The Buccaneers' Code (17 page)

There's no use in denying it. How long did you spend following me through the streets of Pemberton before I spotted you? Did you spy a sword-fighting lesson through the finishing-school window, perhaps? Or did you overhear my conversations with the gargoyle? He is my dearest friend, Sir Nicholas, and thanks to you, I may lose him forever. I hope you are decent enough to feel a twinge of remorse.

Obviously, our arrangement is canceled. You needn't worry about giving me any information about Blacktooth's plans, for I'm sure whatever you tell me will be a falsehood. If the Mutineers ever do turn on you, I won't lift a finger to help you—and as for Alice, I am sure she is better off staying as far away from her deceitful brother as possible.

I am still furious, but now that I have written you this letter, perhaps I'll finally be able to get a few hours of sleep. If you contact me again, I shall push you back into the stinging nettles without a second thought, so please don't bother.

With outrage
,

Hilary Westfield

“C
APTAIN
B
LACKTOOTH
WANTS
to take the gargoyle?” cried Claire from behind a towering pile of pirate coats. “And the gargoyle's going to
let
him?” The coats swayed in her arms, threatening to fall to the floor in a jumble as she hurried through the hallways of Miss Pimm's. “But that's awful! Why didn't you tell me ages ago?”

“You were busy.” Hilary was doing her best to keep up, but the bundle of crisp linen shirts she was carrying was cumbersome, and she had to keep stopping to adjust her grip. “We all were.” It had taken three full days to clean the bungalow after Blacktooth's men had pillaged it, though Hilary had discovered that scrubbing jam off the walls
was surprisingly quick work when one was furious. In the middle of it all, Captain Wolfson and his mates had arrived from Summerstead, singing hearty northern songs late into the night and devouring meat pies as quickly as Mr. Marrow could bake them. Hilary was grateful they'd come, but they were starting to get underfoot.

“Busy or not, you should have told me immediately,” said Claire. “I would have filled Blacktooth's boots with pond scum—and I shall do it anyway as soon as I have the chance. Do you really have to go through with the agreement?”

“I don't think I have a choice,” Hilary said glumly. “Mr. Gull had us both sign a horrid contract, and if I break it—well, you know what pirates are like. I'll be lucky if I have a full set of knucklebones left for them to put on display at League headquarters. But the gargoyle keeps telling everyone not to worry, that he won't be going anywhere because I'm sure to defeat the Mutineers. I wish he'd lend me a bit of his confidence.” She paused at the foot of the dormitory staircase and looked back over her shoulder. “Where
is
the gargoyle, by the way?”

“I'm coming!” called the gargoyle. Although Hilary had told him that she and Claire could manage perfectly well on their own, he had insisted on carrying the hats. Now he followed them down the hall with a stack of stately black tricornes balanced on his head. The bottommost one had slipped over his eyes, and several more escaped
from the top of the stack each time he hopped; a trail of hats lay scattered in his wake. “I'm just taking my time,” he said solemnly, “because hats are very particular about the way they're carried. They don't enjoy being rushed.”

Hilary set down her armload of shirts and retrieved the hats from the gargoyle's head before he could crash into a door frame. “In that case,” she said, “why don't we leave them here at the bottom of the stairs and come back for them later?”

The gargoyle looked distinctly relieved. “I think the hats would like that,” he said.

They made their way up the dormitory staircase, stopping on nearly every landing to deliver their bundles of pirate clothing to the girls who had promised to join them on the High Seas. The sewing mistress and her pupils had pieced together green coats for the cannon tenders, crimson coats for the sword fighters, purple coats for the older girls who'd been appointed ships' officers, and orange coats for the girls who'd volunteered to perform sea chanteys during the battle. With the extra scraps of fabric, they had even fashioned a handsome cape for the gargoyle; now he hopped up and down the stairs showing off his new finery to anyone willing to admire it.

“We've got nearly enough supporters now,” Hilary confided to Claire as they collected the last few scattered hats from the floor. “Charlie's keeping count on the bungalow
wall. I checked last night, and he'd carved one hundred ninety-five marks.”

“That's good news,” said Claire. “Isn't it? You look about as cheerful as a thundercloud.”

“I've been feeling a little peculiar ever since I met with Blacktooth,” Hilary said. “My stomach has been leaping about, my mouth is too dry, my hands are too damp, and every time I close my eyes, I see the
Renegade
firing its cannons. It's all very unsettling.” She sat down on the staircase. “Do you think I'm ill?”

Claire sat down next to her. “I think you're nervous,” she said kindly. “It's perfectly normal.”

Hilary groaned. “I was afraid of that. And it isn't normal, not for pirates. The Terror of the Southlands isn't supposed to be nervous!”

“Nonsense. I'll bet even Captain Blacktooth himself is chewing his fingernails to nubbins at this very moment.”

Hilary thought about it. “I'm not sure Blacktooth is the nail-chewing type.”

“Perhaps he isn't,” Claire admitted. “Still, you should try to look on the bright side of things. It's been days since anything's gone disastrously wrong!”

“Er, Terror?” Charlie came through the doorway, looking grim and pale. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a sort of commotion going on outside, and I thought you ought to know about it.”

Hilary sprang up from the steps and reached for her cutlass. “What's happening?” she said. “Is it the Mutineers?”

“Actually,” said Charlie, “it's your mother.”

B
Y THE TIME
Hilary reached the finishing school's front gates, Miss Pimm was already standing there. So were five black carriages, five bored-looking coachmen, twenty of the kingdom's most well-bred horses, a passel of servants, and, in front of them all, five High Society ladies dressed in long coats and wide-brimmed hats. The widest hat of all sat atop the head of Hilary's mother. Ophelia Westfield was deep in conversation with Miss Pimm, waving her parasol for emphasis, while Miss Pimm frowned and occasionally took a few steps back to avoid a blow from the parasol.

“Mother!” said Hilary, running up to her. “I wasn't expecting you!”

“Neither was I.” Miss Pimm raised her eyebrows at Hilary.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Westfield. “Didn't you receive the letter I sent? I gave it to the postal courier ages ago.”

The postal courier had been turning up on Jasper's doorstep each morning for the past few days, delivering a persistent stream of letters from Nicholas Feathering. The handwriting on the cream-colored envelopes had grown increasingly frantic as the week wore on, but Hilary had tossed each letter into the fire without even bothering to
open it. Now she suspected that she'd accidentally roasted Mrs. Westfield's correspondence as well. “Don't worry, Mother,” she said hastily. “I'm sure Miss Pimm is pleased to have you here.” Miss Pimm didn't look anything close to pleased, but Hilary charged on nonetheless. “What are you doing in Pemberton?”

“I hope she's not here to try to make us act ladylike,” said the gargoyle. He hopped down the path behind Hilary, doing his best to keep his new cape out of the mud. “It won't work, you know.”

“The gargoyle's right, Mother,” said Hilary. “I know you don't like it when I put myself in danger, and I'm sorry if you're concerned about the battle, but I've got to stop the Mutineers.”

“I
am
concerned,” said Mrs. Westfield, “and so are my friends. That's precisely why we are here.” She beckoned to a cluster of footmen. “Retrieve the parcel, please.”

The footmen scurried off behind the row of carriages and returned a few moments later pushing a large, heavy-looking object in front of them. It was draped in a cloth and balanced on wheels that shuddered, squealed, and threatened to fall off altogether as the footmen strained to move the object over the cobblestones. Finally, the footmen gave up pushing. They bowed to Mrs. Westfield and whisked away the cloth to reveal a massive and ancient-looking iron cannon.

Even the youngest finishing-school students had been
taught that a proper lady never raises her voice in anger, but Miss Pimm chose this moment to abandon any notion of propriety. “Mrs. Westfield!” she boomed. “I don't enjoy unexpected visitors, and I enjoy them even less when they arrive with cannons packed in their luggage. Why have you aimed this infernal device at my school?”

“Is your mother really going to blow up Miss Pimm's?” the gargoyle whispered to Hilary. “I'd never have guessed she had it in her.”

“She's gone round the bend at last,” Hilary said. “I can't believe it.” Now Mrs. Westfield was beaming proudly at the cannon as if it were a prize oil painting in her vast collection. “Mother,” said Hilary as calmly as she could, “have you brought along any more weapons we should know about?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Mrs. Westfield. “The cannon was the best we could manage on such short notice. It's been gathering dust in Mrs. Cathcart's mansion for centuries.” She gestured to one of the other ladies in wide-brimmed hats, who gave Hilary an apologetic sort of curtsy. “Still, it should work perfectly well.”

One of the footmen rolled a small iron cannonball to Mrs. Westfield's side, and she frowned at it. “I can never remember,” she said. “Does this go in before or after the gunpowder?”

Mrs. Westfield never received her answer, however, for the doors of Miss Pimm's finishing school burst open and a pack of young ladies in pirate coats and hats ran out. “Arr!”
they cried with passion as they waved their swords at the visitors. The servants shrieked and ran to hide behind their carriages, and at least one High Society lady swooned on the spot.

“Good heavens!” said Miss Pimm. “Are those my students?”

“They're good shouters, aren't they?” The gargoyle beamed with pride. “Just look how far they've come.”

Dressed in a crimson coat, Rosie Hatter squeezed through the crowd and held her sword close to Mrs. Westfield's ribs. “Stand down, villain,” she shouted, “and turn your weapon away from our school! If you please,” she added for good measure.

Mrs. Westfield's eyes went wide. Her knees buckled, and she began to tip perilously toward the point of Rosie's sword. “Stop!” cried Hilary, running into the crowd. She dodged the sharp edges of the schoolgirls' cutlasses and caught her mother before she toppled over. “You've done a fine job, pirates, but I'm sure this has all been a misunderstanding. Isn't that right, Mother? Did you really intend to blow up Miss Pimm's?”

“Of course not!” Mrs. Westfield struggled to her feet. “What a barbaric idea! My friends and I traveled here to lend you our support against the Mutineers—and our cannon, if you'd like it.”

The schoolgirls lowered their weapons and backed away as Hilary stared at her mother. “Do you mean to say
that you've decided to be pirates?”

The High Society ladies gasped.

“Please, my dear!” said Mrs. Westfield. “There's no need to speak so scandalously. We have merely decided to
befriend
the pirates and assist them in their mission. You yourself gave me the idea!”

“Well,” said Hilary, “I didn't truly think you'd take it!”

“It
is
rather unconventional.” Mrs. Westfield spoke as though she were admitting to leading a life of crime. “When I first read your letter urging me to become a pirate, I had to employ one of the maids to play soothing melodies on a harp for nearly three hours before I regained my composure. I spent the rest of the evening calming my nerves in a lukewarm bath. All sorts of peculiar thoughts run through one's mind when one is in the bath, however, and while I knew I could never take up piracy as a career, I realized that I would very much like to help you if I could. Someone needs to put an end to your father's foolishness, and if I can't do it myself, the least I can do is lend you Mrs. Cathcart's cannon.” She lowered her voice to a volume better suited for gossip. “Mrs. Cathcart and the other ladies traveling with me have been snubbed and scorned by Georgiana Tilbury for years. They'd like nothing more than to see you spoil her plans.”

The ladies behind her nodded modestly.

Hilary could hardly believe her ears. “What about the good Westfield name?” she asked. Her mother was always
going on about how Hilary was tarnishing it; surely she couldn't have changed her mind so completely. “What will High Society say if they find out you're helping me in battle? What will
Father
say?”

Mrs. Westfield sighed. “Despite my best efforts, you and your father have damaged the good Westfield name far beyond repair. There's not much more I can do to destroy it. And High Society is simply abuzz about the battle. With Miss Pimm lending her students' services and the queen serving as referee, how improper could it possibly be?”

“You'd better not answer that,” the gargoyle murmured to Hilary.

“As for your father,” said Mrs. Westfield, “I expect he'll be furious with me. I was hoping you might be able to put him back in the Dungeons—for good this time.” She frowned. “You can manage that, can't you, dear?”

Mrs. Westfield seemed to think that sending someone to the Dungeons was no more complicated than setting a dinner table. Hilary tried to explain that this wasn't exactly the case, but as far as her mother was concerned, the matter was settled. “You must tell me how else we can assist you,” she said. “Mrs. Farnsworth owns a ship she is willing to lend, and Mrs. Inglenook has an extensive magic collection. Her family used to own mines in the Northlands, you know; their set of magic gardening tools is simply exquisite.”