Part 32 (1/2)

”Yes, Sir,” says I, and reaches down and pulls out the gag and a torrent of curses pours out of his mouth, thick with a Scots accent. ”See?” says I, and I jams the gag back in. Gully's curses turn to gurgles.

”He is Scots, for sure, but what do you expect to get out of this?”

”Nothing, Sir, just a good English girl doin' her duty for King and Crown. And for the good of the Service, like.”

”Wait. Did he do that to you?” The good officer puffs up in outrage.

Ah, the eye. It must be a sight. ”Yes, Sir, but he was out of his mind when he did, so don't hold it against him. I would, however, warn you that he is more slippery than any eel. Perhaps if you held him in the brig till you sail?”

”We'll hold him,” he says grimly and turns to his men. ”Take him.”

”Wait, Sir. One more thing.” I go over to Gully and open his coat and take out his bottle of the greenish liquid. I lean over and look down at Gully's eyes as I say, ”He has a problem with the drink, Sir. I would deny him his rum ration, at least for a while.” I can imagine what Gully is calling me right now, but nothin' gets by the gag cept a gargling sound.

The Bo'sun takes the bottle from my hand and uncorks it and sniffs at the neck. He makes a face. ”Wormwood. Rotten Frenchy wormwood. Rots the brain. Might as well drink lye!” He throws the bottle over the edge of the wharf and we hear it shatter on a crossbeam down below.

The men untie Gully and pull him upright, one good strong sailor on either arm. They leave the gag in.

I take the fiddle case from my shoulder and am about to hand it over when the officer says, ”Ah no, Miss. No fiddles. The Captain can't abide them and won't let any aboard.”

I sling the case back over my shoulder and look at Gully, and this time his eyes show only a deep, deep sadness.

”Sorry, Gully, I really am. But I'll take good care of the Lady Lenore for you, and if we ever meet again, I'll give her back to you.”

With that I pick up the wheelbarrow and I turn and take it back to Bob's shed.

The sun is coming up when I see Amy runnin' toward me when I turn up Beacon Street. Annie is with her and their relief at seein' me back is gone the instant they see my eye. Amy's mouth opens but nothin' comes out.

”Sweet Jesus,” says Annie. ”We got to get her to Peg right off!”

There is a kind of thick juice comin' out from between the slit of my eyelids. Please G.o.d, don't take my eye.

I'm led into the kitchen. ”Oh, my poor little girl,” moans Peg. She puts her hand on my forehead and looks at the eye. Her hand feels wondrous cool and soothing. ”Sylvie! Go down to the apothecary shop and get three ... no, five leeches! Quickly! Abby, to the icehouse! Run!”

Peg wets a towel and takes me to her room in back. ”Get in here. We can't let Mistress see you like that. Stretch out on the bed.” I take off the Lady and I lie down, gratefully.

”Who did that to you?” she demands. ”I swear I'll have the man that did that...”

”He's gone away, Peg, and he won't be back for a long, long time,” I says, and falls into a deep, deep sleep.

Much later, when I swim back into something close to wakefulness I feel a cold ice pack held to my eye. I open the other eye and see that it is Amy who is holding the compress. I fumble around and find her other hand and hold it to me. ”Dear Amy,” I whisper, ”thank you.”

Then I hear Peg say, ”All right. Let's take a look.” With my good eye I see her squinting at my other eye. ”The swellin's down. Let's get 'em on her.”

With great joy I find I can see a little out of my hurt eye-just a little slit of light, but it's something. Peg brings something black and s.h.i.+ny and wiggling over into my sight and puts it down, cold and clammy, on the top of my cheekbone, close to my lower eyelid.

”One there, and one over here ... and two up top...”

I see that Amy's look of tender concern has been replaced by one of stern disapproval. ”I told you something like this would happen,” she scolds. ”What do you have to say for yourself?”

I considers this for a bit. ”You know,” I says, as I feel the leeches' rasping mouths workin' their blood-suckin' way through my skin, ”I'm thinkin' of giving up show business.”

Chapter 40.

Amy thinks it might be a good idea to get me out of the school for a few days, what with my eye and all, and I think it is a great idea, so we go to Dovecote for a few days this weekend. I spent all Friday in bed, claiming to be sick, and when Mistress came in to check on me, I flipped over on my side and pressed my bad eye to the pillow so she wouldn't see. Amy makes our excuses to Mistress and this time there is a coach and we take it. The coach is anything but comfortable and we get bounced around something awful-I'd much rather have ridden Gretchen-but we chatter and laugh and soon the journey is done and we are dropped at the big house at Dovecote.

We drop our bags in Amy's room and I go over to the mirror and squint at myself in it. Not too bad-the leeches did their job in getting the purple bruises out. Now it's just a few smudges of yellowish tinge.

Amy sees me looking in the mirror and says, ”Come. We will go to Mother's dressing room. She will have some powder there.”

”Coo, Amy, look at all this,” says I. The dresser top is full of little jars and bottles and things with stoppers. ”I thought you Yankees was all Puritans and didn't hold with this stuff.”

”We have a saying here in New England: 'Pray in Church, Sin at Home.' Here, hold your face to the light.” She picks up a squat jar and opens it and takes a soft brush and dips into it and applies it to my bruises.

It's easy to imagine Amy's mother sitting here at this dressing table. As different from Amy as the night from the day, Clementine Trevelyne is as pink and flighty as Amy is dark and serious. It is certain that Mrs. Trevelyne has never read a book and her talk centers totally on things of a social nature-the parties, the dinners, the glittering b.a.l.l.s, and who was there and who was not. She does not seem to care a whit about the danger her husband's gambling poses to her present way of life, but goes about being gay and frivolous and charming. Or maybe she doesn't know. Whatever, she was kind to me when we met at Christmas, clucking over me and saying how nice it was that our Amy has a little friend. She was kind and I liked her.

Amy steps back and surveys her work. ”There. That's better.”

I look in the mirror and sure enough, I can hardly see the bruise. ”Good work,” I say. I pick up a bottle with blue juice in it. ”What's the rest of this, then?”

”That is perfume. From France. Try some if you wish.”

I pull out the stopper and put my nose to the tiny bottle. ”Ooohhh, that's so lovely!” I want to stuff the whole thing up my nose.

”Put some on if you like ... No, no, not like that.” She sees that I was about to shake the open bottle over my head. ”Like this.” She takes the bottle and puts her finger over the open end and tips it and then takes her finger and puts it behind my ear. ”Like that. Behind each ear. Maybe a touch at the throat.”

I do it and as I am doing it, Amy's attention is captured by something outside and she goes to the window.

”It's Randall,” she says, not sounding entirely pleased, ”home for the weekend. Again. I've never seen him home so much. It's strange.”

By the time she turns around, I have put another big dab of the perfume down on my breastbone, loosened my hair from its usual pigtail, and dragged a lock of it over my damaged eye.

She narrows her eyes upon seeing me do all this, but I just smile all innocent and get up and go down to our room to brush my hair and tie it back with a ribbon.

”Ah, you rogue, you! What have you been up to since last we met? Oh yes? Well, I've heard you've been havin' quite a jolly time with the girls, you rascal you! Several babies already on the way? I'm not surprised. Now, don't you blush like that!” Saying that, I wrap my arms around his head and plant a great kiss on his forehead.

The Sheik seems to be glad to see me, too. I had heard him whinny when we approached the stable-I guess he caught a whiff of me, though how he could through all this perfume, I don't know. Maybe he recognized my voice, talking to Amy and Randall as I was. Whatever, his eyes roll and he fairly screams at the sight of me.

I give him pieces of dried apple, which he takes off my palm with great gentleness, and I say to George Swindow, who's the head hostler, ”Please, George, tell me you'll allow me to ride him later.” Amy don't even bother anymore tryin' to tell me not to do it, and Randall puts on his air of not carin' what I do.

”Exercise him, Miss. You may exercise him inside the track,” says George. It's plain he's thinkin' back to those wild rides I've already had upon the Sheik.

”Thank you, George. I'll be back as soon as I change!” And I lift the front of my skirts and run back to our room and put on my sailor pants and s.h.i.+rt and I get back as they are saddling him up. The people here are used to seeing me in this rig-they have shrugged it off and they let me be the tomboy I guess I am.

I go up next to the Sheik and he lowers his great head, nuzzles me, and then shakes his mane and snorts and stamps, which means he's ready to run and asking why are we just standing here?