Hook's Revenge Read online

  I’m sure you are asking yourself, “Where did the locket come from? Did it really contain a portrait of Captain Hook? Who put it in the carriage house and did he or she leave it there specifically for Jocelyn? Where can I find an honest housekeeper on the cheap?”

  You may be surprised to learn that Jocelyn wasn’t questioning any of these things. Being at school, she had little need to hire a housekeeper, honest or otherwise. As for the locket, she simply accepted it for what it was—a normal, average, everyday kind of miracle.

  Wonderful, unexplainable things happen all the time to children, perhaps because they are such a simpleminded bunch. For instance, a child goes to bed at night and wakes in the morning to a field of snowy white. This is a miracle.

  A strange dog licks instead of biting. Another miracle.

  Seasons change; the earth spins round; birds defy gravity and fly. All miracles.

  Compared to such wondrous things, finding your dead mother’s locket bearing a picture of the father you have never met is hardly worth thinking about.

  Other than feeling a mild curiosity, Jocelyn cared little where the necklace had come from. It was hers now—that was the important thing. When she tied it around her neck, she found its weight comforting somehow, as though she were suddenly less alone in the world.

  She was not, however, less hungry. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since she had last eaten. Between the lack of food and sleep, the storm, and her own tangled emotions, she felt a bit weak.

  Jocelyn knew that shipwrecked men set adrift on bits of debris could go at least two or three days before giving in to cannibalism, but she wasn’t sure she could make it that long. She examined her options.

  One: Live in the carriage house. Hope to survive on mice and beetles.

  Two: Give up and die.

  Three: Go back to the school.

  It occurred to the girl that perhaps this whole thing was a test, set up to see if she was strong enough to handle the difficulties she might encounter if—no, when—she finally got to set sail on her own grand adventure. If so, she resolved to pass. Jocelyn would choose the worst of the three options.

  She would go back to the school.

  Mind made up, the girl reached over and plucked three or four fat spiders from a web constructed between the window and the sill. She tore the edge off her hem and made a little pouch to carry them in. “You fellows are coming with me. I can’t wait until you meet your new bunkmates.”

  That important deed done, Jocelyn climbed down from the loft and crossed to the door. Remembering that it was difficult to open, she grabbed the handle, planted her feet, and pulled with all her might. It swung in far too easily, and Jocelyn fell to the floor, a heap of tangled petticoats and blankets.

  “Hello there! What are you doing here? Are you all right?” a voice called out. Jocelyn pushed her hair away from her eyes and saw a brown-skinned, curly-haired boy, not much older than herself, kneeling next to her. His face showed a mixture of concern and amusement.

  “Sorry,” he said. “This door sticks—you have to shove quite hard to get it open. I didn’t know anyone was on the other side. You startled me.”

  “I startled you? I’m not the one flinging open doors like a madman!” Jocelyn said as she struggled to right herself.

  The boy offered his hand to help her up. “You’re right about that. I apologize,” he said with a laugh. “I’m Roger: cook’s helper, undergardener, and all around errand boy here at the school. You must be Miss Eliza’s new student.”

  Is this boy always so happy? Jocelyn wondered. He’s a regular Jolly Roger. She stifled a giggle by checking to be sure her spiders had not been squashed when she fell.

  I’m certain she made quite a picture, standing there in the weak light of the doorway: still rather soggy, streaked with mud and dust, and with cobwebs in her hair. Roger scratched his head. “You do go to school here, don’t you? Did you get caught in the storm?”

  “I haven’t yet made up my mind.”

  “About whether you go to school here? Or about whether you got caught in the storm?”

  “Neither of those. Yes, I go to school here, I suppose.” She sighed. “And yes, I was out in the storm. I haven’t yet made up my mind as to whether I like you enough to talk to you.” Jocelyn pulled the door firmly closed behind her, and the pair started up the muddy path.

  “Well, we’re talking now,” Roger said with a grin.

  Jocelyn grinned back. “So we are. I’m Jocelyn Hook.”

  “You’re not related to the fearsome Captain Hook, are you?” he asked.

  Did Jocelyn detect a hint of excitement in the boy’s voice? “I am,” she replied cautiously. For some reason, she did not want to terrify this one. Much. She was enjoying walking and talking with him. “He’s my father.”

  “Really? My father was a sailor.”

  “Was?”

  “Yes.” Roger’s cheerful demeanor slipped, just a little. “My parents are both gone. My mum took sick after my dad’s ship was lost. That’s how I ended up here.”

  Jocelyn felt a growing kinship with the boy. Though she was only half an orphan in fact, she was a full one in practice. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

  “Me too.” He cleared his throat and smiled again. “So, Captain Hook, eh? My dad used to tell the most exciting tales about him. Kept me up at night.”

  “My father’s reputation does have that effect on people,” Jocelyn said with a hint of pride. “Too afraid to sleep?”

  “That wasn’t it, not really. Certainly the stories gave me chills, but mostly they got me wound up. It’s the whole adventure of the thing. I can’t resist it.”

  “Do you know what?” Jocelyn asked.

  “What?”

  “I’ve made up my mind. You and I can be friends.”

  “Good,” Roger said. “Judging from the looks of you, you’ll need it. Those girls up there”—he motioned to the school growing closer with each step they took—“they could eat you alive. I don’t envy you at all.”

  “Ugh. Don’t remind me. The ones I have met are terrible, and Miss Eliza is even worse.”

  Jocelyn found herself confiding the whole story to her new friend. “…and that’s why I was in the carriage house. I had just made up my mind to go back when you came barging in like a wild beast and knocked me over. What were you doing there anyway?”

  Before answering, Roger pulled a soft, white roll from his pocket and handed it to her. Jocelyn had to stop herself from cramming the entire thing in her mouth at once.

  “I go there sometimes. You know, between chores. No one ever uses it, except as a place to store odds and ends.” He looked a bit embarrassed. “I like to think of it as my own secret place. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Tell you what,” Jocelyn said around a mouthful of bread. “I won’t tell if you don’t”—she swallowed before continuing—“since I’ve decided to keep it as my secret place. I do aim to be a pirate, you know. This seems like a good place to start. Would you care to join my crew in exchange for carriage-house visiting privileges?”

  Roger saluted with a grin. “Aye, aye, Captain. You drive a hard bargain, but I will agree to your terms.”

  They spit on their hands and made it official on the back steps of the school. “Well, here we are,” Roger said. “Will you be all right?”

  Jocelyn looked toward the door and was struck with a desire to run away again, but having a witness to potential cowardice made it easier to be brave. She reached up and touched her necklace for strength. “I’ll be fine. I’d better get it over with.”

  “All right, then. Cook’s probably wondering where I got off to. I’ll see you around.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Oh, and Jocelyn?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good luck.”

  Jocelyn steeled herself f
or a confrontation that never came. When she entered the school, interrupting a French lesson, Miss Eliza merely waved her away, ordering a servant to accompany the girl and draw a hot bath. As Jocelyn turned to follow, Miss Eliza called after her, “Our midday meal is served at precisely half past twelve. Be sure to be on time and dress smartly, if you wish to join us. There will be no exceptions…Miss Hook.”

  Miss Hook? Had she heard that correctly?

  Jocelyn did not quite know what to do. She had been preparing herself for battle, and the enemy had done something else entirely. What was this, a trap or surrender?

  She felt a tiny, wary bit of hope. Maybe things wouldn’t be so terrible at school after all.

  On Jocelyn’s way out, she noted Prissy’s eyes, bulging with rage. Apparently, Jocelyn was not the only one surprised by Miss Eliza’s reaction. Jocelyn gave Prissy her most radiant smile as she passed by, softly cradling the little bundle of spiders in her hand.

  “Come on, boys,” she whispered. “I hope you like pink.”

  Even with Jocelyn’s hopeful new outlook, she soon discovered that finishing school was no picnic. Of course, picnics are often no picnics, if you get what I’m saying. You think it’s going to be nothing but fun and games, but then it’s all stinging nettles, sand in your sandwiches, and who drank up the rum? No picnic indeed.

  The very next morning, all occupants of the pink room were startled out of sleep by a knock at the door. “Jocelyn, you answer it,” Prissy whined. “I’m not fit for receiving guests.” To ensure that no one was able to peek at her with her scandalously wrinkled nightclothes and messy hair, Prissy pulled her bed curtains tight around her.

  The knock sounded again. Pinch-Face looked stupidly about, then pulled her curtains closed as well.

  Jocelyn stuck her tongue out at both beds, rumpled her hair up into an even rattier nest, and got up to see who was knocking. As soon as she opened the door a crack, Miss Eliza barged in. “Good morning, Miss Hook. I’m glad to see you are up. Why don’t we have a seat?”

  Miss Eliza strolled over to the fireplace and sat in one of the ghastly pink chairs. Jocelyn remained standing. She may have claimed a victory the day before, but the girl knew the battle was far from over. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Prissy’s bed curtains part slightly. Whatever was to come, it would take place in front of an audience.

  The headmistress was not her usual stern self. She wore a nauseating sweetness like a poorly tailored cloak. It did not suit her. “Now, Miss Hook”—Jocelyn noticed the way Miss Eliza emphasized her last name—“it seems we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. I blame myself, really.”

  “I blame you too. So we are agreed,” Jocelyn replied.

  Some of the old steel returned to the headmistress’s voice. “Very well. Let us get straight to the point, shall we? I had assumed you capable of presenting yourself appropriately. I see now that I was wrong. As your grandfather has instructed me to spare no expense in your education, I have secured for you a personal maidservant. She will be on hand each morning to help you wash, dress, and arrange your hair. She will then return in the evenings to help you dress for dinner.” Some of the syrup returned to Miss Eliza’s voice: “Won’t that be lovely?”

  Jocelyn’s reply was cut off, which really was likely for the best. I’m not sure any of the ears in that room had ever been graced with such a string of curses as the girl was preparing to spew forth.

  Jocelyn was interrupted by Prissy, frantically clawing back the curtains and tumbling out of bed. “Miss Eliza! I want a maidservant too,” she said. “I know my father will pay for one. You must get one for me as well.”

  “Me too,” Pinch-Face called from behind her bed curtains. “I’ll take a maid too.”

  Prissy scowled and scratched at a spider bite on her arm. “Do shut up, Nanette! Miss Eliza and I are talking.”

  Jocelyn spoke over her, “That’s fine, Pinch—er, Nanette. You can have mine. I really don’t care to have one.”

  Prissy’s face grew white and her voice went very high-pitched. “Miss Eliza, Nanette simply cannot have a maid and neither should Jocelyn. I don’t mean to question your authority, but I am the only one who deserves to have a personal servant.” Her tone turned threatening: “I am certain my father would agree.”

  Miss Eliza stood. “Miss Edgeworth, your father does not run this school, and neither do you. I do. I have made my decision and will hear no more.” She glared around the room, taking in Prissy and Jocelyn—and Nanette’s bed curtains. “Is that understood, ladies?”

  Without waiting for a reply, she crossed to the door, opened it, and clapped her hands. A hulking figure appeared. The woman (and I use that term loosely in this case) was nearly seven feet tall and all muscle. There was nothing soft about her—even her bosom was formidable. Looking way, way up, Jocelyn noticed that the maidservant had a dark smattering of whiskers dotting her ruddy face. And that face? It did not look to be a happy one.

  “Miss Hook, this is Gerta. She shall attend you from now on. I’ll see you, looking smart, at breakfast.”

  Gerta looked down at Jocelyn and cracked her hairy knuckles. “I make you very very pretty now.”

  Touché, Miss Eliza. Touché.

  Although Jocelyn had broken plenty of nurses, governesses, and servants in her day, Gerta proved to be the toughest. Even so, Jocelyn was sure that with time and pressure applied in just the right way, she’d be able to rid herself of this one too.

  Hard as it may be to imagine, Jocelyn had a larger problem than Gerta—Prissy. That spoiled little she-devil did not like being denied. She immediately sent a message to her father, demanding that he force Miss Eliza to get her a servant of her own, and one that was better and prettier than Jocelyn’s (which shouldn’t have been too difficult).

  Imagine Prissy’s shock when her father did the unthinkable: he told her no.

  It wasn’t for lack of trying. Mr. Edgeworth spent the afternoon demanding, threatening, begging, and bribing, but Miss Eliza remained firm. The only student currently in need of a maidservant was Jocelyn Hook. There would be no exceptions.

  To try to make up for it, the doting father promised to send his little princess several trunks filled with pretty new dresses, but she would not be consoled. It made no difference to Prissy that Jocelyn had neither asked for, nor desired, a maidservant. Jocelyn had something that she wanted. Prissy was going to make her pay.

  I have faced down some horrors in my day—ferocious animals, fangs gleaming and hungry for human flesh; fierce men with murder in their eyes; my own dear mother on wash day. All were terrible to behold, but I contend that there is nothing on this earth more fearsome than a spoiled girl out for vengeance.

  The next week was a grueling one for Jocelyn. She was hopeless at her lessons: her embroidery was all in knots, her sketches were “too violent,” and the only French she had picked up from her tutors at home consisted of insults and swears—certainly useful under the right circumstances, but not much appreciated at finishing school. Jocelyn couldn’t play an instrument, refused to sing the overly sentimental songs arranged by Miss Eliza, and was the least graceful dancer ever to waltz across a ballroom floor.

  Each morning, bright and early, Gerta arrived to stuff the girl into a starched white dress and stiff shiny shoes. Entire layers of Jocelyn’s skin were scrubbed away, and her hair was brushed so roughly she feared it would all be yanked out.

  By the time Jocelyn made it to breakfast, feeling rather tender and raw, Prissy ensured that all the tables were full. The other girls spread out and refused to make room for Jocelyn anywhere. When she finally pushed her way into a spot, the occupants of that table would vacate it, claiming a loss of appetite. The midday meal, afternoon tea, and evening meal were no different.

  Three times that week, when the young ladies put on their cloaks to go outside, Jocelyn found her pockets filled with notes:
>
  You are ugly.

  You are stoopider than anyone.

  I hope you never get married, but if you do, I hope he has bad breath and is poor.

  We hate you.

  No one wants you here. You should go home.

  If only she could have.

  Miss Eliza, believing that a certain amount of societal pressure would help mold Jocelyn into a lady, pretended not to notice the cruel ways her students were behaving. If she had been a seafaring woman, she would have known: too much wind can tear a sail, too much weight can sink a vessel, and too much sun can give you the squints—then you’ll have to wear spectacles.

  Yet, sea or land, this is the truth: too much pressure can cause even the strongest things to break.

  Even in the face of such difficulties, Jocelyn tried to carry on, reminding herself that hardships were good training in endurance. But when she got one batch too many of hateful pocket mail, something inside her snapped.

  The girls were taking their afternoon break in the garden. An early spring chill hung in the air. Jocelyn reached her hand into her pocket to warm it, when she felt papers. She drew them out and there on top was the worst one yet:

  You are so horrible, even your own family did not want you.

  Jocelyn did not bother to read the rest. She balled the offending papers in her fist and stood. It was time to put an end to Prissy’s games.

  Jocelyn focused on her target, who was holding court on the other side of the garden. She took count of the girls surrounding Prissy. Four against one: unfair odds for sure. Unfortunate, but Jocelyn couldn’t help that Prissy had so few friends around to help in the fight.

  Still gripping the notes in a tight fist, Jocelyn stormed up the path. She had not gone far when she found someone blocking her way. In her rage, the girl barely registered who it was. She stepped around the obstacle and continued onward.

  It pains me to admit this, but Roger was a good sight less stupid than most children. It hadn’t taken him more than a minute to figure out what kind of trouble his friend was headed into. He grabbed the back of her dress and wheeled her around.