“Ah, well,” Lewrie said, only a trifle dis-appointed by that sad fact. “A squadron command, in a two-decker sixty-four will be my fate, is your meaning, Mister Pole? And, soon, I hope. Even with a small entourage here in London with me, finding a suitable apartment, as the French call ’em, is difficult, and it’s not sensible to take a house, when my time ashore ’tween commissions might not be longer than a month or so.”
“Oh, I am certain that some suitable commission worthy of your experience will turn up, Sir Alan,” Pole assured him, but not with any real promise. Or so it seemed to Lewrie; Pole gave him the impression of cutty-eyed shiftiness. “I see that all the certificates and paperwork for the paying off of your ship are in order, settled at the Port Admiral’s offices at Portsmouth? Everything properly accounted for? Ah, good. Nothing for it, then, but for your appointment with the Office of the Cheque to collect your back-pay, and list yourself on half-pay.”
“Not for too long, I trust,” Lewrie replied, trying to be subtle with his hint for immediate employment.
“Well, I think that about covers it, Sir Alan,” Mr. Pole said, rising from behind his desk to bring the interview to an end. “Enjoy your brief time ashore, and the accolades of a grateful and admiring public.”
Damn my eyes, that was quick! Lewrie thought, irked that Pole had not offered more assurance that he would be back at sea anytime soon.
“Thankee for that, Mister Pole,” Lewrie said, instead. “I do intend to visit old friends for as long as I’m allowed. I believe you have my father’s house listed as my current address? Once I find suitable lodgings, I will inform you of the address, to ah … speed the reception of future orders.”
“Once again, Sir Alan, my heartiest congratulations upon your accomplishments, and the thanks of the Royal Navy,” Pole said as he saw Lewrie to the door.
* * *
It took little over an hour to wrangle with the clerks to settle his back-pay to the last farthing, and to list him on the half-pay roll, leaving him with bags of time on his hands, and a note-of-hand which he intended to deposit at Coutts’ Bank, right after his mid-day dinner. He even had time to swing by the Bank of England to make a healthy contribution into the Three Percent Funds, then go home to his father’s house, write a note to his solicitor, Mr. Mountjoy, informing him of his financial doings, and then … what?
Good Christ, I’m really on half-pay! he told himself, wondering what else there was to do with his days, with the rest of this day. He considered finding a good tailor, for he could not go round London in his best-dress uniform forever. All his civilian togs were at Sir Hugo’s country estate at Anglesgreen, so he must go there, soon, but first he had to meet with that estate agent his father had whistled up and take lodgings somewhere, and how much a month might that cost he wondered.
From what he’d seen fashionable gentlemen of London wearing, he might have real need of a tailor, an entire new wardrobe of civilian suitings. The trip to Admiralty had been enlightening in that respect. Or, were they really fashionable, or cast-offs from three years previous, or last year’s fad? Lewrie was certain that he could afford it, but … did he want to, and which tailor could he trust in that regard?
Becoming a temporary civilian was daunting in the extreme, offering an host of courses of action, all necessary, but all of seeming equal importance of a sudden. He found himself standing in front of the carriage gates to the Admiralty’s courtyard, fingers flexing on the hilt of his rarely worn fifty-guinea presentation sword, dithering like a fart in a trance!
What to do first, then secondly, then…!
“Food,” he muttered to himself. Of a sudden, he felt peckish, and recalled that there was a perfectly suitable two-penny ordinary nearby which served a hearty dinner, a place a cut above the usual, which, to his memory, had never sickened anybody, or laid them in a coffin. He would eat, first, and let the day take care of itself.
CHAPTER TEN
Unfortunately, the decision as to how he would spend his time, and in what order, was decided for him at supper that evening, though it was a rather good repast, it must be noted.
“So, you’ve completed your dealings with Admiralty, I take it?” his father, Sir Hugo, surmised over the lamb chops course. “Been to the bank and all, as well? My my, how industrious of you. Speaking of … I’ve arranged for you to meet that estate agent tomorrow morning, no no don’t thank me. He’ll come round to fetch you at Ten, and I’m assured that he has several choice properties for you to see.”
“Tomorrow morning?” Lewrie gawped, with a forkful of asparagus halfway to his mouth. “Mean t’say…”
“No time like the present,” Sir Hugo heartily chortled, “or in this case, the morrow. No sense in wasting your days, gadding about, what? Coffee houses, clubbing, associating with your old friends, of both high and low degree? Plenty of time for that after you’re properly settled.”
“And out from under your feet,” Lewrie sourly responded, reaching for a fresh bread roll.
“You know my ways by now,” Sir Hugo said, striving for an air of philosophical indifference, “I am capable of hospitality and generosity, especially to my kin, but even they cramp my style after a time, and intrude ’pon my desire for privacy. Strike whilst the iron is hot, me lad. Strike whilst the iron is hot!”
* * *
Accordingly, the estate agent, one Mr. George Penneworth, came knocking at the appointed hour and was shown up abovestairs to the drawing room. He came in a handsome coach-and-four, an equipage that Lewrie suspected was his own, not hired on, and a sign that the letting and selling of properties was a most lucrative occupation, one which might end up costing Lewrie rather more than he’d bargained for.
“I know next to nothing ’bout kitchens and such,” Lewrie objected from the first after being introduced, “so you don’t mind if I bring along my cook, Mister Yeovill, to advise me?”
“Certainly not, Sir Alan!” the effusive Mr. Penneworth gushed in total agreement. “Wise of you, I must say, to prepare yourself as much as you may. Most discerning,” he smarmily went on.
Mr. Penneworth was dressed in the very best Beau Brummell fashion, though his bulk stretched it taut; dark green suitings, the trousers strapped under shiny black half-boots, a gold watch chain and fob cross his waist-coat, also stretched by what Lewrie suspected was extra-fine dining that his line of work, and the great profits that he derived from it, allowed him.
Once in the man’s coach, and rattling off to the first house he had arranged to show, Lewrie explained his circumstances, how many he had in his entourage, and his expectations that he could only take a short-term lease should the Navy offer him a new active commission.
Mr. Penneworth pursed his full lips at that news, surely expecting, from what Sir Hugo had told him prior to the appointment, that a longer-term lease would be forthcoming. Not to be daunted, the man put a glad face back on. “I am certain that I can find you a suitable place, at satisfactory terms, though you may have to pay the initial three months up front, with no refund should you be called back to sea.
“Now, then!” Penneworth went on, “For a gentleman of your standing, and fame,” he said with a slight bow from the waist, “nought but a First Rate dwelling will do.”
“What, like a First Rate ship of the line?” Lewrie asked, completely at sea. “Don’t know if I rate a flagship. Wouldn’t that be…?”
With un-quenched enthusiasm, Mr. Penneworth launched into a very brief explanation of the arcane builders’ trade, and a series of Acts which governed them over the last century, entire.
“There have been many requirements decreed over the years, going back to the Great London Fire, sir,” Penneworth happily prosed on, “In short, a First Rate house in London is one worth at least eight hundred and fifty pounds at the time of its construction, and consisting of at least nine squares of room on a lot, the out-buildings extra.”
“Squares,” Lewrie said, most dubiously.
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p; “Oh, my pardons, sir,” Penneworth said, laughing off Lewrie’s ignorance of the contractors’ argot, “but a square is a building measurement of one hundred square feet, ten by ten. A nine-square house would be nine hundred square feet on its foundation, thence the same footage upwards to the ground floor, the first storey, and et cetera.”
“Thirty feet cross the front, and thirty feet deep, I’d think,” Lewrie said with a nod of understanding. “Ah!”
Not so bad, he thought; a manageable size, nowhere near as big as my father’s place. How much did the old fart pay for his?
“About that, sir, though most building lots in London are only twenty-four feet wide, making the overall depth rather tricky to measure out,” Penneworth told him. “Second, Third, and Fourth Rate houses are, of course, smaller, and I doubt you’d wish to waste your time seeing any of those. Why, one would not have enough space in any room to swing the proverbial cat, ha ha! And some of the lesser houses are on much shorter lots, with no back garden, or stabling worth speaking of. No, no, I assure you that what you seek is a First Rate dwelling, one constructed to the highest standards of crafsmanship and materials. All else are little more than shoddily built … hovels!”
Mr. Penneworth at this point launched into a brief lecture upon the differences between superior grey brick for the outer walls, and red brick which was used behind the laths and plaster to make parti-walls and partitions; solid Portland stone for foundation footings, the window dressings, porches, eaves, and cornices, even fireplaces, and why Bath stone did not hold up well in London; how Reigate stone was best for hearths, basement floors and areas, and how handsome upper floors were when halls were paved Purbeck stone; how excellent Welsh slate was to tiles or pantiles for rooves; and Crown glass, not sheet, was better though on their tour they might encounter the newer Plate glass.
“And, here we are!” Penneworth exclaimed as they got to the first house, which turned out to be an eighteen-square grey brick monstrosity available for only fifty pounds a month, and big enough to house an army battalion, if they didn’t much care for bathing, and would tolerate an hourly parade of rats.
On the way to the second to be shown, Mr. Penneworth expressed his belief that such an older place would be better than one of newer construction. “Things settle, d’ye see, after a time, and once settled, they’re sound as the pound, a place that’s been lived in for a decade or so,” he said with a sagacious tap on the side of his nose, which did not go very far towards easing Lewrie’s sudden feeling that a “settled” house, like the one they had just seen, sounded suspiciously like an old ship whose bottom was about to drop right off!
They saw two more places before dinner, then broke their search off to dine at a chop-house of Penneworth’s recommendation; quite good but costlier than most, and Lewrie footed the whole bill, watching Mr. Penneworth put away enough for two!
* * *
They saw one more that afternoon, also too damned big to be managed, before turning off the rich expanse of Hay Hill Street into Dover Street for the last of the day, by which time Lewrie’s reticence had stifled Mr. Penneworth’s “helpful” enthusiasm.
“Quite nicely situated, this one, Sir Alan,” Penneworth told him, “Dover Street runs down to Piccadilly, and a short stroll to the various gentlemen’s clubs. Green Park is quite close by. To the West by a few streets is Park Lane and Hyde Park. Open expanses, fresher air, all that, what? Much less in the way of carting traffic with Green Park on the other side of Piccadilly, too. A quieter street than most, and this one has a roomy stable and coach house I think you’ll like.”
“Don’t have a coach,” Lewrie told him, feeling rather truculent and un-cooperative by then, having tramped up too many flights of stairs, and more in the mood for a comfortable chair, bootless feet, and a glass of whisky.
“Mmm, a saddle horse…,” Penneworth said, a bit surprised.
“I depend on hackneys,” Lewrie said, “or what sort of prad they have in the hired stables at Hyde Park. A trot down Rotten Row, wind and weather permittin’, is the most I can hope for.”
“Ah, sir,” Penneworth said, subdued again, wondering just how a fashionable gentleman could do without either coach or horses. “Ehm, this one should suit a Navy man, Sir Alan. Admiral Lord Nelson resided at Number Seventeen for a time.”
“With his wife, or the Hamiltons?” Lewrie asked with one wry brow up.
“During the Peace of Amiens, after Copenhagen, I believe it was, Sir Alan, so it was surely with Sir William and Lady Emma,” Penneworth said, sniggering. “By which time the lady was quite … rotund. And, here we are!” he suddenly announced, sounding relieved. “Number Twenty-two Dover Street!”
The coach pulled to a stop and they alit on the east side of the street, giving them a wider look to the opposite side where the residence in question sat. Lewrie took a good look round, noting how all the houses seemed to be of a piece, one yellowish-brown brick expanse down each side of the street, punctuated with white-ish foundations, upper parapets, eaves, and cornices, and white-ish stone window treatments and stone courses to delineate each upper floor.
“The tradesmen’s entrance down there, below the wrought-iron ornamental,” Penneworth pointed out the steps leading down to a door in the basement, and the windows set just a bit below the street level. “The entrance is Doric in style,” he said, indicating the stone-framed doorway, with a shallow inverted stone V above it.
“Doors should be Dor-ic, hey, Mister Penneworth?” Lewrie japed.
“Number Twenty-two is a twelve-square residence, Sir Alan,” that worthy said, ignoring the wee witticism, “the lot thirty feet wide, so the main house should be fourty deep.” He produced his large ring of keys, flicked through them, and found the one needed. “Shall we go in, sir?”
They crossed the cobbled street, Lewrie noting the two windows to the left of the entry, and the glossily black-painted door, trying to recall how high the Window Tax was these days.
“Four levels, altogether,” Penneworth said as he opened the door into a foyer laid with the usual black and white chequered tile. The woodwork was painted white, as were the risers of the stair to the right-hand side, though the treads were polished oak. The stairs were about four feet wide, and a long hall stretched all the way to the back of the house, also done in black and white chequer, painted a pale cerulean sky blue.
“The front parlour, here,” Penneworth said, indicating a large room to the left, entered through a wide double door, a spacious room about twenty feet long and perhaps fifteen wide, with a stone fireplace at the far end, and book cases either side. The walls above the white wainscoting were painted a very pale canary yellow, set off by white crown mouldings, and narrow Doric columns rising from the wainscotting.
“Let’s stamp about, Yeovill,” Lewrie said as he took heavy steps cross the oak-planked floor, and looking for wear. But the floor and its supports seemed as solid as a frigate’s timbers. The plaster all round showed no cracks, or damp, either.
Penneworth showed them through another Doric-style wooden door into a dining room behind the parlour, which could also be entered by a hall door in the same style; this room repeated the white mouldings and wainscot work, but its walls were done in a darker blue paint.
And behind the dining room, about equal in size to the parlour, was a morning room at the very back, a smaller dining room where one might breakfast, or dine en famille, if no supper guests were in. It had a pair of windows overlooking the back garden area, and it was repeated in pale canary yellow, about ten feet wide, and only fifteen feet long, with a pair of large pantries along the outer wall. There was another door to the hallway, and a landing which led down to the basement and kitchens, so Penneworth led them down.
There was a solid and stout back door to the garden area, then a pair of rooms before they got to the kitchen, one for the butler’s pantry, and one for the housekeeper’s office and still room, though both were quite empty but for some shelving.
“Your territory, I think, Yeovill,” Lewrie said, waving his cook to be first to enter.
“Larder there, wine cellar … aha, an amply sized Franklin oven!” Yeovill marvelled, opening the oven door to peek in, and lift the various round plates atop where his pots and such would rest. He then crossed to the massive fireplace on the outer wall to look over the iron rods to support large pots or cauldrons over a fire, and the rotating spit above.
“What the Devil’s that contraption, Yeovill?” Lewrie asked as he caught sight of a large, round metal cage wheel, and the chains that led to the spit.
“Oh, sir, that’s what turns the spit,” Yeovill said with a laugh. “You can raise or lower it, depending, and when you wish to do a roast, you put a small dog in the cage to walk the wheel to keep the spit at a steady turn. A terrier would be best for that, so when I don’t do a roast, he can double as a ratter.”
“There are servants’ quarters beyond,” Penneworth pointed out, showing them several small rooms either side of the front passageway that led to the stout door of the front tradesmen’s entrance, all of them thankfully somewhat furnished with single wooden bed-steads, a night table with a drawer each, and small chests of drawers.
“All I’d need, then, are new mattresses and bed linen,” Lewrie said. “Good!”
“Well, there’s pots, cauldrons, pitchers, stone crocks, and implements to be bought, too, sir,” Yeovill informed him, “along with all the flour, sugar, and staples.”
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