Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (8 page)

I roll up the bottom of the dress and fasten it around my waist by tucking it under my money belt, then step into my oilskin trousers and tie up the drawstring. That secured, I don the oilskin jacket, put my midshipman cap back on my head, and pick up my seabag.
There. I will leave the Tail and Spout as I entered—as poor Jack the Sailor, a son of the sea, but now, alas, washed up on land.

Down below, Gert stands wiping the bar in anticipation of the day's business, and good smells are coming from the kitchen door behind her. A quick glance reassures me that my Royal Navy friends are not yet in evidence, which is good.

“Good morning, lad,” booms out landlady Gert upon seeing me ready to head out. “You'll not stay for breakfast? We're having eggs, bangers, and mash.”

“Nay, Mum,” says I, truly sorry to have to pass up the eggs, but especially the sausage along with the potatoes mashed with garlic and onions, “for I must be off. Time and tide wait for no lad. Thank you, Missus, for your kind hospitality.”

And I am off into the light of day. Seeing the southbound coach being loaded, I hurry up the street and out of sight, heading for the print shop. When I spot it, I dart back into a convenient alley, whip off my oilskin jacket, step out of the trousers, and release my skirt from its binding, letting it fall to my ankles. That done, I stuff the 'skins into my seabag, along with my midshipman's cap, and then pull out my black lace mantilla. Reaching back, I pull the blue ribbon that binds up my pigtail and untangle my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders. It is a mess, but I'll deal with it later. For now, I drape the mantilla over my head, letting one end hang down my front, and the other I whip around my neck. There. I have managed the transformation from sailor lad to young maiden, observed only by a yellow cat, who sits atop a garbage bin licking her paw, regarding me and my deceptions with profound indifference.

Breathing a bit more easily, I quit the alley and head up the street toward the print shop. On my way, I turn to glance back down the street—sure enough, there are Lieutenants Mitchell and Tull, looking about in vain for the missing Midshipman Wheeler, and then shrugging and finally climbing into the coach. In a moment, both it and my Royal Navy friends are gone.

The newly reborn Miss A. H. Leigh—that's “A” forAnnabelle, “H” for Hester, family name Leigh—goes into the shop, buys a newspaper, and asks directions to a nice teahouse where a young lady of good breeding, such as herself, might find refreshment, and I'm directed to “The White Rose Tearoom, Miss. You will find it to your liking. Just up the street on the left.”

On my way to that establishment, I pass a schoolhouse, on the steps of which the school mistress is lustily ringing a hand-held bell, as the children file in for the day's instruction. The boys, dressed in uniform black short pants, matching jackets, and white shirts, tumble in the doorway, a riot of shouting and pushing and punching. The girls, of course, are more well-behaved, dressed in gingham dresses with white aprons over their fronts, white stockings, and sensible ankle-length lace-up shoes. As the door closes behind all, I look out on the schoolyard and notice swings, a seesaw, and a large playing field.
Very nice.
I would have liked to have gone there as a child . . . but, oh, well . . . I do know now, having run as a ragged orphan through the rough streets of London with the Rooster Charlie Gang, and later having gone to the finest of schools, that both places teach similar lessons in the ways of friendship, loyalty, bravery, and betrayal.

Moving right along, I pass a newly painted Congregational Church, a courthouse that I naturally shy away from, given my past experience with such places, and then, ah . . . the post office. I know that it is too early to expect a letter from Ezra Pickering concerning my latest troubles, so I do not go in, but it is good to know where it is. And, yes, right there is the First Mercantile Bank of Plymouth,Massachusetts, in all its austere glory.

As promised, the tearoom comes into sight. It is squeezed between two larger, more heavily timbered buildings, but still manages to look cheerful and even pretty. Over its varnished oaken door hangs a sign bearing a white rose painted on a lavender background with
TEAROOM
written below. I push open the door and go in, fully armed with the haughty Lawson Peabody “Look” firmly resting upon my countenance.

It is a pleasant room—well lit, with frilly white curtains and crisp linen on the tabletops—a bit fussy for my taste, but then, give me a rough-and-ready tavern anytime.

I am greeted civilly by a tidy young woman and then shown to a table on which are napkin-wrapped place settings and a vase with a single white rose in it.
A nice touch,
I'm thinking, as a delicate porcelain cup of hot tea is placed in front of me. It takes me back to teatime at the Lawson Peabody, without the tension of having to do everything just right under Mistress's unforgiving gaze. From a nicely lettered card placed on the table, I order toasted crumpets with butter and jam, take a ladylike sip of the excellent tea, and then open my paper to the Help Wanted section, hoping the advertisement I saw yesterday is still being run . . .

Yes! There it is . . .

 

WANTED:

Governess for Two

Small Children.

References Req.

Room and Board

and Remittance.

Apply In Person to

Mr. Polk at the

First Mercantile Bank

of Plymouth, during

Business Hours.

 

I know it's not the most exciting thing to do, but with my cover being already half blown by my chance meeting with those Royal Navy officers, I figure it's just the thing. Quiet, discreet, out of the public eye, and certainly not in any way nautical in case anybody comes looking for me in that direction. Yes, I shall apply.

A glance at the clock on the wall shows eight thirty, so I have a bit of time before the bank opens, which is convenient, for my breakfast has just arrived and looks good. Plus, I have some things I need to do.

As I pack away the toasted crumpet loaded with butter and jam, I notice a little girl peeking shyly at me around the corner of the kitchen door. She seems to be about five years old—plainly too young to go to school—and she holds a doll tightly to her chest. I give her a broad wink and she disappears.
Probably the landlady's child,
I reflect, as I knock off the rest of my breakfast, pat lips with napkin, and signal for the bill.

When the reckoning is brought on a little silver tray, I pay, leaving a nice tip, and receive a bright smile and directions to the privy. I rise and go to it.

As I had suspected, that particular room is very clean and well maintained—open window with filmy white curtains blowing in the slight breeze, sturdy wooden chair with white pot under, rack of clean towels, and washstand and mirror. It is the latter fixture that I need right now.

I dive into my seabag and pull out my brush, cosmetic kit, and Scots bonnet. My inclination is to comb my hair into a sensible bun, but that would expose my dragon tattoo, and we certainly can't have that in a would-be governess—
no, we can't
—so I merely fluff it up a bit and hope that it passes scrutiny. My bonnet, with the brim turned down, goes on next—after I've removed the gay feathered cockade from its headband. Then some light powder, to cover up the blue powder burns that radiate from my right eye. I do not have to worry about my troublesome white eyebrow, for my good Higgins has procured a permanent hair dye that matches my natural locks and fixed it up quite nicely. No more makeup for the cheeks, or rouge for the lips, no, not for this job interview. Must be as proper as can be managed, given the raw Faber material.

All that accomplished, I stride back into the street, mark again the still-closed bank, and spy a sundries store up ahead whose sign advertises it to be
FILIBUSTER'S FINE EMPORIUM
. I go in and look about. Sure enough, just about everything imaginable seems to be for sale here, from knives and forks, to leather goods, to sewing tools, to rolls of fabric. It even has a small counter, with fixed stools, that offers
COLD, REFRESHING DRINKS,
to wit:
LEMON, CHERRY, AND ORANGE SODA-WATERS. SAFE FOR THE LITTLE ONES. NO ALCOHOL
. Hmmm . . . 
I'll wager, though, there's a goodly supply of something very akin to my good old Captain Jack's Magic Elixer
—
that potion I had mixed up, bottled, and sold on my journey down the Mississippi several years ago, to the joy of all who purchased it—­under that pharmacy counter, for quick sale with a wink. My own Cap'n Jack's had plenty of that forbidden liquid substance in it, as well as a goodly dash of opium, and I received very few complaints from my many satisfied customers. And I'll bet the friendly Mr. Filibuster did not grow so sleek and prosperous solely by selling flavored water to kids.

Mr. Filibuster himself is a very eager middle-aged man, portly, and bald on top, with a fringe of white fluffy hair over his ears and behind his neck. I look about at his ample stores, seeking something that might make me somewhat more presentable in the way of a governess, and yes, I find it. While scanning the round reading spectacles, which I find cumbersome and interfering with my so-far excellent eyesight, I discover a pair of pince-nez.

Perfect!
They rest low on my nose, and I can peer out over the top of them, and they have a black ribbon attached with a clip, to affix to my front so they can be dropped anytime. Squinting into the mirror provided, I pronounce myself the perfect schoolmarm. Advancing to the counter, I purchase writing paper, a small bottle of mucilage, and, of course, an umbrella. Mr. Filibuster looks pleased as he totals up my purchases, and he smiles even more at my promise to return to sample more of his fine offerings.

After leaving Filibuster's Fine Emporium, MissAnnabelle H. Leigh walks up First Street, pauses a moment to adjust appearance, takes a deep breath, and enters the august portal of the First Mercantile Bank of Plymouth,Massachusetts, USA, to present herself for employment.

The heavy oak doors to the First Mercantile Bank are open to let in what there is of a sultry summer breeze. I stride in with modified Lawson Peabody Look in place—chin up, lips together, teeth apart, eyes hooded. In this case, not overly haughty, but, it is to be hoped, just enough. I know the whole effect is slightly marred by the pince-nez that is clamped to my nose, but so be it.

Entering, I spy a central aisle that has on its right a female receptionist at a desk. A walkway to the left leads to several glassed-in private offices and terminates in a row of barred teller windows.

“May I help you?” inquires the person at the desk.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply. “I wish to see a Mr. Polk.”

“For what reason, may I ask? Mr. Polk is the President of this bank. You do have an appointment, I presume?”

This lowly employee I fry with my gaze. “I am here in answer to the advertisement the President has placed in the newspaper. For a governess.”

“Ah, please have a seat over there, and I will inform him of your presence.”

I see a bench aligned against a sidewall and go seat myself on it to await an audience with the Great Man, while the receptionist, with a rustle of skirts, goes into the first office to tell him of my arrival. I hear the mumble of voices and she reemerges, saying, “He will see you in a few minutes. Please wait.”

Waiting is something I am not very good at, but I sigh and resign myself, passing the time by looking about the place—the ceilings are high, and there is much dark oak in the furniture and moldings. There is a hush about the interior of the bank—the hush of money, which, after all, must be respected. I chuckle to myself when I see that there is no armed guard.

Hell, me and my bully boys on the
Emerald
could've knocked this place over in a moment. We'd just bring the ship up the harbor to the end of that street as far as she'd go, with her black Jolly Roger flag grinnin' at the masthead, and then all of us would leap over the sides and charge up the street, screaming horrible threats, waving cutlasses and shooting off pistols into the air, and generally scaring the populace away to the hills in terror. Yes, we'd put those timid-looking tellers over there on the floor right off, their money drawers stripped, the open safe over there emptied, as we went hallooing off with the loot.

Like that time in the Spanish Port of Santo Domingo, on the Island of Hispaniola, which lay helpless before us on that day back in 1804 . . . I had burst into El Banco de Espania, a bank very much like this, with Arthur McBride on my left and Ian McConnaughey on my right, all of us armed to the teeth and screaming threats of bloody murder . . . Ah, and wasn't that indeed a time—
heavy sigh
—but that was then and this is now, and I have neither my beautiful
Emerald
nor my brave bully boys by my side, and . . .

. . . and there is the tinkle of a bell. “Mr. Polk will see you now,” says the receptionist from her desk. I rise, pick up my seabag by the handles, between which rests my new umbrella, and walk in the door.

Mr. Polk is seated behind a grand mahogany desk that has several important-looking papers upon it. He is a thin man—well-dressed, hair combed back, slick with brilliantine—and is wearing a look of extreme reserve. He does, however, give me the courtesy of rising as I enter. There's that, at least.

“Miss Leigh, I presume? Please sit down.” He gestures toward a chair, and I place myself in it, my bag by my side. “You are here to apply for the position of governess for my children. I assume you have references?”

“Yes, Sir,” I say, removing my pince-nez and letting it dangle against my chest. “My full name is Annabelle Hester Leigh, and I am a graduate of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls in Boston. I am conversant in science, literature, and the classics. I am skilled in art and penmanship, and can speak both French and Spanish . . .”