Young girls of her status in the peerage, young girls from the squirearchy or the newly-risen middling class, all properly schooled in music, manners, dancing, and “womanly attainments,” paraded at the many events… it had been the prettiest who had found success, and young men’s approval. Her dowry had been ?500, a goodly sum to go under some young gentleman’s “coverture,” yet… it had been the pretty, the ravishing, the cute, who’d shone at all the drums, routs, supper parties, the operas, symphonies, and subscription balls, whilst her own luck had been lacklustre.
Lydia had refused to try again at nineteen or twenty, preferring their country estate and her horsewomanship.
At twenty-one, she’d been dragged back to London, this time with ?2,000, and the change had been remarkable, and to her, sickening. That Season it had been the young beauties who had been ignored, whilst Lydia had been inundated in invitations and flatteries. Disgusted with the grasping hypocrisy, she’d treated the young beaus quite badly, but… no matter how arch and insulting, how flippant or scornful, she’d treated them, the greediest would abide her, declaring her bold, out-spoken, and intriguingly modern!
Lydia shook herself back to paying attention, squirming again at those memories; Percy was still blathering on about something.
“… then break the journey at Shooter’s Hill. Take a basket of goodies and dine al fresco atop it, hey?” he suggested, quite wistfully. “I swear, the sweetest, cleanest air ever did I breathe was at the top of Shooter’s Hill. Or, is that on the north bank, near Tilbury and the forts?”
“You’ve your geography wrong, Percy,” Lydia corrected him. “It’s a bit past Greenwich, on the south bank of the Thames… on the road to Chatham, and Sheerness. Why? If you’re not going ’til next week?”
“Well, if you’re so dead-set…”
“I am,” she coolly replied, sugaring and creaming fresh tea.
“First light tomorrow?” He grimaced. “God, I’d have to retire at sunset to get out of bed that early!”
“I am told that diligent soldiers are sometimes required to do so,” Lydia teased.
“Can’t let you gad off so boldly, what’d people say of you, or me for allowing it?” Percy said, shrugging surrender. “Should anything befall you… highwaymen… or worse, well.”
“Percy, do you mean you intend to accompany Captain Lewrie and myself?” she asked, relieved that he would weaken so quickly.
“I s’pose I could, yes,” her brother said, half his attention taken by the spaniel, who found him an easy mark, as well. “We will both go. Perhaps he can tell me more of his sea stories on the way to Sheerness. Begad, do you think they have a decent lodging house?”
“You are the best brother in the world, Percy!” Lydia said as she rose to go to his end of the table and give him a hug, and tousle his long hair.
Well, he had his good points, she thought as she returned to her seat, secretly thrilled. With Percy making three, there could not be any more intimacy, though she wished she could scheme a way. Those few hours over two nights were more pleasurable, pleasing, and passionate than any she had known in her little experience. She could, however, spend a few more days with Lewrie to learn more about him and his life at sea, of which she knew next to nothing; perhaps even be invited to go aboard his ship and see him in his proper milieu. And, stave off the loss of his presence just a bit longer!
Lydia determined to write to Lewrie’s lodgings, informing him of their offer of a more comfortable coach than any he could hire, of which he knew nothing yet… then caution him to take credit for the idea to help Percy find employment for his regiment! It was just as un-seemly to be a clever woman as it was to be a single one!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Lewrie had been delighted by the Stangbournes’ offer, though it made for cramped quarters in their coach. There was Percy’s valet and Lydia’s maid, and Pettus to do for Lewrie, plus two coachmen and a footman, little more than a lad whose sole duty seemed to be tending to the folding steps and the coach doors, and general fetching and toting. It would not do for the maid to ride outside, so one man-servant ended up on the coach roof, like the cheap seats aboard a huge diligence coach, and the luckier two crammed into the outside rear bench above the boot, which bore more luggage than Lewrie’s whole family would need did they dash up to London for their Spring shopping, and spend a week at it!
The sky was clear for their pique-nique atop Shooter’s Hill and it had been pleasantly warm. When Percy was off tramping up to take a gander of the semaphore tower and its method of working, Lydia had given Lewrie a snippet of newspaper.
“In case you haven’t seen this,” she’d whispered, looking away shyly. “I hadn’t thought I would draw unwelcome comment upon you. If you find it embarrassing, then I am sorry I-”
“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie had guffawed, though, to her great relief. “With any luck, people will think it was Captain Blanding! And his wife will give him Hell.”
“You are not…?” Lydia had gasped, with a wide grin.
“Not a bit of it!” Lewrie had assured her. “What Blanding and his brood and his Chaplain think of me doesn’t matter a toss, and if Wilberforce and his lot take me off the ‘champion’ list, then I’ll be spared a parcel of dreadful-boresome suppers!”
His reaction had pleased Lydia greatly, and they’d sat on the quilt close together, hands closer, fingers twining, and both wishing they could embrace and kiss. Her smiles had been lovely and promising, sometimes wistful, sometimes impishly bold, as they’d prated mostly of nothing, wishing that the hovering servants and the enthusiastic Percy could vanish like Will-of-the-Wisps.
They’d found lodgings suitable to their needs at the very same hotel that Lewrie had used long ago when fitting out HMS Proteus for the West Indies, close to the merchant docks and a view of the Little Nore in 1797… the same hotel where Theoni Kavares Connor had stayed, for nigh a week, unfortunately, and did they dine there together, Alan sincerely hoped none of the staff would recall him from that time, and ask of his former mistress (the mother of one of his bastard children) and how she kept!
Then, he hired a boat to bear him out to Reliant. It had been gratifying to be piped aboard not to the usual bare-headed stances of attention from all hands on deck at the moment of arrival, but by the loud cheers and whistles of Reliant’s people as soon as they had seen the sash and star. They had been victorious, they had won it all for him to wear, and a proud reflection upon them and their frigate, as he had told them that instant, before going aft and below.
His cats had been delighted to see him after the short absence, and his cook, Yeovill, had been equally delighted when he had been informed that he would be preparing at least one sumptuous dinner for a Viscount and his sister. The great-cabins, though…
“Scrub and scour, Pettus,” Lewrie had ordered, sniffing at the corners. “The cat’s box especially, fresh sand for the morrow… and the quarter-gallery.”
“Baking soda, sir,” Yeovill had suggested. “A box of it in the sand, sir? Cancels odours, it will. I’ve lots of it, sir.”
“We’ve still some citronella candles, and lamp oil, too, sir,” Pettus had reminded him. “That smells fresh and sweet, it does.”
“Pass word for Desmond and Furfy t’help with the cleaning, and all, Pettus. We’ll start straightaway,” Lewrie had ordered, looking over his modest furnishings and wishing that he could replace or re-furbish half of it overnight. Or, should he, he’d reconsidered. This was how he lived, and-odours aside-this would be what he would show the Stangbournes. He could always explain that the Royal Navy had a dim view of captains who lived too comfortably; bare-bones Spartan was preferred.
He had dined ashore with the Stangbournes, of course, leaving Yeovill even more time to prepare his feast, but had been back aboard just at Four Bells of the Evening Watch to make arrangements for their reception aboard the next day at Noon. Fresh sand and snow-white man-ropes for the entry-port and boarding battens; a bosun’s ch
air to be prepared for Lydia of a certainty, and for Percy, too, if he proved to be clumsy or had a slip; it would never do to drown a peer! Lastly, he had the largest ship’s boat, the cutter, readied for the next morning. Lt. Westcott had suggested it rather than his shorter gig, and had had the cutter scrubbed out and some of its paint touched up, earlier.
It had not rained, though there was a vast awning slung above the quarterdeck lest it did. Lord Percy had managed to scramble up the battens, Lydia had been delighted to be hoisted high over the bulwarks and deposited on the starboard sail-tending gangway, alighting with an un-ladylike whoop of glee! The tour of the ship had gone well, even if belowdecks had still borne a faint reek of too many people crammed in too close, and the smells of salt-meat casks drifting up from the orlop. They’d emerged up forward by the foredeck hatch and steep ladderway, right by the sickbay and forecastle manger, then had strolled aft past the bowsed-up guns to the base of the main-mast and into his great-cabins for a drink before dinner.
“Somehow, I do not picture you, Sir Alan, a fellow of such bellicose nature, having cats as pets,” Lydia had teased him, forced by the circumstances, and the presence of other dinner guests, to fall back upon her initial formality. At that moment she’d had the impetuous Chalky in her lap, arching and trilling to her lace-gloved stroking, and with Toulon standing by her right, paws working on the settee cushions and about to jump and join them.
“Captains live aft, alone, Miss Lydia,” Lewrie had told her, a prisoner to formality, too, in his speech, at least, though his manner was unchanged. “Might dine a couple of people in each night, but for the most part, well… they’re good, amusing company.”
“Even does Chalky like to nip,” Lt. Westcott pointed out with a laugh. “Learned that to my harm.”
“My last captain preferred chickens, ma’am,” Midshipman Rossyngton piped up, turned out in his best. Lewrie had had to invite all his Commission Officers, of course, but only had chairs, or places, for two more guests, and had chosen the two youngest Mids, even though Mister Entwhistle was an “Honourable,” and the youngest son of another peer.
“Hunting dogs, ma’am,” Midshipman Munsell had added shyly. “He was big on hunting, and fetched off half a dozen of his favourites. It was Bedlam.”
“And messy, I’m bound, hey, Mister Munsell?” Lewrie had japed.
“When one of them, ah… on the deck chequer or his carpets, he would call his servant… ‘Smithey… dog, uh… stuff!’ ” Munsell had blurted, catching himself a second too late; but all had been amused.
“Ye don’t get that sort o’ mess, with cats,” Lewrie had said.
“Or, the barking in the wee hours, I’m bound?” Lydia had posed to Munsell, drawing a shy nod of red-faced agreement, pleasing the lad right down to his toes.
Yeovill had out-done himself. There had been a soup he’d called a Spanish treat, served cool to suit the weather, loaded with peas and maize kernels, rice, and pureed tomatoes in a spicy beef broth; Yeovill was very high on rice! Next had come quail (old to Lewrie by then but new to the Stangbournes) with fresh asparagus sprigs drizzled in hollandaise sauce and cheesy hashed potatoes. The fish course had been a medley of mussels and peeled shrimp, with buttery wee brussels sprouts; all served with piping-hot rolls and a cool and light sauvignon blanc. There’d been a mid-meal salad of wilted lettuce, drippy bacon, and vinaigrette. Last had come a small chuck roast with boiled carrots and roasted potato halves, boiled onions, and bottles of bordeaux. And, to top it all off, Yeovill had whipped up another of his lemon custards.
“Your cook’s a bloody wonder, Sir Alan!” Percy had exclaimed towards the end. “I’ve half a mind to hire him away from you. Do you dine this well at sea?” he’d marvelled, shaking his head.
“Don’t force me to out-bid you for his services, milord. And, no, not after the first week when the fresh victuals run out, or go bad,” Lewrie had hooted back. “I fear even good Mister Yeovill has to use his creativity and imagination after a while. Even I will be reduced to salt-meats and our famous weevilly ship’s bisquit!”
By 2 P.M. he’d seen them back ashore for a needful nap, and had returned aboard to tend to ship’s business, and a nap of his own. The Stangbournes would return the favour at their lodgings.
Supper ashore was at half past seven, but Lewrie turned up just at seven, this time in his second-best uniform coat, without the sash and star of his new knighthood, or his medals either.
“Would you care for a stroll before supper, Lydia?” he asked. “The sunset’s rather nice, this evening, and from my more pleasant doings with the French, I’ve discovered that they place great faith in a stroll before eating to sharpen the appetite.”
“Why, thank you, Captain Lewrie, and I should be delighted,” she responded. “Percy, we will only be a quarter-hour, half an hour at the most,” she’d told her brother, who had half-risen from his chair before twigging to what she meant; that the invitation was for two, not three. He’d sunk back with a sly grin.
Outside their inn, the shadows were lengthening, the sunset so grand that though their view to the west was blocked, it extended out eastwards to reflect on the hulls of the many warships in harbour, on the sails hung slack aloft to air them and prevent mildew and rot, and shimmer reddish-golden off the Little and the Great Nore anchorage that was, that evening, at least, at slack water and seemingly still, alive with only mill-pond ripples and stirred by light airs.
Merchant ships lay along the quays by which they strolled, her arm tucked inside his, and their hands linked. Jib-booms and bow-sprits jutted high overhead from some which lay bows-on alongside piers built at right angles from the quays, masts and spars and furled canvas soaring aloft even higher amid their mazes of shrouds and running rigging, silhouetted against the greying dusk. Lading was done for the day, so the bustle of waggons and carts, and the rumble of wheels no longer forced people to shout to converse. The last sea birds were winging overhead, or perched on bollards, some peeping or gulls mewing. A few ships had their taffrail lanthorns and work lanthorns lit, while out in the roads, lights could be made out aboard the anchored ships, and it was all rather peaceful. Faint laughter, some song, and strains of musical instruments could be heard coming from the sailors’ taverns along the dockside street.
“What an odd world you live in, Alan,” Lydia said at last. “The ships, and all these mysterious… whatevers you pointed out to us… sheets and braces, jears, and I don’t know what-all you called them. I expect it would take a lifetime to learn it all.”
“I think I had one week t’learn them, else I was bent over the barrel of a gun and thrashed on my bottom with a stiffened rope starter,” Lewrie cheerfully confessed. “It’s called ‘kissing the gunner’s daughter,’ and I kissed her quite often ’til I got ’em all right. Do ye know, the first time they threatened that, I thought the girl must be a really ‘dirty puzzle’ if they meant it as punishment!”
With just the two of them, at last, Lydia could lean back her head and laugh out loud, then place her right hand on his upper right arm and lean closer to him as they walked slowly along, as if trying to snuggle. They shared fond smiles, which Lewrie found himself wishing could go on far longer.
“You’ve changed coats,” she noted. “This is not as fine.”
“And once we sail, my everyday coat is even sorrier,” he said. “The good one, then this’un, will go deep in a sea-chest, along with the star and sash. No call for ’em at sea, unless some admiral dines me aboard his flagship.”
“Along with what passed in London?” she rather meekly pressed.
That drew him to a stop so he could turn and face her. “London was a welcome idyll, and a memorable one. I don’t recall all of it, such as the palace and all, but… but I most certainly will remember the best part, your part. Dare I say… our part?”
“God, how I wish to kiss you!” she whispered.
“Then let’s do!” Lewrie urged, putting his arms round her.
“Do I look
like a sailor’s… doxy, do you call them… this way?” Lydia said with a happy, throaty chuckle after she threw her arms round him and shared a long, deep kiss with him.
“It’s a seaport, and I don’t give a damn if you don’t!” Lewrie laughed. “Never a doxy, not you, Lydia… a captain’s lady, is what people will think. And a damned handsome lady, at that.”
“Even one so scandalous?” she teased after kissing him again.
“Oh, bugger that,” he shrugged off. “What’s scandalous about riddin’ yourself of a beast? I’d hope… well.”
“Hope what, Alan,” she purred, looking up at him a bit, her eyes alight.
“That what’s begun would continue… hard as that may be with me at sea,” he confessed, feeling a physical surge of warmth filling his chest. “With Reliant to operate in the Channel at least for the rest of the year, it won’t be months between letters, if you… mean t’say, if I could have your permission t’write, and…”
“Of course I wish you to write me, as often as possible!” she declared. “Just as I swear that I will respond to each, and write to you, even should yours be delayed, or you are too busy. Really, Alan, after what has passed between us, it’s hardly possible to mis-construe me as a spinster-girl whose parents’ permission you must ask, now does it?” She hugged him closer, laughing again. “Though I appreciate the thought, mind,” she wryly added, her smile japing but fond.
“Often as possible,” Lewrie promised as they resumed strolling along, crossing the cobbled street to the wide wooden beams of the seaside quays.
“Tar and salt… the seashore smell,” Lydia mused. “When we went to Brighton for the Summer ocean bathing, I always delighted in its freshness.”
“Quite un-like what a ship smells like,” he japed back. “That reek that greeted you, in spite of all we could do? The manger, our mildew, our wet woolens, our pea-soup farts and sweat? I thought you might heed a scented handkerchief, for a minute or so. The way your nose wrinkled?”
The Invasion Year l-17 Page 24