There was a first course of green salads, dressed with oil and vinaigrette, with a Sicilian pinot grigiot; there was a passable approximation of a French vichyssoise with potatoes and leeks, with a rosé; and a loud declaration from Madame Pellatan on how close it was to the real item, of course; then came spatchcocked pigeons done in a mild pepper and tarragon sauce, with a cabernet sauvignon, followed by a main course of prime rib of beef, ladled in au jus, with a claret. Removes consisted of peas, stewed carrots, Brussels sprouts, and roast potatoes au gratin. With enough wine, the table conversation became lively and amusing, too.
Halfway through the pigeon course, though, Reverend Chenery and Madame Pellatan took notice that Lewrie and Charles Chenery were both tapping their warm, buttered, and fresh-baked rolls on the table top.
“I say, Sir Alan … what are you doing?” Chenery asked.
“Oui, how perplexing,” Madame Pellatan commented, looking about her fellow diners to see if they agreed.
“Oh, that?” Lewrie said with a grin, and took a large bite of his roll. “It’s a habit one develops at sea.”
“Should we tell them, sir?” Midshipman Chenery asked him with a puckish grin.
“Perhaps it’s not fit for proper company, Charlie,” Lewrie said with a grin of his own, and polished off the rest of the roll.
“Whyever would one do it, though?” the Reverend pressed.
“You see, father,” young Chenery said, beginning to chuckle. “We don’t have fresh bread at sea.”
“There’s room in the big oven apparatus in the galley to bake loaves, but no one ever knows how,” Lewrie explained. “Not enough eggs or milk, or yeast … we only have ship’s bisquit after a few days out of port.”
“And a hard tooth-breaker it is, after a few weeks,” Chenery added. “We have to soak it in wine or water to make it edible.” He raised his hands to help describe a small, rectangular, and unleavened chunk of thick cracker. “It’s brought aboard and stowed in cloth bags, hanging everywhere there’s room. We, ah … tap it on the table to scare things out of it.”
“Scare what out of it?” Madame Pellatan demanded.
“Weevils, ma’am,” Chenery told her. “Weevils and … such.”
“Ooh, alors, mort de ma vie!” she gasped, fanning herself.
“At least it doesn’t go mouldy, like fresh bread,” Lewrie said, hiding his glee at her reaction.
Sir Hugo sniggered knowingly, for he’d seen more than his share of Army bisquit, and Jessica laughed right out loud, putting her napkin to her lips, joined by Lewrie and young Chenery, leaving the Reverend, his father, and the pale-faced Madame Pellatan to titter, politely.
God, what a lot of make-up! Lewrie thought, looking at her; It stands out when she’s white as a sheet! Well, she is French.
“Cook tells me he’s fashioned a tasty dessert for us tonight,” Jessica promised as the dinner plates were cleared away. “He said a sweet, white wine goes well with it.”
Everyone turned to watch the arrival of the sweet course, expecting a duff or pudding with a brandy sauce, but it turned out to be an apple pie, still warm from the ovens, with thin slices of aged sharp cheddar over it.
“Oh, good ho!” Charlie Chenery cheered as a slice was put before him, leaning over to smell it and make yummy noises. “How I have longed for a decent apple pie. Sicily only had jam turnovers.”
“Mmm, cinnamon, brown sugar, and … honey?” Rev. Chenery said after a taste. “And do I sense a touch of lemon juice, as well?”
“Whatever you taste, sir, it is magnificent,” Sir Hugo raved.
Once the last moist crumb had been pressed between the tines of their forks and eaten, and the last sips of wine had been downed, Madame Pellatan and Jessica shared a look, prompting Jessica to rise from her chair, which drove everyone to their feet.
“Madame Berenice and I will be in the drawing room, gentlemen,” she announced. “Join us at your leisure for some music, and cards perhaps?”
“Nothing too complicated, madame,” Sir Hugo jested. “We must not tax my son’s wits too far, especially after such a fine repast.”
“And I don’t know if my son is good at cards, either,” the Rev. Chenery added with a wee whinny of a laugh. “He was hopeless before he went to sea. Whist is quite beyond him, alas.”
They bowed the ladies out, then sat back down at the table, now bare of a tablecloth, and out came the port, along with clumps of red grapes. Politics, doings at Court, some not-too-lewd gossip and how the Army was faring in Portugal and Spain? Lewrie wished that he could undo his breeches buttons after such a grand meal. And yes, all of the men remarked that he’d brought home an excellent sort of port.
“It seems, Sir Alan, that you barely left, yet here you are, back again,” Rev. Chenery asked. “Is there a tale in that?”
“A most miserable one, sir,” Lewrie growled back, and proceeded to lay his complaints before them on how he and his ship, his command in Mediterranean waters, had been taken from him, and why.
“It was so utterly unfair,” Charles Chenery contributed, “just as we were really hurting the French … hitting our stride.” After that sneer, he tossed back half a glass of port most manly.
“Surely, you’ve developed patrons, son,” Sir Hugo said.
“None as powerful as my detractors’ patrons, it seems,” Lewrie groaned. “Commodores and Rear-Admirals low on the lists.”
“Well, you always could rub people the wrong way,” Sir Hugo said with a snigger, making light of it.
“Ah, what a vote of confidence,” Lewrie shot back.
“I gathered that the Captain’s replacement, Commodore Grierson, and the conversion of our last ship, Sapphire, to an un-armed troop transport that came with him, was a studied insult,” Charles Chenery told the table with a knowing nod of his head.
“We’ve despised each other since the Bahamas in Eighteen Oh Four,” Lewrie agreed. “Well, at least Dame Lewrie will be happy. Against such unknown foes, I may end up ashore and on half-pay ’til … the end of the bloody world!”
“Hmm, perhaps then, Sir Alan, you would have time to participate in a grand expedition that is being organised,” Rev. Chenery hinted. “Lots of exploration, adventure, and an opportunity to re-write the history of the discovery of North America.”
Oh, Christ on a crutch, he’s still on that? Lewrie thought with a stifled groan, and not rolling his eyes. He looked down table to young Chenery, who was looking at the ceiling and sighing.
“An expedition, sir?” Sir Hugo enquired.
That opened the door to a new topic of conversation, which the Reverend dominated, about rocks erected and carved along the shore in New England that were in Phoenician, and had been translated to state “Phoenician Trading Station,” the tales of many pit mines scattered throughout the Ohio Territory and what the Americans called Michigan where massive amounts of copper had been brought up; how the plates of copper were found in the same hourglass shapes on both sides of the Atlantic, bound together the same way. The Phoenicians and Carthaginian people, the sailors of Nineveh and Tyre in later days had made up the merchant and naval feets of Rome, and about the fifteen-year-old Emperor Valentinus the Second had supposedly sent ships West to find him a refuge before his mother and a Gothic general in Roman employ murdered him.
“And, Sir Hugo, we’ve learned that Roman coins have been found, washed up on beaches in Massachusetts,” Rev. Chenery expounded with joy, “bearing the likeness of Valentinus the Second, and dated during his short, unfortunate realm, hah!”
“That Dago, Columbus, bedamned, hah!” Sir Hugo enthused.
No one noticed that Lewrie and his young brother-in-law shook their heads as the same time; they had both heard it all before, and it was beyond them by now to even toss in the occasional “my word,” “do tell,” or the odd, appreciative grunt.
“Phoenician ships, crews that would fight and die if anyone followed them past the Pillars of Hercules,” Rev. Chenery rhapsodised, “Roman
ships, some as big as the sort that carried Saint Peter to Rome, hundreds of passengers, even Vikings sailing past Iceland and Greenland to a land they called Vinland, far enough South of our Canadian colonies where wild grapes grow? My brother, who is a Fellow in Antiquities at Oxford, several of his contemporaries, and some enthusiastic patrons are laying plans, making preparations, for such an expedition. They have discovered a world traveller and adventurer whose exploits have resulted in a couple of books, and some contributions that he brought back to the British Museum, a Major Beresford, late of the Thirty Third, to provide the organisation.”
“The Thirty Third Foot, hey?” Sir Hugo said. “The ‘Havercakes,’ a damned good regiment.” Will this expedition be jumping off anytime soon, Reverend?”
“We would hope to have all in place by the Spring of Eighteen Twelve, if not earlier,” Chenery told him. “Are you enticed?”
“Hmm, marching through Massachusetts, into the Ohio Territory, and up towards the Michigan Territory,” Sir Hugo mused aloud, “Brr, not me, personally. I ain’t the stout man I used to be. Why, it’d involve years of grubbing and digging, sir! In Indian lands, I take it? A large, armed party? And, I expect that the Yankee Doodles’d think us an invasion force, haw! No warm welcome there, either.”
“Well, if not personal participation, one could invest in…” Rev. Chenery tossed off, but Lewrie had had enough.
“A last toast, gentlemen, and I think it’s time to join the ladies,” he suggested, instead, topping off his port glass and offering larboardly round the table.
“If you would allow me, Captain sir?” Midshipman Chenery asked. He raised his glass, still seated Navy fashion, and said “It is Monday, so … gentlemen, I give you … Our Ships At Sea.”
“Our Ships At Sea!” they chorused, and tossed their port back to “heel taps.”
In the drawing room, they got up a four-handed card game, easy to play and quick, with no wagers, whilst Jessica played her precious harpsichord, and Lewrie had to admit that no matter what the end price had been at Clotworthy Chute’s emporium, it had been worth it, and it did have a softer, rounder, more pleasant tone than a piano forte.
Of course, Bisquit and Rembrandt, who had sat by the dining table with longing looks (for that was where the food was!) joined them in the drawing room to lay before the hearth to enjoy a warming fire, and Bisquit now and then whined and bayed along with the music, as he was wont to do, with Rembrandt contributing a whuff or a whine here and there.
“It doesn’t irritate him, father,” Jessica explained, “I believe that he tries to sing along.”
“It’s be a deal worse if I played my penny whistle,” Lewrie said from the card table.
“Hah!” Charlie Chenery piped up, “If the Captain tootled a tune, Bisquit’d come running up from belowdecks to sit outside the door, or go to the poop and look down through the skylights in the coach top to bay and sing.”
“We should have a duet, then,” Jessica suggested, laughing.
“Still packed away at the bottom of one of my sea chests,” Lewrie told everyone, “It’s best there, believe me.”
* * *
Before it got too late in the evening, or the London fog became too thick, their guests departed for their own homes, Sir Hugo graciously offering his coach to see the Chenerys and Madame Pellatan to St. Anselm’s manse.
Candles were snuffed, fireplaces banked on the first storey and in the drawing room. Door and window locks were seen to against the ever-present foot pads and house breakers, and Lewrie saw Jessica up to their bedchamber with a three-candle bright pewter holder.
Jessica took the small dressing room as Lewrie stripped off his civilian suitings, neck-stock, shirt, and laid everything out atop a chest for morning. In a chest of drawers, he found a cream-coloured nightshirt that fell just below his knees. Looking out the window to the back garden, he noted that the fog was thickening, bringing with it a slight chill. He added a couple of lumps of coal to the fireplace and gave the fire a hopeful poke or two. Wonder of wonders, at the foot of the bed sat a new pair of bear-skin house slippers that came up above the heels, and he slipped those on, too. He thought to get his dressing robe out of the armoire as he listened to Jessica, humming a light, happy tune.
Lewrie sat on the edge of the bed, letting out a pleased “Aah!” and looking forward to the moment when he and Jessica rolled into bed, after all the months apart.
He began to develop a monstrous cock-stand. At last, and celibacy could go to the Devil and shake itself!
Jessica came from the dressing room in silk slippers, a cotton nightshirt, and her favourite embroidered dressing robe, chastely folded over her body, and bound shut with a sash.
“Oh, it is so good to have you home, Alan,” she cooed, coming to embrace him and rest her head on his shoulder. “Shall I let you sleep in as late as you like, this morning?”
“That sounds heavenly,” Lewrie cooed back, brushing back her hair to nuzzle on her neck and an ear. “More to the point, you smell heavenly, feel heavenly.”
“There is a flask of brandy on the night stand,” she said, stepping back half a pace, “and some water for when you rise.”
“Mmmmm,” he purred, grinning.
“I will say goodnight to you, then,” she said.
“Hmm? What? You’ll…?” he stammered.
“Unfortunately, my love,” Jessica explained, “your arrival coincides with the arrival of my time ‘under the moon,’” she delicately put it, “and we both agreed that neither of us thought such a time as one suitable, or welcome, for intimacy. You have been so understanding about my feelings on the matter, for which I thank you, and adore you.”
“Under the…? I say!” he spluttered. That enormous erection was much like a marlingspike, forcing his nightshirt to jut out like it was pushed by a tent pole, and he bundled up his dressing robe to cover himself from the waist down. “I’d thought…!”
“I know, my dear,” Jessica said with a winsome pout, “the timing of it distresses me, too, and you know how much I have come to enjoy our pleasing and passionate hours. Believe me when I tell you what a trial it has been for me to sleep alone all this time, without your touch, without…”
“Uh huh!” was all that Lewrie could say, mouth agape in shock.
“It will only be but a few days, darling,” she told him, “then I will give you a proper homecoming. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Ah, ehm … uh, aye, if we must,” he stammered.
She embraced him one more time, shared a long, lingering soul kiss that set off fireworks in Lewrie’s head, then she stepped back, said goodnight, blew him a last, promising kiss, and went to one of the spare bedchambers.
As she opened the door, Bisquit slipped into the room to sniff and push his muzzle against Lewrie’s shins, and Lewrie bent down to ruffle his fur.
“Mine arse on a band-box, dog,” he muttered, “Thank your lucky stars you ain’t a bitch. I’m so randy th’ crack o’ dawn ain’t safe!”
Lewrie sat on the side of the bed, picking up the flask of brandy and giving it a jiggle.
“Full, by God,” he muttered, “a whole pint, and I think that I’m goin’ t’need it. Jee-sus!” He rolled onto the bed, fussed with the feather pillows to prop him up on the headboard, and gave his erection a look. It was still as stiff as a pistol barrel, and a flick of a finger on its head barely moved it. He looked round for a scrap of cloth. It had been quite some time since he’d resorted to self-stimulation, “boxing the Jesuit and getting cock-roaches” as his old Midshipmens’ berth had called it.
“Well, damme,” he said, pulling the cork from the brandy flask to pour him a good measure in a small snifter. He was more than ready for a good, lubricated sulk.
Bisquit padded round on the hearth stones before the fire, but found no comfort. Of a sudden, he bounded atop the bed, found that the mattress and the bed covers were softer, and flattened himself on the quilt. Since Lewrie did not immediately object, Bisquit
wormed his way up along his right thigh, took a sniff and a squint at that odd mound under the nightshirt, then worked his way further to lay his head on Lewrie’s stomach, letting out a whiny sigh.
“You’re my bed partner, hey, Bisquit?” Lewrie whispered to him. “Let’s pray ya don’t have fleas.” He tipped his snifter to the dog, and took a deep sip, wondering where in the kitchen pantries Jessica had stored that American corn whisky.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
There didn’t seem to be much point in Lewrie calling upon the Admiralty, but there was Charles Chenery to think of, so the two of them went through the motions of dressing in their best uniforms and coaching down to Whitehall for several wasted hours in the infamous Waiting Room. Just once a week, so it didn’t look as if either one of them were really begging for active commissions.
The Autumn weather was good enough for strolls round the many shops, bookstores, trips to the tailors to up-date their civilian clothing, and clothe Charlie in better-fitting uniform items. Then, there were horses to hire for rides in Hyde Park. Sir Hugo rode with them now-and-again, as did Jessica, though she was finishing a portrait for an important client, a member of Parliament, reported to be a “comer.” Frankly, Lewrie found the man entirely too dashing and far too handsome, and who showed up for his sessions at least three days a week, a little after breakfast. Lewrie hadn’t reckoned on Jessica’s clients coming to his house on such a regular basis, but, whilst he was away, the first storey front parlour had become more than a workshop studio. When he brought it up, Jessica had laughed it off, assuring him that if anyone ever got fresh, Pettus would be there to set the cad straight, and see him off. She had done three portraits this year, for £25 apiece, and with the sales of her animal and children’s paintings, was well on her way to another £100 year, saving on the household budget, hardly ever having to dip into the “pin money” he had settled on her for the upkeep of their house.
“Besides, darling,” Jessica had reasoned with a smile, “you are now here, so if anyone thinks to play the cad, you can set him straight, along with Desmond and the rest of your men. His sessions will soon end, and if I do manage to engage another commission before Christmas, it will most likely be a woman. All the others have been, so far.”
Much Ado About Lewrie Page 14