Millie again has a flock of sheep to herd, which pleases her greatly, but right now the sheep are in the fold for shearing, so she contents herself with herding whatever poor beasts she can find to do her bidding. She cocks her head, smiles her doggie smile, then, barking, she disappears over the hill.
We sit for a while on the top of Daisy Hill, looking out over the deep and, for now, quite calm blue sea...
...and then I give a shudder.
"Are you cold, Sister?" asks Amy. "We can go back."
"It is a mite nippy, but, no, a goose must have just walked over my grave," I say, laughing over the old saying that people use when they shudder involuntarily for no apparent reason.
Then, what should appear over the crest of the hill but a flock of agitated geese, honking and squawking and crossing right in front of me, followed closely by herd dog Millie.
Amy gives a bit of a gasp and I let out a nervous laugh.
"Well, at least I know where my grave will be. Funny, I always figured I'd be buried at sea."
"Don't joke about things like that, Jacky."
I look at the ground beneath my mare's feet and think on this as the geese disperse and head back down to the barn.
"I'm not joking," I reply. "But I thought you were a Person of Sweet Reason and not in any way given to superstition, Amy dear."
"I am not, but still, no sense tempting Fate."
"It is not the worst place in the world to end up," I reply, looking out over the broad ocean. "Such a beautiful view it would be."
Then I hear the sudden pounding of hooves, of a horse being ridden hard and very nearby.
What?
I twist around in my saddle and see a man dressed in a scarlet jacket and white britches explode from a copse of trees and bear straight for us. I reach for my shiv that I keep up my sleeve, but he is on me too fast and I cannot get it out.
Scarlet? British? Still after me? No, it cannot be...
The man wears not a hat, but a kerchief tied across his face. A highwayman, a robber, here on Dovecote? No, it is not possible...
I hear Amy shout in alarm and then he is on me. He bumps my poor little mare and reaches around my waist and hauls me off her and over in front of him. I squeal and pummel him with my balled-up fists, but to no avail. He pins my arms to my sides and holds me tight.
What? Am I to be kidnapped after all that has happened?
I twist and struggle but cannot—damn!—free my arms. But I find I can lift my left hand, and with it, I reach up and pull down my assailant's kerchief. My mouth drops open in delighted astonishment.
"Randall!" I gasp. "How—"
But I don't get to say more because the rogue's mouth comes down upon mine, stifling my cries of delight. I give up the fight and put my arms around him and hug him tight.
"Well met, Lieutenant Bouvier," says the grinning rascal when our lips part.
"Oh, very well met, Lieutenant Trevelyne! So very well met! When...? How...?"
"Later, Jacky my love. Right now I'm hungry for a bite to eat, a bottle of good wine, and another of your sweet kisses."
As he plants another one on me, Amy picks up the reins of my former mount and prepares to lead her off down the hill.
"Good to see you, Brother," she says simply. "Jacky, I assume you'll be riding back to the house on your present perch. Ah, I thought so."
Well, I can't say nay to that, no I can't. Nor do I want to.
Lunch had been prepared and laid out on the large table in the grand dining room. If it had been just Amy and I, we would have taken our dinner in the kitchen, but that would not do for the young lord of the manor, oh, no. He must have the finest upon his return to the ancestral manse. Bottles of the best wine are cracked, several geese pay the price of being geese, and there is jubilation all around the household—the young master is back!
"So, Randall," I say, seating myself next to him in a chair he has pulled out for me. "It appears you have joined the English army. I can scarce believe it." His jacket is of the deepest scarlet with white turnouts and cuffs and a high— red leather?—collar. He does look awfully good in it.
He tilts back his head and laughs. "No, my love. Although I have enraged Father many times in the past, for that he would surely put a bullet between my eyes." He beckons for Blount, the butler, who usually acts as Randall's valet when he is home, to refill his glass. I take a small sip from mine. It is always best that I keep a clear head when I am around this rascal, else I should end up on my back, with a heavy bit of explaining to do later. Well I remember that time under the rosebushes.
"No, once again, I am following your lead, Jacky," he says, leaning back in his chair and tapping his empty wineglass with his knife. "I am going to sea." The attentive Blount once again fills his goblet.
I give a small gasp of surprise. "To sea? Randall, you don't know the first thing about seamanship. What captain would take you on as an officer?"
"Not a sea captain, maybe, but perhaps a seaborne colonel," he says smugly. "You are gazing, in what I plainly see is open and frank admiration, at Second Lieutenant Randall Tristan Trevelyne, United States Marine Corps."
What?
"I would have thought we were done with uniforms, Randall, after all that we had witnessed at Jena." I see now that there are gold fouled-anchor pins on his collar, with the initials USA embossed upon them.
He loses his smile at that and merely nods. I know he is thinking of that awful day in Germany. I'm sure he had made many friends in Napoleon's army, and I'm equally sure he saw some of them die, as did I. Randall had always wanted to see what war was like, and he found out then, for sure—thirty thousand young men lying dead on the plains of Jena and Auerstadt. He gives his head a shake, and the smile—though a bit forced, I think—is back.
"Thank you again for saving my life, Randall," I murmur, lifting my glass to him and recalling that time when I lay helpless upon my back about to be gutted by a Prussian bayonet.
"Think nothing of it, my dear," he says, leering at me over the rim of his wineglass. "But you must know that I shall expect repayment in full—if not in kind, then in deed." He takes another pull at his wine and continues. "I am assigned to the frigate Constitution, which lies at Long Wharf in Boston Harbor, and we leave next week for some exercise or other. Therefore, that means I do not have much time to complete the seduction of Miss Jacky Faber, so we must get down to it with all possible speed, such that the, um, deed can be done with all possible dispatch. As you naval types would put it, 'Not a moment to lose!'"
"You might have even less time than that, Randall," I counter, grinning my foxy grin at the rascal. "I intend to ship out for London the moment I receive a letter from Lieutenant James Fletcher, my intended husband, informing me that the coast is clear for my return and our eventual marriage."
"Umm. Him again," says Randall, dismissing Jaimy with a shake of his head. "Well, we shall see about that."
"How did you get your commission, Brother?" asks Amy, to change the subject. Discussion of my eventual seduction and ravishment not being a comfortable topic for her.
"The Commander-in-Chief of the newly formed Marine Corps, Colonel Burrows, was in Boston when I debarked, so I secured an interview. I showed up, resplendent in my French Cavalry officer's uniform, told him of my experiences in the Grand Army of the Republic, and within an hour I was being fitted for this uniform, commission as Officer and Gentleman in hand."
"Why are you here, Brother"—Amy had given a ladylike snort at the word gentleman—"and not resident at some house of ill repute in Boston?" she asks. "I believe Miss Bodeen's is still in operation and should suit your needs quite well."
"Surely not to see you, dear sister of mine," retorts Randall, not in the least abashed. "Actually, after being fitted, I sought out Ezra Pickering, to determine if he knew anything as to the whereabouts of our gadabout young warrior goddess. He informed me she was here, and off I galloped. I do have to accomplish this seduction, you know. I feel it is my duty as a rakehell, a cad, and a scoundrel."
"How is Mr. Pickering?" asks Amy, again trying to steer the conversation in a more seemly direction.
"He is well," answers Randall. "And actually, he is quite an amusing fellow—for a lawyer—and excellent company. We had a fine lunch together at the Pig and Whistle. I hereby give you my permission to marry him."
Amy chokes at that. When she composes herself, she hisses, "Aside from the fact that I am not yet ready for that sort of thing, Randall, what makes you think that I would ask your permission?" Amy's back is ramrod straight.
"Because, ma chère soeur, when Father is not here, I am in charge of you and what you will or will not do. Surely you know that?"
Amy says nothing, but only sits and fumes. What he has said, of course, is, unfortunately, the absolute truth.
He continues. "Pickering seems quite taken with you, as a matter of fact. Poor man, I cannot imagine why," says Randall. He tosses his napkin onto his plate, places a cheroot between his teeth, and leans back as Blount offers a burning match to light it. Puffing mightily and sending out a cloud of vile smoke, Randall looks about him, then says, "But maybe this is what he is taken with." He gestures all about him at the fine dining room, the ballroom beyond the French doors, taking in with that gesture all the rich grandeur that is Dovecote.
Oh, Lord, that cuts it.
Amy leaps to her feet. "That is despicable! How could you possibly impugn the name of a fine gentleman like Ezra Pickering with a slanderous statement like that! You—you..."
I spare Amy her sputtering search for the proper epithet by jumping to my own feet and putting my arms around her outraged self and exclaiming, "Please, Sister, it is only Randall being Randall. Let us rejoice in his safe return and not take all he says to heart. Please, Amy, sit back down. He did not mean that. Please. Randall, be good."
She reluctantly sits, and so do I. Randall eyes me through the smoke of his cigar.
"So," he says, "Jacky Faber, the young snippet I first met as a simple chambermaid now owns two ships and a shipping company. How did you manage that?"
"Hard work and sound investments," I primly reply, wanting to quickly get off this particular subject. Since the purchase of the Lorelei Lee, Amy, too, has wondered at Faber Shipping's sudden rise in fortune. But I have put her off with the same sort of weak explanations, as we can't have her putting my gold-hoarding scam into print for all of England to read, now, can we? I can see it now: The Rapture of the Deep, Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Mary Faber—Urchin, Orphan, Thief, Sometime-Sailor, Sometime-Soldier, Sometime-Spy—She Who Stole Even More of the King's Treasure and Deserves to Hang for It.
No, we cannot have that.
"And a good bit of simple larceny, too, I'll wager." Randall laughs, and I notice that Amy does not contradict that, but only slides her eyes over to look at me.
"Ahem. Well, enough of that," I say, pushing on. "Again, Randall, I must ask you, after what we have seen of the horror and carnage of war, why would you once again put a uniform on your back and go to live the ofttimes rough and sometimes murderous military life?"