Much Ado About Lewrie

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Old news, we’ve heard it before,” Lewrie brusquely snapped.

  “Here, in England, in London, once safe, we all had hopes that our art would provide a modicum of income,” Madame Pellatan mourned, “but, alas again, we were French, the enemy once war was declared, so no one was interested in our paintings. My late husband, God rest his soul, found little market for his works, and my portraits were not of the desired style. We were all poor, working as house servants, waiters, house painters, tutors in French to children.”

  “And then you had an idea,” Rev. Chenery accused.

  “Oui, Reverend, we did,” Madame Pellatan confessed, “And a most profitable one. Instead of getting together once the week to commiserate with each other and mourn our pasts, we began to draw from memory, collaborating on form and composition, mixing colours, then painting art we admired. And when the first one was sold, and we had thousands of pounds to share, we had a celebration worthy of our old days, and the die was cast.”

  “Just how many paintings did you forge?” Lewrie asked sternly.

  “About a dozen, all told, M’sieur Chevalier,” she boldly replied. “It takes a lot of work for the four of us to replicate any painting.”

  “Madame, Saint Anselm’s, the Church of England, simply cannot let you reside under this roof for a single minute longer,” the Reverend declared. “Your criminal activities have brought shame and embarrassment to our repute. You must finish your tea and go! For shame!”

  “Oh, I intend to, M’sieur,” Madame Pellatan replied with a hint of twinkling amusement. “We cannot remain in London, under a cloud. I assume your police may be looking for us, and have seized the works we were producing.”

  “Damned right they are,” Lewrie told her, “and damned right they have.”

  “But, where could you go?” Jessica asked, still concerned for her old mentor, despite the woman’s crimes.

  “Vienna would be lovely,” Madame Pellatan said with a gay smile, “if there is a way to get there, and I have heard that Dublin is becoming a lively artist community.”

  “Oporto or Lisbon, where most of our criminals flee,” Lewrie said with a snort of derision.

  “Perhaps America might be best,” Madame Pellatan countered, still amused. “New York, Philadelphia, or Charleston? French people are honoured and considered fashionable there, and an honest living can be had with portraits of American ladies and the children, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Your betrayal of our charity dis-appoints me greatly, Madame,” the Reverend grieved, with a sad shake of his head.

  “Your charity, M’sieur, and your school wages drove me to it,” Madame Pellatan replied with a deep Gallic shrug, and a touch of anger. “You try being an object of charity, and see how you like it. Ah, my tea is done. I must depart. If one of you gentlemen will hail me a hackney?”

  She wrapped herself in her cloak, pinned a bonnet atop her now-straightened wig, slung her reticule on her left arm, and pulled on a pair of kidskin gloves.

  “Adieu, Jessica chérie,” she said from the stoop, “I wish you all the success you desire with your work. Adieu, Reverend, for I really did enjoy our long conversations, and Adieu, Sir Alan. I hope that you and Jessica shall be profoundly happy in life.”

  A hackney rattled to a stop, and Lewrie and the Reverend, along with the coachee, loaded her traps in the leather-covered boot, then stood to watch her coach away.

  “And good riddance to bad rubbish,” the Reverend sighed. “What will I tell the vestry board? The parishioners? Or the children she taught at our grammar school?”

  “Hmm … that she suddenly came into a tidy sum and wished to go away somewhere warmer?” Lewrie japed.

  “Oh, the … what?” Chenery spluttered.

  “Into a tidy sum … that’s a good one,” Jessica said, and began to titter, to her father’s utter confusion.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  He was just on the verge of waking, though he didn’t want to, oh no. He was snug under a coverlet, two blankets, and a home-made quilt, and nigh-swaddled in a flannel nightshirt and wool stockings up to the knees. There was too much stirring about by the housemaids, the tick of the mantel clock, though, to fall back asleep.

  He slid one arm under the pillows to his left to snuggle closer to Jessica and her heavenly warmth … but she wasn’t there. She had already arisen and the heat of where she’d slept was dissipating.

  To Lewrie’s lights, there was nothing finer on a cold winter’s night than a sleeping woman, for they all seemed to radiate warmth by God’s design, warmth and their particular aromas. A woman in a nightgown was good; a woman sleeping nude was even better.

  He smacked his lips, wishing for water to sluice the dryness, and the aftertaste, away. At last, he opened one eye, with a thought for the glass and carafe on the nightstand, but …

  All he could see was the black-and-white face of the cat, which was touching noses with him. Sensing that he was waking, Buffer began to lick his nose.

  “Thankee, Buffer,” Lewrie mumbled, “Is it dirty? You’re doin’ a grand job.” But, when Buffer started kneading his paws on the front of Lewrie’s nightshirt, clever wee claws gripping and lifting, he groaned, stretched, and pushed himself up to a sitting position at the headboard. From that higher vantage, he could look down to see Bisquit and his wife’s dog, Rembrandt, sitting at the edge of the bed.

  “Nothin’ for it, then,” he muttered, “I’ll have t’get up. Good morning, puppies. Good morning, Buffer.”

  Jessica came through the door to the hall, saw him awake, and smiled. “Awake at last, sleepyhead? I’ll light another candle.”

  Lewrie rolled to the edge of the bed, groped with his toes for his pair of moccasin-like slippers, stood, and went for his dressing gown. “What’s the weather like today?” he asked her.

  “Cold, and grey,” Jessica answered as she knelt by the blazing fireplace to ignite a rush that she used to start a second candle for more light. “When I looked out at the back garden, I saw snow, just a dusting. Enough to make out the Pettuses’ prints on their way to the kitchens. Martha said she thinks she smells rain later in the day.”

  “A nice day t’stay inside, brr,” Lewrie said, pouring himself a glass of water. “Shopping to do, though.”

  Christmas was coming, and with it presents for family, then more for Boxing Day. Jessica, ever the organised one, had already made out her lists for both, with a third, shorter one, for items to decorate the house for the season.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Good morning, sir,” Deavers said from without, “Do you need anything today?”

  “Hot water for a shave and a sponge off, Deavers, and I’ll take care of dressin’ myself,” Lewrie told him.

  “Right, sir,” Deavers replied, “and I’ve sent Dasher out for the morning papers. Be back in a bit.”

  * * *

  Washed, shaved, clothed, and fed a hot breakfast, Lewrie took a glance outside at last, and the day did indeed look grey and depressing. Yes, there was a skiff of snow, soon to turn pale slate grey as the coal smoke rose, and if one of their maids, Martha, was correct, the rain she sensed would wash all that away. He leaned on the deep window seat in the front parlour on the ground floor, watching all the morning goings-on in Dover St., in every London street.

  Milk sellers were out, trundling their push carts along, knife grinders cried their services, and children carried preparations for the holiday. Holly branches and sprigs, heavy with berries, lengths of ivy, and handmade wreaths for windows and door fronts. Apprentices from the many bakeries carried trays slung from their necks, shouting that they had hot cross buns, muffins, mincemeat pies, and pies made with dried fruits, trailed and stalked by urchins and imps who would snatch free ones if the apprentices weren’t careful.

  He looked up and down Dover St. and saw that several of their neighbours had already hung wreaths on their doors, draped holly and ivy on the wrought iron railings that stood in front of the delivery
entrances, and in some windows, candles already stood aglow.

  Lewrie looked down and grinned, for Jessica had already found a safe way to illuminate their windows in all eight windows that faced the street from all three levels. Instead of bare candles that could tip over, or set drapes alight, she had discovered polished brass lanthorns with clear glass panes, about ten inches high with wide bottoms that even curious dogs or a cat could not knock over.

  He thought of lighting the two in the front parlour that was also Jessica’s art studio, but a knock at the door stopped him. He went to the entry hall, instead, just as Pettus went to respond, as well.

  “Mail, sir,” a post boy said, handing over a substantial stack of letters with one hand, and the other open for the postage fees.

  “Oh, good,” Lewrie said, sorting through them quickly, “lots of readin’ t’do, Pettus … indoors where it’s warm.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pettus said with a grin.

  He trotted upstairs to the drawing room, shouting to Jessica to alert her to letters for her. She was on one of the settees, leaning on one end, with Rembrandt’s head and paws in her lap.

  Which to open first? There were letters from Colonel Tarrant and Lieutenant Fletcher on Sicily, one from Hugh aboard his new frigate at Gibraltar, one from Peter Rushton’s younger brother, Harold, at the War Office, one from James Peel of Secret Branch. Nothing from Admiralty, unfortunately, but there was one from Rear-Admiral Sir Thomas Charlton, from somewhere in the country, so he was still alive and healing up with his family, and … a letter from Governour Chiswick at Anglesgreen? Lewrie tore that one open.

  Alan,

  I take pen in hand to convey to you news of your daughter, Charlotte, and her recent doings. Over the season of the harvest balls and celebratory suppers for the cottagers and tenants …

  No “Dear Alan,” hey? Lewrie thought; All the years we were in-laws, and he still can’t bring himself to be civil!

  Diana, my own girl, was invited by her affianced, Capt. Wilmoth, to attend a grand regimental ball at Aldershot. She insisted that Charlotte must go with her. After considering the distance, the company, and risks most carefully, I assure you, I gave them both a cautious consent. I would have gone as chaperone but for my duties as Magistrate, the time of the Assizes being upon us, so, I sent Millicent and the boys to Aldershot too, to keep a sharp eye on the girls’ safety and reputations.

  Imagine my utter chagrin when, this very week, your Charlotte announced that she is with child, and must be wed at once to the man who seduced her, one Capt. Alexander Courtney. I do believe that you have met him the last time you were down to the country.

  “What the bloody Hell?” Lewrie howled, shooting to his feet and startling all the beasts.

  “Alan, dear,” Jessica asked, lowering her own letter to her lap and losing the sweet smile that she had worn. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Charlotte’s the matter, love,” Lewrie raved, pacing about the drawing room. “The silly chit’s gone and gotten pregnant! Seduced by that smirky bastard, that Captain Courtney! She told Governour that they have to marry, instanter, or else. Hmm, he goes on…”

  “Oh, Lord,” Jessica said, surprising Lewrie that she did not leap to comfort him or assure him, smiling secretly, instead.

  “She and Courtney thought of getting a church license, without a reading of the banns, so they could wed anywhere, damn her,” Lewrie went on, reading from the letter. “Good Christ, they thought of coachin’ off to Scotland to elope, but the roads are too uncertain this time o’ year, and … God Almighty, they planned it this way, he writes! Climb into bed, get pregnant, and they have to marry! Because she loves him with all her heart, can’t live without him … he might get sent to Spain in the next draught of the regiment … oh, mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie roared, the mockery of Charlotte’s emotions fair dripping bile.

  “They’re certain she’s pregnant?” Jessica calmly asked.

  “Aye, Governour had the local doctor come round, and it’s true,” Lewrie groaned, flopping down onto the other settee suddenly, as if he had exhausted himself. He waved the damned letter idly in the air.

  “What do we know of this fellow, his family, his fortune?” his wife matter-of-factly went on. “It seems Charlotte intended all along to make him your son-in-law, so … is he a worthy man, do you think?”

  “You’re takin’ this far too coolly,” Lewrie told her, stunned by her attitude as if he’d never known her at all.

  “Captain Courtney, was it?” Jessica said. “I thought him a bit too smooth. Handsome enough, I suppose, and certainly dashing enough. Good manners. But, Alan … which of them enchanted the other, with an eye to marry? That’s more Charlotte’s thinking than his, I’d wager. Captain Courtney does not strike me as the sort to fall head-over-heels in love so quickly or completely that he would contemplate dashing off to Gretna Green if all else failed, or taking such a risky way to the altar. They must marry, though.”

  “Aye, they do,” Lewrie agreed, getting to his feet, again. “I’ll go round and warn my father. We’ll have to coach down to Anglesgreen at once, and see them wed at Saint George’s, or at Aldershot. At sword point, or with a pistol to Courtney’s head if he balks.

  “Damn that girl, she’s been a spiteful, hateful, willful pain in my side since she turned twelve!” Lewrie went on. “She’s made her bed, now, and she’ll have t’lie in it the rest of her miserable life! And just hear what Governour thinks of it! ‘I blame Millicent and my boys for being so remiss in their watchfulness. How could Charlotte and Courtney find the time, or the privacy, to conjoin in secret? Diana is most distressed that her cousin will be married before she and her fiancé can go to their altar the properly chaste way, and believes that your daughter’ … he underlined that, damn him … ‘did it just to spite Diana, and steal all the attention from her.’ Governour says he can’t believe that, but I surely can.”

  “You and your father will be going tomorrow, or the next day?” Jessica asked him.

  “Something like that,” Lewrie told her, going to lean an arm and his forehead on the fireplace mantel. “Day after tomorrow, most-like. Clothes to pack for it, his Major-General rig, my Navy uniform, and the Order of The Bath. Speak with Charlotte, first, as distasteful as that’ll be, then coach to Aldershot and beard this Courtney in his barracks. If he sounds like he might not marry the chit, we’ll have to have a word with his commanding officer. He can order him t’do the right thing, or be court-martialled for conduct unbecoming. He might even have to sell up his commission to make restitution to Charlotte, though the shame of bein’ an un-wed mother with a bastard is something money can’t un-do. If all else fails, then aye, it’s sword points and pistols.”

  “I’d admire to go with you, darling,” Jessica said, coming to him at the mantel.

  “Might get hot and angry,” Lewrie warned her.

  “I can stand it,” Jessica assured him with a grin as she leaned on him, placing her head on his shoulder. “Christmas in the country is ever so much nicer than in the city. And, it may be the last time that I can see Bobs, and go riding, and endure the coach trip there and back.”

  “What? The last time?” Lewrie started. “Darling, are you ill? Have you come down with something that might … take you from…?”

  “My dearest husband,” Jessica purred, “I may not be able to travel in the Spring.”

  “What? Why?” Lewrie demanded, putting both arms round her.

  “Let me just say that Charlotte is not the only woman in your life who is with child,” Jessica told him, getting on her tiptoes to give him a kiss, her arms round his neck.

  “We’re going t’have a child?” Lewrie gawped, completely, utterly stupefied. “We’re going to have…? Mine arse on…!” He censored himself, wondering how excited he really was, recalling at least three years of spit-up, foul nappies, wails at all hours of the night that nannies could not quiet, skinned knees and more wails.

  “Oh … my … God, that�
��s simply marvellous!” he decided that it would be politic to say. “Oh, Jessica, you’re wonderful, this is goin’ t’be so … grand!” I adore you, adore you, adore you!”

  Good Christ on a crutch, he thought as Jessica bounced in glee, and squealed with joy; Can’t the Navy pluck me away, please, before I deal with all that, all over again? Still, she’s happy, so I must be, too. Or do a hellish-good impersonation of it!

  AFTERWORD

  Shall I crack any of the old jokes, master,

  at which the audience never fails to laugh?

  ARISTOPHANES, THE FROGS

  As readers of the mis-adventures of Alan Lewrie have noticed, it has been quite a while since I allowed myself the luxury of an Afterword, most often because I usually fall behind on my publisher’s deadlines (Which month? How much longer?) and figured that the brief Epilogue would satisfy everybody. Besides, I’ve had to join a Twelve Step Program for Prattlers who won’t shut up—it’s called On-And-On-And-On.

  Another reason is that once I do finish a novel, I am usually mentally whipped and just want to go to Kinko’s and UPS, get the book off, hit the liquor store for some champagne, and sleep the sleep of the just in, as Kinky Friedman called it, “my monastic little bed.”

  Over the last few novels, a lot of problems had arisen ashore for Lewrie, about which he could do nothing as long as he was at sea. I thought that they had to be faced, at last, and the only way that Lewrie could do so would be to get stranded ashore on half-pay. And as I’ve always told readers, Lewrie always gets in trouble on dry land, with time on his idle little hands.

  First off, how will he find powerful support with Admiralty to get himself back to sea? And then comes his younger son, Hugh, who is also in need of a new ship, not to mention Midshipman Charlie Chenery, his teen brother-in-law in the same, pardon the pun, boat. And then there is Charlotte, who is still husband-hunting; too picky, or too arch and imperious, scaring off suitable beaus? Not to mention his former brother-in-law, Governour Chiswick and his brood of ne’er-do-wells. And just who is this Captain Alexander Courtney, and what are his motives? As we say in the South, “who are his people and what are they like?” If there’s to be a sword-point wedding, will it turn out well?