The Chiswick boys were there, young men now who had nothing on their minds but sport and horse racing, and did something round the estate to earn their keep. The daughter, Diana, a girl who Lewrie had always believed to be as silly, simple, and giddy as so many sheep, was standing with a young Captain in the uniform of a Light Cavalry regiment, complete with the new and stylish fur-trimmed pelisse draped over one shoulder, with both gilt-laced sleeves hanging free.
Diana could not help gushing “Sir Alan, allow me to name to you my affiance, Captain Roger Wilmoth of the Fifth Dragoons. Roger, this is Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet. He’s Navy.”
It was gauche and out of turn, but everyone let it slide. Full introductions were made all round in the proper way.
And who was the cavalry officer standing near Charlotte? Lewrie was named to him at last, as Captain Alexander Courtney. He was very good-looking, blond, with ringlets at the back of his neck, slim and fit, and his uniform was immaculate, and looked to be costly. Lewrie noted that Charlotte had a possessive hand on the sleeve of his coat.
Can we only hope? Lewrie thought.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Captain Courtney,” Lewrie said by way of a beginning. “Have you and Captain Wilmoth come a long way?”
“From Aldershot, Sir Alan,” Courtney told him, “our regiment has its home station there, just up the road, really. At present, we’re the cadre squadron, instead of being in Spain with the rest.”
Smooth-soundin’ sort, Lewrie thought; Too bright and chirpy, perhaps? I guess he’ll do.
“I will ring for fresh tea and sweets,” Millicent offered, “Sit, please do.”
Lewrie thought that Millicent had had a hard life being married to a fellow as blusteringly sure of himself as Governour Chiswick. She was most fashionably gowned and styled, a match to her husband, good enough for a formal ball, but she looked so old and tired for a woman in her mid-fourties.
“Home early, ain’t you?” Governour asked Lewrie, and he had to give them all a sketch of his doings off Italy, and how his ship had been recalled to be de-commissioned and re-fitted before he expected.
“No matter the reasons, I am delighted to have him home!” Jessica declared. “And my brother, Charlie, into the bargain, of course.”
“And to have Hugh back after his ship paid off,” Lewrie added, giving Jessica’s hand a pat. “Now if only Sewallis wasn’t prowling the other side of the Atlantic, it’d be a grand reunion.”
“Both sons in the Navy, Sir Alan?” Captain Courtney said with a faint sniff of surprise.
“Both more than willing,” Sir Hugo interjected with a laugh. “I fear Sewallis is headstrong. Ran off and found a Captain and a ship that would have him as a Midshipman whilst we were kitting Hugh out to go aboard a ship of his own, haw haw.”
He left out the forgeries that had allowed that!
“Wanted revenge against the French,” Lewrie added.
Uh oh, here it comes again! Lewrie thought with dread, sensing Governour’s scowl, and Charlotte’s quick, indrawn breath and the fret lines that appeared on her forehead. The old recriminations were going to surface about her mother’s murder!
“And when do you and your fiancé expect to be wed, Miss Chiswick?” Jessica unexpectedly asked. She’d been wed long enough to hear all about it from both sides when dealing with the Chiswicks, and Sir Hugo, in the times when Charlotte had husband-hunted in the London Seasons.
“Well, I’m hoping that the nuptials may happen before Christmas, Dame Lewrie,” Diana gushed, beaming at her intended.
“How splendid!” Jessica congratulated her. “In point of fact, we will be having a wedding in our household about the same time.”
“Master Charles?” Hugh hooted. “Bit young, that.”
“No, our butler, Mister Pettus, and my maid, Lucy,” Jessica explained, laughing.
“You’ll dismiss ’em, of course,” Governour harumphed. “Ya can’t have married folk in service.”
“Mister and Mistress Furlough do quite well in my service at Dun Roman,” Sir Hugo pointed out.
“Yes, but they’re older, and won’t have children running about, corrupting the heirs with common mischief,” Governour insisted.
“We’re converting rooms above the stable and coach house to be their lodgings,” Lewrie told him. “Pettus served me well aboard several of my ships, and Jessica would hate to lose Lucy.”
“Never heard the like!” Governour grumped.
“Perhaps it’s too modern, uncle,” Hugh sniggered.
“I’ve come to know them both, and I don’t see why not,” Charlotte stated, looking everyone in the face; a far too-sweet smile at Jessica and a very brief one for Lewrie. Jessica returned a smile in-kind, and Lewrie knew that Charlotte had something up her sleeve, for she was never so pleasant as when scheming to have her way. Lewrie’s only question was … what?
“One doesn’t raise purebred dogs in the streets with the town curs,” Governour grumbled, jerking his waist-coat down below his waist band.
“And is that why none of us are invited to the great houses of the land, sir?” Jessica enquired, still smiling, but with one brow up, a sure sign to Lewrie that she was irked. “A purebred to one set may be thought curs to another.”
Governour stiffened so quickly that his substantial jowls jiggled, and he let out a spluttering noise.
“Speaking of purebreds,” Millicent interrupted, trying to smooth things over, “we ought to tour the stables. Our boys have acquired a brace of thoroughbred hunters.”
“Hundred guineas each,” one of the Chiswick boys crowed. “We’ll be sailing over the hedges like larks, come fox hunting season.”
“Your old horse is there, too, Hugh,” Millicent said.
“Mine?” Hugh said, frowning. “Why’s he here?”
“Charlotte needed something to ride, Hugh,” Governour explained, “and with you gone to sea most of the last eight years, well. Needed saddling and being ridden, else he’d have gone fractious.”
“I’d like him back,” Hugh said, “for at least the next fortnight.”
“I dearly wish we could stay longer in the country,” Jessica said, “for I’ve come to adore it so.”
“A fortnight’s about as long as we can allow,” Lewrie told the gathering, “Hugh, Charlie, and I must be back in London, pesterin’ the Admiralty for employment.”
“But if you take him back, brother,” Charlotte complained, in a sulk, complete with pouty lower lip, “I’ll have nothing to ride! Oh, it is so unfair! I’ve always had hand-me-downs.”
“On the contrary, Charlotte,” Lewrie pointed out, “when you were little, I bought you a pony, when you were older I got you a horse-pony, and then you were living with Governour and Millicent, and I was told you were provided for in that regard, whilst I was away at sea.”
“But for the next fortnight…” Charlotte pressed.
“You’ll have my horse back after that,” Hugh told her, sounding a bit vexed with his sister’s ways, “and in the meantime, you can go about in a coach. Aye, you’d look especially impressive in Governour’s landau, with the top down.”
“Isn’t there to be horses for sale on the village commons, come Monday?” Captain Courtney said to her as they sat together on a settee. “You might find one to your liking, Miss Charlotte.”
Awfully damned free with my money, are you? Lewrie fumed to himself as Charlotte cast him a hopeful smile, batting her lashes and widening her eyes.
“We were planning on purchasing some new mounts for Dame Lewrie and her brother,” Sir Hugo allowed.
“We could look for a likely mare or well-behaved gelding,” Lewrie said, surrendering when it appeared that he couldn’t get out of it.
“Oh, father dear, that would be wondrous!” Charlotte exclaimed.
Father dear? Lewrie thought; I doubt she’s put those two words t’gether, the last fifteen years entire! Mine arse on a band-box, it appears I’m buyin’ a whole herd o’ horses! And I
wonder how much peace and quiet that’ll buy from her?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Diana Chiswick and her fiancé, Captain Wilmoth, and Charlotte and Captain Courtney coached to Anglesgreen’s commons on Monday, as they had to St. George’s church on Sunday, in the landau with the top down, this time with their mounts’ reins tied to the back. In anticipation of her victory over her father, Charlotte wore her best riding habit and boots, with a quirt in her gloved hands.
Sir Hugo, Lewrie, and Hugh rode, while Jessica and her brother were coached in a light surrey.
The Chiswick sons would have come, too, to trot and lope about to show off their hundred guinea hunters, but Governour had chores for them to perform round his vast acres.
The vast rectangular commons no longer looked quite so vast, with livestock pens erected and filled with sheep, pigs, calves, and dairy cattle, and poultry cages. Young roosters for sale to enliven someone’s flocks sensed each other and crowed continually in challenge. All along the inland side of the main road there were mules, plough horses, and saddle horses for sale. The Red Swan Inn and the Old Ploughman Tavern had set up open-sided tents to sell beer and ale, and the tea and the town pastry shops had booths for their goods, as well. Farmers and their wives, with children in very loose tow made their rounds, hmming and hemming over likely beasts to shelter through the winter for Spring breeding, and over to one corner by the nearest bridge to the High Street, musicians played, and some couples danced as if it was one of the yearly town fairs.
Captains Wilmoth and Courtney handed the young ladies down, then went behind the landau to take hold of the reins of their horses, and to share a word or two discreetly.
“D’ye think Miss Charlotte will end up with a mount worth fifty guineas at the least, Alexander?” Wilmoth muttered, grinning.
“We’ll see how much pelf he has, one way or another,” Courtney sniggered.
“Knighted and made Baronet for success and bravery, was what we heard last night,” Wilmoth told him. “And very successful when it came to prize-money. A real name in the Navy.”
“Well, do tell, haw haw!” Courtney muttered in glee. “That makes Miss Charlotte even more desirable.”
* * *
Lewrie’s party found a place behind the Old Ploughman to tie up their saddle horses and stow the light two-horse coach, the “daisy kicker” lads who worked there quick to supply oats and water.
Jessica, too, had come to town in riding habit, her black boot toes showing beneath the hem of her skirt.
“Wearin’ breeches under that?” Lewrie teased.
“Of course,” Jessica tittered. “I’ll not risk myself trying to ride sidesaddle on a strange horse, after all.”
“And the whole parish’ll be sure that my wife is as scandalous as I am,” Lewrie laughed, giving her a brief hug, no matter who saw it. “Aha. Here comes Sir Harry Embleton and his wife. I wonder how many horses he’s killed this month?”
“What?” Jessica asked, appalled.
“Been mad as a hatter, goes neck-or-nothing all his life,” Lewrie told her, leaning his head close to hers. “Racin’, steeplechasin’, and fox huntin’, and there’ll be a burst heart or broken legs, and he never thinks a thing of it. The Embletons are very wealthy.”
Sir Harry Embleton, Bt., came down the long row of horses for sale, astride a glossy black charger of at least sixteen hands, dressed out in shiny reins and saddle, with gilt-trimmed royal blue saddle pad. Sir Harry was equally resplendent in an expensive uniform of his Cololonelcy of his Yeoman Cavalry unit, with a gilt-laced and plumed bicorne hat that was so curved it almost touched his back and came down to below his nose in front. He rode with the reins in his right hand, and his left, holding a quirt, pressed against his gilt and silver trimmed sword belt, one arm akimbo. Needless to say, he surveyed all beneath him—and that included almost everyone present—with cold disdain.
His wife—Lewrie had only met her twice and couldn’t recall her name—was tricked out in a matching Army red riding habit, with some gilt trim here and there, and gilt buttons. Her mount was a grey, exquisitely groomed, and was a match to her husband in obvious wealth, though she seemed as weary and worn as Millicent had; a faded beauty with high-piled and styled blonde hair.
Hard on women, Lewrie thought; to be married to proud, hard men.
“Sir Harry,” Lewrie spoke up, doffing his civilian hat as they rode close by them, and Jessica dropped a graceful, quick curtsy.
“Ah?” Harry Embleton said, taking dubious notice. “Lewrie,” he said, touching his hat with his quirt, then riding on. Dame Embleton at least gave them a wan smile, and a nod of her head.
“What’s the matter with his chin?” Jessica whispered, once they were out of earshot. “It appears he hasn’t any. Or any manners, either.”
“Too rich t’need ’em, dearest,” Lewrie told her, stifling a good laugh. “His father, Sir Romney, was a most-handsome man, but I’ve always thought the best part of Harry dribbled down the coachman’s leg. There is a tale that the attending doctor pulled him from the womb by his chin. You get a good look at him sideways on, you could swear he resembles an otter, hah hah!” Despised me for ages, he has.”
“Whyever would he, Alan?” Jessia asked, linking arms with him to stroll the horse lines.
“Well, at one time, when I was really young and foolish,” Lewrie explained, “back in Eighty-Seven, and I’d just come back from the Far East, I rode down to spend some time with the Chiswicks, and Caroline and I spent a lot of time together. Back then, Harry Embleton had his eye on her, too, but … she chose me, and Harry bein’ Harry, didn’t much care for it. There was a hunt party, and somehow my old cat, William Pitt, who’d been stayin’ with the Chiswicks whilst I was away, got treed by the pack of hounds.
“I was under the low-ish bough, tryin’ t’coax him t’jump down in my lap, and Harry shouldered my horse out of the way, lashin’ at the limb and the cat, cursin’ a blue streak. I got Pitt to jump down at last, and Caroline rode up with fire in her eyes, called him a cruel brute … he said something unflatterin’, and she lashed him with her reins, right in the face and made his nose spout claret.
“And that’s why I’ll drink and sup at the Old Ploughman the rest of my life, and not the Red Swan, darling,” Lewrie concluded with a laugh. “Sir Romney was gracious enough to invite us to social doings at Embleton Hall a time or two, but Harry and I haven’t shared two or three civil words all this time. Holds a grudge well, he does.”
“The painting of your late wife hung in our bedchamber here,” Jessica mused, turning somber for a moment.”
“Done by an exiled artist in the Bahamas, a ‘remittance man,’” Lewrie breezed off. “Not really all that good, or accurate.”
“Ehm, close enough, I’d imagine,” Jessica said, “She was lovely, and even average talent limned her so. There was something striking about her eyes, and the hint of a smile. She must have been a spirited woman, someone quite formidable.”
“Aye, she was,” Lewrie agreed, in sad remembrance, “but … so are you, Jessica. More fetching, much sweeter, and dearer to me. I thank the Lord your brother wished to go to sea, and I met you. I dare say you’re makin’ an honest man o’ me, my love.”
That was rewarded with a full-throated laugh, a hug, and a stolen kiss.
“Speaking of Charlie,” Jessica said, nodding down the line of horse dealers. “I think he’s found himself a horse. It is so kind of you and your father to buy him one.”
Sir Hugo, Hugh, and Charles Chenery were inspecting a bay gelding, looking at teeth, hooves, and pasterns, feeling over his legs and neck.
“He could do you quite well, Charles,” Hugh was saying as Lewrie and Jessica joined them.
“How old, sir?” Sir Hugo asked the owner.
“He’s a three-year-old, yer honour,” the dealer explained, “he’s a good goer, stout and sound. Won’t win any races with him, nor force him t’jump hedges an’ fences, but he’ll bear ya fer hours on end. H
e’s tractable, well broken, Onliest problem, an’ I’ll tell ya true, is that he tends t’balk when put to steep places, goin’ up or down.”
“Care to try him, Mister Chenery?” Sir Hugo offered.
“Aye, Sir Hugo, I would. With your permission, sir?” he said to the owner, who handed over the reins and offered cupped hands for his left foot. Charlie got astride, clucked his tongue and kneed his boot toes and off he went at the walk, then a trot, up the road towards the Red Swan Inn, assaying an easy lope.
Charlie was back in five minutes, patting the bay’s neck as he returned to the small paddock, the horse arching his neck and lifting his hooves as if as pleased with his rider as the rider was with him.
Twenty five pounds was quoted, Sir Hugo countering with twenty, and, after some haggling, the bay gelding was bought for £23/10, and their new horse was led away to join their others behind the tavern.
They had to step back against the rope lines as a troop of Harry Embleton’s Yeoman Cavalry came trotting by by-fours. Captains Wilmoth and Courtney, with Diana and Charlotte, were close to joining them, on the opposite side of the High Street, calming their cavalry horses as the troop passed them.
“So, Sir Alan, Sir Hugo, what do the pickings look like?” Captain Courtney cheerfully asked.
“Found a good mount for Mister Chenery, at a good price,” Sir Hugo told him. “Have to lead it home, since all my spare tack and saddles are up at my place.”
Charlotte began to skip along the rope lines, stroking and eyeing likely horses, all of them, Lewrie noted, at least fifteen hands high, and conformed like hunters. How much would she cost him?
“Oh, hallo, and how are you?” Jessica cooed at a small-ish horse that was pacing round the next paddock. “Come here, sweet thing. I’ve some treats for you.”
“See something likely, dear?” Lewrie asked her.
“That dapple grey, Alan,” Jessica said, busy extending a floret of cauliflower over the rope line to entice the horse, which perked up its ears, raised its head and cocked it to one side for a second.
“That cobby, shaggy thing?” Hugh snorted in derision. “Fourteen hands at the most, maybe thirteen.”
Much Ado About Lewrie Page 17