“So, are you enjoying your forced retirement?” Peel asked as he leaned back in his chair, and waved to their waiter for more coffee.
“Most of the time, aye,” Lewrie had to admit.
“And how is married life?” Peel enquired with a brow up.
That erased the scowl from Lewrie’s face, and put him in better takings. “Utterly delightful,” he said with a pleased smile. “I am a completely happy man … even if some of my kin think me daft for re-marrying.”
“Then you’re a bloody wonder among men, and still a very lucky one,” Peel said with a wry laugh. “I understand that Dame Lewrie still paints?”
“She did my portrait in my front parlour, and the morning light there is so good that it’s become her studio,” Lewrie told him. “What is the expression, ‘happy wife, happy life’? My old cabin steward, Aspinall, is in publishing, and he’s offered her a book to be illustrated. A novel, written by a woman, of all things! We’ve a rough galley of it, but it’s all rather lurid … West Country moors, ghosts, ruined manors, earnest hearts beating as one, and I don’t know what-all. I’ve not been able to make much sense of it, except that there’s love and a rich marriage at the end. Jessica intends to continue under her maiden name, for now … J. A. Chenery.”
“‘Happy wife, happy life’,” Peel sniggered.
“But, does she ever submit anything to the Royal Academy, it’ll be under J. A. Lewrie,” Lewrie told his old compatriot. “How’s the spy game?”
“Rather boring,” Peel confessed as their fresh coffee came to the table. “Hush-hush, but lots of paperwork and reports submitted by people still out on the sharp end. The most I risk now is paper cuts, but at least I can go home to my wife and children each evening without having my throat cut. I must allow that I rather miss my active, old days out upon a hostile world under old Zachariah Twigg, working with you in the West Indies, or dodging round the Germanies before the French gobbled them all up. I just may be too stout and short of wind for such activities, but, at least I’m senior enough to have a say on what government, or military policies might be. Thomas Mountjoy down at Lisbon is in the same pickle. His pack of agents has expanded, but all he does is read reports and write summaries. And complain about the Spanish and their slack-wit generals. Not so much going on now that General Sir Arthur Wellesley is in winter Quarters at Elvas just over the Portuguese border, but he’ll be back into Spain come Spring. He’s initiated a corps of Exploring Officers to scout out the French, the roads, the terrain, and liaise with the Spanish partisan bands … in full British uniform, so they can’t be shot as spies. Wellesley will not be caught without information.”
“It was grand how he beat the French at Talavera,” Lewrie said. “About the same way he won at Vimeiro, which I was fortunate enough to witness. Hide most of his troops on the back slope ’til the French come stumbling up in their tight column blocks, then surprise them at close range before they can deploy into line. Talavera was a slaughter.”
“Yes, and then the Spanish looted his baggage trains and ate all his soldiers’ food,” Peel gravelled. “God, what a country! Only Romney Marsh seems to enjoy it, galloping from one partisan force to the next, relishing the ambushes and massacres. What a blood-thirsty sod!”
“He’s more than welcome to it,” Lewrie heartily agreed, for he had been forced to endure that lunatick who played at war and skull-duggery as if it was a grand costume party, with the opportunity to cut throats, emasculate and torture French prisoners, skin them alive and nail them to trees or barn doors. And he was a Cambridge man, and Etonian!
“My treat, I believe?” James Peel said as the waiter brought the tab. They rose, reclaimed their hats, top coats, gloves, and walking-sticks. Once outside the frowsty warmth of the chop-house, Lewrie whistled for a hackney, whilst Peel prepared to trudge back to his offices through the new-fallen snow. “It’s not all gloom and doom, old fellow. You still have allies in the Navy, most now of flag rank like Benjamin Rodgers, Thomas Charlton, and your wily old Scot swashbuckler, Andrew Ayscough. If one of them asks for you, and justifies the why, Admiralty mayn’t be able to refuse him.”
“I count on that, Mister Peel,” Lewrie told him. “Though I won’t hold my breath waitin’ for that to happen.”
“Well, good luck anyway, and give my regards to your lady wife.”
A hackney slithered to a stop by the kerb at Lewrie’s waving, wheels and hooves skidding on slush and ice. Lewrie climbed aboard and gave his address.
“Have you a lap-robe handy?” he asked the cabman.
“No, sir, sorry, but ya kin put th’ winders up,” the driver shouted down.
Should’ve worn my boat-cloak, Lewrie glumly thought as he tried to wrap his heavy overcoat over his knees and booted shins. Once comfortable, he mused upon “retirement” and marriage being delightful.
Well, the retirement part still irked, but the joys of marriage to Jessica almost made up for it, despite the reactions from his kin. His father had groaned, “Oh, Gawd, you’re really going to do it? Well, on your head be it, ye damned fool!” and even meeting Jessica had not mollified Sir Hugo’s opinion all that much.
The banns had been posted and the wedding celebrated before he heard from his far-off sons. Hugh had been bemused but supportive, but he had already been of the opinion that his father could not be expected to live a monk’s life, and had seemed appreciative of Lewrie’s mistress at Gibraltar and Lisbon. Sewallis’s letter in reply was not as congratulatory, but he’d always been a prim young sod. His older son even cautioned him about taking a much younger lady to wife, as if he was so much wiser!
Lewrie’s former brothers-in-law were split on it, Burgess now in Spain with Wellesley’s army sounded delighted, and his wife, Theodora, and her parents had actually attended. Governour, who could have come to London, had pled bad roads and bad weather at the last moment, and came just a quim-hair short of denouncing a re-marriage that did not honour the memory of his dead sister and how vexed Lewrie’s daughter, Charlotte, had taken the news. From Charlotte herself had come her own letter, a tearful accusation of his foolishness and heartlessness, and “how dare you sully the sainted memory of my mother, or imagine that anyone could replace her!”
But of course, Charlotte would have no qualms over her increased dowry, and use her father’s wealth to prepare herself for her London Season, most-like cursing his name in the process. But then, what else had Lewrie come to expect from her?
At least no one in either parish had leaped to their feet to deny the match when the banns were read the required three times. Weddings by banns, Lewrie learned, were going out of fashion, with most couples obtaining an ecclesiastical license, but Jessica was traditional in that regard, something she’d looked forward to all her life, and Lewrie was not fool enough to object. Lawyers, and her father, the Reverend Chenery, got involved to settle the marriage contract, to determine how much “pin money” he would allow her each month to manage his household, agreeing that her father would settle £60 on Jessica for her dowry, and startling the fellow when Lewrie stipulated that he would not demand that she give up her art career, and that whatever she earned would be hers, not under his coverture!
The next thing that got up Reverend Chenery’s nose was Jessica’s wish that their wedding would be a double-ring ceremony, and that Lewrie wear a matching wedding band! Lewrie had never heard of such, either; even the happiest of married men in England, or anywhere else, for that matter, did not wear a ring to announce their status. He went along with it, though, if only to please her, and it created quite a stir in church, especially among the ladies present, who sighed and went for their handkerchiefs, thinking it most romantic, whilst the married men shifted uneasily in their seats, wondering what the Hell that was all about!
Of course, Lewrie had worn his best-dress uniform with star and sash and both his medals, again at Jessica’s insistence, though there were no other Navy officers present to form the arch of swords that she had read about
(bad luck, that!) to see them out the doors. Only her brother, Charley, showed up in his Midshipman uniform.
Charley had come to Lewrie at the last moment with yet another of Jessica’s innovations, pinning a sprig of rosemary on his coat lapel.
“Whatever’s this for?” Lewrie had asked, He had heard of grooms wearing a flower that matched the bride’s bouquet, but rosemary?
“It’s to represent Fidelity, sir,” Midshipman Chenery had said.
Fidelity? Lewrie had thought at that moment, rolling the word round in his head like a sharp-edged rock; Really? Gawd, I love her dear, but…! Well, I s’pose, if I must!
So far, though, it was early days, and Lewrie had no trouble with the concept, for Jessica was deliriously happy, which made him equally happy, and when it came to their physical expressions of that happiness …
He felt a tightness in his crutch as he recalled the evenings after the wedding, and the wedding breakfast. They had coached to Anglesgreen and his father’s country house for a week or so of “honeymoon” togetherness … well, as alone as they could get with Pettus along to do for him, and a rather pretty young girl named Lucy to see to Jessica’s needs, and with Mr. and Mrs. Furlough in charge of the house, with grooms, stablemen, and chamber maids of the house staff there.
The wedding breakfast had stretched into a wedding brunch before they had hit the road, and the roads had been winter-bad, making the going so slow that they had not gotten to the village before full dark.
Through a fine country supper, Lewrie could sense Jessica’s mounting nervousness, despite the good cheer of the Furloughs, and the tour of the house to show off Sir Hugo’s relics brought back from the Far East, tiger-skin rug and all, and Lewrie’s amusing banter did not ease that nervousness. His new wife was about to be introduced to the mystery of the utmost intimacy, about which no “good girl” was told a mere iota, even by her mother or sisters!
Had Jessica and her long-time girlhood friends, most now married and already mothers, ever dare share “war stories” about sexual love and pleasure, or the lack of it? Lewrie rather doubted it! And he did not wish to be dreaded as a brute!
As the house staff prepared to retire, yawning and wishing them good night, Lewrie led her to their bed-chamber where their nightgowns and nightshirts were laid out, the bed heated with a pair of warming pans and turned down. Lewrie shammed a yawn, complained of all the drink they’d “taken aboard” at the wedding breakfast, the journey, and his lack of sleep the night before, and had suggested that their first night, they just go to sleep!
They had un-dressed separately, then slid into bed, leaving one candle burning for a while, now chastely garbed in flannel bed clothes. During their brief courtship, there had been kisses, first virginally shy, then more passionate, tentative embraces that had turned to close, suggestive hugs of longer duration. That night, they had kissed, had giggled, had pressed close together, and Lewrie’s hands had stroked, but he had not groped, ’til they had snuffed the candle, spooned close on their sides, and had actually slumbered.
Then, after an active day about the property, the next evening did not find Jessica quite so fearful, and Lewrie patiently took his time to stoke her passion, casting off his nightshirt and coaxing her out of hers, working his way with gentle kisses from her neck and ears to her navel and hips and back, worshipping sensitive wee breasts ’til she was moaning and whimpering with want, and her cry of momentary pain from losing her maidenhead was lost in gasps of wonder.
The third night, Jessica had even rolled close to him after a half-hour of afterglow, endearments, and silliness, and had coyly asked if they could do that a second time! And when they woke to the wintry sun streaming through a window, the morning of the fourth day, she had not been shy when tossing back the bed covers and rising to fetch her discarded nightgown, allowing him his first full look at how lovely she was, laughing deep in her throat as he told her how beautiful she was. He meant every word of it, declaring, “Do ye think it sacrilegious, if I say that I worship you?”
Slim arms and shoulders, a lean, straight back, a slim waist, wee bottom, and long, slender legs, with small but deliciously firm breasts, wide and close-set together with her long, un-pinned hair tumbling down to half-cover them; that image of her would stick in his head forever! Elfin, willowy, lithe…! He thought that he’d need an entire dictionary of words to describe how flawless she was, and how Jessica fulfilled every fantasy of his ideal image of female beauty!
They had mostly had a grand time at Anglesgreen, riding down to the village to dine at the Old Ploughman, where Will Cony, Lewrie’s old cabin servant and Cox’n, his wife, Maggie, who had worked for the Lewries when they’d rented their farm, and their brood of sons and daughters made Jessica as welcome as a visiting royal. She’d ridden side-saddle for that jaunt, but about the farm she’d borrowed a pair of Lewrie’s corduroy breeches to wear under her gown, and Sir Hugo’s saddle, to ride, feeling so much more secure of her seat, and declaring that she just might do the same back in London, no matter what anyone said of it!
Of course, they had had to call upon Governour Chiswick, his wife, Millicent, their children, and Lewrie’s daughter, Charlotte, and that had been a stiff affair, a dinner and afternoon of rather formal, icy civility, and, despite Lewrie’s fears, Charlotte did not make a scene or catty comments, remaining aloof and stand-offish no matter how Jessica tried to warm to her. Lewrie had explained before they’d coached over how Caroline’s murder had affected her, and how most had laid the blame on him.
“Step-mothers,” Jessica had moodily mused once home, “in all of the children’s books, all the folk tales, they are always the ogres, are they not, Alan? I fear that Charlotte and I will never become close, even does she find a husband and form a household of her own. A pity, really, for I feel she could be a sweet girl.”
“She was … once,” Lewrie had told her.
“Well, I shall pray for her future happiness, and try to make the best of it,” Jessica concluded. “Oh, the winter cattle, huddled up so! I must sketch that!”
* * *
“’Ere ye goes, sir,” the cabman called down at last. “Twenny-two Dover Street,” and Lewrie alit, paid the fare, and, frozen to the bone, but aflame inside, dashed through the door of his house.
“Oh, there you are, darling, home at last!” Jessica called out with delight as Deavers took Lewrie’s things. “How did your meeting with your friend at the Foreign Office go?”
“Not very promising, I’m afraid,” he told her as he entered the front parlour, where Jessica was standing before two paintings on easels, side-by-side, with a palette board in one hand and a brush in the other, dressed in winter woolens and shawl, with a mob-cap on her head, and her hair down and long, pulled to the nape of her neck, at perfect “at home” ease. She set her tools aside and came to embrace him.
“Hallo to you, my love,” Lewrie said, beaming as he gave her a strong hug and a lingering kiss.
“Why, you’re half-frozen!” she exclaimed.
“Aye, but you’re so warm,” Lewrie purred as he nuzzled her neck.
“Go sit by the fire and warm yourself,” she instructed. “Shall I ring for tea, or brandy?”
“Both!” Lewrie declared as he went to the fireplace to lift the skirts of his coat to thaw his backside. “Still working on those?”
“Trying to,” Jessica said, taking a moment to regard her paintings. “Dim and gloomy as it is this morning, I haven’t accomplished much, and the light’s gone for the day, so I suppose I should quit. They’ll be finished, eventually,” she said, dipping her brush in turpentine to clean it.
“Thought you’d catch your death when you did the sketches,” he said, sitting in one of the wing-back chairs with his hands extended to warm them.
Jessica had been entranced with the vista from his father’s house, and with the house itself, spending a good part of one day sitting out on the front gallery in warm clothing, one of Lewrie’s over-coats a
nd a blanket, to draw the distant village and the farmland and forest between, with lots of hot coffee, tea, or beef broth to sustain her ’til she was satisfied. The next clear day, she had set up her easel in the lane and rendered the house and the stub of the old Roman, or Saxon, or Norman tower that had been incorporated into the house, no one was sure when, or why, it had been erected atop the hillside. Now, she was working on them at the same time, adding details such as sheep, cattle, or farm workers, though keeping a winter aspect. That activity had given her a case of the sniffles that had alarmed everyone.
Lewrie especially liked the painting of the house, for she had it look trimmed for Christmas, with holly and pine wreaths in the windows, and welcoming, glowing amber light spilling from all the windows, reflected on the thin snowfall and the icicles on the cherub fountain in the middle of the gravel coach drive.
“Oh, there are some letters that have come for you,” Jessica said, “none addressed to the both of us, yet,” she added with a mock rueful grin and a cock of her head, and Lewrie went to fetch them off the entry hall side-board, himself.
“Aha! Percy Stangbourne,” he said with glee as he read the sender. “You remember his wife, Eudoxia, who came to our wedding?”
“Oh, yes, what a remarkable woman!” Jessica declared, “And her father, that … how do you say it, Arslan Artomovich?” She giggled. “What a romantic match, a Russian actress, horsewoman, marksman, and circus performer, married to a Viscount, no matter what anyone thinks of it. Her father, though … hmm!”
Arslan Artomovich Durschenko had done what he had done at his daughter’s marriage; gotten “cherry merry” drunk and taught anyone who dared to dance like a Cossack, and Lewrie thought he’d sprained every muscle in his legs and lamed himself trying to compete with him!
“Percy says he’s utterly delighted to hear that I’ve married, and Eudoxia’s written him to describe you, all good of course, and he sends you his very best regards and good wishes,” Lewrie related, and read Percy’s account of his part in the Battle of Talavera, and how much he had come to despise his Spanish allies.
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