Free Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber by L. A. Meyer

Royal Navy friends are gone.
    The newly reborn Miss A. H. Leigh—that’s “A” forAnnabelle, “H” for Hester, family name Leigh—goes into the shop, buys a newspaper, and asks directions to a nice teahouse where a young lady of good breeding, such as herself, might find refreshment, and I’m directed to “The White Rose Tearoom, Miss. You will find it to your liking. Just up the street on the left.”
    On my way to that establishment, I pass a schoolhouse, on the steps of which the school mistress is lustily ringing a hand-held bell, as the children file in for the day’s instruction. The boys, dressed in uniform black short pants, matching jackets, and white shirts, tumble in the doorway, a riot of shouting and pushing and punching. The girls, of course, are more well-behaved, dressed in gingham dresses with white aprons over their fronts, white stockings, and sensible ankle-length lace-up shoes. As the door closes behind all, I look out on the schoolyard and notice swings, a seesaw, and a large playing field.
Very nice.
I would have liked to have gone there as a child . . . but, oh, well . . . I do know now, having run as a ragged orphan through the rough streets of London with the Rooster Charlie Gang, and later having gone to the finest of schools, that both places teach similar lessons in the ways of friendship, loyalty, bravery, and betrayal.
    Moving right along, I pass a newly painted Congregational Church, a courthouse that I naturally shy away from, given my past experience with such places, and then, ah . . . the post office. I know that it is too early to expect a letter from Ezra Pickering concerning my latest troubles, so I do not go in, but it is good to know where it is. And, yes, right there is the First Mercantile Bank of Plymouth,Massachusetts, in all its austere glory.
    As promised, the tearoom comes into sight. It is squeezed between two larger, more heavily timbered buildings, but still manages to look cheerful and even pretty. Over its varnished oaken door hangs a sign bearing a white rose painted on a lavender background with TEAROOM written below. I push open the door and go in, fully armed with the haughty Lawson Peabody “Look” firmly resting upon my countenance.
    It is a pleasant room—well lit, with frilly white curtains and crisp linen on the tabletops—a bit fussy for my taste, but then, give me a rough-and-ready tavern anytime.
    I am greeted civilly by a tidy young woman and then shown to a table on which are napkin-wrapped place settings and a vase with a single white rose in it.
A nice touch,
I’m thinking, as a delicate porcelain cup of hot tea is placed in front of me. It takes me back to teatime at the Lawson Peabody, without the tension of having to do everything just right under Mistress’s unforgiving gaze. From a nicely lettered card placed on the table, I order toasted crumpets with butter and jam, take a ladylike sip of the excellent tea, and then open my paper to the Help Wanted section, hoping the advertisement I saw yesterday is still being run . . .
    Yes! There it is . . .
    Â 
    WANTED:
    Governess for Two
    Small Children.
    References Req.
    Room and Board
    and Remittance.
    Apply In Person to
    Mr. Polk at the
    First Mercantile Bank
    of Plymouth, during
    Business Hours.
    Â 
    I know it’s not the most exciting thing to do, but with my cover being already half blown by my chance meeting with those Royal Navy officers, I figure it’s just the thing. Quiet, discreet, out of the public eye, and certainly not in any way nautical in case anybody comes looking for me in that direction. Yes, I shall apply.
    A glance at the clock on the wall shows eight thirty, so I have a bit of time before the bank opens, which is convenient, for my breakfast has just arrived and looks good. Plus, I have some things I need to do.
    As I pack away the toasted crumpet loaded with