Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (9 page)

I had purposely chosen that name, having remembered it from an embroidered sampler I had seen framed on the wall of the Lawson Peabody—the old Lawson Peabody, the one that had burned down with, it is to be hoped, all its student records. The real Miss A. H. Leigh would have graduated several years before I got there, and so I should be safe with that name.

“. . . and I was recently employed as tutor to several children of the Cabot family, but was let go after the lads went into high school. I am sure they will give me an excellent recommendation.”

“You have letters of reference with you?” He glances at my bag.

“Alas, no. They were in my other luggage, which has been delayed. However, I can write to a Mr. Pickering, an attorney who handles things of this nature for Mistress Pimm of the Lawson Peabody, and he will arrange to have the letters sent directly to you. They should arrive in a few days. That is, if I prove acceptable to you.”

He leans back in his chair and puts his well-manicured fingertips together as he regards me.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“You don't look it.”

“I have been told that, but I have indeed attained that age.”

“Hmm . . . this is a bit irregular, no papers at all, and your young age . . .” He seems to come to a decision. “But, very well. You are hired as governess to my children. Here are the conditions: You shall be given room and board at my house. You will take your meals with the servants, but you will take tea in the evening with my wife and me, such that you will be able to report on the children's progress. You will be given a remittance of five dollars a week. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, Sir. However, I must have one afternoon a week off to attend to personal matters. Fridays would be good.”

“You realize you have no
personal
life when you live at my house and attend to my children,” he says sternly.

By that I know he means “no men,” and I set his mind at ease.

“I realize that, Sir. I need that bit of time to buy personal things—toiletries and sundry . . . female items . . .” I get a manly flush to his cheeks on that, as I knew I would. “And I will need to check my mail.”

“Very well. However, I have some further rules concerning my family . . .”

I raise an eyebrow and listen.

“While my daughter, Catherine, will be no trouble to you, my son, Edgar, is very high-strung and, as such, must never be struck, nor shall he ever be spoken to in a harsh manner. Is that understood? It would be cause for immediate termination of your employment. I repeat, is that perfectly clear, Miss Leigh?”

“Perfectly, Sir,” I say, with a look of rectitude on my face. “I have never raised my hand in anger to a child, and as for severe scoldings, I have other, gentler methods.”

“That is very good to hear, Miss,” he says, trying out what for him must be a rare smile and rising, signaling the interview is over. I also rise, and perform a medium, businesslike curtsy, which he returns with a slight bow.

“I shall inform my wife to expect you at . . . ?” He looks up at the clock that hangs on his wall. It is ten o'clock.

“I will need an hour or so to check out of my lodgings and write to Mr. Pickering for the references and will report at eleven thirty. Will that be all right?”

“Yes. I shall send a boy to inform Mrs. Polk of your imminent arrival. Good day to you, Miss Leigh.”

I bid him a similar farewell, pick up my bag, and leave his office. On my way out of the bank, the receptionist asks of me, “Excuse me, Miss, and pardon me for asking, but did you get the position, such that I might tell any other applicants that the job is filled?”

I turn and say, “Why, yes, I did.”

She smiles a very slight, knowing smile, then says, “Good luck.”

Now, what could she mean by that?

 

Having no lodgings to check out of, I head directly for the post office to write to Ezra. Luckily, there is a writing platform built along one wall, with inkwell and pens and blotting paper provided, so I don't have to drag mine from my bag. I pull out my recently purchased paper and write . . .

 

Miss Annabelle H. Leigh

General Delivery

Plymouth, Mass.

 

Ezra Pickering, Esq.

Union Street

Boston, Mass.

 

Dear Ezra,

I write in great haste, so bear with me, please. I have gained a position at the home of a Mr. Polk as governess to his two children, as I consider it to be excellent cover.

However, I will need the following sent to Mr. Polk, President, First Mercantile Bank of Plymouth:

Letters of recommendation from Mistress Pimm, stating my graduation in 1804, and from the Cabot family, me having been tutor to their children for several years. I realize that writing those would go against your professional ethics, so beg Higgins to do them. He is very good at that sort of thing, as you well know.

I believe that Higgins could write me directly at this address and under this alias, perhaps with word on Jaimy's efforts . . . Amy, too. I think it would be well for Miss Leigh to receive mail from various people, in case anyone is watching my mail.

 

Written in Great Haste,

J.

 

I blot the letter, take another piece of paper and fold it into an envelope, stuff the letter in, and glue it closed with my mucilage. I then pen addresses on the other side, blot that, and take it to the window, pay the Postmaster, exit, and head for the Polk residence.

Reaching the address given to me, I am pleased that the house is very near the harbor—in fact, on Water Streetitself—which is good in case I have to make a hasty departure. It stands cheek to cheek with fine brick houses to either side, sharing walls and leaving no alleyways between. I climb the stone steps, lift the knocker, then let it fall.

The door is opened immediately by a very harried-looking woman. She is also very much with child and has the look of morning sickness all over her face. “Thank God you've come! Please, come in. Oh, God, I'm so sick.”

If that was not bad enough as a welcome, there is the sound of a large racket coming from above. There is the pound of running feet and great shouts of rage. A maid comes into the hall, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“Midge, please take Miss Leigh up to the children. I can't, I just can't! I'm sorry, Miss Leigh. Please follow Midge . . . and please, Miss Leigh . . .”

She pauses to gasp out the last . . .

“. . . please stay.”

 

Midge opens the door at the top of the stairs, and I go in. It is a large, well-lighted room, with desks and books all around. It also has a very scared little girl cowering in a corner, clutching a little doll to her breast and looking up at me with wild, frightened eyes.

Also in the room is an older boy, in white shirt and short black pants. He is of a slim build, with brown hair parted on the right side and combed flat, and a curiously triangular face—broad forehead, narrow chin. But that is not his most striking feature—it is his enormous, dark eyes that slope downward at the outer ends. Most curious . . . On his head is a newspaper folded into a semblance of a cocked hat, and in his hand is a toy sword made of wood. He shakes the sword at me and snarls . . .

“Avast there! I am the pirate Edgar Allen Polk, and I am going to kill you like I have killed all the others, unworthy wretch!”

No, young Edgar Allen Polk did not kill me, nor did he kill any of my unfortunate predecessors. No, it seems he merely scared most of them away within hours of the first day, and the rest left soon after. No wonder the elder Mr. Polk appeared ready to hire me on the spot, handy references or not, what with a wild child at home with his distraught wife and another child on the way. I'll wager he stays late at his office, too. Oh well, it's a good, safe kip for me, so I will see what I can do with all this . . .

Upon entering this room, designated as the children's classroom, I find, as stated, the place in complete chaos. Books and papers are scattered all around, some on the three desks that rest within, ignored, and some on the floor. There is a nice bookcase, but none of the books reside therein. There is a large blackboard with gory eyeballs and crude knives and swords drawn on it, all dripping with red chalk blood. Clothing, too, lies strewn about on the floor or thrown carelessly over chair backs, and in the middle of it all stands the defiant cause of the chaos.

Edgar looks at me with lordly disdain as Midge timidly says, “Children, this is your new governess, Miss Leer . . .”

With a slightly embarrassed aside to me, she continues, tapping her right ear, “You'll have to excuse me, Miss, but I am a bit hard of hearing.”

And that must be a blessing on this job,
I'm thinkin' as I gaze upon young Master Polk, who continues to lunge about, hooting and hollering and waving his sword, slamming it every now and then on an already much-scarred desktop.

“Thank you, Midge, I'll take it from here,” I say, giving her arm a pat. “Oh, and before you go, do you have a handyman?”

“A
candyman?
” she asks, confused.

“No, dear, a
handyman,
” I say a bit louder, over Edgar's unceasing racket. “I will need some slight alterations to this classroom to make it a more restful learning environment for the children.”

“Oh, yes,” she says, brightening. “Our Mr. Olnutt. I'll send him right up.” With that, she gratefully leaves, shaking her head over the thought of any learning going on up here with that little monster railing about.

As the door closes behind her, I turn to my young charges and clap my hands and begin introductions.

“Good morning, children,” I say, with pince-nez back in place but with a pleasant look on my face. “I am your new teacher. You may call me Miss Leigh.”

“I'll call you anything I want,” snarls the boy, with a low glare straight into my eyes. “You will call me Captain Blood.”

“Very well, Captain,” I reply. “I have been told you will also answer to the name of Edgar.”

“Doesn't matter.” He snorts. “You'll be gone before dinner, just like the rest. You'll see. And you stink.”

I turn and lean down to the little girl. “And you would be Catherine? What a lovely name. May I call you Cathy?”

She looks up over the head of her dolly and nods, a bit hopelessly, I believe, like she's seen all this before.

“You stink like all the others. Silly old maids . . . spinsters what couldn't find a decent husband, 'cause you're ugly, too. So, begone, foolish woman, and leave me be. I am the King around here, and I rule.”

“I see that you do, indeed,” I say, surveying the wreckage of the room.

“Yes, I do,” he says smugly and seemingly pleased with my agreement to his terms, lifting his sword now as if it were a scepter. “And I know the rules: the King can be neither beaten nor touched, nor is he to be spoken to in a harsh manner. So you have no power over me; you can do nothing. So you may leave my presence.”

I perceive that there is nothing wrong with this kid's vocabulary in spite of his shortcomings in the way of manners. We shall see . . .

I survey the chessboard that is laid out before me and decide that I shall not attack the King directly as he stands, all strong and powerful, at the end of the board, but rather from the weak side—from the side of the helpless pawn . . .

“Come, Cathy,” I say all brisk to the cowering little girl. “Let us get you set up with a proper place of your own. But first, let us get some air in here . . .”

There are three large windows across the front of the room facing First Street, and two out the back, next to a door. I advance to the front and fling up the sashes, saying, “Ah, that's much better, is it not?”

Not waiting for a reply from either, I go to the back ones and open them as well. I am gratified to note that the door leads to steps, which go down to a back alley that ends on Water Street. And
yes!
I can even see the harbor where bobs the mast of my sweet little
Evening Star
! Good to know, in case quick escape is called for.

There is a tapping on the door, and a man steps in. He is thin of face, slightly stooped, and needs a shave, but he's a pleasant-enough-looking chap, all around. He wears a leather cap and tool belt from which dangle many useful-looking tools, and he appears competent. “Yes, Miss,” he says, forefinger to cap. “Olnutt, here. How can I be helping you?”

“We need a little alcove built over here, so that Cathy might have a more private area in which to study.” I give a significant look over my shoulder at the rampaging Edgar.

Mr. Olnutt nods grimly and mutters, “Give me five minutes with that little monster and—”

“Tut-tut, Mr. Olnutt,” I say, waving a warning finger. “That would lose you your job, and we wouldn't want that. We both know of Mr. Polk's rules in regard to his gentle son, Edgar, do we not?”

He grunts in reluctant agreement and stands ready.

“Here, help me push this desk over to that nice window there,” I say, laying my hand upon it. He comes over and we shove it about such that it faces the right-hand window, next to the wall. “That's it. Now we'll need a sturdy stool for our Cathy to sit upon. Ah, that will do. Up with you now, lass. Good.”

She climbs up and sits, her eyes wide and mystified.

“Our Mr. Olnutt is going to make for you a fine little spot with a wall over here.” I run an imaginary line across the floor with my finger so that the attentive Olnutt can take my meaning. “There will be a corner here, and a doorway right there. We'll be able to hang your pictures and drawings on the walls, and it'll be all yours. Won't that be fine?”