow's chowder. About six pounds. You do know how to buy fish, don't you?"
"Peg, I was born in a market," I says, thinkin' back to the old days in Cheapside, and I pantomimes takin' a skinned fish and openin' it up where its guts used to be and stickin' my nose in and takin' a long sniff.
"All right. We have accounts with Fulton's and with Anzivino's. They're both in the Haymarket. Be back in time to serve supper."
The whole afternoon! Hooray!
"Luckeeeee," says Abby, and the rest of them hoot at me for getting out of work as I grab a basket and head out the door. It's a warm day and I won't need my cloak and I got my maid cap on as a head cover so I won't have to run upstairs and get my bonnet. I've found out since I got arrested that one of the reasons Wiggins picked up on me that day was that I wasn't wearing a hat, and around these parts that means you're advertising yourself as a bad girl. They could've told me that before I got nailed, jailed, and derailed in becoming a lady, but what's done is done.
This time I decide to take Gretchen cause that'll save me a bunch of time and it's a beautiful day and I love riding her, so that's all the reason I need. I head to the stables.
I don't get to ride with the upstairs ladies anymore, of course, but Henry lets me ride on my own 'cause I help clean up in the stables when I can sneak over to pet Gretchie. He's been ever so helpful to me since I got demoted. He's even let me put a regular saddle on Gretchen and try it that way, and I was right, it is a lot easier—boys always get everything their own way and we girls always got to do it the hard way. I know Henry was scandalized when I rode astride, with my skirt riding up to my knees, but I know he didn't look away.
He still blushes and stammers around me, but he's easier now that we're on the same level, like. I know he's glad I got sent down 'cause now we can be friends, though he don't say so. And I know that he wants to be more than friends but he don't push it, so I don't have to tell him that I am promised to another.
I spy him combing down Jupiter, which is Clarissa's horse that she owns herself. Nobody else ever rides Jupiter.
"Henry, can I take Gretchen to the market, please, say yes, please," I say, bouncing up and down and giving him the big eyes.
"I suppose, if you're careful with her, Jacky," says Henry, and he pulls a saddle off a rack and goes into Gretchen's stall and throws it on her. I could do it, but I know he likes doing it for me so I let him. She whinnies when she sees me, and I take an apple from a bin and give it to her. I love the feel of her lips in my palm as she takes it and then chews it up.
Henry weaves his fingers together and presents his hands to me for a leg up and I put my foot in his hands, but before I jump up, I lean forward and give him a kiss on his forehead and say, "Thanks, Henry, you're a dear," and then I take the reins and Gretchie and I head out into the light.
A sisterly peck now and then, what the harm? He seems to enjoy it so.
We cross Beacon Street and ride down through the Common and there's a good firm path there so I get Gretchie up to the gallop and go whooping and hallooing along, scattering goats and sheep that go nay-ing and baaa-ing out of our way till we get to the streets, and then we slow to a trot on Tremont Street and then to a walk on Court Street 'cause I don't want to cause no fuss here, that's for certain, but I blends right in 'cause there's lots of people in the street, both walking and riding, and Gretchen is ever so gentle in the way she picks her way through that there's never an angry eye cast our way.
As we go by the courthouse I catch a glimpse of that hated whipping post and...
...And the stocks. I realize with a start that the stocks ain't empty and the person in 'em is none other than Mr. Gulliver MacFarland, the Hero of Culloden Moor and my former jailhouse mate.
There is a hitching post at the side of the courthouse by the stocks and I dismount and tie Gretchen's reins to the rail and pet her and whisper in her ear so she'll feel safe here where she ain't been before. She flashes me a trusting eye and I walk over to the pillory.
There is a gang of boys there who have gathered up some choice pieces of dog mess and they are laughing and jeering and tossing it at Gully's helpless head held captive there in the stocks. His fists clench in rage in their holes in the stout wooden face of the stocks and his face is dirty with the dog mess that's already hit, and he curses the urchins to Hell, which only makes them laugh more and throw more mess. I stoop down and pick up some rocks and advance to a place where both Gully and the boys can see me.
"Leave off!" I say in my best command voice.
"Won't!" says the boys, and they makes as if to throw some of that stuff at me.
I picks out the worst lookin' of the young brutes and wings off a rock at him. "There's one for Cheapside!" I ye
lls and gets off another. The second rock catches him on his broad rump and he yelps and gets off some dirty words at me, which don't bother me none, I just throws some more.
"Hard to miss that fat ass!" I taunts and hurls two more at his chums and connects with one. "And here's one for Blackfriars Bridge and here's another for Charlie Rooster and how 'bout one for Hugh the Grand, sure," and I've got a real rain of rocks in the air and the urchins turn tail and run and I'm glad to see I ain't lost me touch. I dust off my hands and nod to Gulliver MacFarland.
He grins up at me through his filth and says, "Good job, Miss, and I thank you. No, no, wait!"
I had turned and was heading back to Gretchen, thinkin' my job here was done. I stop and look back.
"Please. Come back. We've got to talk, me and you." He gives me what I'm sure he thinks is a winning smile but which ain't even close. I did not think that anyone could look worse than Gully MacFarland the last time I saw him, but I was wrong as he's topped himself in the way of filth. "You and me. We could be a team. You with your whistle and me with the Lady Lenore."
I know I should go on, but I wait to hear what he has to say.
"I caught your little act there that night in the tank. You were pretty good—a bit rough here and there, but then you were plainly scared ... I get out of here in a little bit. Can you wait?"
"I've got to buy some fish," says I, full of doubt. I look around all careful-like, making sure that Wiggins ain't around.
"Don't worry about the constable, girl," says Gully Mac-Farland, reading my mind. "I saw him take his fat self down to the docks to collect his bribes not ten minutes ago. Besides, they got you for the showin' of your legs, not for playin' of the tunes. They haven't outlawed music in Boston, at least not yet. Do you know 'MacPherson's Farewell'?"