Free Rapture of the Deep: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Soldier, Sailor, Mermaid, Spy by L. A. Meyer

Intelligence be damned, he's not going to treat a gentleman like a common unrated seaman, and for that I am grateful. When in Boston, I shall be able to take you out to dinner, if not to bed. I should greatly prefer the latter, but I must accept my lot.
    Well, I must go on watch now, and so I will conclude. Should the Fates prove kind this time, I shall soon be able to place this letter in your hand, and that prospect soothes my worried mind somewhat.
    In any case, dear one, till we meet again, I remain yr most humble and etc....
    Jaimy

Chapter 11
    "...and that is how I almost got married," I say, heaving a huge, theatrical sigh and wiping away an imaginary tear. "End of story. Sniff."
    "I am sorry for you, Sister," says Amy Trevelyne. "But I am glad that you found your way back to us and have regained your good spirits in spite of it all."
    We are up in the hayloft of the big barn at Dovecote, the estate of the family Trevelyne in Quincy, Massachusetts. It has always been one of our favorite places to lie about and talk and to tell each other our hopes and dreams. We have just gotten back from a fine ride about the meadows and fields in the late fall air and I am lying sprawled on my back in the still-warm straw and it feels oh so lovely. The horses we rode are being cooled and curried and put up by the stablemen below, and I feel a bit guilty about it—for one who was born common and raised as a beggar, I certainly find it easy to slip into the ways of the rich. I pick up a tasty-looking piece of new hay that still has its head of bearded barleycorn on it and I stick it between my teeth and chew on the end, musing on the happenings of the last six weeks—London, the outfitting of my vessel, the leave-taking, the journey over, and our arrival back in dear old Boston.
    "Still, Amy, I wish the marriage had happened," I say, shaking my head to get it back in the present.
    "You are only sixteen years old, Sister, you have time enough," says Amy.
    "Lots of people get married at sixteen. Younger, even."
    "Yes, but the quality do not."
    "Oh? And I am suddenly of the quality?"
    "You'll do," she says, and goes on. "Martha Custis married George Washington at age twenty-nine. Of course, she was a widow, but even before that, when she had wed Daniel Custis, she was two years older than you. And our second president, John Adams, became interested in Abigail when she was fifteen, but they didn't marry until she was twenty."
    "Umm," I say, reserving judgment on that. "And what about you?"
    "I am not ready for that sort of thing just yet," she says, as she has so often before. I take that with a grain of salt but hold my tongue, for now.
    While I'm stretching in the warm straw, Amy sits cross-legged next to me with her portable writing desk balanced on her knees. She bends over the paper laid thereupon, writing away furiously, pausing only to ask me pertinent questions as I relate the happenings on my recent trip down the Mississippi River. Finally, we are done.
    "And with a last, full-throated, stentorian bellow, Mike Fink disappeared around a bend in the river and I saw him no more.
End of story, thank God."
    "Well, there are a few gaps to be filled," says Amy, still scribbling away, "but I suppose that will do for now."
    I put my hands behind my head and look off into the high rafters. "And just how scarlet will you paint me this time, Amy?" For one who has never yet been caught breathing hard in an amorous situation, she is certainly not loath to portray my poor fallible self in such a way.
    "I only write down what you tell me, Jacky."
    Uh-huh, and with a few literary embellishments here and there...
    "Well, I'm sure Mother Fletcher will be delighted," I say, imagining the sheer joy that Jaimy's mother must have felt upon seeing my wedding to her darling son turn into a shambles. I look at my dear friend through narrow eyes. "You have become quite the literary sensation, Miss, both here and in London. I hear your works are to be