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Chapter Four - I hear something scary

That afternoon I met the others at the cottage and, as Passepartout had said, we had a luncheon of bread and cheese and cold meats with Jules, while he read to us. Some of the cheese was very stinky and most of us wouldn't eat it, but Cherry Louise liked it spread on cut apples - Jules showed her how to eat it like that and I could tell she thought herself very grownup because of it. After we'd eaten and Jules had read some more, Henry talked him into taking a walk with us through the orchard to see where he had caught the game hen the year before. Jules liked the orchard. When Peter mentioned the pond, Jules said it was too late in the day to go there today, but perhaps we could go there tomorrow.

Henry and the others thought it was a very good idea, but I stayed quiet; tomorrow was laundry day and Em and Cherry and I would be busy helping our mamas. Plus the boys had their lessons after their morning chores tomorrow, so none of us would be able to come. But none of them seemed to remember and I didn't want to remind them - Jules seemed so happy that we would go out to the pond the next day that I didn't want him to be disappointed right then. The boys could stop by his cottage on the way to school in town tomorrow and tell him.

When I came home, Mama was happy enough that Em seemed well and that she'd gotten most of her cleaning and the pies done that she didn't ask me too many questions about where I'd been during the day. I'd been careful not to eat too many apples in the orchard, so I made a good show of eating stew when papa came home for late dinner, before he went out to bed down the oxen and the horses for the night. I had the feeling that he was watching me as I ate, so I kept my head down and my eyes on my trencher. Em made more than enough noise for the two of us but Papa kept looking at me, and then back up at Mama. It was only as I was helping Mama to clear the table that Papa sat back in his chair and lit up his pipe.

"You'll not guess who came by the field today," he said to Mama, although it was said in such a way that I was obviously meant to overhear. "The land agent."

Mama froze, a trencher in one hand and a stew ladle in the other - a visit from the land agent was never good news. "What did he want? It's nearly full-harvest, he can't be expecting rents yet--"

Papa waved his pipe in her direction as if to calm her and I slunk back into the shadow of the fireplace, in case I wasn't supposed to hear. "Nothing so bad as that. The tenant they fixed up the old Morse place for, seems he's a sort of teacher. McIver up at the big house sent word that the man's con-va-les-cing--" Papa pronounced the word carefully, in pieces, like he was proud of himself for using it, "but that he's offered to handle lessons for the young ones until harvest as his rent." Papa's gaze found me in the shadows. "Seems he's willing to take on the girls, too. Means the children will have more time for lessons, if they don't have to go down to Shillingworth and back."

"What about the new schoolmaster?" Mama had taken the trencher and ladle back to the scrub bin and begun scraping it out with sand - there was an easier set to her shoulders now that she knew the land agent wasn't interested in the rent yet. "He'll have something to say about that, won't he?"

"Land agent said he'd left . . . in a hurry, too. Someone from the big house sent 'em packing quick enough. No word as to why." Papa took a long draw from his pipe, then let the smoke out in an easy fashion, still watching me. "I expect we'll find some use in it, being that it'll take the parish a bit to find a new teacher and what with it being harvest soon enough. The land agent said we've not got to pay any for the lessons, but he did say the squire's son wanted all the children as could be spared to attend - probably wants to make the most out of the rent he's being owed on that cottage."

It was Mama's turn to search for me in the shadows, her head tilting just to one side. There was a look in her eye that made me think she knew what had happened. But as I stayed quiet, she just considered me for a bit and then sighed. "I can spare Polly for the noon, if we can get an early start on the laundry. What to do about Em, though--?"

I made a sound, ready to promise that Jules wouldn't mind having Em there . . . but remembered in time that I wasn't supposed to know anything about Jules or the Morse cottage.

"You have something to say, Pol?" asked Papa.

I swallowed and stepped out from the shadows and into the firelight. "Mister Dickey didn't mind Em much, not in the mornings during recitation," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Maybe the new teacher won't mind, either?"

The end of the pipe disappeared in Papa's beard and he took another long draw from it, the smoke curling up and over his shoulder. "Maybe," he echoed, still watching me. "Just to be sure, you ask tomorrow when you go. I'm not wanting to get on the wrong side of the squire's son, not this close to harvest and rent. You ask, Polly, and you ask in a nice way."

"I will," I promised, hoping neither Papa nor Mama could hear my heart beating hard in my chest - I felt like I'd just run a race. I finished the dishes, help Mama change Em into her nightclothes, then tumbled onto my straw tick and stared up at the firelight casting shadows on the ceiling. Jules would get to read to us every day, just as Passepartout had wanted. And the new schoolmaster was gone!

It seemed wrong to have so many nice things happen at once and I worried about that - Papa often said to be careful when too many good things happened, cause a bad thing might be hiding in the bushes. But each day we went to the Morse cottage and saw Jules. Some days he read to us, and on others we walked to the orchard or the pond and we talked about animals, or weather, or history. He told us all about the English king who'd had his head chopped off and didn't mind that Cherry Louise held her hands over her ears when he talked about it. We did sums too, of course, but mostly Jules talked. He'd been to America, he said, and I know Henry wanted to call him a liar, until he started talking about steamboats and Indians and cowboys and outlaws and Henry forgot to pretend that he didn't believe Jules. Every other day or so, Passepartout arrived with a basket not only of food, but also of slates and chalk and paper and pencils so we could practice our writing. He and Jules would act out some of the things Jules talked about, like wars and things . . . there was a lot of laughing while we ate cheese and bread and apples, and drank bottles of milk kept cool by stoppering them and lowering them into the pond. For once I dreaded Sunday, for there was service to attend and no school nor chores but common things that day, but even then Mama sent me to Jules' cottage with a pie to thank him for the lessons. I found that Henry and Robbie's families had also sent pies or conserves, and Peter's da sent him over a bit of smoked ham, so we saw Jules in any case and he read more of the book.

I had gotten good enough at reading that sometimes Jules would have me come early to read to him what he had read to us from the story the day before, just for practice. It was one of these mornings, late into the second week, that Passepartout arrived before noon. I didn't see him at first and neither did Jules, for my attention was on the book and Jules walked back and forth across the cottage listening, by now without his cane because he was walking so much better.

"You are reading very well, Miss Polly," said Passepartout, taking off his hat and bowing to me as he entered, as if I were a lady. He had started to do that and it always caused me to giggle. As he straightened, he nodded at Jules, "And your leg is good; you are walking much better."

Jules took a step toward Passepartout and glanced down at his foot, as if studying it. "The tendon isn't as tight and I can walk on it easily enough. I've had a twinge in it this morning, though."

"That is because it will be raining tonight or tomorrow." Passepartout placed his hand on Jules' shoulder. "Such things happen with hurts in the muscle and the bone - you will not be needing a barometer any longer to be knowing when the storm is to happen."

There was, in that instant, a message that seemed to pass between them. I had been watching and listening, saw and heard nothing, but the smile fell from Jules' face and he took a step backward, turning away from Passepartout's grip on his shoulder. "They're back, aren't they?"

Passepartout seemed instantly as grim, his lips in a tight line as he nodded, although Jules was not looking at him to see it. "It is done, yes."

"Did they say . . . how many?"

"It is not--" When Jules turned to face him, Passepartout stopped as if he had been struck, paused to collect himself, and said finally, "I was not asking."

I sunk lower in my chair, suddenly very happy that I wasn't being noticed, not with Passepartout looking so grim and Jules so . . . was he angry? I'd never seen him really angry.

"You're saying that I shouldn't ask?" Jules ran his hands through his hair as if distracted. "That I have no right to ask, no right to know how many people have been killed to protect me?"

"I think," said Passepartout quietly, "that there are things it is better not to know. And better not to ask. And that this is a one."

Jules hands were clenched into fists at his side. "They had no right to do this. None. I said I didn't want--"

"And they should instead find you dead? Or know you have been taken away to a place not to be found?" Passepartout took a step toward Jules, his spine straight as he pointed a finger. "You would want them to suffer that instead? You do them injury, Jules, you do, in thinking that doing this is easy for them. It is not. They do this thing not only because of who you are, but because of who you are. It is a scary thing to think those evil people should control you and make you dream such terrible dreams, give them such awe-filled power--"

"But I'd never--!"

"No, you wouldn't. Not ever. Not if you couldn't. Not if you were dead." Passepartout paused and his words seemed to sink in - Jules was suddenly very pale. "There are people who are thinking that would not be a bad thing, that you be dead. But Miss Rebecca and Master Fogg are not among them. Nor is Passepartout." He took a step closer to Jules. "You know they would do everything else they could before they are hurting peoples, even bad peoples."

"I never asked for this."

"No one has been saying that you did. None of us has been asking for this. But it is here. And it has been done. You cannot be blaming them for this."

"I don't blame them. I don't blame you, Passepartout. I don't blame any of you . . . any of you." Jules sank down onto a chair at the table and placed his head on his arms, hiding his eyes. "It hurts too much to think about it. Take me home, Passepartout. Take me back to Paris."

"I cannot, not yet--" he added, when Jules looked up quickly. "She will not be ready until tonight. I should not have left her now; there is much to fix, much to do. Master Fogg will come tonight. He will bring you to where she is moored. If you wish it, neither Master Fogg nor Miss Rebecca will make the journey to Paris. But Master Fogg will come here tonight. And I am not stopping him."

There was a look on Jules' face, like he was ready to fight, but he suddenly seemed very tired, his eyes half-closing as he turned away. "Tell Fogg . . . I'll be waiting." And then, just as suddenly, he noticed me, as if for the first time since Passepartout had entered even remembered that I was there. Jules sat up in the chair as if it took a great, physical effort and smiled sadly. "I have to leave now, Polly. No more lessons, I'm afraid. Will you tell the others?"

I hadn't understood all that was said between Passepartout and Jules - most of it hadn't made sense. But 'Fogg' was the name of the old squire and his son. With the squire dead, it was the son who held Shillingworth. Was this the 'Fogg' Jules was so angry with? Was this that man who would come and take him away?

I was thinking, trying to make sense of what was said. When I looked at Passepartout, I saw that he was watching Jules. And Jules was watching me. I was still holding the book open - he leaned across the table, placed his hands over mine and closed the book, then sat down in the chair again. "You may keep that one. You're reading very well now - you should read to the others. The new schoolmaster will help you."

I pushed the book away and across the table - the soft leather felt like it burned my fingers. "You're going away."

I hadn't meant the sniffle to get in there. I hadn't.

Jules rested his fingers on the book and slowly pushed it back towards me. "I don't want to go, Polly. But I must."

"When will you come back?"

"To Shillingworth?" When I nodded, Jules looked up at Passepartout, who raised an eyebrow as if he had the same question. Jules looked down at the table and the book beneath his fingers. "Never. I'm not coming back." I must have sniffled again, because Jules looked up at me, his eyes wide. "I don't want to leave you and the others. You must believe me."

"Then don't leave." I grabbed half of the book and tugged on it, as if holding it could keep him there. "Stay with us. You know ever so much more than the schoolmasters we've had. And you laugh - they never laugh. And you listen. Don't you want to stay, Jules?"

"I do," he said, and in such a tone of voice that I believed him - he sounded like he might sniffle. "I'm just . . . I'm tired. I have to leave. And when I leave, I can't come back. I won't come back--"

I let go of the book - I wasn't a thief, after all -- and ran out of the cottage. I heard Jules call my name, but I didn't stop. The sniffles turned into tears. I was angry because Jules was leaving, but I wasn't angry at him. It wasn't his fault, he didn't want to leave . . . he'd said so. He had to leave. That's what he said.

And the squire's son was coming to get him, to make him leave. The squire's son was turning him out of the cottage.

I slowed down, then stopped and fetched up against the length of an apple tree as I started thinking about it. Mama and Papa had talked about such things before, about people getting turned out of their cottages and having to leave. Most often it was said in whispers, about a bad harvest or an accident or a mistake and rent not being paid. After Peter's mama had died, Peter's da was drinking more ale than he should have and slept when he should have been working - they almost got turned out. My Papa had a few coins put away and gave them to Peter's da, on condition he stop sleeping and do more than his share of the harvesting. It was a near thing, Mama had said.

Hearing the way Mama had said it had scared me; it made me swear that I wouldn't pretend to be asleep and listen to Mama and Papa talk at night . . . well, almost. I was extra nice to Peter, then, and helped him with his lessons at school and tied his muffler when it got cold, until he hit me with a snowball and things were back as they were supposed to be. But I was still scared.

Had that been what had happened to Jules? He'd been hurt, his leg hadn't been right, but he'd gotten better, so he couldn't have worked to make the rent like Papa and the others did. Papa thought Jules was teaching us to earn his rent, but I knew better - Jules was teaching us because he liked to teach us and they'd sent away the new schoolmaster. There were all the pretty things in the cottage that he could sell, but those things might not belong to him. Sort of the way our milk cow - Abigail - belonged to the manor and we sent some of the butter and cheese from her up there because of it. We could never sell Abigail because she wasn't ours to sell. It might be the same with the pretty things. Even the books.

I swallowed at the thought of the book he'd let me take home, how he'd wanted me to take it. Better that I didn't - if it didn't belong to him he'd have been in trouble, and then he'd not only be turned out of the cottage but maybe even put in jail!

That made me want to cry again, but I didn't. I fought back my sniffles and tried hard to concentrate. Papa always said that people got out of trouble by thinking and that's what I was going to do. I was going to have to think of a way to help Jules, a way to stop him from leaving.

But I knew that whatever I thought, I was going to need help.

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End of Chapter Four

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