Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber Read online

  “Yes, you did, Ezra, and thank you,” I say, pulling out a letter from my vest and handing it to him. “This will explain.” I flip Clarissa’s New Orleans letter across his desk.

  Never hide anything from your lawyer, I always say . . .

  Ezra takes it and reads. When he is finished, he folds up the letter and looks off, plainly considering something.

  “Very interesting and, indeed, it does explain much.”

  “It certainly explains why I have chosen to live single all of my life. If it does not, here is another letter that I received after that. It is one that certainly threw the latch on my heart for good and ever. It is from Cavalry Major Lord Richard Allen. When last I saw that gallant officer, he was being carried off the field at the Battle of Vimeiro, grievously wounded. I got it several weeks after Miss Howe’s chatty little note.”

  I toss over the letter bearing the coat of arms of theSeventh Dragoons at the top. He takes it up and reads . . .

  Major Lord Richard Allen

  Seventh Dragoons

  Kingston, Jamaica

  August 28, 1809

  Miss Jacky Faber

  The Pig and Whistle

  Boston, Massachusetts, USA

  My dear Jacky,

  Yes, Prettybottom, I am back from the dead and back on the line. I cannot thank you enough for seeing me into the care of the very competent Dr. Stephen Sebastian and his delightful family. I am quite sure I would now be bothering the imps of hell if not for your efforts.

  You can see from my address that I am back in harness, and with a promotion to boot for showing “conspicuous bravery” in holding that breastwork at Vimeiro. I was also given a nice medal. I asked that you be awarded one, too, since you also were there, but they would hear none of that. Surprisingly, though, Old Nosey spoke up on that one, saying, “The girl was most valuable both in Portugal and Spain and certainly deserves something for her service,” but nothing came of it. I think the only reward you will receive is being once again reassigned to his staff when he returns to Spain as Lord Wellington. Best lie low, Jacky, if you want to avoid that singular pleasure.

  I have heard you are back in Boston, and I do hope you will meet up with your Lieutenant Fletcher, Royal Navy. That would be a good thing, as I found him a fine man and entirely worthy of you . . . should I ever let you slip from my grasp.

  I myself have had a rather pleasant time of it—travel-, career-, and romance-wise. It went down like this:

  Last month I was selected to lead a delegation of politicos to New Orleans to confer with American officials there to try to lessen the tensions that are growing between our two countries—maybe they thought a “Real British Lord” would impress the colonials; I don’t know. But I certainly put on the Aristocratic and Arrogant Young Lord act for them, and I hope they appreciated it, and I further hope it did something to avoid a stupid war.

  But if it comes down to a conflict, what will you be, Jacky—British or American? Hmmm . . . I hope you never have to choose.

  But on to more pleasant things . . . much more pleasant things.

  After the political business of the first day was done—thank God; dreadfully boring stuff—our party was shown to a very active gambling and sporting house for some pre­dinner drinks. We were standing at the bar and toasting kings and presidents and such, when the bell for four o’clock was chimed. Then one of the comely young things the place seemed to be full of advanced to a spot behind the bar where hung a silken cord that was attached to a set of velvet draperies, which apparently concealed something of interest to the crowd. I guessed this was a sort of ceremony that opened the night’s festivities, and I was right.

  The girl pulled the cord, the curtains parted, and a fine painting was revealed. The place gave a roar of approval.

  Oh, my God, Princess, how you have gotten around!

  Glasses were lifted and toasts were made to “The Venus de New Orleans,” “The Naked Maja,” and “The Girl with the Blue Tattoo,” and I must say, Prettybottom, you may rest assured, your front is every bit as pretty as your back.

  My gasp of astonishment was echoed even more forcefully by a young man who stood next to me. “My God—Jacky!” he said as his glass slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. I tore my gaze from the remarkably realistic painting of you, wearing nothing but a tattoo and a smile, to look upon him.

  “Do you know her, Sir?” I asked. He is a newly minted Royal Navy Lieutenant named Raeburne, I believe.

  “Y-yes, Sir,” he replied. “W-we served together on HMS Wolverine.”

  “Ha! You dog!” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I have read that book. So you are the midshipman RobinRaeburne of that little epic and have seen that holy blue tattoo in the flesh, or, rather, on the flesh, as it were?”

  He could only nod.

  “Well, young fellow, my congratulations. It might interest you to know that she now has another tattoo stitched onto her lovely hide, it being a golden dragon, and it lies—”

  I was interrupted on this discourse of your various comely parts and the decorations thereon by a very beautiful young woman who had come up beside me bearing a fresh glass of champagne, which she demurely offered to me, saying in a very soft and charming accent . . .

  “Please accept this, Lord Allen,” she murmured, her eyes modestly cast down, “for I know we share a mutual acquaintance with my very dear friend Jacky Faber, pictured so gloriously there. My name is Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe.”

  To make a long story short, Miss Howe and I have been enjoying each other’s company for some weeks now. I get up to New Orleans when I can, and she has come down to visit me in Jamaica. I can tell you, my reputation has certainly been enhanced by squiring that one about Kingston. She does turn heads.

  Clarissa’s family—Clarissa’s very rich and powerful family, from which she had been estranged—has made overtures concerning reconciliation, and she plans to go to Virginia in the spring and wishes me to be by her side. As a rather impoverished lord of a poor estate, I have little more to offer than my title and a rather nicely turned leg, but still, it seems to serve. So, having cleared it with my commanding officer, I intend to go and ride to the hounds in OldeVirginia. I shall show the colonials how it is done, by God.

  Well, I must end this letter, as Clarissa and I are off to the races, and then to a play this evening in which she has a part. She lies, in fact, curled up next to me here in my rooms as I pen this and wishes me to tender her most warm regards as well as a heartfelt kiss. See, she has donned fresh lip rouge and leans over my lap to plant a kiss for you here on the letter itself. See, there it is. Then she places one on my cheek as well, which I find equally warm and welcome.

  Before sealing up the letter, Clarissa has taken it from me and taken up the pen. Between the impressions of her upper and lower lips, she has drawn a very sharp tooth.

  Ah, the merry repartee between dear friends, how utterly charming.

  I remain your dear friend and most ardent admirer,

  Richard

  “You can well imagine my reaction to that one, Ezra.”

  “Umm. The word volcanic comes to mind. And the letter is rather the worse for wear.”

  “Indeed.”

  I slip back into remembrance of that particular time . . .

  “GODDAMITTOHELL, ANYHOW!” I bellowed as I crumpled up that letter and flung it against the wall. “First she takes Jaimy, then Flaco, and now Richard! Must she have them all? I can’t stand it, I just can’t stand it!”

  “Now, Miss,” said my good friend John Higgins, who was attending me in my state of towering fury and attempting to calm me. I stood quivering, with arms held to my sides, fists and teeth clenched, and face in a grimace of absolute rage. “Please sit down and let us discuss this situation. Please, Miss, you will injure your mind and bring on brain fever. You must be calm. Here, a glass of wine with you. There, that’s better. Have another sip.”

  I did sit then, and attempted to quiet my heavi
ng chest. “What I am going to do, Higgins,” I said, more quietly now, “is outfit the Nancy B. for a cruise down the southern coast, deliver a cargo, then put in to New Orleans and kill that scheming bitch in the most gruesome way possible.”

  “Now, Miss, I know you do not mean that—”

  “Yes, I do, Higgins,” I retorted. “I befriended her, helped her out when she was in need, shared my bed with her, introduced her to my friends, gave her shelter from the storm, employed her in Faber Shipping Worldwide, and now I find I have clasped an asp to my bosom! And if Richard marries her, I shall have to call her Lady Allen! Oh, God, not that! I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand it!”

  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 HMSShannon 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!

  Chapter 3

  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 stre
ets 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.