“Now that would be boring,” Alan scoffed. While in his delirium, he had turned eighteen, and Lucy was sixteen. While such a fantasy was nice, that meant she would remain a feckless child forever, and instead of a good romp in the bushes she would most likely want to stroll hand in hand and get orange juice on her bodice from all that damned fruit!
“It would not,” she said. “There would be music and books, and interesting people to talk to. Perhaps even someone such as your Mrs. Hillwood?”
“What?” He spun to face her, feeling faintish.
“One raves during a fever … just imagine what I heard you say,” Lucy coyly teased.
He followed her up the beach as she twirled and skipped ahead of him, teasing him on. “So what did I say?”
“Lots of silly things,” she replied, seeming cross. “Hateful things. I believe you really must be a very bad person inside, to have done so many sinful acts so young.”
God, I hate perceptive women, he thought. “Where did you hear all this, Lucy?”
“You were raving, I told you. I heard you when we washed you.”
“Andromeda told you, didn’t she?” he scoffed.
“She did not!”
“Your good aunt wouldn’t let a little girl like you see me naked. They keep people like you under toadstools until they’re grown—”
“I am not a little girl, Alan Lewrie…”
“I doubt if they let you even come to balls, yet,” he went on. “Most likely you listen from the top of the stairs, with your nurse.”
She dropped the parasol to her side and stepped up to him. She flung her arms around him and kissed him most expertly, raising the sunshade to screen their activities from Old Isaac up the beach.
Damme, they train ’em right in the Indies, Alan told himself, taking her into a close embrace that brushed his groin against the front of her thin gown. There were no underpinnings or petticoats to soften the impact of a trembling young body against his, and his newly restored power to be excited made him positively ache with sudden want.
“Did Mrs. Hillwood kiss you like that?” she whispered, stepping back from him. Her bright blue eyes were twinkling.
“Often,” he said honestly, rattled badly.
She flung herself on him again for another long and passionate kiss, arms twined about his neck possessively.
“Did she kiss you like that?” Once more she broke away as he dropped a hand to a firm buttock.
“No, not exactly,” he said, feeling weak.
“And no one else ever shall.” She squeezed his hand and began to stride back up the beach toward Old Isaac, leaving him standing as though he had just been struck with a quarterstaff.
“Holy Christ,” he whispered, watching her walk away, so fully pleased with herself. With a groan he turned to the surf and flung himself into it once more, his clothes barely dry from his last immersion. He bobbed and ducked until he could walk erect without getting the old man suspicious, then made his way down the beach.
Old Isaac had a cloth spread in the shade. His shirt was there, and a towel that he used to dry himself and remove some of the sand that had stuck to his feet and legs. Isaac reached into his leather bag and pulled out an orange, which he bit like a horse with strong yellow teeth. He spat out the plug and began to suck. Lewrie helped himself to a pewter mug of cold tea, watching Lucy prowl the sand farther up the beach in search of shells.
“You gettin’ bettah, sah,” Old Isaac said softly.
“What’s that to you?”
“Maybe ’bout time you go back to sea, sah,” Old Isaac said, turning to look at him.
“And that is what you shall tell Sir Onsley and Lady Maude?”
“Ah doan tell nobody nothin, sah. But it be time.”
He’s right, Lewrie nodded in silent agreement; if I lay a hand on her, there goes all that good influence, and my good name hereabouts. Only way I could have her is to marry her. God, what a thought!
“If I stay any longer, I hurt her, right?”
“Not for me tah say, sah.”
“I hope it will not please you too much if I agree with you, you ugly old fart.” Lewrie smiled as he said it.
Old Isaac gave him a toothy grin, nodded and went back to eating his fruit.
* * *
Admiral Matthews dined with them that evening, free for once of his flagship and her responsibilities, though Alan wondered what he did that was so important that would not require Glatton to be at sea. Once the cloth had been removed, and the ladies had withdrawn, Sir Onsley waved Lewrie down to join him by the port bottle.
“As I remarked earlier, you have recovered well, Mister Lewrie.”
“Thank you, Sir Onsley. I feel very able to join a ship. And I cannot with good conscience prevail on Lady Maude’s hospitality any longer,” Lewrie declared.
“Yes,” Sir Onsley said, eyeing him. “One can only stand to be mothered and fussed over so long before one begins to feel like a lapdog. The surgeon suggests light duties for a spell. How would you like to serve ashore for a while?”
“While I would dearly love a sea berth, Sir Onsley, I would of course be happy to serve in any capacity, and be grateful to be alive to do so,” Alan toadied—right well, he thought.
“Hmm, yes, I expect you would be. I could take you into Glatton … but I see that you do not wish to idle in a harbor when you could be more use at sea, perhaps.”
“I am good with small arms, and artillery, Sir Onsley.”
“That is very true,” Sir Onsley said, reaching for the port. He poured himself a full bumper, and topped Alan’s glass as well. “I shall be going back to English Harbor before dawn. Have your chest packed and ready and we’ll find you something to keep you busy.”
“Thank you, Sir Onsley. I am pleased you would find me useful.”
“You can handle a boat? Ride? Know something about stores?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Excellent,” Sir Onsley said with a firm nod. “Well, heel taps, and then I’m for bed. I shall leave word for you to be wakened.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
* * *
For the next month, Alan was busy, up at dawn and out on the roads on a strong little mare, carrying messages and orders from the flag to the dockyard, to the batteries and the other military encampments on the island. And when not in the saddle he was given charge of a finely trimmed and manned rowing boat.
His launch visited each ship in harbor as it arrived, went aboard just before departure with last-minute orders, plied between flag and the dock. He was seconded to the dockyard superintendent as well, and got ink stains on his hands from inventories, from supervising working parties, from visiting warships due supplies to see that they got what was authorized and no more.
Frankly, he looked on it as loathsome quill-pushing, but he did what he was told since it gave him a certain freedom. He berthed on old Ariadne once more, now full of arriving or transient officers and men, and since he knew the island better than the arrivals he turned into an evening guide to the better entertainments, confirming once more his belief that he would make a topping pimp. It continually amazed him how little Warrant and Commission Officers much older than he did not know about women, and how to get them.
There was also a certain delight to be taken in being the Voice of Authority. He was one of Admiral Matthews’ bearers of bad tidings and glad tidings. Even if it was proxy power, it was power. Lordly post, captains tensed up when he was piped through the entry port, especially if they had been remiss in their duties. Lieutenants tried to milk him for information almost from the moment he headed aft, and he enjoyed dropping the most obtuse hints for them to ponder while withholding the true import of the messages he carried in enigmatic silence, going about his duties in a splendid new uniform with the supercilious air of a flag lieutenant.
But after about a month it all began to pale. There was no chance for him to make any profits from the lucrative trade in naval stores such as the dockyard pe
ople reaped in bribes and graft. He could not visit the deck of some seedily maintained and poorly run warship with her round-shot rusty and her rigging hanging in untidy bights, without wishing to jump in and start kicking a bosun’s mate’s arse, or giving the quartergunners hell for neglecting their guns. He could not go aboard a smartly run ship just in with prizes, full of tales of derring-do, without envying the shabby but competent demeanor of her midshipmen, who looked upon him as a toy grenadier painted up like a tart.
There was no future ashore for an ambitious, somewhat competent and resourceful fellow such as he, and he was being rubbed up against the fact like a puppy in his piddle.
He went for long rides, until the little mare would breathe as hard as one of those steam machines he had heard about, and his legs ached and grumbled. He continued to practice swordsmanship every time he had free until an old naval cutlass could be swung about like a toy sword and his new hanger did indeed feel light as a feather.
He taught the intricacies of gambling at cards to other midshipmen with a steady income from home, increased his purse. He found himself a doxy in town and paid for her room and his frequent visits, warning her that if he got the pox from her he would have her nose off before the disease did, and was about three-quarters sure that she did not entertain others when he was gone, which was about as good as could be expected from a bawd.
He was not exactly bored. But he was not exactly happy, either.
The crowning humiliation of being a shore sailor, no greater than a whip jack, was when Lady Maude decided to sponsor a ball and dinner.
Alan was loaned by Sir Onsley to be her clerk and had to suffer the twittering idiocy of Lady Maude and the other naval wives as he did up their shopping lists, their dinner plans, their music choices, and then issue the invitations, copying the same words over and over again in his best round hand. No midshipmen could be spared from the flagship or the dockyard for that duty—it was all his, since he was no loss to the demands of the Navy.
Lucy was there in the background, ignoring him for departing like a thief in the night without so much as a farewell note. Which made it much more pleasant to get away once the invitations were finished and go galloping or rowing to deliver them. The only sop to his feelings was that he was at least invited to attend.
* * *
He was tricked out perfectly in his best new blue coat, snow white shirt and waistcoat and breeches that had never known tar or slush, fine silk stockings and new gold-plated buckles on his well-blacked shoes. He might be a low addition to the ball but he thought he glittered properly. Very few other midshipmen had been invited, except for those that could sport “The Honourable” before their names. In the mob of lieutenants, commanders, captains and a commodore or two, civilians took him for some sort of staff person, which was good for his ego; or a servant, which was not.
Admiralty House atop the hill was a sea of candlelight, a rich amber aura most flattering to all, especially the women. The men in their floured wigs looked bronzed as golden oak from the sun, even if half of them spent their lives in counting-houses.
Alan strolled about, sipping at a cold hock. There was still plenty of Greenland ice down in the storm-cellars packed in chaff and straw to last the summer. His hosts had even been so profligate with it as to float large blocks in the punchbowls.
He could see Lucy, the center of attention from a host of young admirers, and some not so young. There was even a pop-eyed commander with the face of a frog off a Sloop of War courting her. Lewrie had to admit that she looked luscious. Instead of her own hair she wore a high-piled white wig, a reddish gold satin gown faced with a pale yellow filigreed and embroidered silk undergown, making her seem older.
“Devilish-fine looking young thing,” Keith Ashburn said at his side. Lewrie turned to him. “Hallo, Alan, how do you keep?”
“Main well, considering … yes, yes, she is.”
“Must have been a trial to be around her, knowing you, even if you did have the Yellow Jack.”
“That’s why they ran me off. Thought I was looking a tad too robust to be near such a sweet young tit.”
“Ever try to get into her mutton? Sorry.”
“No, I didn’t,” Alan glowered, irked that he, of all people, would speak of her so casually.
“My apologies. But you wouldn’t mind if I danced with her?”
“Not at all.” Alan shrugged as though it made no difference to him, but was suddenly queasy with jealousy at the thought of someone else paying court to her, or discussing her like cheap merchandise.
He knew there was no future in it for his career, and knew that her sort of affection would involve marriage. What’s more, he knew she was being ravishing to her circle of courtiers to get back at him, just as she had snubbed him earlier, and that his best course of action was to ignore her and spark someone else for the evening so he would not appear to her to be a foolish cully over a chit of a girl. But he found himself drifting nearer, as though drawn into a maelstrom.
“I throw myself on your mercy, Miss Beauman,” Ashburn was pleading in mock seriousness. “Allow me just the one dance this evening.”
“For such gallantry, Mister Ashburn, I shall make it two.” She laughed lightly. “Have you met Lieutenant Warner of the Dido frigate? Commander Ozzard of Vixen? Lieutenant Wyndham of the 12th Foot? Lieutenant Ashburn of Glatton … and Midshipman Lewrie of my uncle’s staff?” she concluded, dismissively.
He was drawn into the conversational circle against his will, having stood close enough to Keith to look as if he was with him, and had to suffer the looks of the Commission Officers at his affrontery to poach on their private preserve. But when she needed a fresh cup of punch it was Alan that she drew to her and linked arms with to escort her to the buffets, leaving the others fuming.
“Is it not a beautiful evening for a party, Alan?” she asked as he fetched a fresh cup for her. “It’s so exciting…”
“Indeed. Everything is lovely,” he agreed with a smile.
“And does my new gown please you?”
“I believe that you are the most beautiful young lady present. The gown is magnificent, as you are.”
“Why, thank you indeed, Alan,” she said, seeming really pleased. “I should not expect such a pretty compliment from someone who would toss me aside so easily.”
“Your uncle, and the Service, required me to leave.”
“But without a word, not a note, not even a hint…”
“As I said—”
“You can dissemble so well, Alan,” she told him sweetly. “Was I not desirable enough to tempt you to stay?”
“How tempting you were was the prime reason I had to leave. Do you think Sir Onsley and Lady Maude, Old Isaac, or those other servants who came from Jamaica with you would allow me to pay court to you without your family’s approval? I have more respect for you than to do anything to harm your good name,” he most courtly lied.
“While Mrs. Hillwood, and that gorgeous Lady Cantner have no good name to lose?” the coy minx posed.
“What do you think I should have done, sneak into your room to bid you goodbye?” he asked, half in jest.
“Not at all!” But he had half an idea that she might have entertained just such a fantasy. “You could, however, have considered my feelings at your lack of manners.”
“I shall in future. I should also wish to ask for a dance or two, if you are not too promised already.”
“Ah, Alan…” she said with a wistful adoring smile. “You are so … of course I shall dance with you. In fact, I would be most cross with you if we did not. I might remind you that I shall soon be seventeen, not such a little girl to you.”
“Believe me, I have noticed your maturing.”
“I shall not always be a gawky girl, and you shall not always be interested in trivial…” She turned away from him to avoid him seeing her distress.
“I am very fond of you as well, Lucy.”
“You shall be a post-captain,” sh
e said proudly. “Perhaps even knighted for some act of great bravery.” She turned to him and smoothed a lapel for him. “But perhaps when you become a lieutenant…”
“And the war is over,” he added, almost piss-proud at what he was hearing from her.
“Pray God it is soon,” she agreed hotly. He took her gloved hand and brushed her fingers with his lips.
My God, she loves me! he thought wildly. Now there’s a new thing. There’ve been trulls enough glad to see my shillings, but here’s an admiral’s niece as good as saying she wants to marry me!
Not that he was that anxious to marry, but she had the best prospects he had seen since leaving London. Nor was he anxious for the war to end, for how else could he earn prize money, make more of a name for himself, gain that commission that would assure his future? And there were a hundred obstacles in the way; she was a girl, therefore fickle in her affections. Her father could go barking mad at the thought, and most likely had a better-suited young man of her own set in mind already, and it was never up to the girl to choose.
Oh, fond daddys might indulge the whims of a favorite daughter, but if a better match was in the offing in land, entitlements, opportunity for mutual profit or (fond parents’ hope of hopes) a link to the peerage, then a salty young swain could go sing for his supper.
I’m being led by my prick, he realized, but also noted that love had to start somewhere, and she did seem genuinely fond of him. She was sweet and gentle, well-spoken—so much more so than most of the squirearchy chaw-bacons in the Indies—and would make a good wife for him, dowry or no. I really am fond of her, too. But Pray God I get a ship soon. She can wait, as I shall have to …
They browsed the buffets, nibbling at the rich and spicy tit-bits proferred. He could not monopolize her and did not try. She was young and delighted with all the attention she was receiving from even the oldest male guests.
She was seated about midway down the long table at dinner with the middle-ranking folk while Alan was once more down far below. He shared table with a silly blond, chicken-breasted noddy whose sole social skill seemed to be stuttering “how fascinating” whenever anyone else paused for comment. There was a dark girl named Aemilia, daughter of a pair of Country Harrys who peered about the available men with the eyes of hungry ferrets for a suitable match. Had she been by herself, and was he not almost-but-not-quite pledged to Lucy, Alan would have been fascinated by her, for Aemilia was a sleepy young brunette with a chest like a pouter pigeon that put him in mind of a younger edition of Lady Delia Cantner. She was a bit crude for his taste, though, a hearty Midlands girl with a Mumbletonian accent.
The King's Coat Page 27