Ouch! Lewrie thought, striving manful not to wince at the chill.
“Your timing is impeccable, though,” Caroline continued, with a tad of relenting welcome. “Supper will be ready in an hour.”
Desmond and Furfy came bustling in at that awkward moment, hands full of sea-bags and carpet satchels; the waggoner followed with a sea-chest, and the dogs went silly once more.
“Uhm . . . this is my man, Liam Desmond, Caroline . . . children,” Lewrie told them, “My Cox’n since we fought the L’Uranie frigate in the South Atlantic. His mate, Patrick Furfy, who’ll be tending to the horses and such. . . . He’s a way with animals. . . .”
Sure enough, Furfy did, for right after he’d dropped his burden he whistled and clapped his hands, and the two setters trotted to him, tails a’wag, tongues lolling, and their hind-quarters squirming in joy as he cosseted them with soft words, pets, and crooning Irish phrases.
“We’ve a stableman already, husband, so . . . ,” Caroline began.
“Then we’ve another, dear,” Lewrie baldly told her.
“Oh, very well,” Caroline resignedly replied, stiffening a bit. “Mistress Calder, pray show Captain Lewrie’s men to his chambers.”
“Yes, Missuz,” the older mort said, her mouth rat-trapping.
“We’ve the dray to unload, as well,” Lewrie said.
“Then pray do so through the kitchen doors, and do not let any more heat out through the front,” Caroline instructed.
“I’ll pay the coachee and have the waggon shifted,” Lewrie said, hiding a sigh. “Quite a lot of dainties . . . liqueurs, caviar t’stow in the pantry?” he tempted her, hoping for some enthusiasm.
“Mistress Calder will show them where to put things,” Caroline said, turning to head “aft” for the kitchens herself.
“The waggoner’ll stay over for the night,” Lewrie told her.
“I’ll tell cook to lay three more places in the scullery,” she announced, then turned and departed with nary a hug, a kiss, or even a a promise of one.
Petronius had it right, Lewrie sadly thought, recalling another snatch of Latin poetry: “Reproach and Love, all in a moment, For Hercules himself would be a Torment!”
An hour later and it was time for supper. Lewrie had hung his uniforms and civilian suitings in the armoire, stowed his shirts and such in a chest-of-drawers, and had made a fair start on emptying his heavy sea-chest . . . in a guest bed-chamber at the end of the upstairs hall right above his library and office. He’d borne his swords down to that office-library, just in time to witness Mrs. Calder remove the last of the linen covers from wing chairs and settee, and stoke up the fireplace . . . as if in his absence, the only thing used there was the desk and the leather-padded chair behind it, for farm accounting. Desmond followed him in with his weapons; his breech-loading Ferguson rifle-musket, the long-barrelled fusil musket, the rare Girandoni air-powered rifle, twin to the one that had almost killed him at Barataria Bay in Spanish Louisiana, and his boxed pistols.
From the stairs onwards, his children had followed him as close at his heels as Sewallis’s setters, the boys goggling at the firearms and swords. Lewrie hung his French grenadier-pattern hanger above the mantel and stood his hundred-guinea presentation small-sword in a wooden rack, along with five more small-swords of varying worth and quality that he’d captured from the French.
“Ehm . . . are not surrendered swords handed back to the owners?” Sewallis hesitantly asked, tentatively fingering each one.
“They usually are, Sewallis,” Lewrie told him with a grin, “but that’s hard t’do if they’re no longer among the living. That fancy’un there, that was L’Uranie’s captain’s sword, but he was dead by the time we boarded and took her. A couple of them belonged to Frog Lieutenants, who perished, too. None of the French prisoners would be in a position t’take ’em home to their next of kin . . . on parole here in England, or refused, and ended in the hulks, so I kept them. Got the dead men’s names jotted down, and stuck the notes in the scabbards, so I s’pose I could forward ’em t’Paris someday soon. No time for that, not as long as the war was still on. Don’t play with ’em, Hugh. They aren’t toy swords. Neither are any of these fire-locks.”
“Sir Hugo lets us, when he’s down from London,” Hugh objected. “He lets us shoot, for real! And he’s taught us some fencing, too. Said we should take classes from a fencing master.”
“Then we’ll give that Girandoni air-rifle a try, once the holidays are over,” Lewrie promised, taking a welcome seat in a wing chair before the blazing fire, and motioning the boys to sit on the settee. “Mind, it’s not a toy, either, but . . . if my father allows you use of muskets and pistols already, I think we could have some fun with it. It’s very good for silent huntin’.”
Charlotte had trailed him round the house, too, though silent as a dormouse, lugging her lap dog, by name of Dolly, as if restraining the little beast from attacking him. Now she was seated in the wing chair opposite Lewrie’s, legs sticking out and the dog in her lap, so it could glare and bare its teeth in comfort. Three setters—Dear God, how many are there? Lewrie asked himself—were sprawled before the hearth, and his cats were in the room as well. Toulon and Chalky were quite used to “ruling the roost,” furry masters of both great-cabins and quarterdeck, but the big, slobbery setters’ antics and curiosity had driven them to the mantel top—even Toulon, who was not all that agile—where they now lay slit-eyed, tail-tips now and then quivering, and folded into great, hairy plum puddings.
“Uhm . . . how long’ve ye had the pup, Charlotte?” Lewrie asked.
“Last Christmas,” his nine-year-old daughter answered. “Uncle Governour and Aunt Millicent brought her from London.”
“Takes a lot o’ brushin’, I’d imagine,” Lewrie observed askance.
“Oh yes, she likes it so!” Charlotte replied. “Every day!”
“Know why she calls her Dolly, Papa?” Hugh said with a snigger. “ ’Cause she’s ripped all t’other dolls t’shreds, ha ha!”
“Jealousy, is it?” Lewrie japed her.
“Just the one, Hugh! Don’t be beastly!” Charlotte cried, hugging the dog closer. “She doesn’t much care for cats, Papa. Nor do I,” she announced.
“Ehm . . . were you really at Copenhagen, Papa?” Sewallis asked. “And did you see Admiral Nelson?”
“Saw him, spoke with him the night before the battle, and then after it was over, too,” Lewrie answered. “Did I not write you about it? And how they sent us into the Baltic t’scout the enemy fleets and the ice . . . all by our lonesome? Hah! Wait ’til ye see the furs that I had t’ wear! Swaddled up like a Greenland Eskimo!”
“Ahem!” Mrs. Calder said from the door to the library, looking as if she disapproved of parents speaking with children. “Mistress Caroline says to tell you that supper is served. Come, children. Yours is laid out in the little dining room.”
“Aw! We want t’eat with papa,” Hugh griped.
“Yes, why can’t we all eat together?” Sewallis complained. “He just got home!”
“It’s not—” Mrs. Calder began to instruct.
“Aye, it’s high time for a family supper!” Lewrie announced as he sprang from his chair. “Shift their place settings, and there’s an end to it. We’ve catching up t’do, right?”
“Huzzah!” Hugh exclaimed, and even Sewallis, who’d always put Lewrie in mind of a solemn “old soul” due to take Holy Orders, beamed with glee and chimed in his own wishes.
Beats dinin’ alone with Caroline all hollow, Lewrie thought as they trooped out; oh, it has t’happen soon, but for now . . . use ’em as so many rope fenders! She can’t scream an’ throw things at me if the kiddies are present . . . right?
CHAPTER TEN
And thank God it’s Christmas! was Lewrie’s recurring thought as the Yuletide festivities spun on. His brother-in-law, Burgess Chiswick, now Major of a foot regiment, was down from London with his future in-laws and fiancée, the raptourously lovely Theodora Tren
cher, and Mister and Mistress Trencher, her parents, both of whom were solidly well-off and immensely “Respectable” in the new sense; hard-working (prosperous as a result of it), mannerly, high-minded, well-educated, stoutly Christian, involved in “improving” causes, rigidly moral, and more than willing to impose their prim morals on the rest of Great Britain!
Lewrie could have been treated like a pariah by his country in-laws, but for the fact that Uncle Phineas Chiswick, seeing how rich the Trenchers were and being delighted with such a fruitful match, had to grind his false teeth and simper at the black sheep of the family, welcoming Lewrie like a long-lost son! And Governour, his other brother-in-law, now as rotund and red-faced as the lampoonish cartoons of the typical country-bumpkin Squire John Bull, had to plaster a false face and play the “Merry Andrew,” though without guests for the holidays he would have happily shot Lewrie!
It was immensely, secretly amusing to Lewrie to see his uncle by marriage and Governour bite their tongues whenever the Trenchers said anything favourable about Lewrie, for the whole family were enthusiastic supporters of William Wilberforce and belonged to his Society for the Abolition of Slavery in the British Empire; Lewrie was their champion for his “liberation” of a dozen Black slaves on Jamaica years before, making them freemen and British tars, “True Blue Hearts of Oak,” and for his acquittal at trial for the deed.
To rankle those two even further, Burgess was for Abolition, as well, and had always thought Lewrie one Hell of a fellow, an heroic figure and a wry wag to boot.
And what was even saucier to relish from Uncle Phineas’s and Governour’s mute fuming was the fact that Uncle Phineas was still invested in the infamous “Triangle Trade,” and Governour had been raised in the Cape Fear country of North Carolina before the Revolution and felt that chattel slavery was right and proper!
Oh, it was a merry band of revellers they made, for Chiswicks, Trenchers, and Lewries went everywhere together. Did they not dine at Uncle Phineas’s, they were at Governour’s, or Lewrie’s, along with some of the other worthy families of Anglesgreen. Did they not sup at home, there were parish and community suppers, even an invitation to Embleton Hall with Sir Romney (still among the living despite what Lewrie’d feared!) and Harry. And what Harry made of having his rival for Caroline’s hand come for supper, music, and cards, Lewrie could only imagine . . . and savour. Indeed, having Caroline herself over might have galled the fool equally well, for she’d once lashed him with her horse’s reins and made his nose “spout claret”!
There were carolling parties beginning at sundown, coaching from farmhouse to farmhouse; through Anglesgreen’s snowy streets from the Red Swan to St. George’s, and bought suppers in both the Red Swan and the Olde Ploughman, with a round dozen or more to treat at-table. And the hunt club ball, again at Embleton Hall, and the cross-country ride that preceded it!
Mr. Trencher was not quite the skilled rider that his wife and daughter were, but he was dogged at it, and wildly enthusiastic for a steeplechase’s jumps. All in all, the Trenchers fit right in as well as a country rector or vicar, for, despite the initial impression of being very “Respectable,” all delighted at dancing and (Theodora aside) could put away the wines, brandies, and punch like the most affable churchman!
And then, two days before Christmas Day, Lewrie’s father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, coached down from London to open his home, Dun Roman (his own horrid pun!), a large, rambling one-storey bungalow in the Hindoo style, to pour the rum over the plum pudding, as it were . . . and to light it!
On top of all that, Lewrie and his children went riding almost every morning before the day’s planned activities; went shooting with the lighter fusil-musket or the Girandoni air-rifle. They could not hunt, not even over their own lands, for Lewrie was Uncle Phineas’s tenant, not a free-holder, but . . . they could try their eyes at empty bottles and marks whitewashed on a tree. That was great fun for everyone except Charlotte. She insisted on going with her brothers, with her father too one might imagine, but was interested only in the riding part, on her horse-pony, and whenever Lewrie tried to include her, or jest, or merely converse, Charlotte seemed as uninterested as his wife! It was only when Sir Hugo joined their morning rides, with promises of a cauldron of hot cocoa at his place after, that Charlotte opened up and actually essayed a laugh or two! Sir Hugo had done much the same with Sophie de Maubeuge, Lewrie’s orphaned French ward, years before; it was uncanny.
“You should’ve had daughters, too, besides me,” Lewrie told him in a private moment as they rested their mounts after a spirited gait.
“Had one . . . Belinda. Recall? Yer bloody step-sister?” Sir Hugo said with a snicker. “Well, step-daughter, at any rate, and look how that turned out.”
Belinda was still listed in the Guide to Covent Garden Women, a highly recommended, and costly, courtesan.
“You bring Charlotte out of her turtle-shell,” Lewrie said. “I can’t make heads or tails of her moods. The boys, aye, but . . .”
“She’s Caroline’s, body and soul, lad,” Sir Hugo said, “onliest child still at home, and lappin’ up her anger ’bout ye like it was my chocolate. How’s yer happy rencontre with her goin’, anyway?”
“Much like a winter’s day,” Lewrie had to scoff, “short, dark, and dirty. I’m in a guest chamber. We talk . . . of nothing, mostly. Thank God for house-guests and the children, else ye’d be measurin’ me for a coffin. She acts jolly, but that’s only ’cause of the Trenchers and Burgess’s comin’ marriage. Zachariah Twigg did coach down to explain things whilst I was in the Baltic, but there’s no sign she took any of it to heart. Too much to forgive, really. And too American-raised. An English wife of our class’d be more realistic.”
“Don’t lay wagers on that,” Sir Hugo said with a sour cackle. “Women are women, no matter where, or how, they’re raised. She’s sense, though. There’s her place in Society and the children t’consider. Oh, speakin’ of . . . what’d ye get the children for Christmas?”
“What?” Lewrie gawped at the shift of topic. “More slide sets for their magic lantern . . . a new doll for Charlotte . . . assumin’ her bloody dog don’t shred it like the others . . . some French chocolates, now we’re tradin’ again. Bow and arrow sets, toy muskets and pistols, some more lead soldiers and a model frigate . . . and a half-dozen oranges each. Why, what’d you do?” he asked, fearing the worst.
“Well, an open-backed doll house for Charlotte,” Sir Hugo said, looking a touch cutty-eyed, “a castle, really, and for the boys . . . swords.”
“Swords?”
“Small-swords,” Sir Hugo said on. “It’s time for them to learn the gentlemanly art of the salle d’armes, and there’s a skilled man I know from my first regiment, the King’s Own, near their school who can instruct them. Do ye not mind payin’ half his fee, they should be taught . . . Hugh especially, since we both know he’ll most-like end choosin’ either the Navy or the Army for his living.”
“Well, I s’pose . . . ,” Lewrie muttered, seeing the sense of it.
“Started you early, I did, and swordsmanship came in damned useful to you,” Sir Hugo stated. “Hugh shows promise with the sword, and he’s both a decent shot and has a hellish-good seat. He’s spunk, and intelligence—”
“Didn’t get it from me,” Lewrie said with a snort as they both turned to watch all three children in a rare moment of glee, tossing snowballs at each other and running in circles.
“Grant ye that,” Sir Hugo wryly jested. “As I said long ago, I still have connexions at Horse Guards, and could have him an Ensign or Leftenant in an host of good regiments. Or, with your renown, you could get him aboard a warship captained by one of your friends. What Interest and Patronage is all about, after all.”
Fellow captains who like me? Lewrie asked himself; I can count them on the fingers of one hand!
“Another year and he’s twelve,” Sir Hugo further speculated. “More school’d just ruin him—”
“Ruined me!” Lewri
e barked sarcastically.
“And one can’t make General or Admiral if ye start late,” Sir Hugo pointed out. “Something t’think about. Hope ye don’t mind.”
“No, not really. I just worry what Caroline’ll make of it when they open their presents,” Lewrie said. “Perhaps the Army’s best for Hugh. She’s rather a ‘down’ on the Navy, ’cause o’ me, and won’t much care t’see him followin’ in my footsteps. And it don’t look like our Army’s ever going to do all that much overseas, after the shambles we made of it in Holland a while back. Re-take French and Dutch colonies all over again in the Indies, aye, but . . .”
The British Army, in concert with the Russians during a brief alliance, had landed in Holland, but had been muddled about like farts in a trance, had been confronted with regular French troops for the first time, and had been humiliatingly beaten like a rug and run out of the country with their tails ’twixt their legs.
As for re-taking West Indies colonies . . . it was never the risk of battle that could worry Lewrie as a father; it was the sicknesses that had slain fifty thousand British soldiers and officers since 1793. The Indies—East or West—were not called the Fever Isles for nought.
“Gad, ye’ll be chilled t’th’ bone, th’ three of ye!” Sir Hugo shouted to the boys, who had given up on snowballs and had gone for tackling each other and heaping armloads of snow over heads and shoulders, breaking off just long enough to chase Charlotte and make her screech. “Hot cocoa at Dun Roman! Leave off and saddle up!”
And off they went to Sir Hugo’s estate, and his eccentric home with its wide and deep porches all round. It had been a Celtic dun, a hill fort, once in the early-earlys, then a Roman legionary watch-tower, then a tumbledown ruin, which Sir Hugo had incorporated into one corner of his home-site, and partially re-furbished; his folly some called it, like the architectured grottoes some very rich landowners had erected in their gardens, lacking only a hired hermit to make them authentic. Moated, once, outer fosse wall restored, though most stone work blocks had gone to make the foundation of Sir Hugo’s house. The boys found it the very finest play-fort that any lad could wish.
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