In The Belly Of The Bloodhound (12 page)

“Dorothea probably had something to do with it,” says Rebecca, “the field trip, I mean.” I have to grunt in agreement.

Dorothea Baxter is another new girl, and a very studious girl she is. She is plain, though not unattractive, but I don’t think she cares about that sort of thing at all—what she cares about is knowledge, and especially science knowledge. As Hepzibah has become Signor Fracelli’s disciple, so Dorothea has become Mr. Sackett’s. She is forever in the laboratory, mixing things and making smoke and foul odors, and she is better than anyone at mathematics. My foolish pride tells me that at least I am the best at art, and I tell myself to be content with that.

“That Dorothea, always with her nose in a book,” exclaims Elspeth, whose own pert little nose is seldom found in such a place. I reflect that she is a pretty little thing and will turn many male heads this day.

“There are worse ways to spend one’s time,” says Amy, looking up from her book. “But it is true. I am sure she and Mr. Sackett have been joyously preparing their specimen kits in which they anticipate putting the most disgusting things, whilst dancing about the lab, waving their butterfly nets in wild abandon.”

This gets a laugh from all around, then Higgins announces, “There, I believe that’s all that can be done with this one,” and I get up, give him a mock scowl, and head upstairs to dress.

Back in the dormitory, I find that someone, probably Betsey, has laid out on my bed my freshly brushed and cleaned black school dress. I silently thank her and pull on the garment. I do it with some regret, thinking how much I’d rather wear one of my racier dresses to this affair, but, no, Mistress wants us to look like a proper chorus when we go out to perform, and so the black dress it is.[_ Plus,
] early on, she had made up a wide, pleated white collar for each of us to wear, which covers our chests and extends out over our shoulders, and we all, to a girl, hate them. Annie, fixing mine around my neck the first time, whispered in my ear,[
“Aye, Jacky, ye look like a proper flock o’ nuns, ye do,”_] and I had to agree.

Clarissa is there, two beds from me, being dressed by her slave. When I was on my[_ Emerald,
] I was always dressed by Higgins, but that was by his choice. This girl has no choice, none whatsoever. I turn away in disgust and look to my own things, and calm myself down. I have found that I have something of an uncontrollable temper and Clarissa Howe brings out the absolute worst in me, for sure.[
You be good, now._]

I look down with some sorrow on my Naval lieutenant’s jacket lying there in the drawer, with my medal laid upon it. Higgins, soon after he arrived, had presented me with that same medal. I examined it and was mystified. On one side was a profile of Lord Nelson and the words
ENGLAND
EXPECTS
EVERY
MAN
TO DO
HIS
DUTY
and on the other side the word
TRAFALGAR
and the date of the battle. “But, what is it?” I had asked and Higgins replied, “A medal has been struck commemorating the battle that saved England. See, here’s mine,” and he had pulled out his and put it about his neck, a gold medal suspended on a red-white-and-blue ribbon, while I, stupefied, held my silver one in my hand. “The captains and admirals received gold ones, the regular officers silver, petty officers bronze, and the seamen pewter,” said Higgins. I asked, “But how came I by this?” and he replied, “Captain Trumbull handed in the log of the[_ Wolverine_] and there upon it was your name—Acting Lieutenant Jack Faber—just as Scroggs had entered it, and so you received a silver medal. I, of course, immediately took my common pewter one to a goldsmith to have it gilded.” I then gazed at mine for a while, thinking back to Tremendous McKenzie, a ship’s boy on the[_ Wolverine,
] who proudly wore a medal commemorating the Battle of the Glorious Fourth, for having been born a male baby on board HMS[
Tremendous_] on that day. “I am astounded, Higgins,” I said, after which Higgins explained, “Well, Captain Trumbull gave it to me, knowing that I would seek you out. The good Captain chuckled as he handed it over and said, ‘Tell her she owes me a neat two hundred and fifty pounds, and someday, I mean to collect:”

Ah, how I would like to wear my lieutenant’s jacket this day, in all its navy blue glory, with the gold buttons and piping and all, and to put the medal on my breast and put[_ that_] under Lord Randall Trevelyne’s nose tonight…Ah yes, that would be a fine thing…But it is not to be. I sigh and close the drawer. Perhaps on the next trip to Dovecote…

I think about all that as we gather in the foyer to be off. Higgins has called for the coaches, and as we are about to board, he comes up to give me a final brush.

“Higgins, you know you could have gone back to Lady Hollingsworth’s employ. You could have stayed with Captain Trumbull. Why did you come back to me?”

He laughs. “The truth is, Miss, I have become used to a life of luxury, and poor Captain Trumbull, although a fine man, is a junior captain without a command, so he could not possibly hope to afford me. And as for the Hollingsworths, well, they are excellent people, to be sure, but I find I also have become used to a life of adventure, and adventure seems to swirl about you, Miss, for better or for worse. As for the money and riches, well, you shall bounce back, I know.”

“Huh, some high adventure—escorting a gaggle of girls across a river to sing at a backwater college,” I say, as he helps me into my cloak.

“Ah, yes, to a school full of beautiful young men, how boring…Well, enough of that…but then, who knows what adventure the night might bring? Here’s the coach, now up with you.”

But the performance is not the biggest part of that day, oh, no, not by a long shot.

We return in the early evening, full of high spirits, each of the girls—well, those who yearn for that sort of thing—sure that she has captured the heart of her perfect boy. We, the older and more seasoned types, who have neared the ripe old age of sixteen, are more blasé about the whole thing and pretend that it is just another concert, don’cha know.

But that is not totally true. What is true is that perhaps I shouldn’t have let Randall Trevelyne spend so much time with me, and perhaps I shouldn’t have danced every dance with him—surprise! The boys had hired a chamber orchestra, so there was dancing after we girls stepped down from the stage, having just performed a set of songs, all of which were chosen to highlight our pure and wholesome natures, and ending with the[_ Sanctus.
] Perhaps I shouldn’t have cast my eyes covertly at Clarissa to catch her reaction to me dancing with her former[
beau—former fiancé, till I arrived on the scene,
] I say to myself smugly—and, oh, I did catch her narrow-eyed gaze directed at me.[
Take that, Clarissa, you_]

As we prepare for bed, I swear there is an absolute steam of female rapture hovering just above the heads of the girls in the dormitory.

“Wasn’t he just the cutest thing?” exults Elspeth as we are washing up. “Oh, and he was[_ ever_] so attentive to me! Did you know that we held hands the entire time?”

It was hard to miss, the two of them making silly cow-eyes at each other throughout the evening, but still, it was sweet to see and I am of a generous nature when it comes to that sort of thing. “He was that, Elspeth, and I wish you the joy of your first encounter with our trouser-wearing opposites,” say I, as I towel off my face. Actually, he[_ was_] a Cabot, so she could do a lot worse than that, when it comes down to it, in the future when she must marry.

We all go back into the dorm and stand by our beds—the right side of each bed, directly in the middle—and wait for Mistress. She arrives, taps her rod on the floor twice, and says, “Prayers,” and thirty sets of knees hit the floor in unison. There is much muffled mumbling, and a lot of it, I am sure, is sincere, and then Mistress’s cane hits the floor again and we tumble into bed. The lights will be quickly snuffed.

But not extinguished quite fast enough. As I pull back the covers, I see there is something lying there on my clean sheets, something that looks in the flickering light like a slab of raw beef, but it is not that, oh, no—it is a petticoat, in my size and probably one of my very own, taken from my drawer, and it is dyed bright red. I am not the only one who sees the thing—I hear titters from some of the nearby beds.

There are many symbols in our culture: The color blue stands for loyalty and truth, the color white for purity. There are flowers that stand for things, too. If you send a girl roses, that means love. If daisies are presented, the girl knows it means friendship. But red petticoats mean only one thing: a girl of low morals…a slut.

I reach down and touch the thing. It is clumsily dyed and still damp, but not wet. She must have planned this.[_ Well, I can plan, too, Clarissa…_]

I know I cannot sleep in this bed. I throw the covers back over it and stride toward the door. Amy, who did not see what the bed contained, asks, “Jacky, what…?” Elspeth looks mystified by my sudden departure, too, but I just say, “Never mind. I know I will never be truly welcome here, and I don’t care.”

I don’t know if either of them tried to follow me out, but I do know that they would have expected me to go downstairs to be with Peg, or the girl Katy Deere, who I know has a room down there, too.[_ Water seeks its own level,
] at least half the girls would say, and I agree with them.[
To hell with the snotty little bitches._]

But I don’t go downstairs. Instead, I go up, up to my old room in the attic, where I was put before, when I was first cast out from this company. Beds are kept up there for the servants that some of the girls occasionally bring with them from the country, so the room is not often used. After I get to the top of the stairs, I throw open the door and head for my old bed, and I am startled to see the upturned face of the slave girl in the lamplight. She is dressed in her nightshirt and is seated on her bed—my old bed—and she is sewing.

I gasp and then manage to say, “I am so sorry. I did not know you were up here.”

“It is all right,” she says in a soft voice. I detect a French accent.

“Do you mind if I take that bed over there, next to you? I am not welcome down below right now.”

“It is not my place to mind. But yes, you are welcome here.
I-I
know you for one of the kinder ones.”

“Thank you,” I say and walk around the end of her bed to the next one in line. I pull back the covers and climb in, but I am so furious that I know sleep will not come to me soon. I stare up at the ceiling.

“Here, I will turn off the lamp,” says the girl.

“No, no, please, leave it on. I won’t be able to sleep, anyway.” I get up on one elbow and I face her. “What is your name and how do you come to be here?”

She does not reply for a moment, her head down, seemingly intent on her sewing. Then she lifts her head and looks off into the darkness of the attic.

“My name is Angelique Marie Therese du Toussaint. I was born on the island of Martinique, in the town of La Trinite. One day, about eight years ago, I was playing on the beach with my little brother, Edouard. My father was out on the sea, in his boat, fishing, and our[_ maman_] was up at the house, when the pirates came raiding. When she saw what was happening, Maman came running down to the beach to try to save us, but she could not. She was captured, too, along with many others, both black and white.” Angelique pauses, then says, “The whites were ransomed. Us, they sold.”

I don’t say anything to that, I just look at her. I have seen her many times about, and though she is a slave and follows Clarissa’s snappish orders, she conducts herself with a quiet dignity.

“But why don’t you just run away?” I ask, mystified, sitting up now. “Just run out the door. There’s nothing she could do, as slavery’s outlawed in Boston. I’ll help you. I know people who will take you in until we can get you passage back to Martinique. Why don’t you do that?”

She looks down at her hands. “I cannot do that, Mademoiselle. You see, my maman and Edouard are still down at the plantation. I have been told that if I run away, it will go very hard for them. So I do not run away.”

“Damn that Clarissa!” I say through clenched teeth. “How can you stand it?”

“Stand it? I stand it because I have to stand it.” She turns back to her sewing, but in a moment puts up her needle. “Shall I tell you of my life with Miss Clarissa after we were captured?” she asks, with a wan smile on her face. For the first time she looks directly into my eyes.

I nod.

“Eh,[_ bien._] I was about seven years old when we were herded off the ship at Norfolk and put up for sale at the slave pens. Along with about twenty others, we were bought by Clarissa’s father, General Howe. He bought me, especially, to be a companion to his little girl, for she had no playmates, the plantation being far out in the country and she having no sisters. We were the same age. The fact that he did not separate us, Maman and Edouard and me, that he bought all three of us, when he did not need my mother or my brother, was considered to be very kind of him. We were allowed to continue as a family.”

She pauses and looks off, lost in the memory. “I was bought to be her toy, but we quickly became friends. We were inseparable. We played constantly together. We slept in the same room, and sometimes, when it was stormy and the thunder crashed, in the same bed. We wore the same clothes, ate the same food. And, sometimes, as children will, we fought.”

Another pause, then a deep breath. “One day we were arguing over a doll and she slapped my hand and I slapped hers back, something we had done many times before, but this time something was different: Clarissa’s mother had come into our room with another servant and both of them saw me do it.”

Angelique gets to her feet and goes to the window and looks out into the night.

“Clarissa and I were taken to the Great Hall. The Howe family was assembled and the entire household summoned to witness what was to happen. I was made to kneel before Clarissa and she was forced to slap my face, back and forth, over and over, till finally I fell to the floor, unable to rise. She did not want to do it. She stood over me, crying just like I was.”