Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (11 page)

I see the prospect of getting out of here for an afternoon working slowly across his face.

“You can do that?”

“Of course I can!” I say in my most managerial tone, my finger in the air. “Am I not the governess of this colony! And do you not agree to the terms?”

“Oh, very well,” he says, flinging down sword and seating himself at his desk. “But don't expect me to learn anything, because I shan't.”

Oh, yes, you shall, young Edgar,
I'm thinking as I pull the math book from the shelf and place it in front of him.
For I know exactly what a young boy should know in the way of math and science, for did I not go to school with five of the rascals on HMS
Dolphin
? And they were a helluva lot tougher than you, Master Polk.

 

And so the afternoon at Maison Polk rolls on. Edgar grumbles, but he works on his long division—which I just knew he did not know—and Cathy is busy on her alphabet, humming away, seemingly happy.

To give them a break in the afternoon, I pull out my flageolet and give them a few tunes. Cathy claps her hands delightedly, while Edgar just grumbles about the noise.

At last there is the bell for dinner and we all go down.

 

We have a nice dinner, Midge, Nellie, Cathy, Edgar, and me. It's pork chops with stuffing and potatoes and gravy, with sweet cider on the side, and I tuck it away with piggish abandon. Edgar, of course, makes a great show of hating everything, but I notice, when I make another grab at his plate in order to dump it again, he lunges forward to prevent me doing that and then settles in to eating. Our eyes meet. We are beginning to understand each other.

After all have finished—and both Midge and Nellie turned out to be excellent company—the women turn to cleanup, while I take the children upstairs to get them ready for bed . . . and Presentation to the Parents.

Cathy, of course, is easy. She quickly doffs her clothes, does her business in the pot, lets me wash her in the warm, soapy water Nellie has provided, dries off with a fluffy towel, and then it's on with her white nightdress. She waits in the hall, Amy in hand, while I go to tackle Edgar.

“You will
not
enter this room when I am in here!” he shouts out to me.

Boys, I swear . . . Haven't I seen at least several hundred completely naked males?

“All right,” I call back at him, “but you better come out clean! Believe me, I will check!”

Eventually, he comes out, dressed in his nightshirt and looking surly. I give a quick visual inspection, take a quick sniff of his hair—he will need a bath soon—and pronounce him presentable enough, for now. Then I take Cathy by the hand and lead them down the stairs.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Polk are seated at the grand table in the dining room, one at either end, when I bring in the children. I think both are surprised to see me still here. The missus is looking wan but a little better than when I saw her in the morning. It is plain that they have finished the main course and Mr. Polk is lingering over coffee. He lifts an eyebrow in question.

“Good evening, Mr. Polk, Mrs. Polk. I hope you had a pleasant day. I have worked with the children today and am generally pleased with the results. Cathy here has embarked upon her ABCs, and she is doing fine. See, she has drawn a
C,
the first letter in her name. Hold it up, dear.”

Cathy holds up her paper to her father's gaze.

“That's fine,” he says dismissively. “But what about the boy?”

Cathy drops the paper, and the thumb goes back in her mouth.

“Well, Sir, I can report that young Edgar is quite proficient in both history and English. However, he does need some work on math to bring him up to snuff, and we are on it. I am sure that you, as a banker, would approve of that?”

“Harrumph,” says Mr. Polk, trapped into agreeing with his new governess. “That is so, I'd say. Were you happy with what went on today, Edgar?”

Here's your chance, Captain, to blow me away.

He does not take it. Instead he fixes a look of pure malice upon me and says, “Yes, Father, all went well. I hope you had a good day at the bank.”

I notice that Edgar is much more polite in the presence of his father. He does not fear his mother, but he definitely is afraid of a stern word from his dad.

“That is good. Now off to bed with you,” says Mr. Polk. “Miss Leigh, a word with you after you tuck in the children.”

“Yessir,” I say. “Come, children. Say good night, now.”

They do and we trudge up the stairs.

“You don't have to tuck me in, Governess,” sneers Edgar, going into his bedroom. “I can do it myself!” He slams the door shut behind him.

I take Cathy into her room, get her into bed, and tuck her in with Amy beside her. Planting a kiss upon her brow—
such a good little girl
—I pull the covers to her chin and wish her sweet dreams. She smiles and closes her eyes, and I go down to rejoin Mr. and Mrs. Polk.

Mr. Polk gestures to a place where a cup of tea has been placed, so I go and sit there.

“Well, Miss Leigh, we must say, we are most pleased with your performance so far”—even Mrs. Polk manages a wan smile at that—“and we hope that—”

All of a sudden, there is a loud rumpus from up above, in the direction of Edgar's room, of course. It sounds very much like he is pounding his feet on the floor.

Mrs. Polk's smile disappears and her hand goes to her mouth. “Oh, Lord, he is doing it again, and I so wished—”

Mr. Polk rises, as do I, my tea untasted. “Yes,” he says. “It is a shame that our Edgar is so high-strung . . . so sensitive . . . but I imagine it goes with his fine breeding. Patience, I am sure you will go up and calm him down?”

Breeding, my Cockney ass! Why don't you just go up and kick the tar out of the little monster!

Mrs. Polk, the well-named Patience, nods in defeat as Mr. Polk takes his hat from the rack and announces, “I am off to my club to meet with some important business associates. Until later, then.”

And I'll bet you go off every night when Edgar starts playing this tune, you coward, you.

As Mrs. Polk rises to go do her weary duty, I place a restraining hand on her arm and bid her to stay. “Nay, Mistress, let me have a word with the lad. I believe I might be able to soothe his mind with a gentle bedtime story.”

Putting on the full Lawson Peabody Look, I then turn to the departing Mr. Polk to say, “I believe, Mr. Polk, that you will not be disturbed in such a way ever again. Do have a pleasant evening.”

With that, I turn and go to the stairs.

Although I made him promise to be good in class, I did not, however, tell him to lay off any other disturbance, and so we have this. He is a wily little bastard, I'll give him that . . . But I am wily, too . . . for I know that if there is one class of people more superstitious than sailors, it is little boys.
So stand by, Eddie, for some heavy weather.

As it is growing dark, I grab a lamp from the hall, and then I burst into Edgar's room.

“Get out of here,” he shouts, jumping back into bed. “You are not allowed in—”

I hold the lamp up to my face, revealing it to be a mask of pure terror. “Oh, Master Edgar, I am so sorry, but I fear for your very life! And it is all my fault!”

He begins to look concerned and pulls his sheet to his chin. “Why, what do you mean?”

“The Bed Monsters is what I mean! I heard them from below! They must have followed me here from the Cabots'! Oh, woe! How I hope they did not devour those poor, poor boys!”

“Nonsense,” says Edgar stoutly. “There's no such thing as Bed Monsters.”

“Get back there, you!” I cry, making a great show of stamping my foot on the floor. “Back!”

“What was that?” he asks, a trifle less stoutly.

“Nothing. Just a tentacle,” I say, breathing hard. I kneel down and shout under the bed, “Now, you leave our Eddie alone! He's a good boy!”

I straighten up and say, “He . . . and the others . . . will stay back now . . . at least for a while. They'll mind me . . . up to a point. Now, let me tell you about Bed Monsters, for I know the buggers well.”

“Still don't believe you,” he says, his eyes wide now.

I crouch next to the bed, the lamp to my face, making me look right hideous, I know. Then I whisper . . .

“First of all, never let any of your bedclothes trail on the floor, 'cause they can crawl right up 'em and get you lyin' there all scared and helpless.”

With that, I pick up the edge of a sheet and tuck it under the mattress.

“Second of all, they are blind, which is to our advantage,” I continue. “How so? Why, that means that they can only find you
if you make a noise.
Watch this . . .”

Making a fist, I rap my knuckles on the floor, then quickly jerk my hand back to my chest, exclaiming, “Did you see that claw try to grab me when I made that sound?”

He tried to look, but I was too quick.

“Brrrr . . . that was close! You may be sure I won't try that again, and I advise you not to do it, either.”

It is not likely he will try, for his covers are now up to his eyes. I stand to take my leave.

“So, Edgar, I am sorry I brought them here, but what is done is done. You know the rule: Make no noise and they will not be able to follow the sound of your voice and so find their prey.”

I go to the door, but before I exit, I turn and say, “Please hearken to what I have said. I would hate to come up here in the morning and find an empty, bloody bed. What would I tell your poor mother? Sweet dreams, Edgar.”

I close the door behind me and go down to rejoin Mrs. Polk for that cup of tea.

From above, all is silence.

The Journal of Amy Trevelyne

Dovecote Farm

Quincy, Massachusetts

Begun September, 1809

 

Dear Reader,

I am beginning this journal to record what I know of the most recent peregrinations of my dear friend Jacky Faber. You might know of her earlier exploits from the biographical novels I have previously published concerning her wild adventures. The fact that I have no idea where she is right now and have no means of communicating with her are the reasons I have commenced this record. Another reason, I am loath to admit, is that I have a great sense of foreboding concerning the future well-being of my dearest friend—I am not superstitious, but she has tempted Fate far too many times, and I fear she may be brought to account this time. I feel I owe it to future generations to record what very well might be the final chapter in her life. Though I hope I am wrong.

I know that she is in serious trouble, for once not due to indiscretions on her part, but rather to machinations on the part of her many enemies. As to her whereabouts, I can only rely on the bits of information I am able to glean from conversations with Mr. Ezra Pickering, her friend and attorney.

Do not fear, gentle reader, that this journal will fall into the wrong hands, thereby leading to the capture of Miss Faber and causing her grievous injury, for I shall keep these pages in a secure casket under lock and key. I would never wish to cause her even the slightest injury, as I hold her in my heart and soul with all the love therein.

I pray for good news.

 

Entry dated September 19, 1809—signed Amy Trevelyne

The morning goes reasonably well. We have oatmeal for breakfast—a glop of hot cooked meal in the center of each bowl, surrounded by a moat of warm milk, and topped with a sprinkling of coarse brown sugar. Not bad, but it could be better. I make a note to buy some maple syrup later, when we go out into the town.

As soon as my charges and I tromp up to the classroom, Edgar corrals me in a state of high indignation.

“There ain't no such thing as Bed Monsters, you,” he says, finger in my eye. “I looked this morning, and there wasn't nothing under my bed. So there!”

“Mind your grammar, Master Edgar,” I say, pulling the math book from the shelf and placing it on his desk. “Everybody knows that at first light of dawn Bed Monsters slink away to their dank pools of slime, far below in the fuming cracks of the very earth itself. They rest up till darkness comes. Then once again they take up residence 'neath a poor boy's bed. Everybody knows that. Everyone who's still alive, that is. Now, let us attend to your math.”

He remains unconvinced. “Then why don't they go after
her?
” he asks, gesturing toward his sister, who happily babbles away in her cubicle. I had lined out the rest of the alphabet for Cathy and she has mastered the first five letters, singing them as a song. She is a
very
bright little girl. I have also made a simple drawing of her cat, and she is enthusiastically copying it.

“
Because
 . . .” I say, as if exasperated, “the Bed Monsters like only
boy
meat. Girl flesh is too soft for them . . . Gets stuck in their teeth, like.”

“Still don't believe,” he mutters, arms crossed in firm resolve.

Ah, yes, young man, it is easy to be so brave in the cold light of day, but tonight, when darkness comes creeping stealthily into your room like a black cat on quiet paws, well, we'll see then, won't we?

“Anyway, never mind that,” I say brusquely. “We must now get to our math. 'Bout time we got into some geometry. Here . . .”

He looks at me warily. “You're not going to weasel out on it, are you? We are still going out this afternoon?”

“No, I am not . . . as long as you keep your part of the bargain. Now look at this. It is something that Captain Blood will find very interesting.” I find a stray piece of paper on his desktop, and upon it I draw a right triangle.

“Bet he won't,” retorts Edgar, all sullen.