Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (3 page)

I stood and collected myself, then said to Higgins, “After that, I shall ready the
Nancy B.
for a cruise to the South Seas. Faber Shipping already has routes into the Oriental spice trade, and the
Lorelei Lee
is prospering in bringing Irish workers to New York and Boston. When I get back, I will load more armament on the
Lorelei Lee
and take her out on the broad ocean, and woe to any person, any company, any nation, and any vessel that dares to interfere with my trade. If need be, I shall turn pirate, and to hell with all of them!”

I paused for a shaky breath.

“And I will tell you this, Higgins,” I continued, “I am done with love and the false love of young men. I will live single all my life, and this time I mean it. Do you know what love is, John? Do you? I will tell you: It is humbug . . . Humbug and nothing more! I have hardened my heart and will have nothing more to do with it, and I vow to become the most ruthless, heartless, determined businesswoman on this globe. Faber Shipping Worldwide will prosper and will cover the world, and I will rule that empire. We will sail in three days. If you want to go with me, you are most welcome. As for now, John, good day, as I want to be alone.”

I seethed . . .
 
I fumed . . .

HUMBUG!

 

“I sense you have suffered much, Jacky,” says Ezra, putting down that letter and picking up Clarissa's again.

“You may rest assured that the readings of those letters were not high points in my life. I sense that Higgins accompanied me on the last cruise to make sure I did not carry out my threat to kill the divine Miss Howe. Trust me, the
Nancy B.
went nowhere near New Orleans or Kingston on our last jaunt. Furthermore, you may also trust me when I say I shall suffer no more in matters of love.”

“Umm,” he says, continuing to muse. Finally, he says, “There might be a complication here, a complication of an immediate . . . personal nature, Miss.”

“How so? I believe I have my personal affairs in order.” I sniff primly.

“Perhaps. May I direct your attention to a particular paragraph in Miss Howe's letter? Yes? Very well, to wit: ‘Mr. Fletcher . . . Oh, yes, you will probably want to know about him. We parted at New York and he took ship for England, while I continued on to New Orleans. I believe he will try to regain his commission in the Royal Navy, and I say good luck to him. Actually, I think he still loves you, poor man.'”

“So? I do not care where he is or whom he loves. Good luck to him. He is out of my heart and out of my life.”

“Perhaps you noticed on your way here that HMS
Shannon
is docked on Long Wharf?”

“Yes, I did, but I am done with the British Navy as well, and British Intelligence, too. I am now a simple Yankee trader and proud of it. John Bull has no more claim on Jacky Faber.”

Ezra opens a drawer and pulls out a slim white envelope. He passes it over and I see that it has
Miss Jacky Faber
written on the front. Suspicious, I let it lie on the desktop and give him a questioning look.

He takes a deep breath, then says, “The newly reinstated Lieutenant James Fletcher is on the
Shannon
and requests an audience with you.”

I shoot to my feet.

“Wot? How . . . ?”

“How did he get over to England and back in such a short time? My dear, you have been at sea various times over the past month or so, in, I believe, a state of high indignation. Ample time for him to go over and back if the winds were fair. As for his regaining his commission, he tells me he had help from a Dr. Sebastian and a Mr. Peel, who have influence with the First Lord of the Admiralty. His court-­martial has been expunged from the record,” says Ezra, refolding Clarissa's letter. “Powerful friends, indeed.”

“I will not see him, and I will not read his lying words,” I say, picking up the letter and flinging it back onto the desk.

“Perhaps if you knew that the
Shannon
is due to leave tomorrow for London, you might grant him his request. He is Second Mate, so he must go with her.”

Damn! A complication . . .

“And it must be noted that he was very lucky to find you in port, given your rather peripatetic nature of late. Perhaps you could chalk it up to Fate? Serendipity, even,” says Ezra, with a hopeful half smile. He is ever the skillful negotiator.

I seethe, I fume . . . and then I say, “Very well. Although I don't see the point of it, I will attend Mr. Fletcher in my rooms at the Pig and Whistle at five o'clock for what I promise will be a
very
short meeting. And tell him to leave his damned stick on the ship. You will take care of the diplomatic pouch? Thank you, Ezra. Will you be joining me when I go to visit Amy at Dovecote? Good, that will give me great pleasure. You may give those letters to her, as I have no further interest in them, and she will find them juicy grist for her literary mill. And give me his damned letter . . . Till later, then, Ezra.
Adieu
.”

He hands it over and I snatch it up, fuming, and head for the Pig and Whistle.

Damn!

I breeze into the Pig and Whistle, outwardly bright and cheerful while inwardly in great turmoil, and merrily greet Maudie and Molly Malone, who are stocking the bar and getting ready for the night's business.

“Welcome back, Boss. Should be a good night,” says Maudie, former owner of this pub and now my trusted manager of same. “The German American Friendship Society rented out the Playhouse for three days and has turned the place into a big beer garden for some sort of festival.”

“Aye, Jacky,” says Molly. “We've ordered an extra five kegs for those jolly burghers and their fräuleins, for they sure can put it away. I know we'll be right sick of polkas by the time we clear them out.”

“Sounds like fun to me, Molly,” I say, following with what I hope is a carefree laugh as I head for the stairs, seabag on shoulder. “I'm sure to be in the middle of it tonight. You know I'm always up for a party, and everyone knows I can polka with the best of 'em. Oh, and by the way, there will be a British naval officer coming to call at five o'clock. You may send him up to my rooms.”

Molly cocks an appraising eye at me and asks, “I suppose I should be bringing up a tray of food and drink when he gets here?” Then she leers and says, “Or maybe I should be waitin' a half hour or so, and then go in with me eyes cast down?”

“No. Definitely not. Just send him up,” I say, frost replacing merriment in my voice.

With that, I climb the stairs to my quarters to ready myself for this meeting that I really do not want to have.

Damn! I had this all settled in my mind, and now I do not. Damn!

 

I slide my desk, which usually sits next to my window so as to catch the light, across the room to sit three feet in front of the door, making the lack of welcome very evident. Then I look in the mirror, resolving to leave my face plain and free of makeup and further deciding to leave on my Lawson Peabody school dress, it being the least provocative of all my garments.

Then I sit and wait. I see by my brassbound ship's clock mounted on the wall that it is four forty-five, so I have some time. Well, waste not, want not, I always say. I have some correspondence to take care of, so I pull out inkwell, quill, and paper, and begin work on a letter to my grandfather, the Reverend Henry Alsop, headmaster of the London Home for Little Wanderers. That's the orphanage in Cheapside that I had set up with prize money and continue to maintain as a nod to my origins as a street urchin on the hard streets of that city.
Ah, to hell with it!
I toss the pen aside and rip open Mr. Fletcher's letter . . .

 

Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher

Second Mate, HMS Shannon

 

Miss Jacky Faber

Faber Shipping Worldwide

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

 

Dearest Jacky,

Of the many star-crossed letters I have written to you, this one I know will get to you, for I watched you bring the
Nancy B.
into Boston moments ago, so I know you are here. I have given this letter over to Ezra Pickering for delivery to your hand only. Believe me, Clarissa Howe shall not purloin this one.

What is there to say, Jacky, after all this time? That I love you? That is true enough, but what of you? Have you hardened your heart against me forever and ever? I would not blame you if you had, but please agree to meet with me, Jacky, at least. The
Shannon
leaves tomorrow and I must go with her. If you want me to leave you forever, I will do so, but I must see you before then.

 

Yours,

Jaimy

 

FORGET IT! I'm sick of you, Jaimy. NO! I've taken enough from you. No!

I am stuffing the letter back into the envelope when I hear a tap on the door and, of course, it is a very discreet knock.
When will you ever learn, Jaimy?
I look up, and it is precisely five o'clock on the button. Ah, good old Royal Navy punctuality.
Not a moment to lose . . . but don't get there too early.

I compose myself and say, “Come in.”

The door opens and he stands before me. At last 
. . .

Oh, Jaimy, over the years, I had waited so long for a moment like this . . . When I was tossed into the Lawson Peabody and you were taken so far away from me, and then when I was trapped on the
Bloodhound
, and all of those other times when we were worlds apart. Yet now you stand before me, oh so smart in your fine lieutenant's jacket of blue, with those cold gray-blue eyes drilling straight into mine. But NO! Not into my heart, for I shall not allow it. Know, Jaimy, that though you now stand before me, you are farther away from me than ever before.

He gives a short bow, but I do not rise, saying only, “Mr. Fletcher,” in my coldest voice. “You wished to see me?”

“Jacky, I—”

“Forgive the formality, Mr. Fletcher, but unless you are one of my close friends, which you are not, I prefer to be called Miss Faber. What is it you wish to discuss?”

He takes a deep breath and then answers, rather testily, “Miss Faber. I had hoped that by our meeting, we might possibly effect a reconciliation of the differences that have risen between us.”

“Fancy talk, Mr. Fletcher,” I retort. “Seeing as how the last time I had the pleasure of your company, I was forced to my knees and tied to the courthouse stake, my back bared, whereupon you inflicted on that poor back twelve lashes of your rod. The spectacle was well received by the mob, as I recall. Then when that particular nasty job was done, I was freed of my bonds in time for me to run down to the harbor only to see you sail off with Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe wrapped around you. You did not seem to mind her presence. I trust you and she had an enjoyable voyage.”

“Ezra Pickering, Randall Trevelyne, and I all agreed that the proceeding at the courthouse was the best way out of that rather . . . tenuous situation. As for Miss Howe . . .”

“Pity I was not consulted concerning that beating, considering it was my body that was to suffer. As for Clarissa Howe, you can do what you want with her, as it is no concern to me. I have a business to run, so if you'll excuse me . . .”

“I attempted to lay on the blows gently, consistent with pleasing the court and the crowd as to the severity of the beating.”

“The last lash wasn't all that gentle. It really hurt.”

“For that I am sorry. My temper got the best of me. You see, I had seen that painting of you, and when you did not respond to the letter I had written you, suggesting we discuss matters that had come between us . . .”

“Ah, yes, the letter Clarissa so cunningly intercepted. Yes, she wrote me a letter of her own, from New Orleans, relating with great glee how she had pulled off that little trick. I was most amused,” I say scornfully. “So you were displeased with me because of that painting and then you sat down and wrote me a nice letter,” I say, my voice still dripping with contempt. “How very like you, Jaimy, to do things that way. Do you know that most gentlemen of my acquaintance would have simply grabbed me by the throat and put me up against a wall and demanded an explanation? Why didn't you do that, Jaimy? I would have gladly given you one, and either you would have accepted it or not and we could have gotten on with our lives, together or apart.”

His lips are pursed tight, and he grows more and more red in the face as I continue.

“But you did not do that. Instead you donned a silly disguise and crept around as a hunchback. Why, Jaimy?”

“I . . . I had to know . . .”

Well steamed now, I get to my feet and say, “Had to know what, Jaimy? Had to know if Jacky Faber was still pure enough for James Emerson Fletcher to enter her chamber? That's it, isn't it?”

“I just—”

I don't let him answer. “You know what, Jaimy? I'm not going to tell you whether I am yet a maiden or not. And what's more, I'm
never
going to tell you. You and your demon will just have to live with that. I'm the same girl either way, but you will not understand that, will you?”

“But that picture—how can you . . .”

“Ah, that painting. Did you know Clarissa stole that particular piece of art and it now hangs over the bar at the House of the Rising Sun, where it is seen by hundreds of people every day? Did you know that, Jaimy? I can see by the expression on your face you did not know. And you know what else? I am glad of that, and I wish everyone who gazes upon it a measure of joy.”