The Invasion Year l-17

by Dewey Lambdin

  Lydia was very slim, as slim as Tess the Irish lass in “Mother Batson’s” brothel in Panton Street, as girlish-slim as his late wife had been when they’d first wed, her flesh firm but so silkily soft, as if he ran his fingertips through fine-milled talcum powder. Their un-dressing had been slow and tentative, despite Lewrie’s urgent and fierce wants after two years of celibacy since his return from Paris; he didn’t wish to frighten her off at the last moment. On Lydia’s part, she had shown a shyness that Lewrie wouldn’t have expected in a woman so out-spoken, or one with an allegedly scandalous past. There had been just the one small, dim candle to light them under the covers, with Lewrie’s back turned as she’d slipped beneath them, and her head partially averted as he did so; she hadn’t come to his side ’til the sheet was pulled up to their chins, and he had slid a light hand over her taut but tantalisingly soft belly.

  Might be just the once, so make the most of it, he’d cautioned himself, savouring every moment as if it was the very last they would share, that he would have with any woman, slowly sliding down her body to worship her graceful neck, her ears, her breasts, and her stomach, at last to the tops of her slim thighs, her belly, and her fine corn-silk blond fluff, then even further down…

  Hoping against hope, Lewrie had brought along four of his Half-Moon Street sheep-gut cundums; there was an awkward moment to don one and return, but by then Lydia had been more than eager, her bottom lip almost trembling as she drew him down to her with a kitteny mew. Again, despite the brute lust roaring in his head, he’d begun slow, pausing a time or two to contain himself… before Lydia had begun to urge him on to a canter, to a gallop, with breathless wee cries of, “Yes, oh yes!”

  Too much wine, too late at night, Lewrie couldn’t fathom how, but the world had evaporated from his senses. The mattress and sheets might as well have been a cloud, and the only things that existed were their bodies and their joinings, and then Lydia had been grasping and raking his back, clinging with upraised thighs, crying out as guardedly as she could to avoid waking the house staff, and Lewrie could let go, groaning like the timbers of a storm-wracked ship, and wishing he could roar like a lion in triumph and mind-frying pleasure!

  “What’s the time?” Lydia asked in a whisper, breaking off from kissing his mouth, his shoulder, and rolling off him a bit to peer at a mantel clock, with her hair mussed most prettily, and some longer strands dangling over her face.

  “Uhm… a bit after four,” Lewrie told her after a squint of his own. “Should I be going, before the house wakes?” He felt like crossing his fingers to hear her answer, for he certainly didn’t wish to go!

  “Not quite yet,” Lydia said, swiping her hair back in place and bestowing upon him a sly, impish, and teasing look as she settled back half atop him and resumed her kissing. “We’re the idle class, Alan. We take cocoa and toast at ten, and don’t stir out ’til after noon, do you know. At least Percy has his regiment, his clubs, coffee houses, and a seat in Lords, when he bothers to attend. The servants don’t stir ’til half past five. Or so our butler tells us.”

  “No sleep-walkers on staff, are there?” Lewrie japed.

  “All sound sleepers, for all I know of them,” Lydia told him, chuckling. “There’s still time… for us. If you wish, that is? If you find me pleasing?” Oddly, that struck Lewrie’s ear as a plea to be found pleasing, and pretty.

  “Aye, by God I do… and there’s no other place I’d rather be right now for a… for a bloody knighthood!” he told her, which caused them both to laugh, almost loud enough to wake the house for a bit, ’til he drew her down to him and held her close, and their lips met in sweet, light brushings, curled with glee at first.

  “Make love to me, Alan,” Lydia whispered, urgently, but sounding shy, as if amazed at her own daring to even ask.

  “Make love to me, Lydia,” Lewrie whispered back, his own voice grave and earnest, peering intently into her eyes and wondering why he had ever thought her less than hellish-handsome. With her hair down, and her bored and arch expression blown to far horizons, she was very lovely… to him, at least; which was all that mattered, wasn’t it? Here, this moment, she even seemed vulnerable. Not a stiff member of the aristocracy, but an ordinary woman with wants and needs.

  And so she did, and he did, make love one more time before he had to go, more hungrily this time, more fiercely, thrashing and panting to an almost simultaneous bliss. Then lay entwined and cuddling and kissing and gently stroking ’til the mantel clock reached 5.

  * * *

  “Where did we leave our shoes?” Lewrie muttered, his head well fuddled by then, as he peered about the parlour; they hadn’t been in the bed-chamber.

  “We left them by the settee,” Lydia whispered back, giggling. “How remiss of us.”

  “How embarrassing that could’ve been,” Lewrie said as he found his and sat to slip them on.

  “Oh, I am loath to let you go, though I must!” Lydia declared as he got to his feet again, and she came to embrace him, dressed only in a silk robe, almost as soft as her flesh, and warmed by her warmth. Lewrie slowly ran his hands up and down her slim back, down to her narrow hips and wee bottom, purring in her ear. “I must. You must, else… it’s almost half past five.”

  “ ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’…,” Lewrie said, chuckling.

  “… ‘that I should say goodnight ’til it be morrow,’ yes! And all that, but…!” she insisted, laughing again and breaking away to lead him by the hand to the foyer, and the front door. “I’ll not send you out into lawless London un-protected, Alan. Here.”

  “Well, hullo!” Lewrie said; she had handed him a wee one-barrel pocket pistol to shove into his uniform coat.

  “Even here in the West End, there’s foot-pads aplenty, and I’d not wish any harm to come to you,” Lydia assured him. “Mind, now… I expect you to return it!” she teased, her eyes alight.

  “Let’s set a time for that,” Lewrie said with a grin. “Supper tonight? There’s a grand chop-house I know in Savoy Street. Hellish-fine wine cellar, and emigre French chefs, t’boot. Eight-ish? And no clubs after. As few of your host of admirers as possible.”

  “Sir, I would be delighted to accept your kind invitation,” she said, dipping him a graceful curtsy, grinning back. “But, you must go at once!” Lydia insisted, play-shoving him to the door.

  There was just one wee problem with his leaving; the door was locked tight, and though several bolts could be withdrawn, there was no key in sight!

  “Un emmerdement, as the Frogs’d say,” Lewrie whispered. “Don’t think askin’ yer butler’d do much good, would it?”

  “Oh, God!” Lydia breathed, opening every drawer in the massive oak side-board table where the mail, page-delivered notes, and calling cards ended in a large silver tray. “Here’s one!”

  “Too small… that’s surely for one of the drawers. Let me look,” Lewrie offered, infected by Lydia’s urgency. “Aha!” Far back in the lowest drawer there was a huge housekey, strung with a hank of ribbon and a pasteboard tag. “This’un’s big enough for the Bank of England.” He inserted it, gave it a turn, and let out a happy sigh as the main lock clanked open.

  Thank God for efficient house-keepers! Lewrie thought as the door yawned open to the front stoop and the street with nary a creak; the hinges had been well-oiled!

  “You’re off to your Madeira Club?” Lydia asked as he stepped out to the stoop, clutching her robe about her more tightly. “I will send round a note.”

  “Hmm?” Lewrie asked, wondering why a note was necessary, if he had set the time when he would coach to collect her.

  “My treat… a surprise,” she told him, smiling inscrutably. “Here… your lodgings? Neither is suitable, are they, Alan?”

  “Damme, but you’re a grand girl, Lydia!”

  “Now shoo, scat! Begone! And thank God it isn’t raining!” she urged, swinging the door shut yet blowing him a kiss just before it closed completely.

  Damme if she ain’t a grand
woman! Lewrie told himself as he plodded east down Grosvenor Street, looking for a carriage, beaming and whistling “The Bowld Soldier Boy,” the tune used when the rum issue was fetched on deck aboard Reliant. At half past five A.M., it was not quite dawn, but milk-seller wenches with cloth-covered buckets yoked over their shoulders were already stirring to cry their wares to the waking houses. Horse- or pony-drawn two-wheeled carts and traps were clopping along, their axles squealing, filled with fruit or vegetables, and young girls yawned as they carried baskets of fresh flowers. The tin-smiths and tinkers were out, the rag-buyers and -sellers halloed their goods. Knife sharpeners, bakery boys with their trays of hot loaves and rolls, old women with baskets of eggs, venomous-looking, un-shaven men with fletches of bacon… the street vendors of the city were already out in force.

  And all found it amusing to see a Navy Post-Captain, a man with the sash and star of knighthood, walking when he could ride, and the fellow appeared stubbled, mussed, and perhaps even a trifle “foxed”-did he even know which part of London he was in?

  Lewrie took great delight in doffing his hat to the vendors, offering cheery “good mornings.” He could not recall being happier in years!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A hot bath and a close shave, a hearty breakfast and six cups of coffee, and Lewrie still felt like Death’s-Head-On-A-Mop-Stick, but… there were things to meet and people to do, to make the most of his brief time in London. There was the College of Heralds, where grave people who put a lot of stock in such arcane things as coats-of-arms hemmed and hawed, suggested, and queried him over what he would like, or what was suitable to his career, to paint on a parchment, and… “the, ah, fees will be so much, and might you wish to pay by a note-of-hand, or a draught upon your bank, Sir Alan?”

  No fear the Crown’ll run short o’ “tin,” Lewrie sourly thought; They must do a whoppin’ business handin’ out honours, if they cost the recipients so bloody dear! I could buy a thoroughbred for that much!

  With the promise that preliminary sketches, in full colour, mind, would be forthcoming, Lewrie toddled off for dinner, then a visit to his bankers at Coutts’ for more cash, and a review of his accounts. He was pleasingly amazed that the Prize-Court on Jamaica had completed their surveys of the four French warships they had taken at the Chandeleurs-captured warships always seemed to breeze through quickly since the Fleet was in such need of new ones-deciding on a sum of ?50,000. Lewrie’s frigate’s share was a fourth of that, and his own two-eighths amounted to ?3,125! Nothing to sneeze at, for certain! He left ?1,000 in savings and transferred ?2,000 to the Funds, where it would earn a tidy ?60 per annum. He pocketed the remainder, with plans to splurge, quite frankly.

  Later, passing a bookseller’s bow-window display, he was taken by the sight of not one but two books written by his old steward and cabin servant, Aspinall! He dashed in and flipped through their pages, which were un-cut, so he only saw half. Just as Aspinall had promised, one was an illustrated guide to all the useful knots employed aboard a ship, and the other a compendium of music and songs popular in the Royal Navy.

  “Good God!” Lewrie exclaimed as he read the dedication in the first one about knots.

  To my old Captain of HMS Jester,

  Sloop of War, and the Frigates

  Proteus and Savage

  An Officer of un-paralleled Energy,

  Courage, and Skill, whose determined

  but pleasant Nature won the Affection

  and Admiration of every Man-Jack,

  Capt. Alan Lewrie, RN

  “Damme, that’s gildin’ the lily, ain’t it?” Lewrie muttered.

  “A most useful guide, that, sir,” the bookseller told him, “yet one that instructs even the humblest beginner. We’ve done quite well with it, as well as the music book. In the coming year, we plan to bring out yet another, on the making of intricate items of twine, which the author informs me that sailors will do in their idle hours, as gifts for their dear ones.”

  “On ‘Make and Mend’ Sundays, aye,” Lewrie said, unable to resist boasting, “He’s dedicated this’un to me, it seems.”

  “You are that Captain Lewrie, sir? My shop is honoured!”

  “I’ll have three copies of each,” Lewrie quickly decided. “I’ve sons in the Fleet,” he explained. “You are the publisher, or…?”

  “I am, sir,” the bookseller told him.

  “So Aspinall’s in touch with you, regularly? Then you have his home address, so I could write and congratulate him?” Lewrie asked the fellow. “And, might I purchase some paper and borrow a pen, I’d like to write a short note, first, that you could send on at once?”

  “Done, sir, this very instant!”

  At least someone from the old days is doin’ well! Lewrie gladly thought as he strolled out with his purchases. When Aspinall had left his service, the lad’s plans for the future and making a way in civilian life had sounded a tad iffy, but… so far he seemed to prosper. Lewrie didn’t think that he would have enough time in London to look him up for a natter; the best he expected would be a reply sent to his lodgings.

  Damme, I should’ve bought a set for Desmond! Lewrie realised; If he’s still in the American Navy. He was forever forgetting Desmond McGilliveray, the bastard son he’d quickened with Soft Rabbit, a Cherekee slave he’d been forced to “marry” by his Muskogee Indian hosts during the American Revolution, on a doomed expedition up the Appalachicola river in Spanish Florida to woo the Muskogee and Seminolee into war against the Rebel frontiers. Their guide, half-Muskogee himself, had given the child his own name after the British survivors had left, and taken Soft Rabbit for his own. And, when they had both died of the Smallpox, little Desmond had been delivered to the McGilliverays in Charleston, South Carolina, and raised as White. During the so-called Quasi-War ’twixt America and France, the American Navy and the Royal Navy had secretly co-operated, and Lewrie had been completely stunned to meet the boy, hear him speak of his Indian mother by name, and realise who he was!

  Well, he don’t write me all that often, either, he mused.

  * * *

  A stop in at Lloyd’s coffee house for tea and a place to use his pen-knife to slit the pages so he could read the books later, and wonder of wonders, there was his old school friend from Harrow, Peter Rushton, Viscount Draywick, holding forth with a table of gentlemen on the reality of the threat cross the Channel, and what was the Pitt administration doing about it, et cetera and et cetera.

  “Alan, my old!” Peter yelped, tipping his chair back onto four legs and rising to greet him. “Sir Alan, Knight and Baronet, can you feature it, haw! Read of it, and congratulations, indeed! Comin’ up in the world like one of those infernal French hot-air balloons!”

  “Peter! How the Devil d’ye keep?” Lewrie cried, pumping his hand.

  “Main-well, Alan, main-well, I will allow,” Rushton said with a smug and satisfied smirk. “In town long, are you?”

  “A day or two more, perhaps, then back to Sheerness. I hear there’s a war on, and the French are bein’ a bother,” Lewrie replied. Hell, that jape pleased once! “How are things in Lords? Met someone you should know… one of yours, Percy Viscount Stangbourne?”

  “Hell of a fellow!” was Peter’s opinion. “Simply mad-keen to have a go at the Frogs with that regiment he raised, and the grandest sportsman going. Has bottom at the gaming tables, let me tell you! Got a head on his shoulders, too… quite unlike half the twits that sit in Lords. He actually stays awake, pays attention, and damme if he don’t make plain sense when he speaks up. Quite unlike me, Lord knows, haw haw! Here, let’s take a table and have a glass or two.”

  “How’s Clotworthy?” Lewrie asked, once two glasses of brandy appeared. “Still up to his old tricks?”

  “Prosperin’ quite nicely,” Peter told him, with a wink and a nod over Clotworthy Chute’s chosen profession, that of a charming “Captain Sharp” who specialised at separating new-come heirs and aspiring “chaw-bacons” from some of their money by playi
ng the knowing guide to every pleasure and absolute necessity of life in London, sharing a very pretty penny with all the tailors, hatmakers, renting agents, and furniture and art dealers to whom he steered the gullible. “Of late, the lad’s gone honest… sort of. Artworks, statuary, furnishings, and the sort of classical tripe people used to bring back from their Grand Tours of the Continent.” That stunning news was delivered with another wink and a nod. “Have you the time, you should see his new shop.”

  “Bronze Greek or Roman statues made a thousand years old in one week in a salt-water bath, hey? I saw him pull that off in Venice! He has a genuine talent, and a damned fine eye for the real article, I’ll give him that,” Lewrie said with a laugh. “If I don’t see him before I leave, give him my very best regards.”

  “Oh, I shall. So. If you haven’t been dined out on your newest baubles,” Rushton said, pointing at the star on Lewrie’s coat, “yet, I mean t’say… we should dine together, tonight. My treat.”

  “That’d be grand, Peter, but I’m promised,” Lewrie had to tell him.

  “Not with your father,” Rushton said with a shiver.