Part 21 (1/2)
Chapter 23.
It being Wednesday, we're deep into the was.h.i.+ng, the water hot and sudsy and steaming and all of us sweating with our paddles going, swirling the sheets and pillowcases and net bags of small clothes around about in the big tubs. Later, the bedclothing will be wrung out by hand and hung to dry outside. The ladies' linen will be taken out of the bags and scrubbed out against the washboard and done singly so as not to mix them up. I try not to notice whose linen I'm doing when I do that job.
Betsey is working next to me and I tell her about Amy and me meeting with Ephraim and she listens with keen interest, nodding sharply at each recollection of his words and his suspicions.
”Betsey, tell me what Janey looked like,” I says. I run my forearm across my forehead to take off the sweat. ”Her hair and how big she was and all.”
”Here, take the other end,” she says, and I reach in and grab the other end of the sheet she is beginning to twist, and I haul it out and start twisting my end in the opposite way so as to wring the water out. Then she says, ”She was small, not much bigger than you, and she was tight like you, too, wiry and strong and not afraid of work. In fact, you remind me a lot of her, in her cheerfulness and happy nature and all...” She pauses and I know this is hard for her. She takes a breath and then goes on. ”'Cept for the hair, though ... Her hair was almost white blond and she wore it in the Dutch fas.h.i.+on, you know, the bangs cut straight across over the eyes and the rest hanging straight.”
”Did she dress as we do?”
”Yes. The same.”
We fall silent, and then there is a jangle as Mistress's bell rings over our heads. It is a bell on a cord that goes through a hole in the ceiling, up through the floor, and into Mistress's office where it runs through a pulley system and ends in a black (of course) ta.s.sel hanging by her desk. The rule is, one of us has to answer the call before she takes her hand off the cord, or watch out.
”Betsey. You,” says Peg, and Betsey dries off her hands and squares away her ap.r.o.n and cap and runs upstairs.
In a moment she is back with a note that she hands to Peg, who opens it, reads it, and sighs, and says, ”Mistress has invited a bunch of the boys from the college over for the afternoon tea. Miss Howe is to be the hostess and she has picked Sylvie and Jacky to serve. We are to finish up with the laundry, serve dinner, and then you all are to help the ladies prepare.” Peg claps her hands. ”Let's go, girls. Mistress has done it again!”
Sylvie and I look at each other. Of course. The one Clarissa slapped and the one who fought her, right there under her control. Shows us who's boss, now, don't it?
As I rush about doing my duty, I'm thinking that Mistress prolly sprung this as a surprise so that the ladies would just spend one day getting ready, instead of a whole week. And keep them on their toes and get them used to preparing on the spur of the moment-never can tell when the President's gonna drop by, don'cha know. And I figures Mistress set this whole thing up so's the ladies could show off their refinement and good manners and social skills in mixed company. And maybe to scout out some future marriage prospects, hmmm? Mistress did say that all her girls made good matches.
The place is in a dither of excitement all day as the ladies rush about furiously powdering and perfuming and combing and primping. There's not much done in the way of school-work after the noon meal, that's for sure. All us girls are pressed into service, combing and putting up hair, brus.h.i.+ng out and ironing dresses, and suchlike, but finally, all is done and the boys arrive and are met at the door by Abby and Annie all starched and primped and in their best uniforms. Swords and scabbards are unhooked from sword belts and are placed in the cloakroom next to the entrance foyer, and then Mistress appears and she takes the young men up to the tea room, where the ladies anxiously await their coming.
There are introductions and bows and curtsies and dimples and giggles, blushes, and female eyes peeking out over the tops of fans and males strutting about, and oh, but there will be a lot of posing and posturing this day, depend on it, and all, all under the very watchful eye of Mistress, for woe be to any boy who would venture to as much as touch any of the ladies, and even more woe to any lady who would allow such a thing to happen.
Except that Mr. Randall Trevelyne is allowed to take Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe's hand to bring her up from her curtsy, 'cause they're engaged to be married, so it's all right. And even those lovely hands are in snow-white cotton gloves, white gloves that she had me wash and dry before the fire earlier today. At least I didn't have to comb and set her hair-she didn't trust me to be so close to her face with the hot curling iron, and well she shouldn't.
There are cl.u.s.ters of easy chairs grouped around low tea tables on which the cups and saucers and spoons and napkins are set, and Clarissa leads Randall to the one she has selected for herself-the grandest one, the one with the largest bouquet of flowers on it and, as the central one, visible to the entire room. Randall pulls out her chair, she places her lovely bottom in it, and all are seated. They do look splendid together, I got to admit-Clarissa in a dress of white with touches of pink here and there, low cut in the latest French style, her s.h.i.+ning blond hair piled high with cunning little ringlets to the side, and Randall is the very picture of male beauty in a velvet coat of the deepest crimson with white lapels and white lace at the throat and cuffs, snow-white breeches, and black boots to the knees. A lot of the boys are wearing crimson, I notice. Prolly the school's color.
Also seated there is her pet Lissette and a few other carefully selected toadies and some young men of various sizes and shapes, one of whom seems especially taken with the Frenchy, with her exotic manners and haughty ways. He is trying to speak to her in stumbling French and is making a fearful botch of it, I'm afraid. His name seems to be Chad-wick and she is not being very nice to him at all. I get the feeling that she'd much rather be next to Randall, and for that, I would not blame her. Amy's at this setting, too, in a state of cold fury, she being family and all and required to be there.
Clarissa beckons to me and I take teapot and tray and over I go.
I pour Clarissa's tea first, then the rest of the ladies, and then Randall. He looks up at me as I fill his cup. ”It is good to see you again, Jacky,” he says.
This surprises me a bit, but I recover and dip and say, ”It is kind of you to say so, Lieutenant Trevelyne. I trust you are well.” I notice the male chest swell a bit at my use of his military rank. I meet his gaze and then drop my eyes and go to fill the rest of the cups.
I am not the only one surprised by this-I heard a sharp intake of breath from Clarissa's direction at this exchange of pleasantries and I steal a glance at her. The Queen is not pleased, that's for sure. Her eyes are narrowed as she stares at me with undisguised loathing.
”You,” she says to me, ”take care of the next table. And try to do it right.”
I wait a moment before I say, ”Yes, Miss.” Not a pause long enough to make me guilty of outright insolence, but long enough for her to get the point. I go off to another table, but on my way I look back at Randall and find that he is looking back at me, and I lower my eyelids and let the slightest of smiles come to my lips as I turn away. Clarissa misses none of this, I can tell-the pink of her cheeks has gone to a much less becoming shade of red.
Sylvie handles Clarissa's table for the rest of the party.
All in all, I reflect later when it's all over, a most satisfactory tea.
That night, after all the giggling over the events of the day subsides and prayers are said and Mistress retires, Amy sneaks out of her bed into the darkness and goes out into the hall and up the stairs to my door, where she opens the latch and slips into my room, where I am waiting for her. We sit on my bed in our nightdresses and talk real low till we are sure that all below are asleep.
Amy looks around at my room, what she can see of it in the light of the lamp. I had gotten tired of the guttering candles that Mistress issued to me and bought this whale oil lamp yesterday when I had snuck down to the Pig to see when Gully was gettin' sprung. It didn't cost much and works really fine-good, even light and not much smoke, so I get to read and study my French and Music and work on my miniatures far into the night. I don't seem to need a lot of sleep, prolly 'cause of all those watches I stood on the s.h.i.+p.
Amy notices my miniature I did of Jaimy that I hung on my bedpost so it is the last thing I see at night before I snuff the lamp and the first thing I see when I wake.
”That is your young man?” she asks, and I say yes, but it's not a good likeness 'cause he's much more handsome than that and my poor skill does not do him justice at all.
”He is a lucky young man,” says Amy, and she turns to looking at my books. She picks up one and reads the t.i.tle, ”Barnabas Bickford, a History of Wantonness and Dissolution. ” And then another, ”The Rake's Progress.”
She considers these for a moment and then asks, wonderingly, ”Where ever did you get these? Surely not from the school library?”
”No. I got them from dear old Mr. Yale, who has the bookseller's shop on School Street. He lent me the books in return for me sweeping up a bit when I can,” I says.
”No moss ever grows on you, does it, Sister?”
”Well, I was down there the other day, and I figured, why not give it a try?”
”You were abroad in the town again and you were not arrested?”
”I am not always arrested, Sister, as I know my way around.”
”Why did you go, other than pure contrariness?”
”I had to find out when Gully was getting out of the slammer so as to know when we're gonna put on our act again.”
”And when is that?”
”Friday night. Then Sat.u.r.day afternoon and Sat.u.r.day night. Three full sets.”
”I wish you would not do it, Jacky, I really do wish that. You are going to get in trouble. Again.” She wrings her hands, and I know that she is genuinely distressed.
”I must do it, Amy. I must get some money together so I can leave if I have to. Have I told you that Mistress means to marry me off as soon as a 'suitable match' is found?”
”That is horrid and wrong,” she says. ”I cannot believe it. Not even Mistress would do that.”
I snort out a quick bark of a laugh. ”When you fall in Mistress's eyes, you fall hard and far, that's for sure. A 'suitable match' indeed! Prolly to some no-account scoundrel who'll take my money and work me to the bone and then turn me out when I'm broke down and useless. Well, believe me, Sister, it's not gonna be that way. I'll run away first, I will, and if I have to cut and run because of it, well, I'd rather have some money in my pocket than to go out in the world all penniless again.”
”Where would you run to?” asks Amy.