Much Ado About Lewrie

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Only you could go off to rescue two animals, and come back with three,” Jessica said with an amused shake of her head.

  “Your head doesn’t hurt anymore?” Lewrie asked, watching her careful movements to pour tea for herself, cream and sugar it with her left hand, and stir it up.

  “The ice reduced the knot, and all I feel now is the pull of the sutures,” Jessica told him, “and Doctor Stansfield is coming today to remove them.” She set her cup down, pulled back her hair and leaned forward so Lewrie could see. “It’s not much of a red scar, and that will subside after a time, I dearly hope.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Lewrie agreed, “though it will make you more mysterious.”

  Buffer had had enough breakfast, and pounced on Lewrie’s right wrist, giving out a rather loud Meow! for such a small kitten, and flopped on his side to play, and when Lewrie rubbed his belly, Buffer rolled full on his back, wriggling happily, his belly fully exposed.

  “My poor upholstery, and drapes,” Jessica said with a sigh.

  “We’ve half an hundredweight of sand in a barrel belowstairs,” Lewrie explained, “and he’s taken to the boxes right off. Had himself quite a prowl, from the kitchen to the garret, over three hours of it.

  “By the way,” Lewrie said with a smirk, “Hazelwood denied him access to the kitchens. He says cats make him break out in a rash and sneeze his head off.”

  “I don’t know whether to feel sorry for him, or take joy of his suffering,” Jessica said, trying to butter a thick slice of toast, but making a one-handed muck of it. “Lucy and the chambermaids tell me that he’s quite the tyrant with our servants.”

  “Then Buffer may need a warm and comfy place to sleep this winter, close to the ovens and fireplaces, instead of our bedchamber,” Lewrie suggested, almost cackling with glee. “Here, let me help. How’s your wrist?”

  “Oh, stiff and still a bit sore,” Jessica had to admit, raising her right hand and flexing her fingers, and rotating her hand, wincing a little though she tried to put a bold face on it. “The ice, again, helps, though it’s going fast. That and the willow bark tea. With any luck, I can get back to painting Hugh’s portrait that I promised, say another week or so?”

  “Poor darling,” Lewrie commiserated, kissing her fingers, “You must be frustrated beyond all temperance. So many sketches you wish to turn into oils.

  “What the Hell’s that?” Lewrie asked of a sudden, cocking his head to catch some noisy commotion belowstairs. He rose from his seat and raised the sash window that overlooked the back garden, wondering if there was some civil riot erupting, stirred by some Captain Tom of the Mob. He stuck his head out and looked straight down, just in time to see Yeovill and Hazelwood emerge from the basement entrance, stamp up the stone stairs past the water pump, and go at each other, arms and fists flailing, and both cursing a blue streak!

  “Hoy! Avast, damn yer eyes!” Lewrie shouted down.

  Deavers and Desmond, and the lads, Dasher and Turnbow, emerged a moment later, followed by the scullery maid, all three dogs, and the chambermaids, hooting, shouting, and barking.

  Peacekeepers, or spectators? Lewrie asked himself; Layin’ wagers on who cracks the other’s head first?

  “You two stop that, at once, hear me?” he shouted louder, but the combatants paid him no heed. Lewrie snatched his napkin from his shirt collar and bounded for the stairs. “The damn fools are havin’ at each other!” he shouted over his shoulder to Jessica, who also rose to look out the window to see which “damn fools” he meant.

  By the time Lewrie tore through the kitchens and out to the back garden, he could see that Hazelwood had armed himself with a long soup ladle, and Yeovill had snatched up a thin lath that had been supporting a so-far-unsuccessful rose bush. Neither one of them had any combat experience, beyond the occasional foray ashore that Yeovill had made, which usually resulted in him doing more camp cooking than fighting, so it was an awkward pairing with mis-matched weapons.

  To make matters worse for Hazelwood, his face was beet red and he kept sneezing. A wild swing of the lath knocked his silly tall white hat off, making Hazelwood howl as if his skull had been cracked!

  “You bloody thief, I’ll lambaste you!” Yeovill shouted.

  “Liar!” Hazelwood shot back, panting. “At-atchoo!”

  “You can’t boil an egg ’thout instructions, thief!” Yeovill accused. His lath broke in two, and he began to pummel Hazelwood with both pieces, driving Hazelwood back into a flower bed.

  “Here, don’t trample the … yellow things!” Lewrie roared.

  That roar made Hazelwood look back for a second to see what he was standing in, an opening that Yeovill took advantage of, using his clenched fist to pop him one on the mouth, sending Hazelwood sprawling atop the flower bed.

  “Stand fast!” Lewrie yelled, taking Yeovill by his left arm as if to give him a shake, and Desmond and Deavers finally came forward to haul Hazelwood to his feet, taking the soup ladle away.

  “He hit me, sir!” Hazelwood spat, astonished, his lip split and his nose and eyes running freely. “There was no reason to…!”

  “Sneaking at my receipts, sir, stealing from me!” Yeovill shot back. He had dropped the broken lath pieces, shaking his right hand as if he’d broken his knuckles with his punch, and wincing. “He took my book!”

  “What book?” Lewrie demanded, hands on his hips.

  “My receipt book, sir,” Yeovill explained, impatiently swiping his hair back. He’d picked up splinters from the lath and suddenly said “Ow! D’ye see, sir, everywhere we’ve sailed since I became your personal cook, the West Indies, Georgia and the Carolinas, the Bahamas, Gibraltar, Spain, Cape Town, Buenos Aires, Portugal or Sicily … I’ve gone ashore for provisions, and tasted new dishes and foods. I ask the street vendors, restaurant cooks, old women in the shops, how to cook them, what spices they use, what the sauces are. My secrets, sir! He had no right to copy them, barring me from the kitchens, then using my receipts as his own, sir! No right at all! As if the un-talented clown could follow them proper. He could turn a Cambridge Burnt Cream or a Spanish flan into blackened soup!”

  “Me? Un-talented?” Hazelwood screeched, “Why … ah-ah-atchoo!” He tried to argue, but his reaction to cats cut him off in mid-screed, forcing him to raise the hem of his apron to wipe his reddened eyes and his streaming nose. “God damn that cat … ah … atchoo!”

  “Use a handkerchief, for God’s sake,” Lewrie snapped, backing up a pace or two.

  “I caught him writing one down, sir, on a scrap of paper. He’s got it in his waist-coat pocket,” Yeovill accused, jabbing a finger at the offending pocket, then returned to picking splinters from his palms. “You look, you’ll see, sir.”

  “Hazelwood?” Lewrie demanded, holding out an open hand.

  With bad grace, still snuffling, coughing, spitting, and sneezing, the usually feisty fellow dug a square snippet of foolscap out of one of his pockets and handed it over, trying not to look guilty.

  Lewrie glanced it over.

  Tomato—Marinara—Pasta Sauce

  Dice fine 2 cloves garlic, 1 large onion doz. pitted black olives. Fresh oregano, basil rosemary, thyme, & sage, pestled if nec. Brown in olive oil in large deep skillet or large pot.

  Add doz. to 2 doz. peeled roma tomatoes, add 1 cup red wine chianti or montepulciano best. Simmer 3 hours, stirring to thick puree, parmesan, provolone mozarella fine grated to thicken, ½ cup sugar if desired. No feta!

  “It seems as if the proof is in the pudding, Hazelwood,” Lewrie said, glowering at him.

  “Remember the chicken parmesan I made, sir?” Yeovill said. “All the pasta dishes I cooked when we were anchored at Milazzo? That’s my sauce to a tee, sir, and he had no right to take it, and claim it as his own.”

  “Yeovill might have shared his receipts with you, Hazelwood, if you would’ve allowed him equal access to the kitchens,” Lewrie said.

  “No, I wouldn’t’ve, for he’s a sneering tyrant,” Yeovill s
napped. “He’s been looking down his nose at me since I set foot in the house!”

  “That’s right, he wouldn’t share,” Hazelwood carped, between his sneezes, “He’s jealous of my skill, and my position! Too many cooks sp … spoil the … atchoo!… the sauce, Sir Alan. He may be good enough with salt meats and a porridge, but I am the better … atchoo!”

  “Admirals, and foreign dignitaries, have tried to lure Yeovill away from my service, Mister Hazelwood,” Lewrie countered, “so he’s good enough for me. You run a very taut kitchen, or so the other house servants say to me and my wife. Dictatorial, and tyrannical were the words used. The two of you are supposed to be professionals. Can you not co-operate?”

  “With him?” Hazelwood sneered. “Never, Sir Alan! If you prefer his slop to me, then you are welcome to him.” He raised his chin and runny nose in a superior look, stamping his feet.

  “Stop killing my flowers!” Jessica shouted down at that moment, which took Hazelwood down a peg. All shifted to the gravel walk.

  “I cannot work in such conditions, Sir Alan,” Hazelwood said, stripping his apron off over his head. “I fear I must give you my notice.” He tried to make it sound formally stiff, but the phlegm that had built up in his throat made him break into a coughing jag.

  “Very well, Mister Hazelwood, if that is your choice,” Lewrie replied. “We will pay you your wages through the end of this week, and wish you the best of luck in your future endeavours. I’m sure there’s a house that will have you.”

  ’Til they get t’know you, Lewrie qualified to himself.

  “I will pack my things and go, then, Sir Alan,” Hazelwood said with a slight bow from the waist.

  “Can you be out by dinnertime?” Lewrie could not help asking.

  “Yes, sir, I can,” Hazelwood said, bowing again, and marching off towards the basement door.

  “Deavers,” Lewrie said, summoning him with a crook of his finger, “you know what we bought for the kitchen. Keep an eye on him so that he don’t make off with anything that isn’t his.”

  “Aye, sir,” Deavers said with a grin.

  “Yeovill, it appears the house is in need of a new cook. Would you consider taking over?” Lewrie asked him.

  “Thank you very kindly, sir,” Yeovill answered with a relieved and happy grin, “and I’d be that glad to.”

  “Now, with that out of the way, I think I’ll go finish my breakfast,” Lewrie said, chuckling now that Hazelwood was out of sight. “Fun’s over, all. Wasn’t much of a bout, anyway. Back to your usual duties,” he added, waving his servants into the house as well.

  One more wee domestic problem’s solved itself, Lewrie happily told himself; But, when’s the other shoe drop?

  * * *

  After the incident with Hazelwood, life in the Lewrie household took a distinct turn for the better. The victuals improved, more to Lewrie’s tastes, as did the economy with which Yeovill ran his kitchen, the scullery maid waif could actually be heard singing or humming at her duties, and there were more smiles on the faces of the other servants.

  Jessica’s feared scar on her temple turned out to be much less noticeable than she had dreaded, and her sprained wrist improved, as soreness disappeared and flexibility returned, to the point that Lewrie was drawn at a rush from his newspaper in the drawing room to her studio one morning when he heard what he took for a shriek.

  “What is it?” he demanded, pulling his hanger sword from the ceramic umbrella stand in the entry hall.

  “Look!” Jessica exclaimed, all but dancing round the room, waving her right hand in extravagent motions, bending and rotating her wrist. “It works again! I just drew this with no trouble at all!” She had a large sheet of paper in her left hand, a drawing of a kitten toying with a ball of yarn.

  “Startled me out of year of growth, you did,” Lewrie whooped as he sheathed the bared blade and embraced her with equal joy.

  In point of fact, the only bothersome part of his life were his weekly visits to Admiralty to tout Hugh’s and Charlie’s prospects. And when Jessica was having her “monthlies” and he slept alone.

  * * *

  “Alan, dearest,” Jessica said one evening over a tasty supper, with a serious look on her face.

  Uh-oh, what’ve I done now? he thought.

  “Yes, dear?” he replied, after dabbing his lips with his napkin.

  “Pettus and Lucy’s marriage,” she said. “We must have workers in to make the rooms above the coach house and stables into a lodging for them. And, we must go shopping for furniture for them.”

  “They won’t be needin’ a kitchen of their own, will they?” he

  “Oh, they’ll still take all their meals belowstairs with the rest of the servants,” Jessica replied more perkily, now that she had a project, “but the ability to make early morning tea, or heat water for bathing would be nice. Who could we call upon?”

  “Ehm, there’s that fellow who first rented me the house,” Lewrie mused, “what’s his name? Penneworth? He’d know some workers who put up houses.”

  “Good!” Jessica congratulated, grinning. “If you see to that, I can take Lucy to Clotworthy Chute’s emporium. Or, we could take Lucy and Pettus, so the furnishings are their taste, not just anything we pick up on the cheap.”

  “Cheap is sometimes good,” Lewrie pointed out, in jest.

  “Alan,” she responded with a mock glare, and he knew what he would be doing for the next fortnight; he was under strict orders.

  * * *

  Mr. Penneworth, it turned out, was a speculator who bought up rickety old properties and refurbished them, alongside his realty business, so he had a work crew of skilled carpenters, brick masons, and plasterers and painters ready on call. A quick walk-through, and they set to creating a proper parlour, two bedrooms, a wee dining room, and privy chamber, after a consultation with Pettus and his intended.

  * * *

  “Lord, sir, this is really quite kind of you and Dame Lewrie,” Pettus thanked them again as they got down from a hired coach in front of Clotworthy Chute’s establishment, which had grown from one store to a row of them.

  “Think nothing of it, Pettus,” Lewrie told him, “your and Lucy’s future comfort, and happiness are reward enough.”

  And costly enough, Lewrie thought.

  “Oh my,” Lucy exclaimed as she looked round the interior, taking hold of Pettus’s arm. “It is all so grand!”

  And indeed it was, in some portions of the emporium, where there were framed paintings on display, along with Greek or Roman statuary and busts, tall vases from ancient times to Chinese, ornately carved tables, armoires, desks, and dining rooms.

  All of it frauds, most-like, Lewrie thought, remembering how Clotworthy Chute could turn a new bronze statue into one just dug up in Italy, after a fortnight in salt water, or hire someone talented to “restore” common woodwork into William & Mary or Queen Anne pieces in even less time. In the centre of the vast combined shops, in the back, stood the average pieces that didn’t cost a duke’s fortune.

  “May I show you anything in particular, sir?” a salesman dressed in the latest dark Beau Brummel fashion enquired.

  “We’re looking for Clotworthy Chute,” Lewrie told him. “He’s an old school friend of mine.”

  “Of course, sir,” the salesman said with a nod and a slight bow. “You would prefer to deal with the owner himself. I will summon him, if you will excuse me for a moment?”

  Once he departed, Lucy turned to Jessica, saying, “Everything is so expensive-looking, ma’am. Are you sure we’re in the right place? Our needs are far more humble than any of this.”

  Jessica’s assurancing reply was cut off by Clotworthy as he came rumbling from a back office, arms spread wide in welcome.

  “Alan, me old!” Chute boomed, “You old tarpaulin man! Been cutting and thrusting with dog nappers, I heard? Give ye joy, my man, give ye joy!”

  “Hallo, Clotworthy,” Lewrie replied, simply having to smile, for the old rogue
and “Captain Sharp” was the same as the day they’d been expelled from Harrow. “It’s good t’see you, again,” he added as they vigourously shook hands. Other shoppers in the emporium turned to peer at the noisy greeting, whispering to each other as they recognised Lewrie from the newspaper accounts.

  “And Dame Lewrie, a delight to see you in my store, again, too,” Clotworthy went on, only slightly less loud, kissing the back of her hand. “And what brings two of my favourite people to my store?”

  “Clotworthy, this is Pettus, our butler, and Lucy, Dame Lewrie’s maid,” Lewrie said, doing the introductions, “they are to be married soon, and we wish to furnish a separate lodging for them.”

  “And you came to me, first, aha!” Clotworthy enthused. “Good! Topping! Capital! Table and chairs, settee and chairs, end tables and night tables, and most importantly, a bedstead. Come this way and let me show you what we have at the back of the store. I’m mortal-certain you’ll find what you like. Even some carpets for the parlour and bedchamber, to keep your feet warm in winter, too, perhaps?”

  “Well, that would be nice, but…” Lucy tried to object at the expense.

  “Nonsense, Lucy, let’s see what they have,” Jessica insisted.

  She would brook no false modesty, no objections of “it’s too nice” or “it looks too expensive” from Lucy, and, slowly, furniture was gathered for the couple, with Jessica and Lucy beginning to compare tastes and laugh about the project. This left Lewrie little to do but dawdle round behind them for a time, then wander into the more expensive wings of Chute’s emporium.

  “Almost done,” Clotworthy announced about an hour later, coming to join Lewrie with the bill. “I think we did them proud, Alan. All they need for a parlour, a bedchamber, and a place to dine, and it only comes to eighty-four pounds, eight shillings.”

  “I’ll give you my note of hand on Coutts’ Bank,” Lewrie told him with a wince; Jessica’s “project” was more expensive than he’d imagined.

  “And the delivery?” Clotworthy enquired.