I take three deep breaths and then I stand up straight. I put on the Look. I turn and go to my room. I take my school dress from my sea chest and carefully unfold it and lay it upon my bed. I take off my serving gear and put it neatly away. I put on my school dress once again.
I go back down the stairs, and hearing the chimes, I go in to dinner.
PART III
Chapter 36
The day of my reinstatement as a possible lady, I walked into the dining hall, the Look in place, and I headed for my old spot next to Amy, who looked up in complete surprise and then delight. The ladies and the serving girls looked and wondered at seeing me once again in my apprentice-lady rig, and as I got to my chair, Dolley Frazier rose from hers and started clapping and then Martha Hawthorne did the same and then little Rebecca and then others till the place resounded with their applause. Clarissa, of course, sat in stunned silence, a sour expression on her face. Annie and Betsey and Sylvie were serving and beamed their pleasure at my joy with their broad smiles.
Mistress came in and marched to her place and called on me for the grace and I gave it, thanking the good Lord for the food and for all those, both upstairs and down, who have bestowed on my poor self the precious gift of their caring love and friendship.
That evening, the Preacher was not at the supper table, nor would he ever again reappear there this winter. Two girls are called each night to dine with Mistress, instead of just the one.
The next morning, I got up early, washed, dressed, and went down to the kitchen, where I knew the staff would be having their breakfast. They looked up in surprise as I took a tray of eggs and went around serving them to show that Sisterhood is more powerful than any notions of class or standing, and Rachel says, "Now that you're a teacher as well as a fine lady, shouldn't you be sittin' at the head table, then, Miss Faber?" and I say, "You'll call me Jacky when I'm down here or I'll tip this platter of eggs over your head, and won't you make a fine bride for your Mr. Barkley, then, Miss Rachel?" and the other girls hoot and laugh and all is easy between us.
And so we passed the winter, the Dread Sisterhood of the Lawson Peabody and I. We attended to our studies or did our duties, depending on whether we were lady or girl. We read. We painted. We stitched. We had oceans and oceans of time, and we filled our hours with music and song and talk, endless talk. And I waited for a letter that did not come.
The snows came at last, and I do not have to fear them as I did when I was on the streets of London. We are quite cozy here, with all four fireplaces blazing away, and it is pleasant to study and stitch in front of the glowing fires and maybe roast a potato on the edge of the coals for a hot treat.
Course, with the snow on the ground I can't haunt the Preacher no more, not the way I was, 'cause the snow would show my footprints on Janey Porter's grave and then the game would be up, as ghosts don't leave tracks. No, I must content myself with putting on my black burglar's outfit and, on those dark nights when the moon is down and the snow has slid off the church roof, crawling over and scratching at the tiles over his head and giving out a piteous moan or two. The Preacher still has the night watchman making rounds now and then, but he can't see me up on the roof.
I see the Preacher every Sunday, of course, and he seems to be coming apart, piece by piece—he is a shadow of his former self, with sunken cheeks and black circles under his eyes. His hands shake as he turns the pages of the Bible up on the pulpit. I would pity him if I could, but I know what he's done, and I can't.
There's now some empty pews on Sunday and people are beginning to talk. Amy tells me that Puritans are now called Congregationalists 'cause they ain't got a central authority, like us Church of England types got the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Catholics got the Pope. Each Congregational church is unto itself alone, and there ain't no higher authority to complain to if you got a problem with your preacher, which is why, I guess, that the Preacher has lasted here. He's a Mather, says Amy, and he's got powerful supporters in the congregation. We'll see.
I went with Amy to spend Christmas at Dovecote, with her and her family. I met her mum and dad, bows and curtsies all around, and I think I acquitted myself well in that regard—can hardly tell me from a real lady now. Amy's mother is sweet and says how nice that Amy finally has a little friend, which causes great mortification in Amy. Mrs. Trevelyne is the exact opposite of Amy—happy, gay, and fluffy—and she is fun to be with. Amy's father, Colonel Trevelyne, is a strapping, thick, tree trunk of a man, given to wearing sporting clothes and smoking big cigars.
A tree, a very sweet-smelling spruce, was brought in as is the new custom, borrowed from the Germans, and we had great fun decorating it with popcorn strings and small candles and bits of crystal. Mrs. Trevelyne had brought back from New York boxes of colored glass balls, and these were hung on the tree, where they gathered and reflected the light from the candles most wondrously. Even the high-and-mighty Randall joined in the spirit of the thing and helped decorate the tree.
On Christmas Eve we had songs and carols and happy conversation, and the household staff and the field people were all brought in and I got up and sang "The Cherry Tree Carol," which everyone said was top-notch, and all received from the Colonel their gifts of money and geese and turkeys to share with their own families on Christmas Day. The Colonel, for all his faults about money and gambling, is not an ungenerous man.
Afterward, when only family and me was left, we exchanged gifts. I gave the elder Trevelynes a miniature portrait of their daughter, the only thing I have to give, really, and they proclaimed themselves delighted. I gave Amy the portrait of Ezra, him sittin' there in profile lookin' all right and proper with his little smile on his lips, and she blushes and all tease her, but I think she likes it even though again she said she's not yet ready for that sort of thing.
Amy, for her part, gave me a large package bound in bright ribbon, and I opened it, and in it was a fine riding habit, all maroon with turned-back lapels of warm light gray and skirt of deepest green. When I say it is too much, I can't possibly accept it, she waves me off with, "It is too small for me now, and I have no younger sister to give it to." Once again I have to blink back tears. I will no longer have to wear the duster in Equestrian class.
Randall Trevelyne has forgiven me, I guess, for having dragged his sister down into the haunts of the poor, for he gave me a fine Spanish mantilla, made of black lace, which he offhandedly said he had picked up in a secondhand shop in Cambridge for almost nothing, but I don't believe him. In return, I gave him a portrait, not of Clarissa, which I would not do, nor one of himself, which he would surely give to that selfsame Clarissa, but rather one of the many I have done of myself for practice. It is shameless, I know, but still I do it and say, with my eyes so low cast down, "Just to remember me by."
It was a wonderful, wonderful time, that holiday at Dovecote. And, of course, I never missed a chance to get up on the Sheik when I was there.
During this winter, too, I went and looked up Mr. Fennel and Mr. Bean, the actors who had given me their card back in the Pig that day. I got put in some small parts like Puck in A Midsummer Nights Dream, and other such elf parts. Being that I can play the pennywhistle sort of fits right into that, and I've got a real smart outfit, all green stockings and a little short kilt and a top that looks like it's made out of green leaves and a pointed green cap. I'm billed as "Jack Tar" so as not to be discovered as a girl 'cause that would be a scandal. 'Cause of the costume and all.