The King's Commission

by Dewey Lambdin

  Somewhere in that mob, Lucy could be found, and Alan felt his pulse quicken at the thought of seeing her again. He looked for the densest clutch of young men; Lucy would be sure to be in the center of them, flirting madly, if Alan knew his average young tit.

  The wind picked up briefly, and a gust played with the tail of his long uniform coat. A black servant in cloth-of-silver and silk livery offered him a tray that bore delicate flutes of champagne, trying to balance the tray and keep his fresh-powdered white tiewig from scudding somewhere off to leeward at the same time.

  It would rain soon, Alan knew, a heavy tropical downpour fit to run all these revelers indoors, but not a threatening storm. If there had been any ominous signs to the weather, Lilycrop would have pulled his pug-nose and not allowed him ashore, invitation or not. But Lilycrop had had his own run ashore, and had come back aboard in the “early-earlies,” breeches half buttoned, with what appeared to be rouge or paste on the fly, and most cordially “in the barrel,” so he could not deny his first lieutenant his chance.

  Alan took a sip of champagne—it was a suspiciously good vintage from France, a nation with which they were at war, and he smiled wryly as he imagined what under-handed practice had brought the wine to this occasion. He stepped out into the crowd, bowing slightly to people now and again if he caught their eyes, or they took notice of him, a cordial smile plastered on his phyz.

  Aha, he thought, hearing a small shriek of laughter from the left, near a span of side-tables loaded down with delicacies and drink.

  “Young Lewrie!” a voice boomed, interrupting his progress in that direction. Alan turned to see Mister Beauman. If anything, his host (and hopefully, prospective father-in-law) had gotten even stouter, and his taste in clothing had not improved much. It had been a sweltering spring day, and still felt clammy despite the cooling breeze from so much rain due soon, but he was tricked out in a massive older wig awash in side-curls down past his ears, which gave off puffs of flour every time the wind came up. His coat and breeches were white satin, and he wore a sleeved, older style waist-coat of pale yellow silk heavily embroidered with vines and flowers. How he kept from melting away, Alan could not ascertain.

  “Mister Beauman, sir,” Alan replied, as though he was the very person for whom he had been searching. “How grand to see you once more. May I express my heartfelt thanks for your kind invitation!”

  “Don’t ye look a sight, sir!” Beauman whooped. “Bless my eyes, a commission officer! Give ye joy, me lad.”

  “And to you, sir.”

  “Heard ye’d made lieutenant. Hard service in Virginia? Damn all Frogs.” Beauman rumbled on, snatching another glass of claret from a passing tray. “Still, skinned the bastards, hey?”

  “Indeed we did, sir,” Alan agreed.

  “Saved Jamaica,” Beauman pronounced between slurps. “Took part in it, did ye? Grand sight, and all that?”

  “No, sir. Shrike was up north patrolling between the Bahamas and the Virgins when …”

  “Oh, too bad,” Beauman interrupted. “Not your fault, I expect.”

  Alan wondered once more if the man had ever completed a full sentence instead of lopping them down to the pith. The Beaumans, except for their dear Lucy, were “country” types, shootin’, huntin’, dog-lovin’, tenant tramplin’, slave-bashin’ Squires with more money than ton, and Alan felt a twinge at the thought of having to spend more than a day in their presence if he were fortunate enough to wed their daughter. He vowed he’d live in London and let them pursue their own amusements, preferably as far away as possible, as long as possible. Had it not been for their money, he’d have sneered at them for being such a pack of “Country-Harrys” and “Chaw-Bacons.”

  “Come meet the missus, Lewrie,” Beauman ordered, turning his back and leading off through his guests, and Alan had no choice but to take station on Beauman’s ample stern-quarters and follow.

  “So this is young Mister Lewrie of which we’ve heard so much,” Mrs. Beauman exclaimed after they had exchanged greetings.

  Mrs. Beauman was the source of Lucy’s beauty, Alan saw, fair and petite, a bit gone to plumpness, but still a fine figure of a woman in spite of her age. Her choice of attire was much better than her husband’s, as well, though a bit old-fashioned. Hugh, the eldest son, was a younger replica of the father, hardhanded and hard-eyed as he finally met the upstart suitor for his sister’s hand; the welcome from him was a chary one. The younger son resembled Lucy in his short stature and fair complexion, a bit of a dandy-prat in grey and maroon shot-silk coat and breeches, exaggerated sleeve cuffs and coat tails, and blue leather shoes with red heels trimmed in gold.

  “Alan Lewrie, haw haw,” he offered. “Ain’t you the fortunate buck! Escapin’ Yorktown and all, what?”

  “Cut his way out!” Beauman, Sr., boasted. “Through fire and steel! My youngest boy, Ledyard, Lewrie.”

  “Delighted,” Alan replied, offering his hand.

  “Y’re servant, sir, haw haw!” Ledyard rejoined inanely.

  There was a middle daughter named Floss, bearer of the worst traits from the father’s side of the union, ill-favored and swarthy; but her husband seemed happy enough, perhaps mollified by her father’s gold. Master Hugh Beauman was married as well, to a rather good-looking young piece who evidently had realized it was impossible to get a word in edgewise in such a family, and had stopped trying. Anne gave him a sympathetic shrug, and a bit of a wink that in other circumstances would have had Alan scheming for a space of time alone with her.

  There followed some rather uncomfortable minutes of chitchat, with Alan the unwitting victim for not knowing any of the people or events they referred to, a common fault in people full of themselves. And Alan should have known about that, from monopolizing past conversations, but it was a wrench to be on the receiving end. There was no chance to break away and go searching for Lucy, the prime object of his trip ashore.

  “Think it’ll rain?” Mistress Anne asked him as the tops of the trees began to sway, and the sky turned gloomier.

  “I would not doubt it at all, ma’am,” Alan replied.

  “Then we must see to getting the side-boards indoors before it begins. And I see you are out of wine, sir,” she offered.

  “Ah, yes I am,” Alan noted. “May I escort you, ma’am?”

  “I would be deeply obliged, sir.”

  Alan bowed his way out of the family circle and offered his arm to walk the fetching Anne Beauman towards the buffets.

  “Daunting, ain’t they?” she smirked once they were out of earshot.

  “Daunting is a good description, ma’am,” Alan smiled back.

  “And I doubt you’d care to spend the rest of the evening with them, when Mistress Lucy is the reason for your visit?” Anne rejoined.

  “I had hoped,” Alan agreed, waving the servant with the askew wig over to service them with a tray of wine. He traded their glasses in for two fresh flutes of champagne and offered her one.

  “We have heard much of you, Mister Lewrie,” Anne continued. “From Lucy’s description, and from your letters—those portions which Lucy thought relevant to relate to us—I would have expected someone much older. More … weathered.”

  “As my captain says, ma’am, I’ve only been in the Navy little more than a dog-watch.”

  “Dueling for Lucy’s honor, saving a ship and her distinguished passengers, escaping Yorktown …” Anne raised an eyebrow in appreciation. “You have led an active life. And now you wish to enamor yourself to the Beaumans?”

  Damn the bitch, Alan thought. I didn’t come here to be mocked by some parvenu.

  “Lucy and I developed a great fondness for each other last year on Antigua, ma’am. Her father allows me to call, but as for …”

  “Don’t call me ma’am, Mister Lewrie,” Anne assured him with a touch of her hand on his sleeve. “I am Anne, and you are Alan. With luck, we shall be related, so why not start out on your best foot? A bit of advice?”

  “Thank you.” />
  “Don’t take them seriously. If you do they will infuriate you beyond all reason.” Anne frowned. “Hugh is a good enough man, the best of the lot in many ways, but in better circles they can appear a bit crude. A little too rustic and earthy.”

  “It is hardly my place to judge yet, Anne. I’m sure Lucy has many admirers, and as for my hopes—well, we shall see.”

  “How romantic!” Anne gushed, with just a tinge of sarcasm.

  “To hang the larger issues and let love dictate your desires. You are a paragon, Alan. Always pay attention to the family. Daughters turn out remarkably like their mothers, and sons become their fathers, in most instances.”

  “You sound disappointed,” Alan said, cocking his head to one side to study her more closely. Yes, there was definitely a come-hither glint to her beauty; long dark hair and dark eyes, skin more olive or tinted by the sun than was fashionable. A wide mouth, high cheeks and a face that tapered to perfection, spoiled only by a few small-pox scars, but altogether a damned handsome woman near his age.

  “Walk with me,” she insisted. “I shall lead you to your Lucy.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Island society, as you may know, is not what one would choose if given the choice of a Paris salon or a London drum,” Anne told him, her hand resting maddeningly on his left sleeve, her fingers prying at the broadcloth gently. “There is a difference between hiring servants, and owning them outright. It makes for a callousness. Wield the whip often enough and flayed flesh becomes commonplace. The same goes for emotions, for souls. And the civilizing influence of literature, of music and manners is only a thin veneer. Thinner here in the islands than at home.”

  “I stand warned that they are all brutes and ogres,” Alan quipped.

  “They have their charms, even so,” Anne replied with a small shrug. “And they are hardly that bad. I apologize for being gloomy.”

  “And you are not from the islands originally, I take it?”

  “No. My father was secretary to the Governor-General, and we came out here in ’72, before the war,” she told him. “The lure of sugar planting got him, and we stayed. Hugh and I have been married for four years now. We have two fine children. I am quite content.”

  The hell you are! Alan thought. That’s about as broad a hint as I’ve heard in six months. She’s bored beyond tears.

  “As I hope to be, Anne,” Alan told her.

  “Ah, here’s your Lucy,” Anne said, pointing out a group of young men in high finery almost eclipsing the figure of a young girl with blonde hair. “Such a darling girl.”

  “Amen to that,” Alan agreed heartily.

  “Lucy?” Anne called. “Look who’s here.”

  Lucy peeked from the crowd, gave a small gasp, fanned herself, and stepped through to rush to his side.

  God Almighty! he thought as he took her in. How could she have gotten prettier?

  Lucy Beauman’s bright aquamarine eyes lit up, her lips parted in a fond smile, showing her perfect little white teeth. Gloved hands touched his arms, there was a whiff of some maddening scent as they stood gazing at each other. He noted her high-piled hair, so delectably honey-blonde, the perfection of her neck, her shoulders, the white and pink and maroon gown she wore daringly off the shoulders (the proud swell of her breasts against the gown even more bountiful than formerly); he took in how petite and lovely her figure was, how round and inviting her arms were.

  “Lucy,” he breathed, all other sights gone from his ken.

  “Oh, you are here!” she sighed, like to faint, her lips trembling. “I shall die of happiness, surely.”

  Much as he wanted to crush her to him, he had to stand back and hold hands with her, his own hands trembling with emotion. Money be damned, she was so beautiful, so much more beautiful than he even remembered, that he would have carried her off that moment if she didn’t have two ha’pennies to rub together.

  “You look so grand as a lieutenant,” she admired. “The uniform suits you so well!”

  “And your gown is delightful,” Alan complimented in return. “But no gown could hold a candle to your beauty, Lucy.”

  “You are such a rogue, Alan,” she gushed, blushing prettily but mightily pleased that he took the time to notice. “Oh, I have missed you so much!”

  “And I you.”

  “You must come and meet father,” she told him.

  “I already have. I would have been at your side long before, but I was intercepted. Father, mother, Hugh, Ledyard, Floss …”

  “Oh, good then. And you have met Anne as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is such a dear. Oh, I fear I am neglecting the other guests, the gentlemen who …”

  “Damn their blood, I say,” Alan growled.

  “Alan!” she whispered, pretending to be shocked, with a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of her miffed admirers.

  “I haven’t seen you in almost a year,” Alan insisted, leading her further away from the disgruntled pack of suitors towards the back of the garden, where there looked to be a bit more privacy. “Why would I wish to make acquaintance of your other worshipers?”

  “You are so forward!” she protested, but not very much.

  “Forgive my eagerness, but it has been a long time.”

  “Of course, I forgive you, Alan. And you would never do anything to cause undue comment.” She acquiesced, matching him stride for stride. “Oh, do tell me everything. Your last letter said you had left that ship Desperate, and had made lieutenant. And you were in a new vessel, the name escapes me?”

  “Shrike, a brig o’war. I am first officer.”

  “You captain your own ship?” she gaped. “Already?”

  “Uh, no” he had to admit. “The captain is a Lieutenant Lilycrop, but I am next in command, his first officer, you see.”

  “Oh, but that is marvelous for you.” She beamed. “Now you are no longer a midshipman. And you have an annuity. And your grandmother’s inheritance. Oh, Alan, I could never have dreamed things would turn out this way. Dad can have no objections now. And do they pay you?”

  “I’d hardly do it for fun, now, would I?” Alan teased. They reached a wall of lush tropical plantings, heavy with flowers and thick with bouquet. There was a narrow path that led under and through the thicket, and Alan grinned at her as he cocked his head in that direction. Lucy met his eyes and grinned mischievously in reply. They were just about to step through for some real seclusion, when the rain that had been threatening began to spatter on the lawn and the leaves.

  “Oh, my gown!” Lucy wailed. She stood up on tiptoe to kiss him briefly on the lips, then tugged him into a dash for the house as the rest of the guests ran for cover as well, and the servants gathered up what they could before the storm ruined furniture and tablecloths.

  They made it to the porch, where Lucy bewailed the state of her dress and her hair, sure she had been disfigured by the raindrops; and from the sound of it, was sure the condition was permanent.

  “I must go change,” she told him as he mopped his hair and face with a pocket kerchief. “I hope my maid may be able to salvage it.”

  “Hardly spotted,” Alan pointed out as the rain gusted and blew in on the porch, swirling in the late afternoon light on the yard and the steps and railings. “It’ll be fine.”

  “Just like a man to think so!” she snorted back, tossing her head as though her hair was still down in a more casual style. “Now you entertain yourself for a few minutes while I go change into something dry. But do not be too entertained. There are quite a few other young women here, and I should not like to see you being too charming.”

  “You have nothing to fear, Lucy, I swear.” He told her with all innocence. She smiled once more, looked about to see if anyone was watching, and pecked him on the cheek. He kissed her hand, and she blushed again, before darting off, calling for her maid-servant.

  Damme, what a lovely little minx! he crowed in silent congratulation at his good fortune j
ust to know her, and to know that she was so fond of him. Ain’t she fine, just! Lord, she’s so perfect, so beddable, and admirers be damned, she’s as good as mine. This time there’ll be nothing to tear us apart. And if she don’t fetch five thousand pounds for her portion, I’m a Turk in a turban!

  There was a lot of fetching of towels, a lot of shaking of powdered wigs that left a slurry of wet flour on the terrace tiles as the other guests tended to their ruined finery, though no one looked particularly wet to Alan’s viewpoint. Let ’em stand on a quarterdeck with me in a gale of wind, and I’ll give ’em “wet”! he thought with a touch of contempt for lubberly civilians.

  Lucy Beauman’s conception of “a few minutes” was obviously not everyone’s; the time passed slowly, forcing him to check his pocket watch to see how long she was taking to change. Alan occupied himself with a couple more glasses of champagne.

  “Mister Lewrie?” A familiar, throaty voice spun him about.

  “Ah,” Alan managed to say, “Mrs. Hillwood?”

  “I am so gratified you recall me,” the older woman said. She was still lovely, in her lanky fashion, a bit less smooth complexioned than he remembered from nearly two years before, when they had met at a supper-dance at Sir Richard Slade’s. He had gone to her house the next day, after debauching himself to the wee hours with … whatever the little chick-a-biddy’s name had been (it had been that sort of a party) … and Mrs. Hillwood had damned near killed him with kindness. If it hadn’t been for her penchant for neat gin, which had put out her lights and let him dress and escape, she might have put him under for good.

  “How delighted to see you once more, Mrs. Hillwood,” he told her. “You are looking marvelous, as always.”

  “You are too kind, young sir. But what is this? You have made lieutenant. Still in that despatch boat?”

  “No, ma’am. I left Parrot soon after docking at Antigua.”

  “And how is that young scamp we knew,” she simpered, laying heavy stress on “knew,” since she had “known” both Thad Purnell and Alan Lewrie, in successive evenings. “Thomas? No, Thaddeus.”