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Colonel Trevelyne looks over and sees me standing there. "Get these girls out of here. This is no place for females!"

I put the back of my hand to my forehead and close my eyes like I'm a poor, weak female about to swoon from tossin' around heavy spells and stuff, and Amy leads me out saying, "The poor thing needs rest," which, of course, I do.

The sheets feel so cool and nice, and I feel I could lie here forever in this delicious doze, their light weight resting smooth and easy on my skin. A great wave of tiredness sweeps over me like it always does after the wildness that comes on in me slowly ebbs away.

"Yeow!" I say, without meaning to. Amy has turned back the sheet and is putting some salve on my welt.

"I am sorry," she says. "I should be saying it serves you right, you could have been killed and all that. But I did not say that before you took the ride, so I have no right to say anything at all. Except thank you."

"Aw, g'wan. All I did was go out and ride a horse."

"That, and extract that promise from Father."

"Do you think he'll be as good as his word?"

"He will. Male honor and all that." Amy looks about her room and I know she is seeing it in a far different light than she did this morning, or anytime in the near past. Go ahead, Amy. There's no sin in loving your own littie room.

There's a tap on the door and then it opens and Randall walks in.

"Randall! She's not dressed!" says Amy, and she brings the sheet back over my leg. I bend my other leg at the knee to make a tent so that the salve don't stick to it.

"Oh, it's all right," I say, all sleepy and drowsy, running my tongue quickly over my lips and parting them slightly in my best Dying Juliet's last-gasp pose. "The sheets are to my chin, so what's the harm?"

Randall comes over to the bedside but he don't say nothing, he just looks at me. He reaches down and, with one finger, gently pulls a lock of hair from my face. I smile all weak and frail.

"What can we do for you?" he finally asks.

"What?"

"How can we repay you? What will you have?"

I goes to say I don't want nothing, but then I changes my mind and says, "The silks. I want to keep the silks."

I don't know what he says to that, 'cause I slip off to sleep.

Later, when I wake up, the silks have been cleaned and are folded on my seabag, and by them is a pair of supple black riding boots. And they fit, too.

"We shall dance and we shall be gay. That tall midshipman is rather cute, don't you think?" I'm all rested up and ready to go to my first ball. Little Mary Faber, late of London's better gutters, is dressing for a ball with Captains, Colonels, Lieutenants, swells of all kinds, and the finest of Ladies, what a thing.

"Ah yes," smiles Amy, "Miss I-Am-Promised-to-Another Faber." Amy's been smiling a lot since the race and that is good.

I feel a wave of sadness slip over my gaiety, and I am quiet. Yes, and no word from the one I am promised to for over nine months. Not one word. Amy says mail comes to Dovecote on Monday, but I dare not hope.

"I shall be good," I say. But I shall also be gay.

We had crimped up our side curls with the curling iron warmed on the cooking fire in the kitchen, being careful to stay out of the way 'cause mighty preparations are being made for tonight's dinner and Mrs. Grubbs ain't puttin' up with no silly girls, not even if one of 'em is the daughter of the house. There's steamin' pots and great joints of meat, but thankfully, no little suckling piggy. Her serving girls are being run ragged and well I know the drill, so we get done and get out. But not before I lifts us a couple hot cherry tarts from a tray. Ain't lost me Cheapside touch.

We then go up and watch the doings in the great hall—men stringing banners and a chamber orchestra setting up their music stands, and that's sure to be a treat, dancing to music provided by someone other than myself. The men have also set up a long table with crystal goblets set out on it and another man brings in a huge punch bowl in the center. The great chandeliers are being lit and the place just glitters with light ... and promise.

Entering the dining room we find the table set, with the silver polished and the gold-rimmed plates placed just so, and the wineglasses winking in the light so cheerily. I walk around the table, peering at the name cards.

"Hmmm..." I muses. "I think there's been some mistake. You and I are all the way down at the end. Surely whoever did this didn't know I must sit next to the Royal Navy officers to get the news. So we'll just put this Mrs. Cabot in my place at the end. Who is she, anyway?"

"An old lady, but—"

"Good. She won't notice. And we'll put me next to this Captain Humphries and we'll take this Mr. Adams and put him here..."

"Jacky, you can't put an Adams down at—"

"I just did. And I'll put you in his place next to that Lieutenant—what's his name ... oh, Flashby, the one with the mustachios. And Clarissa is there and Randall there, and I believe we've got it right now.

"Our work here is done," I say, all grand. "Let us go dress for the ball, dear Sister."

We are dressed and ready to go. I have on the blue dress that I made myself and I know that Amy does not quite approve of it, being as low cut as it is, but it is all I have. My hair is up and my dress is on. I am powdered, pampered, and perfumed.

There is a tinkling of a bell in the hall. It is time.

"Are you ready, Miss Faber?"

"I am, Miss Trevelyne."

We put on the Look and glide down to the dining room.

We enter the room and introductions are made, bows and curtsies all around, and then we go to our places. The place is a blaze of color, what with the ladies in their finest and the gentlemen in their jackets that go through all the colors from bright blue to deep purple, light mauve to kelly green, but never, oh never, red. None of these Yankees want to risk being taken for a redcoat. I mean, the war is over long since, but some things linger on. The naval officers are, of course, in blue with much gold.

I am handed to my place by Captain Humphries, who's beaming and twinkling away at me, having already consumed a good deal of wine, I'll wager. He pulls out my chair and I sit. Would it pain him to know that he had just performed a courtesy for a ship's boy, I wonder?

I settle in and grin at Amy across the way. She looks absolutely wonderful in her rig, a black silk thing with red ribbon worked into the bodice and puffed sleeves, and I think she knows it. She has the Lieutenant on her right and Randall on her left and Clarissa next to him. Clarissa, of course, looks gorgeous and is laying the charm on all about her. She even smiles upon me, which makes me wonder what she's up to.

The grace is said, the wine is poured, toasts are drunk to the host and to several of the guests, and the soup is served and the conversation begins.

"Isn't it wonderful that Amy could have two of her dear classmates from Mistress Pimm's here?" warbles Mrs. Treve-lyne from the head of the table. The three of us allow that it is indeed wonderful.

"How is the old witch?" says a woman with hooded eyes and parted lips a few chairs down.

Ah.

"Mistress is well, Madame," says I, taking a chance. "You would find her skill with the cane is quite undiminished." Laughter all around. Whew, I'm glad that went over well.

I take some soup and look across to see that Lieutenant Flashby has taken an avid interest in me ... or at least in the rise and fall of my chest. I sneak a quick look down to make sure I ain't dribbled something down there, but no, it looks all right.

Each of the officers has a midshipman standing ramrod straight behind their chairs, to get them anything they might need, but it's mainly for show: This is what Royal Navy discipline looks like, Yankee rabble.