Part 33 (1/2)

Amy drops her fork to her plate.

”Yes, and Clarissa will arrive here at Dovecote, the day before. You know Clarissa Howe, do you not, Jacky?” He smirks, obviously recalling the grand tea party at the school.

I own that I have had the pleasure of her acquaintance. I look over at Amy. She is not happy.

”You will excuse us, Brother,” says Amy. She throws her napkin down and rises.

He takes out a long thin cigar and curls back his lips and places it between his teeth. ”Perhaps we'll retire to the piano room?” He looks at me with his sly look.

”Perhaps not,” says Amy, and brother and sister glare at each other as I get up, a bit more regretfully. Pity. I was having fun.

So. We will return in a month to see a fine horse race, where the Sheik will certainly conquer all who dare to challenge him...

...Or we will witness the fall of the House of Trevelyne.

That evening, after we're dressed for bed and I'm brus.h.i.+ng out Amy's long, black, s.h.i.+ny hair, I ask, ”What's a piano, and why does it have a room?” She has already brushed out my hair and I have put on my mobcap, which now has an anchor worked in blue thread on top of it-might as well use that embroidery, I figure. Although I still ain't near as good as the other girls, I got to admit it looks right smart. I think Faber s.h.i.+pping, Worldwide shall use that as its flag. The Blue Anchor Line, from Cathay to Bengal, from the rocky sh.o.r.es of New England to the sandy beaches of Mexico, from the- ”Come. I'll show you.” She gets up and puts on her own cap and takes up the lamp and goes to the door.

We creep down the broad staircase and down a hall and into a darkened room. Amy goes forward and puts the lamp down on a big ... what? It's got four thick legs and is flat on top and is all rich and smooth and glossy and warm and...

”It's called a piano,” she says, sitting down at a bench in front of the thing and lifting a wooden cover that slides back to reveal a row of gleaming black and white keys. ”Or, actually, a pianoforte, which is Italian for 'soft-loud,' which is appropriate because, unlike my harpsichord, it can make a note loud or soft depending on how hard you hit the key. Like this.” And she strikes a white key hard and lets the sound die out, and then does it again, only this time lightly and the note is much quieter.

”That's wonderful,” I say, and can barely keep my fingers off the keyboard. ”Can you play something?”

”Well, Father has only recently brought it here, but I have started a few things,” she says, shyly. ”Like this pretty little tune. It's by Ben Jonson, from back in Shakespeare's time, and is called 'Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.'” She arches her fingers above the keyboard and brings them down and plays and fills the room with rich and sweet sound. After she plays the melody, she sings a verse: ”Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine.

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And III not look for wine.”

I am sitting all wrapped up in the music and don't notice when the door opens and Randall comes quietly in, but Amy does and she stops playing.

”I was about to ride up to the tavern in Braintree,” says Randall, ”to find more convivial company than was available around here, when I heard the noise.”

”Please leave, Randall. We are not dressed,” orders Amy.

”No, wait,” says I, rising and facing him. ”It is just Randall, and if I am your sister, Amy, is he not then my brother, and all is right and proper? Isn't that right?”

A bow of agreement from Randall, a snort from Amy, but she don't press it.

”Shall we have a song, then? Have you a good voice, Randall?” I asks.

”I have a pa.s.sable baritone,” says he. ”What would you like to sing? 'The Riddle Song'? 'Captain Marshall's Courts.h.i.+p,' 'The Maid Who Lost Her Cow'...?”

”Ah no, Sir, none of those songs where the maid sets forth these riddles to try to protect her virtue from the advances of the man and the man is not supposed to be able answer them but he does, the rascal, and the girl always loses and we both know what she has to do then.” I plant my finger in the center of Randall's chest and push him back. ”No, Sir, we shall not sing those. Perhaps we will dance, instead.

”Amy,” I say, ”that pretty song you were playing, the one about 'drink to me only'...Could you play that again, please? For me?”

Amy turns back to the keyboard and, with a reluctant sniff, begins to play. I turn to Randall. ”Shall I teach you a simple country dance, then, Lieutenant Trevelyne?” He seems willing.

”Very well, put your right hand here on my waist. No, here on the small of my back-a little higher, please ... that's it. And put your other hand in mine and then we move together, like this. Your feet make a pattern like this-watch me, I'll lead, and then when you get it, you'll lead. Good. Shuffle, shuffle, and turn. Smooth and light. See, by pus.h.i.+ng and pulling me with your right hand, I know what direction you're gonna go in, and I can follow, and we glide about together like this. Isn't this nice?”

I think he finds it nice. I'm liking it, too. When we started the dance, there was some s.p.a.ce between us-there ain't no such s.p.a.ce now. When the music comes around to the beginning again, I start to sing the verse into his ear: ”Drink to me only with thine eyes...”

He brings his face to mine and I pull back, but he comes on further and I lift my fingers and place them on his lips and lightly push him back. He retreats and we dance like that until Amy finishes.

She makes it plain that she is done by pulling down the keyboard cover. ”Good night, Randall,” she says firmly.

Randall bows and I curtsy.

”Good night, Jacky.”

”Good night, Mr. Trevelyne. You be careful tonight.”

”I shall. Thank you for your concern. I look forward to showing you about tomorrow.” He bows and leaves.

I sit down on the bench next to Amy again and put my head back and smile in the darkness and let out a sigh and ... ”What?” I say to Amy, who seems right steamed about something.

Chapter 41.

The next morning, after chapel, I say I'm gonna go give the Sheik a pet and Amy goes off to our room and when she's well off and gone, Randall appears. He had sat between us during the service. It seems he never pa.s.ses up a chance to make Amy angry.

”May I show you around Dovecote now, Jacky?”

”I think dear Amy has shown me most of it, Mr. Treve-lyne,” I say, all demure in my lovely riding habit that Amy gave me, my soul newly scrubbed free of sin, but I have no intention of letting him get away. I had spent most of the service checking out the fit of his clothes from the corner of my eye. It's none of my business, but aside from the flaws in his character-arrogance, a tendency to swagger, false bravado and all-he is really a most beautiful boy, and, deep down, I think a very sweet one, too.

The young groom Edward brings out Randall's horse, a big bay gelding with a good head and fine white boots all around that Randall has named Comrade. Randall puts his foot in the stirrup and smoothly mounts.

”She cannot show you the place like I can. I know of places she does not know. Come”-and he extends his hand. There is no mention of rigging up a buggy, I notice, like I know he would for Clarissa. Well, we must know our place.

”Wait. I'll go get...”

”No need,” says Randall. ”Climb up here behind me. Comrade can carry us both.”

I consider this for a moment and then I hand my hymnal to the groom and say, ”You'll keep this for me, won't you, Edward?” He nods, but he don't look happy. He sends a glare in Randall's direction and I lean over and whisper, ”Oh, don't worry, Eddie, I can take care of myself.”

”All right, Mr. Trevelyne, go over by that feed box, if you would,” I say, and he does.