Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (14 page)

Having some time to myself, I penned a quick letter to Amy Trevelyne, telling her once again not to worry about me. Intending to post it the next day, and it being a bit before dinnertime and the return of the children, I had then picked up my cosmetic kit and headed downstairs to see Mrs. Polk.

I found her in her bedroom, propped up in her bed, looking out the window, an unopened book of verse lying in her lap.

Unbidden, I entered and chirped, “Sit up, Missus, and let's have a bit of a go at you with a touch of the old powder and blush.”

Surprised, she smiled wanly. “I don't think you should waste your time on me. Not with that sort of thing.”

“Nonsense. All us women need a little fixing up every now and then. But first, take this.”

“What is it?” she asked as I handed her a little glass of very dark purple liquid.

“A simple restorative, Ma'am, nothing more.”

She swallowed it and said, “Umm. Like candy.”

Others have said that, Missus . . .

It was, of course, a dose of Jacky's Little Helper, Tincture of Opium, cut with Mr. Filibuster's blackberry syrup. A bit of color had come into her cheeks.

“And now,” I said, opening my kit and taking out the soft powder brush and applying it to her cheeks, “a touch of this to soften your excellent cheekbones a bit . . . and now just the slightest hint of rouge there, and on the lips . . .”

She let me do it, yet protested, “But, Miss, all your efforts will be in vain, for my husband no longer finds me . . . attractive.”

I gave a good snort on that one. “He found you attractive enough to get you with child three times, didn't he? Now, hold still while I do your eyes.” I ran my thin kohl brush through the tiny dish of dark brown paste and applied it to the lower edge of her upper eyelid—not too much; this is Plymouth and not Rangoon, after all—and then sat back to survey my handiwork.

“Good. Now a quick brush of your hair . . . Yes, let's pin it up a bit there, and let the curls hang by your face like that . . . and will you take a little dab of jasmine perfume? There, right behind your ears, and you may keep the bottle. Don't be silly, I've got tons of the stuff . . .”

Actually, I do have a lot of jasmine perfume—my ship, the
Lorelei Lee,
brought back an enormous amount of that essence on her return from the Orient. I know that un­scrupulous members of my crew have tapped into FaberShipping's supply of that heady scent to work their lusty way into the hearts—and beds—of many a wayward lass. I suspect that randy Arthur McBride has pilfered an entire cask for his own rascally use.

“There,” I said, rising. “I believe I hear Miss Felicity's coach, and I must see to the children. If you feel up to it, you should rise and dress for dinner. I suggest the mauve dress with pink trim. You look just smashing in that.”

Later, when presenting the children dressed for bed, I could see that she had taken my advice and worn the mauve. If she did not look positively radiant, she certainly looked a lot better, and, I suspect, Mr. Polk did not go out to his club for the evening.

 

“Is it not a glorious day, children?” I enthuse as we emerge from the post office and head for the White Rose . . . 
slowly
head for the Rose, as I want to time this just right. We are on a board walkway that runs along a low wall that, in turn, runs along the playground of Plymouth Public School.

“We shall have tea in just the finest little porcelain cups with pink roses around the rim,” I say, prattling along in my most annoyingly female way. “And they have these cunning little cakes that I swear just melt in your mouth.”

This bit of drivel is greeted with a squeeze of the hand from Cathy and with a groan from Edgar.

“But I don't want to go to a stupid teahouse,” he grumbles as the doors of the schoolhouse open and the kids pour out, right on schedule.

“Oh, Edgar,” I purr. “Do not worry, for
you
are not going to the Rose, just Cathy and I are.”

“But what . . . ?”

Oh, you will see, you little worm, you will see . . .

Six of the schoolboys swarm over the low wall and come toward a very shocked Edgar Allen Polk.

“Hey, Eddie, we were lookin' for you!” says the grinning head boy, whose name I know is Roscoe. “We need another lad on the pitch! Come on!” Two of the other boys grabEdgar by his arms and haul him roughly over the wall.Roscoe gives me a broad wink, while Edgar fixes a look of the purest hatred upon me

For my part, I give him my little finger wave and say, “Play nice, Edgar. We'll be over there at the White Rose when the game is over. Toodles.”

Edgar disappears into the scrum, and Cathy and I slip into the Rose.

After the three of us are seated—Cathy, Amy, and I—Mrs. Tibbetts brings me a cup of strong tea, and a cup of sweet mint tea with grenadine syrup for Cathy, which she avidly slurps down. She makes short work of the cakes as well. I let her enjoy—we shall begin learning teatime manners at a later time.

As we enjoy the offerings, I notice the same shy little girl I had seen on my first visit peeking around the corner of the kitchen door, and make note of it as Mrs. Tibbetts approaches our table and asks if she might speak with me.

“Of course, Missus. Please, sit down.”

She does, and gets to the point right off. “I know that you have taken on the task of being governess to the Polk children . . .” Here she cuts a glance at Cathy and continues, “And I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you have stayed with that thankless job. You see, Mrs. Polk was . . . is . . . a special friend to me, and I fear for both her health and her very life. You see . . .”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Tibbetts, for a moment,” I say, turning to Cathy. “Cathy, would you like to take your doll and show her to that little girl over there? Her name is . . .”

“Chelsea,” says the landlady.

Cathy glances over and then slides out of her chair, taking Amy over to visit with Chelsea. Cathy is small and young, but she does not lack for courage.

“Go on, Missus. Sorry to interrupt.”

“The rudeness is all mine, Miss Leigh, and I am sorry to intrude, but, you see, I am rather distraught over the decline of my dear friend Patience Polk,” she says. “Oh, if you could have seen her when we were both younger! She was bright and gay and vivacious, the very flower of our society . . . Then she married Mr. Polk, who, as you well know, is the exact opposite of all that . . .”

“We both know that husbands can appear cold and distant to those outside the family. I do not believe he abuses her. And he provides well for her and the family.”

“I know, I know. He is not the problem,” she says, with a grim set to her mouth. “It is that
child
.”

“I assume you mean Edgar?”

“Yes. He was born a year after the marriage, and things have gone downhill for her ever since. The boy, instead of being a joy to his loving mother, developed into a monster, completely breaking her spirit. Catherine was born three years after the boy, and though a perfect angel, the birth broke Patience's health as well. And now another is on the way. I just don't know what is going to happen to my dear friend . . .” A tear is working its way into the corner of her eye.

I put my hand on hers. “Do not despair, Mrs. Tibbetts, for there is hope. Only yesterday I attended to Mrs. Polk and . . .”

I describe to her my visit with Patience Polk, telling of how the sparkle returned in a small way to her eyes under my poor ministrations. I do not mention the dose of Jacky's Little Helper. That potion I had left in care of Midge, the housekeeper, with strict instructions to give Mrs. Polk a mere ounce, no more, each day at four o'clock, to improve her mood.

“Oh, if you could but stay! So many have come and gone because of that wretched boy!”

“I have no intentions of leaving, Missus, but who can presume to see the future?”

“If it is a question of money,” she says, embarrassed, “I could supplement your income in a small way. I know your pay must be meager.”

I have to smile at that, thinking about the state of my wealth and the holdings of Faber Shipping Worldwide on both the sea and land. I could buy and sell this woman and her pretty little teahouse ten times over. But then again, she is in her place of business, and I am not in mine, however rich I might be.

“Thank you, Missus, that is most kind,” I say, putting my hand on hers once again. “But I have enough in that regard.”

She nods, then looks around and says, “Where is the little beast, anyway?”

“I arranged for the local schoolboys to welcome him into their manly midst,” I say, glancing in the direction of the schoolhouse. “He is there right now, enjoying a brisk game of rugby football.”

“What! That little sissy? They'll eat him alive!” she says, incredulous.

“No, they won't,” I murmur, with a sly smile. “I made sure they won't leave any marks on him—none that show, anyway. Actually, I expect him anytime now. I just heard the school bell ringing, to call the students back from recess.”

Sure enough, a very disheveled and very angry Edgar Allen Polk bursts through the door. He is sweaty and dirty, with scuff marks everywhere—except for his face.

“Ahoy, Edgar,” I crow. “Did you have a good scrum with Roscoe and the lads? I bet you showed them what for, eh? Bully for you!”

“I will get you for that,” he hisses. His normally carefully combed hair hangs lank and twisted against his furious face. “I will tell my father tonight, and he will send you packing, which he should have done when you first got here. I promise you—”

“Now, Edgar, mind your manners,” I say, calmly rising and calling out for Cathy. “Come, Cathy, we must go. I am sure Chelsea will invite you back for another visit very soon. Adieu, Mrs. Tibbetts. I hope our little talk has set your mind somewhat at ease regarding your friend.”

“It did, Miss Leigh, but—” says Mrs. Tibbetts, looking a bit worried at the fuming Edgar.

I take her meaning and laugh. “Do not worry. I have many arrows in my quiver. Till some other time, then. Cathy, Edgar, come along.”

And along we do go, back to the House of Polk.

 

“You'd better be packed,” warns Edgar, “'cause you're gonna be gone as soon as my father gets home. Count on it. I hope you have to sleep in the street tonight with the rest of the beggars.”

“And you'd best get cleaned up for dinner, Edgar, as you are a bit of a mess,” I say, unconcerned. “And as for my baggage, you know my seabag is always packed. See, there it is right there.”

There is a light rap at the door and Bert Olnutt comes in, bearing framed pictures and a hammer.

“Ah, here's our Mr. Olnutt with your portraits ready to hang,” I pipe. “Would you like to see them?”

Cathy nods in joyous anticipation.

I give Bert the signal and he turns her picture around. She yelps in delight at seeing herself painted all in ribbons and bows, with jolly daisies all around. She bounces over and plants a loving kiss on my cheek by way of thanks.

“Thank you, dear,” I say. “Now let's see if Edgar gives me a kiss for his portrait.”

He does not.

“It doesn't matter,” sneers Edgar. “I'm still gonna see you gone. You, too, handyman, for busting my peashooter and calling me a brat and . . .”

Then his expression changes from one of righteous indignation to one of complete horror. Yes, I had done
two
portraits of the lad, one heroic, and the other, in keeping with the custom, picturing him as a girl. He is in a lovely yellow dress, with white petticoats, holding a bouquet of roses. His hair is curled with yellow and white ribbons entwined, and the top of his head is crowned with a big pink bow.

He is speechless, but I am not.

“Oh, your mother is going to just
love
that one,” I chirp. “Mr. Olnutt, let's put them up in the entrance hallway, where all may admire them. And see, Edgar, so that there's no mistake in identifying you in years to come, I even put your whole name, Edgar Allen Polk, on your portrait. As a matter of fact, I invited Roscoe and the lads from the school over anytime they needed an extra lad on the rugby pitch. Surely they will want to see it. Bert, please put them up high enough such that no one can take them down.

“So what's it going to be, Eddie? You know the deal. This portrait or the other one? Hmmm?”

The shoulders of Edgar Allen Polk slump in absolute and total defeat.

 

That evening, as I present the children to their parents, freshly scrubbed and in their nightclothes, I relate the events of the day . . .

Cathy met and had a fine playtime with the daughter of your friend Mrs. Tibbetts, and bold Master Edgar here insisted on joining a group of the local boys for a fierce game of rugby and acquitted himself most admirably. He especially distinguished himself at goal, and the boys invited him back! Isn't that so, Master Edgar?

Master Edgar agreed that it was, indeed, so.

Miss Annabelle Leigh

General Delivery

Plymouth, Massachusetts. USA

October 4, 1809

 

Miss Amy Trevelyne

Dovecote Farm

Quincy, Massachusetts

 

Dear Amy,

Greetings and salutations from your wayward but loving sister!

All continues to go reasonably well here at Polk House. It's been several weeks now since I fled Boston in some haste. Isn't it ironic, Amy? Way back when I first got to Beantown and the Trevelynes were in danger of losing Dovecote to heavy debts, remember when I asked you what you would do if you were kicked out and on your own? You replied that you'd have to leave the Lawson Peabody and take a dull post as a governess to somebody's children, and here wacky Jacky is the one who actually takes such a job! What a crazy world!