Curse of the Blue Tattoo: Being an Account of the Misadventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman and Fine Lady by L. A. Meyer

Author:L. A. Meyer [Meyer, L. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

Chapter 21

"Amy."

"Yes, Jacky."

I put my face down on the hay and look over at her. It is raining on this Sunday, our third day at Dovecote, and, after having gone to church, we are lying above in the stable hayloft where it is warm and dry and redolent with the smell of the horses. Faithful Millie lies down below at the foot of the ladder, whimpering because she can't come up.

There is a small piece of board missing on the side of the barn and we lie side by side looking out across the autumnal fields. The fields set up quite a pleasing pattern as they roll down to the sea, and the rain has brought a blush of green back to the earth. The rain has also kept us here another day, which is all right with me.

I'm thinking back on Jaimy and what he wants me to be and on Mistress and on my demotion and I asks, "Am I crude, Amy? Others have said I am, which is why I'm asking."

She waits a little too long in replying.

"I knew it," I says, and flips over on my back. "I am crude and common and awful and I'll never be a lady. I shall go down and slop the hogs as that is my station in life and I should be glad of it and not try to get above myself."

Amy looks at me for a while, thinking. "It is not so much that you are crude, as it is that you are ... impulsive ... simple ... straightforward ... and maybe a bit too direct and plainspoken for our society. In a charming way, of course," she adds quickly and puts her hand on my arm to show I ain't to take offense. "An unpolished gem, as it were."

"Oh?" I gets up on one elbow to face her direct. "And what do I do wrong that makes me all those things?"

She considers the question, and, at length, she plunges forward. "When you hurt, Jacky, you cry. When you are unhappy, you whine. When you are mad, you curse, and when you are threatened, you resort to violence. You talk with your mouth full and lean over your plate. You dash madly about when an impulse takes you, and you never walk when you can run. You say the first thing that comes to your mind, and the profanity, like with the Sheik yesterday, oh, Jacky, you have just got to stop that."

As if recognizing his name spoken, the stallion wickers and snorts down below. "You hush up, horse," I orders, "or I'll see you salted down in a barrel and served up to poor sailors who'll curse you for your toughness and lack of flavor, I will." I have already cajoled my way onto the back of the Sheik—the stable hands are finding me hard to deny, 'cause of my persistence.

She pauses to take a breath and then goes on. "And that way you have of grinning

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