NOW APPEARING
OPENING JULY 20
Many Lands, Many People, Many Songs, a Musickal Revue, featuring the Song & Dance Stylings of the Internationally Acclaimed Musician and Instrumentalist Miss Jacky Faber, as well as Vocals by Mr. Solomon Freeman and others. After Intermission there will be a playlet, The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden, or Fair Virtue in Peril, written by J. M. Faber, and starring Miss Clarissa Howe in the Title Role.
ONE DAY ONLY—JULY 27
Choral Works of Handel, Haydn, and Mozart, presented by the Chorus of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, Maestro Fracelli, conducting.
OPENING JULY 28
In the Belly of the Bloodhound, a new Dramatick Play, written by Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne, and directed by Messrs. Fennel and Bean, renowned Thespians.
EVERY SATURDAY MORNING AT TEN O’CLOCK
The Children’s Hour, featuring the folk stories, play-party songs, and games of Mrs. Jemimah Moses, Storyteller. Open to all well-behaved Children.
COMING TO THE EMERALD IN THE FALL
Abduction from the Seraglio, by W. A. Mozart. King Lear, by Wm Shakespeare, and a new Work from Miss Trevelyne. And much, much, more. All sure to please the Discriminating Patron of the Arts.
The Emerald Playhouse is a wholly owned subsidiary of Faber Shipping Worldwide. Tickets to performances are available at the box office or at the Pig and Whistle Inn. Balcony seats, $2. General admission, $1. Standing room, 50 cents. Children’s Hour, 25 cents per child. A full bar is provided at Intermission.
Chapter 20
“. . . and then I got a berth as Able Bodied Seaman on the Margaret Todd bound for New England, and here I am, lying in the hay in the loft of the big barn at Dovecote, one of my favorite places in the whole wide world, at the side of my dear Sister, Amy Trevelyne. End of story.”
“Oh, Jacky, how wonderful it must have been! In the midst of the very heart of literary London! What were they really like?”
“Well, Amy, just like any other males, I suppose—strutting about and trying to get into your knickers—or, more likely, into each other’s. Occasionally writing down some poetry to impress their pals. I have two snippets, one from Mr. Coleridge concerning a ‘damsel with a dulcimer,’ and one from Lord Byron concerning a ‘china girl.’ I have decorated the borders of the notes and framed them up and hung them on the wall of my bedroom at the Pig. You may have them if you wish—all that poetical stuff is lost on me.”
“And to meet the King of England, himself! That must have been quite impressive, even to one such as you.”
“It was, though Napoleon on the field of Jena impressed me more. However, it came to me then, and it comes to me now—everyone, no matter how grand, puts their drawers on one leg at a time.”
“I suppose, Sister, but still . . .”
“So, Amy, what do you think of our playbill?”
I am sprawled out on the aromatic hay while Amy sits cross-legged, reading the newly printed broadside. My head lies on her lap, she having laid aside, for the moment, her ever-present notebook. We have been going over the events that occur in the book she had decided will be titled The Mark of the Golden Dragon. She apparently pulled most of the information she needs for The Wake of the Lorelei Lee out of Mairead McConnaughey and my Irish crew, when the Lorelei Lee was in Boston after one of her transatlantic runs. With a profound sigh for my poor reputation, I filled in the rest.
“It could be wished, dear heart, that our native language had more standardized spelling,” she replies.
“Aw, c’mon, Amy, it gets the idea across, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” she says. “So Clarissa is to do Prudence Goodheart? It seems such a contradiction in terms.”
“I thought it best she ease into her acting life slowly, without too much stress on her abilities, before taking on a bigger role. In rehearsal, she seems to be getting into the spirit of the thing.”
“Ah, the emotional depth of that particular role . . .”
I give a hurt sniff at that. “I’ll have you know I’ve seen productions of my little play all along the East Coast. It’s not a patch on the success of your books, but still I have a certain affection for it.”
“I cannot believe you are doing this for her.”
“Well, she needs some help, family troubles, you know, and she’s not all bad. When we were on the Bloodhound, I got to know her worst side and her best side, and I must say the good outweighed the bad. Moreover, I’ll bet she’ll be a pretty good actress.”
“She is learning her lines, and she is a quick study,” muses Amy. “Still, I’d watch her . . .”
“Oh, believe me, I shall,” I say, reaching over to place a piece of straw between my teeth. “So rehearsals are going well?”
“Yes, I am most gratified. We have ironed out some of the problems with the script and should be ready to open on time.”
While that is pleasing to hear, what is most gratifying to me is to see my good friend smile. I know that while she loves seeing her words in print, she also loves hearing them spoken aloud, and her usually reserved countenance fairly glows with satisfaction.
“And it is oh so good to see many of the girls together again. Lissette, Caroline, Christina, Julie Winslow . . . and Dorothea Baxter, too. Dorothea is happy to be back among her sisters of the Lawson Peabody after being expelled from their midst for the sin of marriage to Mr. Sackett.”
I laugh. “Well, Mistress Pimm lost both a good student and an excellent teacher with that move. But I assure you, the Sacketts are very happy together.”
“That is good . . .” says Amy with a smile, brushing my hair back from my forehead. I am putting forth a good crop of new mop with hopes that it be allowed to stay for a while. “A true meeting of the minds.”
“And a true meeting of the bodies, too, Amy,” I say. “You must remember that is part of it, dear one. A big part.”
“Yes, I suppose,” she says with a sigh. “We must have babies after all.”
“Yes, we must,” I say, looking up at her and grinning my open-mouthed wolfish grin. “And while we are on this subject, how are things betwixt you and our dear Mr. Ezra Pickering? Hmmm?”
She blushes. “Relations between Mr. Pickering and me are most cordial.”
“So, have you set the date?”
“Now, you be good,” she says, looking off and not meeting my gaze. “You know I am not yet ready for that sort of thing.”
“Aw, come on, Amy,” I say, sitting up and doing my best to glower at her. “You’ve got to get on with it. Suppose some other New England blue-nosed Puritan beauty from a good family snaps up our Ezra. Eh? You know that would break your heart, dear Sister, so don’t deny it.”
“If that happened, I would wish him and his wife all the best,” she says with a sniff.
“Yeah, right,” I snort, flopping my head back down in her lap, giving up the fight for now. “But at least you’ve got your sort-of-intended in the same city. I’ve got no idea where Jaimy is.”
When the Nancy B. docked at Codman’s Wharf two days ago, I was saddened to hear that the Lorelei Lee had not yet returned from her last voyage to Ireland, but was crushed to find that Jaimy was nowhere to be seen.
Where are you, Jaimy? Charlie Chen said you were on your way. You should have been here by now. What happened?
“Now, now, Sister,” says Amy, patting my shoulder, “you know how wayward the winds are. I am sure he had a slow crossing and will be here shortly. After all, we have not heard of any major maritime disasters lately, now, have we?”
I place my hand on hers. “Nay, Sister, we have not. Thank you for your comforting words.” I heave a heavy sigh. “So it’s back to Boston for us tomorrow?”
“Yes, the COWS, our Committee On Women’s Suffrage, will march on Thursday, and I must join them.”
I sit up aghast. “The COWS? Just who the hell are the COWS?”
“The COWS is the militant wing of the Boston Army for Women’s Suffrage. The BAWS prefers to work politically, through elections and legislation, while the COWS is more militant, favoring direct confrontation with marches and demonstrations.”
“The COWS? What genius thought up that name? Your opponents will be all over that! I can hear the mooing now.”
Amy looks rueful. “Well, I did mention to Mrs. Shinn the possible use by the lower types of that unfortunate acronym, but she did not think it important. I am a very junior member of the Committee and Mother Shinn can be something of an overpowering presence.”
“Good luck on that, Amy.” I laugh. “You go march for women’s rights and I’ll go see my lawyer and take care of business. Votes for Women and Sisterhood Forever! As for now, when’s dinner?”
Chapter 21
“So what is the present financial condition of Faber Shipping, Ezra, now that the last of the Santa Magdalena’s treasure trove has been brought up and delivered to you?” I ask, leaning back in my chair in front of Ezra Pickering’s desk. “I assume you were able to dispose of it in a discreet fashion? I’m sure that the gold was no problem, but were you able to fence the jewels to our benefit?”
“Yes, Miss, I was . . . though your use of ‘fence’ is not one with which I am familiar. Perhaps it is one of your colorful Cockney terms?”
“Right you are, Ezra. I heard it from Fagin, himself, back in Cheapside. If you wanted something chancy sold, he was your man.”
“Ah well, yes, there are several jewel merchants, all of a Hebraic persuasion here in Boston, and they were most avid in examining the collection, a loupe to every eye. I perceived them to be honest brokers, and since their business was global in nature, very few questions were asked.”
“And that is good, Ezra, as the rather fierce eye of the British Lion seems to be forever trained upon my poor and innocent self.”
That gets a short bark of a laugh from my dear Mr. Pickering as he leans down to pull open a drawer. He withdraws from it an object wrapped in black velvet cloth. He opens the folds in the cloth and a ring lies gleaming upon the tabletop.
“Thank you for this gift from the Santa Magdalena,” he says.
“You are welcome, Ezra. I like to reward my friends when Fortune comes my way.”
“My diamond merchant associates assure me that the stone is very valuable—‘at least three carats and cut in an exquisite Florentine fashion and mounted in a band of pure gold. Most fine, Sir, may I offer’—but I fear this will fit none of my fingers,” he says, holding up the ring that encircles only the first digit of his pinky.
“It is not for you that I intended that ring, Ezra, as you well know,” I reply. “It is to be hoped that someday soon you shall place that ring on the dainty finger of Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne.”
“Ah, yes,” says Mr. Pickering, smiling his secret little smile, “but Miss Amy has exhibited some very modest maidenly concerns in that regard. Commendable concerns, I must say, but certainly not encouraging to me.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, with an exasperated sigh. “In regard to that, I recited a few verses to her of a well-known poem by Mr. Herrick when we were last in the hayloft at Dovecote. Would you like to hear them? They are not long.”