Hook's Revenge Read online

  “Hello, Captain Jocelyn,” he said with his usual grin. “I need to talk to you.”

  She slapped at his hand. “Not now, Roger. I have an appointment with Prissy over there.”

  Still smiling, he easily dodged out of the way. “That can wait, can’t it? I need to ask you something. Something important.”

  Jocelyn didn’t take her eyes off Prissy. “And what’s that?” she asked.

  “How do you feel about poisons?”

  That got her attention. She pulled her gaze away from Prissy and gave Roger her full interest. “Why? Do you have some?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But I’ve got a few books about them. And some about cannibals, wild beasts, long voyages—all sorts of things.” His eyes sparkled. “Naval charts and logbooks. Even a few weapons. Some old lord died and left his library to the school. Cook told me to get rid of the things that Miss Eliza didn’t want, so I put them in the carriage house. Why don’t you come help me unpack the boxes? Unless you want me to decide where everything should go.”

  Jocelyn took one last look at Prissy and decided her plans could wait. She allowed those dreadful notes to flutter out of her hand and scatter on the wind. “Let’s go. We have new loot to attend to.”

  Jocelyn and Roger spent the next hour unpacking and arranging their plunder.

  “Hand me those empty crates,” Jocelyn commanded. “If we place them on their sides, we can use them as bookshelves.”

  “Aye, aye,” Roger replied, stacking them in place.

  She began unpacking books. “Look, Gulliver’s Travels! Have you read it?”

  “I haven’t. Is it good?”

  “It’s fantastic! All about sea voyages to the most amazing, impossible lands. I found a copy in my mother’s room and read it ragged. Heaven knows what she was doing with it.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Who? My mother?” Jocelyn frowned. “I don’t think so. I never knew her. And the things my grandfather tells me about her…she was absolutely perfect—not at all like me. I’m certain that I am not missing anything.” When Jocelyn said the words, she tried to mean them, but she still felt an ache, as though there were a small, mother-shaped empty place in her heart. She tried to turn the conversation away from herself. “Do you miss yours?”

  “I do. Quite a lot, to be honest. But things were worse before you arrived. I missed my mum and my dad and, well…just everyone. No one but Cook ever seemed to notice I was here, unless there was an order to be given.”

  “I rather wish people would stop noticing me. ‘Jocelyn, walk like a lady.’ ‘Jocelyn, don’t slump.’ It’s like everyone is looking at me, but no one truly sees me. I mean, other than you.” A flush crept up her neck, and she busied herself straightening books.

  “Do you know something?” Roger said, playfully nudging her with an elbow.

  “What?” She nudged back, a little bit harder.

  “I know you hate school, but I’m not sorry you’re here.”

  She smiled at him, feeling a little less sorry herself. “Now, where shall we put all these maps?”

  Long before their new treasure could be fully examined, Jocelyn’s free time came to an end. Roger walked with her back to the school. Though the books had been an enjoyable distraction, the girl had not forgotten Prissy. When an opportunity presented itself, she captured a small green snake along the edge of the path. Jocelyn winked at Roger’s curious expression and said, “I plan to teach Prissy how it feels to find nasty things in her pockets.”

  If you had been at Miss Eliza’s school the next morning and had taken a good look at Jocelyn, you would not have noticed any redness or puffiness about her eyes. Indeed, you would have been hard-pressed to find anything amiss in either her appearance or demeanor, and why should you have? Judging by Prissy’s reaction to both the snake in her pocket and a whispered threat of further retaliation, Jocelyn had been victorious.

  You would never have known that Jocelyn had passed another difficult night lying awake in her too-pink bed, feeling quite deeply that not all victories are sweet—that even winning cannot remove the bitter taste of every battle.

  However, even a cursory glance at Prissy would have clearly shown you that though she had decided to lay down her arms for the time being, she had not surrendered. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  Prissy was just biding her time.

  Things were a little easier for Jocelyn after she acquainted Prissy with the snake. True, she did not exactly become friendly with any of the girls, but they did stop being overtly horrible. For the most part, Jocelyn went ignored by the student body—though not, unfortunately, by the headmistress.

  Those first weeks dragged on, but spring did eventually turn to summer, as it often will. All the other students went home for a brief holiday, but because Jocelyn was a “special case,” she was required to stay on for extra instruction. Sir Charles was a fool, but not entirely heartless. He sent gifts—new dresses, fancy writing paper, packets of embroidery needles, and other such wholly inappropriate wares—but he made it clear that his granddaughter was not to come home until she could behave like a lady. She despaired of ever leaving the school.

  Unless…

  Yes, even then Jocelyn continued to harbor secret hopes that her father might come for her, though there was still no word from him.

  Many of the girls, including both Prissy and Nanette, went with their families to the popular summer holiday town of Bath. Jocelyn did not envy them—she had all the baths she could handle with Gerta. The poor girl’s skin was in a constant state of rawness from the rough scrubbing it received twice a day. Jocelyn tried everything she could think of to scare her servant off, but to no avail. The woman was absolutely imperturbable.

  Between Gerta’s violent attentions and Miss Eliza’s personal instruction in “the fine arts of womanhood,” Jocelyn was nearly completely miserable. It was only her friendship with Roger that kept her from becoming absolutely wretched. If I am not mistaken on this point (and I am rarely mistaken), it was Roger’s idea that allowed Jocelyn to be a bit more successful at finishing school, yet still remain herself.

  They were whiling away another lazy afternoon by hiding in the carriage house. The summer air was much cooler inside the old building, making it an excellent place to stow away. Roger hid there from Cook, who became increasingly bad-tempered as the thermometer rose, and Jocelyn from Miss Eliza, who was determined to teach her errant pupil to walk like a lady before the end of the summer: “No, no, no, no, child. We don’t stomp and we don’t slouch. We glide, like a swan. Now be a swan.…”

  It’s no wonder the pair crept away as often as they could. They spent many hours holed up together plotting and preparing for future adventures. In this regard, the late Lord Wellesley’s library proved to be quite helpful, allowing them to live a lifetime of daring deeds in paper and ink. A set of wooden practice swords afforded them a chance to learn rudimentary swordsmanship, though the pair turned up their noses at their deceased benefactor’s antique flintlock pistol, feeling that firearms were inelegant. Instead, Roger taught Jocelyn how to throw a punch and she taught him how to spit—not just any old sputum spewing, mind you, but spitting with purpose and feeling. Spiteful spitting.

  I am no novice spitter myself, having once hit a mermaid squarely in the eye from the deck of a fast-moving clipper, but I have to admit, that girl’s saliva slinging could put even me to shame.

  But I digress. We were talking about Roger and his idea.

  Jocelyn sprawled upside down on the horsehair sofa, her legs slung over the back, her head hanging off the edge of the seat cushions. She fingered her necklace as she explained to Roger how terrible it felt to be first scrubbed to the bone, then imprisoned all morning for lessons. “I absolutely hate it. She’s forcing me to do all these things that I have no interest in whatsoever. It makes me want to throw something: my books, t
he tea tray, a screaming fit. The worst part is I have no choice. If I don’t perform at my lessons, I’ll never get to go home, not even for a visit. But if I do, they all win. I’ll become nothing more than a pretty little puppet.” She slapped the sofa cushion, sending up a cloud of dust. “I’d rather die.”

  Roger was in the corner, attacking a dress form with one of the wooden swords. From Jocelyn’s upside-down vantage point, it looked as if her friend were fighting on the ceiling. It reminded her a little of that odd dream about her father and the flying boy.

  He sat on the floor near her, leaning against the couch, and put his sword down. “Don’t die,” he said. “What fun would that be? For me, I mean.”

  She reached over and gave him a little shove. “This is serious.”

  “Oh yes. Serious. I can tell.” He arranged his face into mock gravity. “Do you dance?”

  “What? Why?”

  “Only wondering. Do you?”

  “Yes,” she said, frowning. “Dancing is one of the worst parts. Miss Eliza makes me partner with Gerta so that she can be free to ‘observe my form.’ Gerta smells like cabbage soup and I am constantly tripping over her feet. Am I to be blamed that they stick out so far?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Tell that to her. She punishes me for every misstep when it’s time to dress for dinner.” Jocelyn touched the tip of her nose, rubbed raw from scrubbing. “And then there’s Miss Eliza, constantly reminding me that I’ll need to work extra hard if I want to keep from embarrassing myself in front of the ‘young gentlemen’ she has invited to this year’s holiday ball. As though I’d want to dance with any sweaty-palmed, disgusting boy. No offense.”

  “None taken. I’m sure it is no more than I would want to dance with some clumsy girl.” He winked at her. “No offense.”

  Jocelyn thumped him on the head with a sofa pillow. He pulled it out of her hands and placed it behind his back. “Thank you. That’s far more comfortable.”

  Jocelyn laughed. “Roger, why did you ask about dancing?”

  “Well,” he replied, “the way I see it is this: When it comes to your lessons, Miss Eliza pipes and you have to dance—but who is to say you can’t choose your own steps?”

  Jocelyn mulled over Roger’s words for a day or two. The girl didn’t seem to have much power over her own life, but it was still hers. If she was going to be forced to learn a slew of useless things, she wanted to be sure to do it her own way.

  She made up her mind to try, starting with Gerta. It occurred to Jocelyn that the only way to finally be rid of her burly maidservant was to prove that she no longer needed one. Though it pained her to have to choose a clean dress and fresh underclothes every single day, to at least try to run a comb through her hair, and to wash all the visible parts of her body, it proved to be far less painful that the torment Gerta inflicted with her rough washcloths and wire-bristle brush.

  To Jocelyn’s immense relief, Gerta was soon sent packing. Once she was no longer suffering under the ministrations of that torturous maidservant, Jocelyn set her attentions to her lessons. She tried to make a game of finding ways to satisfy Miss Eliza without feeling like she was selling her own soul. It was a delicate balancing act, but I think she managed all right. One unexpected benefit was this: the more politely Jocelyn behaved, the less scrutiny Miss Eliza gave her. It became even easier to slip off and spend her free time with Roger.

  When the rest of the students returned from summer holiday, they found an exceedingly more accomplished Miss Hook than the one they had left. On the first day of term, during the Art of Needlework, Miss Eliza pointed out how much Jocelyn’s embroidery had improved. After just a few weeks, the girl’s stitches could truthfully be described as dainty. The headmistress’s only criticism was that instead of floral patterns, Jocelyn created seat covers and pincushions decorated with tiny skull-and-crossbones patterns or unusual torture devices.

  Fine ladies from the local village confessed to being quite charmed by Jocelyn’s singing in the school’s fall talent exhibition. They complimented Miss Eliza on her pupil’s clear, high voice, sweet enough to touch the stoutest heart—even if the young lady’s song choice, “It’s All for Me Grog, Me Jolly, Jolly Grog,” did raise a few eyebrows.

  Jocelyn also made great strides with her mastery of French. Miss Eliza was most certainly pleased, though I imagine she would have preferred that Jocelyn memorize phrases such as Mais oui, j’ai en effet trouvé le camembert délicieux (“Why yes, I did find the Camembert delicious”) instead of Pardonnez-moi, mais il semble que j’ai coincé ma fourchette à poisson dans votre oeil (“Pardon me, but it seems that I have lodged my fish fork in your eye”). Still, it could not be denied that progress was being made.

  There is no doubt that Jocelyn chose her steps quite well, though she did tire of the dance. As weeks turned to months, the girl felt as if the proverbial clock would never strike twelve and bring an end to the ball. Yet how was she to know that one day, not far distant, instead of wishing for the clock to speed up, Jocelyn would desperately hope for a way to stop its dreadful ticking?

  There is nothing more difficult than trying to force yourself to sleep on those long, long nights when your mind refuses to be quieted. Unless, of course, you count swimming the English Channel while wearing iron underpants. Or training octopi to darn socks. Or winning at backgammon against my cousin Bartimus.

  Bartimus is very good at backgammon.

  All right, there are many things more difficult than trying to force yourself to fall asleep on those long, long nights when your mind refuses to be quieted, but that fact does not make the hours pass any more quickly.

  On the night before Jocelyn’s thirteenth birthday she found herself, once again, caught in the grip of insomnia. She tossed and turned in her too-pink bed, too excited to sleep.

  After lunch that day, Jocelyn had slipped off to the carriage house, where she and Roger spent the afternoon reading a thrilling history of Ferdinand Magellan. His was a wonderful tale full of shipwrecks, exploring uncharted lands, mutiny, marooning, even murder. In the end, Captain Magellan was stabbed to death by angry natives wielding bamboo spears. His body was never recovered.

  Jocelyn’s heart pounded with longing for such a thrilling life, though she could do without the murdered-by-stabbing bit. However, if that was the price required, she was sure she’d gladly pay it, at least twice. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, the girl pulled back her bed curtains and crept across the room. If she could catch a glimpse of the sea from her window, perhaps it would calm her enough to drop off to sleep.

  At least that was the lie that she told herself. In truth, Jocelyn knew it was too dark to make out anything of the distant waves—unless there were lights on the water.

  The kind of lights that might be on her father’s ship.

  She held her breath to keep from fogging the glass and stared as hard as she could in the right direction, but saw nothing. The only lights outside her window were stars.

  No matter. So, her father wasn’t coming tonight. She still must do something; the thought of returning to bed was unbearable. Jocelyn’s whole soul filled with mutinous desire. The window was already open a little. She eased the sash up the rest of the way, grabbed a limb of the cherry tree, and swung herself out. From there it was no difficult feat to climb down.

  When her slippered feet touched the dewy grass, the girl felt, for the first time in months, completely free. The night wrapped about her, alive and mysterious. A full moon shone, illuminating the garden. A warm breeze ruffled Jocelyn’s hair. She closed her eyes and pretended to be a great explorer, standing on a foreign shore.

  Her imaginings were interrupted by the sharp crack of a twig snapping. Something was moving through the nearby shrubbery. Jocelyn had an abrupt vision of Magellan, torn and bleeding at the edge of a lonely sea. She scanned her surroundings for a weapon—a stick, a rock, a
nything—but the ground was bare.

  More rustling came from the thick hedgerow. There was definitely something, or someone, moving her way. In desperation, Jocelyn pulled off one of her slippers and held it out in front of her.

  “Who’s there?” she whispered.

  No answer came.

  “I know someone is there,” she said. “Be warned, I am heavily armed.”

  All was still. She moved toward the shrubbery, wielding her slipper. There were more rustling sounds; then something burst from the bushes and ran straight for her. Jocelyn jumped and threw her weapon at it.

  It was only a cat. A great ugly cat, but still, nothing but a cat. Her slipper connected solidly with its body—though sadly, being only cloth, it did no damage. (Have I mentioned I do not care for cats?)

  The ugly beast yowled and shot into the night. Jocelyn tried to catch her breath. Once her heart slowed to a near normal pace, she crossed to retrieve her slipper. As she stooped to pick it up, she heard a whisper: “Nice arm.”

  The girl whirled around, slipper once again at the ready—only to find Roger, doubled over with silent laughter. “Don’t hurt me,” he gasped. “I’m unarmed.”

  Jocelyn hurled her slipper, smacking him in the forehead.

  Roger fell to his knees and laughed even harder. “I’m s-s-s-sorry.” He could hardly speak. “It’s ju-just that…seeing you there…with your sl-sl-slipper at the ready…” That was all he could get out.

  Jocelyn tried to be angry, but Roger’s laughter was infectious. She couldn’t help but join in. “What about you?” she asked. “Incapacitated by hilarity? Perhaps that was my plan all along.”

  Roger took a shuddering breath and tried to regain control. “It was a rousing success,” he said. “I may laugh myself to death. Such dangerous footwear…” He lost himself to laughter again.