The young fellow lost his confident, cocky smile. His face twitched in alarm, and he finally noticed the scar on Lewrie’s cheek, taking it for the mark of a successful duellist, the sort that sought out reasons to cross blades or blaze with pistols. And those eyes glaring into his, they were so cold and Arctic grey!
“Here now, no need to…,” he gulped.
“You will apologise for your boorishness,” Lewrie demanded, “then get yourself gone. Now, while I’m still feelin’ charitable.”
“Sorry, Miss, my mistake, apologies,” the fop stammered, doffing his hat, stumbling back into the crowd, under Lewrie’s glare all the way to the door and the street outside.
“Oh, sorry,” Lewrie said, letting Jessica go, for in defence of her, he’d put a possessive arm round her waist, as she had put a hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, no, do not be sorry, Sir Alan!” Jessica insisted, “That was wondrously done, and I am so very grateful for your assistance, and your defence of my honour.”
“Well, sorry ’bout the language,” Lewrie said with a shrug, and a sheepish smile.
“What a despicable cad!” Madame Berenice spat.
Hope she don’t mean me, Lewrie thought.
“Rip his head off, and … oh, my word!” Jessica tittered, put a hand to her mouth, but could not help breaking into laughter, as if in sudden relief.
“Such despicable manners in the younger people in these times,” Madame Pellatan declared, sweeping her hands over her gown, her wig, re-settling her shawl, and checking her reticule fussily, as if she had been the one groped and propositioned. She looked red in the face, as if she had found Lewrie’s threat beyond the pale, if no one else did.
* * *
After several hours at Ackermann’s gazing at pictures and discussing their merits (two hours longer than Lewrie would have liked!) they left the gallery and flagged down an empty hackney to take them to the chop-house in Savoy Street that Lewrie had recommended.
Jessica was most pleased with their outing, for upon enquiring about the pictures she had left with Ackermann’s, she’d been told that two of them had sold, and that her share of the proceeds was £8/7/4! So it was a joyful, bubbling early supper conversation that they had.
The restaurant did not dis-appoint, either, with lobster and seafood crepes drizzled with a creamy lemon sauce for Jessica; veal medallions with pasta in sour-cream gravy with loads of paprika, and asparagus for Lewrie; and for Madame Pellatan, succulent sliced duck in a brandy-orange sauce, with goose liver pâté, and dribbles of salty dark fish roe in imitation of caviar that she declared was almost as tasty as any repast she’d enjoyed in Paris in the good old days.
It all was washed down with lashings of Rhenish, claret, or sauvignon blanc, and a sparkling Portuguese wine in lieu of champagne with dessert, which was hot apple pie and cheddar, drizzled with sweet cream, and port or brandy to linger over, Lewrie could not help himself from expounding on cuisines he’d experienced; Chinese, West Indian, Creole in Spanish New Orleans, Hindoo, Portuguese and Spanish, Neapolitan and Genoese cooking, and the tasty things, some exceedingly humble, that he’d discovered along the coasts of the Carolinas.
* * *
“We must thank you, again, Sir Alan,” Madame Pellatan said as their hackney drew up in front of St. Anselm’s manse later that evening, “for a … pardon!” She paused to stifle a weary, drink-sodden yawn. “For a most delightful outing. Merci, merci beaucoup!”
“My pleasure, Madame,” Lewrie told her, “I had an enjoyable time, too.” He opened the coach doors, hopped down, and folded down the metal step, ready to assist her down.
“Merci,” Madame Pellatan said once on the sidewalk, though a tad unsteady on her feet, using her furled umbrella as a prop.
He turned to assist Jessica, and she took his offered hand as she gingerly stepped down, holding on longer than really necessary, even giving his hand a squeeze.
“Yes indeed, thank you, Sir Alan,” Jessica said with a warm smile. “For your generosity, your company, your gallant defence, and for a marvellous supper, and … for everything!”
“You’re most welcome, Miss Jessica,” Lewrie replied, daring to lift her hand to his lips to bestow a lingering kiss upon it. “For my part, I had a grand time today, as well.”
“Shall we come by tomorrow morning, to finish your portrait?” she asked, gazing up at him with her eyes alight.
“Looking forward to it,” Lewrie told her, “though at this point, I could hang my uniform coat on a mop-stick and let it stand in for me. Buttons, medals, epaulets, and all, hah?”
“Oh, no, you must still wear it, Sir Alan,” she said with a wee laugh. “Remember what we discussed today, about the shape of the human form, clothed or not. Your image would end up looking lop-sided, else,” she teased.
“Well then, I and my coat will be at your complete disposal,” he assured her. “Good night, Miss Jessica, Madame Pellatan,” he said, doffing his hat to both, with a slight bow from the waist.
Of a sudden, Jessica got up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Good night, then, Sir Alan,” she cooed, “and thank you, again, for a wondrous day.”
He saw them safely to their door, made sure that they gained entry, then went back to the hackney, chest swelling with … what?
It was all he could do not to have returned her kiss, swept her into his arms and kissed her properly. Her light scent of clean hair and lavender water had almost made him giddy!
“Where to now, sir?” the cabman asked.
“Twenty-two Dover Street,” Lewrie said as he got back in, savouring the memory of his arm round her slim waist for a moment.
“Ah, same street where th’ widow Nelson lives, then?”
“Hmm, what?” Lewrie asked.
“Th’ Admiral’s widow moved there, sir,” the cabman said as he flicked reins and clucked to his horse. “Poor old lady.”
“I was told Nelson himself lived there for a time,” Lewrie said.
“Never did, sir,” the cabman insisted. “He set his poor wife up in Dover Street, but moved himself in with the Hamiltons, and that Emma, somewhere in Grosvenor Street. Someone told ya wrong, sir.”
That Penneworth sold me a bill o’ goods, the shit, Lewrie told himself. He sat back against the hard, leather-covered bench, his mind returning to his pleasant reveries of the day, and images of Jessica; oohing over one painting, frowning in dislike at another, how animated and lively she was, how daintily she’d dined.
Great, she can eat with a knife and fork! he thought, ready to burst out laughing; Hell of a recommendation!
He wished that his portrait was never finished, that he could continue his delightful daily association with her for as long as he could, even beyond the day that Admiralty recalled him to service.
How to propose a continuation…?
Propose? He thought with a start; My God! Brr!
He found himself touching his cheek where she’d given him that peck, wondering if there was something more to that gesture than mere gratitude, or a mild fondness. Did he dare find out, and what would he do if she laughed him off as a generous, amusing old colt’s tooth, but a colt’s tooth after all?
It’s madness, it’s daft but then, I s’pose I am as daft as a March hare, he confessed to himself; over her!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“So, that’s you, is it?” his father, Sir Hugo, commented after he’d been relieved of his hat, overcoat, and walking-stick in the entry hall of Lewrie’s house, and had gotten a snifter with a large dollop of brandy in his hand. “Quite a remarkable likeness, I must say. You to a Tee,” he said, pacing the front parlour to inspect the painting.
“Not framed yet, but…,” Lewrie said with a shrug.
“How much ye pay for it?” Sir Hugo asked.
“Twenty pounds,” Lewrie told him. “You need a new one?”
“Me?” Sir Hugo scoffed. “No, the last I had done was just af
ter I came home from India, when I was still passably decent-looking, and I’ll be damned if I care to look as bad as I do now to history. Cost me fifty pounds, back then, so you got yourself a bargain. A damned good artist.”
“Yes, she is,” Lewrie said with pride.
“She? Well, damme. Top her into the bargain, did ye?” his father sniggered, going to the cheery warmth of the fireplace to thaw his chilled backside. “Hellish-cool day, getting on for Autumn, and today’s misty rain does me no good. Ahh!”
“Miss Jessica Chenery is a proper young lady,” Lewrie informed him a bit stiffly, “not the sort t’put the leg over.”
“Jessica, ye say?” Sir Hugo asked, “Jessica? Damned if I can recall ever hearing anyone named Jessica. What sort of name is that?”
“Shakespeare coined the name,” Lewrie told him, “it’s from The Merchant of Venice. Shylock’s daughter was named Jessica.”
“What? Ye mean t’say the girl’s Jewish?” Sir Hugo barked.
“What?” Lewrie gawped. “What? Have ya drunk so much you’ve flushed away the last o’ your wits? She’s Church of England, and her whole family’s in Holy Orders, her brothers but for the youngest, who was one of my Midshipmen, her sisters are married to ministers, and her uncle’s a Senior Fellow at Oxford. Her father’s rector of Saint Anselm’s down the road in Piccadilly. Where I’ve been attending. Jewish, my Christ, how you still manage t’think is beyond me!”
“You? In church?” Sir Hugo sniffed. “By God, I know London is dead boresome of a Sunday, as dead as cold mutton for lack of amusements, but … you, in church? Haw haw haw!”
“Miss Jessica and Reverend Chenery invited me. I sit in their box,” Lewrie told him.
“Oh, sweet on her, are ye? She fetching?” his father asked, as if he enjoyed bantering with his son.
“Fetching, aye,” Lewrie told him, “remarkably, unforgettably so, sweet, lively, intelligent, artistic, and highly skilled,” he said, sweeping a hand to point at his portrait on the easel. “A delightful young lady, in all. And sweet on her? I find myself enchanted,” he confessed, feeling the heat rising in his face, and a lurch in his innards as he spoke of her. “Smitten … besotted.”
“Oh, my sweet Lord!” Sir Hugo gasped. “Wasn’t one wife enough for ye? Talk about hope over reality. Where’s the brandy decanter? Unfair, ye know. Poor soldiers’ or sailors’ wives, left on their own to manage, years on end. You mark my words, ye’ll be called back to the Navy and break her heart. And a minister’s daughter? Not much by way of dowry, ye know.”
“Hang dowry!” Lewrie exclaimed. “And I’m beginning to doubt I’ll ever be recalled. I’ve put out feelers with some people I know, and it don’t sound good.”
He refilled his father’s glass and threw himself into one of the wing-back chairs before the fire, explaining his visits to Lord Draywick’s brother, Harold, who worked for Lord Castlereagh, the Secretary of State for War, and his friend in the Foreign Office Secret Branch, James Peel.
“I don’t have the right sort of patrons,” Lewrie said, trying not to sound too sorry for himself, or bitter. “And, along the way, I’ve made some enemies in the Navy, with officers who do have powerful patrons, in very senior positions. Envy, spite, God only knows, but, here I sit, still waitin’ t’hear from Admiralty, months after I beat that French squadron, and paid Sapphire off. I took this house for three months, with an option to go month-to-month after, and here it is, five months later, and I’m still drawin’ half-pay, and odd looks when I show up at Admiralty, beggin’ for an interview!”
“But, you do have patrons?” Sir Hugo wondered.
“Oh, some,” Lewrie sulkily agreed, “there was Samuel Hood, and ‘Old Jarvey’, but Hood’s long retired, and Admiral Jervis got kicked to the kerb when he was First Sea Lord and tried to cut out all the corruption in the dockyards and victualling. Any who’d say a good word for me are former Post-Captains I served under, most of whom have made Rear-Admiral by now, but these days, Rear-Admirals are two-a-penny, and don’t have all that much clout. I just may be in as bad odour as Captain Lord Thomas Cochrane! Look at how they treated him after Aix Roads, and how Admiral Gambier got off with a pat on the cheek. I may as well be a pariah dog!”
“Ye do have friends in the Commons, in Lord’s,” his father pointed out. “That Peter Rushton, Sir Malcolm Schockley. They might be able to bring some influence to bear.
“Or,” Sir Hugo went on, “if all comes to nought, you’ve done a dozen men’s duty, won some prominent battles, raked in a vast pile of ‘tin’ in prize-money, and been knighted and made baronet, to boot. It might not be all that bad, t’sit on your laurels.”
“Wouldn’t sittin’ on your laurels be painful?” Lewrie japed in spite of his fretful mood. “Wear ’em, aye, but sit on ’em? Ow!”
“Ye know what I mean,” Sir Hugo said, scowling. “There’s many a man’d envy you the chance for an honourable retirement, and take a well-deserved rest. It ain’t like you ever loved the Navy, haw!”
“Aye, and thank you so much for shoving me into it,” Lewrie shot back. “Sorry Granny Lewrie didn’t conveniently die and leave you my inheritance t’squander.”
“Well, I did need the money perishing-bad at the time,” Sir Hugo baldly admitted. “But we’re both jingling with ‘chink’, now, and it’d be a shame did ye not enjoy spending some of it on things that give pleasure, after all your time at sea. You’ve two fine sons to take your place in the Navy. Sewallis is a Passed Midshipman, and Hugh’s sure to be one, soon. If the Navy don’t love ye anymore, why not enjoy the rest of your life?”
“It’s just…,” Lewrie said, scowling as he rose to fetch himself a glass of brandy, and refill his father’s glass again. “The war ain’t over, there’re things still to do,” he said, sitting down once more and crossing his legs. “Sooner or later, Bonaparte’ll figure out what t’do with that huge fleet he’s been building, and … I feel as if I’d be lettin’ the side down if I was ashore, havin’ a grand time.”
“I knew when to quit,” Sir Hugo snorted.
“You quit when you came home a full nabob and paid off all your creditors!” Lewrie scoffed. “You’ve barely dabbled at soldierin’, since!”
“So, if ye can’t play ‘pulley-hauley’ and longer, ye’ll make a young lady miserable? Ye do recall, we ain’t the finest sort of rakes in England? Sooner or later … God, you, with a minister’s daughter, and the poor thing related to me? The more they get to know our sort, the sooner they tie us to the stakes, and pile up the firewood!”
“Well, there is that,” Lewrie confessed, almost wincing at the idea of his sins and scandals coming to light, as they had when those scathing, accusatory letters had reached his late wife from a spurned lover who’d borne one of his bastards. “I don’t know if she’d have me, anyway. She seems fond, but now the portrait’s done, there may be no reason for her to socialize with me beyond that. Her talents are in demand, and someone else’ll want a portrait, some children’s book that needs illustrating,” he gloomed. “She may say thanks, but no thanks, lookin’ for a younger man.”
“Jewish, and she works for a living?” Sir Hugo pretended to gasp.
“I told you…!” Lewrie snapped, ’til he realized that his father was sniggering at him, and grinning like an American ’possum.
“At the fear of driving her off, screaming, I must meet this young lady,” Sir Hugo said after a deep sip of brandy. “See if your taste in women has gotten worse after all those depriving years at sea. A woman, in business, well! Who’d have ever imagined a thing like that? Illustrating books, for money, haw! Making a decent living at it, does she?”
“Cleared over an hundred pounds, last year, she told me. Good enough to qualify for the vote,” Lewrie said, a tad boastful.
“Oh, God, don’t get started on that idea!” his father cried.
“You’ll stay for dinner?” Lewrie offered.
“Yays, I believe I will,” Sir Hugo drawled, “for it’s becoming too
raw to coach home to eat. You’ve been bragging on your cook, that Yeovill fellow. I might as well see if he’s as good as you claim.”
“There’s to be a party to unveil the painting, too,” Lewrie said. “I’ve invited Peter Rushton, Clotworthy Chute, Peter’s brother Harold, Reverend Chenery, Charles the Midshipman, Jessica, and a Madame Berenice Pellatan, a French artist émigré who lodges with the family at the manse. You could meet her, then. Interested?”
“Hmm, that sounds intriguing,” his father allowed. “Is the Berenice mort fetching?”
“Only if you prefer blowsy, overdone French women,” Lewrie told him, which made his father fake a shiver, and swig down more brandy.
* * *
“It’s gilt, of course,” Jessica explained as she showed him the final, framed results. “Not so wide, or baroque, or rococo to detract from the subject matter. It’s all a matter of the proper scale.”
Lewrie, standing back to take it all in, raised a hand with his thumb extended upwards in imitation of her gestures when making her initial sketches, and Jessica grinned and bowed her head to acknowledge the teasing.
“The band between I had them paint blue, somewhere ’twixt the blue of your sash, and a royal blue,” Jessica went on, pointing to a smooth, rounded gap between the ornate carvings. “Just a touch of grey, which, I think, will draw observers to the colour of your eyes.”
“I see what ye mean,” Lewrie said, appreciative.
“So, Sir Alan, are you happy with my humble work?” Jessica asked, looking confident that he would be.
“Absolutely, Miss Jessica,” he told her, casting a glance over to Madame Pellatan who had accompanied Jessica, and wishing that the old mort could drop through a hole in the floor.
Courage to the stickin’ post, he chid himself, readying to say what had been on his mind for some time, feeling his chest, his face, flushing with boyish nervousness.
“I am dis-appointed, though, Miss Jessica,” he began.
“Oh?” Jessica reacted, startled, frowning and looking hurt.
“Oh, Sir Alan, how can you say such a thing?” Madame Pellatan interrupted.
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