Much Ado About Lewrie

by Dewey Lambdin

  She had re-painted the front parlour a much paler, softer hue of yellow than it had been, and Lewrie had to admit that the vine-like white plaster work she had contracted looked particularly smart.

  In the dining room beyond, past the rarely opened door from the front parlour, Jessica proudly showed off some new items she’d bought, a Wedgwood fruit compote and a brace of flower urns in pale blue and decorated with white scrollwork, that now sat on the sideboard. Lewrie’s coin silver candelabras and table decorations that he’d brought out of storage were on prominent display, too.

  “Those Venetian bombe chests look simply wonderful either side of the stairs,” Jessica gushed, “I love that splendid red colour, do you not? Oh, and our front door! A brass kick plate on the bottom, and the new door knocker? The old iron one with that grotesque face like a gargoyle was just hideous! It made my skin crawl every time I had to use it. But, the bright brass is much nicer, and a pineapple represents hospitality. I would have had something nautical installed, if I could have found one. Now, here in the morning room…”

  At the back of the first storey sat a much smaller dining room for taking breakfast en famille, and Jessica had not done all that much to it, but for the walls being covered with some of her framed artwork; landscapes, boats, and city scenes, along with some animals.

  “Now, look out the windows and see the back garden!” Jessica insisted with another bout of pride. “The gazebo, the crushed gravel walks, and the flower beds? I’ve planted nothing too demanding of my gardening abilities, mostly flowers and herbs native to England, so I trust they will thrive. A proper English garden, if I do say so myself. Want to go see it? We can have tea!”

  “I want to see that harpsichord, first,” Lewrie said instead.

  Up they went to the drawing room, where room had been made for the instrument, and even Lewrie had to admit that it was a handsome piece. Jessica sat down and played a hymn, her long, talented fingers lovingly stroking the keys.

  “So much nicer on the ears than a piano forte,” she beamed, swaying a bit to the metre, then did a little “doodle-doodle” and turned on from the keys on the bench and laughed. Belowstairs, the sound of music of any kind set Bisquit to baying in his attempts to sing along, which made Lewrie laugh out loud, too.

  “It is nice, and I see what ya mean about a softer sound,” he agreed. “Aye, tea’d be nice, but I should see about the lads, and what they’re doing with my cabin furnishings and stores. I bought up lots of wine on Sicily, Malta, and Gibralatar that needs stowing.”

  “Oh, delightful!” Jessica exclaimed, springing from the bench to put her arms about him. “And, I’ve a surprise for you, as well.”

  “Mmm, and what is that?” Lewrie asked, feeling lusty, again; he had actually managed to remain faithful and celibate all the time he’d been gone, though not without fearful temptations, and that crinkly-dry spray of rosemary still rested in his desk drawer.

  “There’s a shop in New Bond Street, Martini and Company…” she began to explain.

  “Aye, I’ve shopped there before,” Lewrie interrupted.

  “The owner is on very good terms with America, and gets goods that most Americans would not offer any longer to Englishmen,” Jessica went on. “All this talk of how we seize their merchant ships, take men off if we think they’re British deserters?”

  “Aye, ‘Free Trade and Sailors’ Rights,’” Lewrie said with a nod. “It’s been in all the papers.”

  “You do make this difficult, Alan my dear,” Jessica said with a faint cross look. “Martini’s managed to import gallons and gallons of American corn whisky. It was a bit dear, but I bought you four stone crocks of it … twenty gallons, all told. For your homecoming! For a present.”

  Lewrie picked her up off her feet once more and twirled her round the drawing room, hooting his surprise and delight. “My God, you’re a bloody wonder, my girl! Whoo! What a gift! I adore you for it!”

  “I spoke with Mister Martini personally,” Jessica said, better pleased with her husband than she’d been a moment before. “Did you know that the Rebels made him a prisoner for a time ’til Thomas Jefferson, whom he knew, set him free? And Jefferson became one of their Presidents. I’m told they are still fast friends.”

  “Martini’s is good for all sorts of things,” Lewrie told her. “My father and his servants shop there regularly. And so should we!”

  “Go see to your things, darling,” Jessica fondly said, giving him another long kiss. “After, we’ll have our tea, if the weather will co-operate.”

  “Excuse me, then, dear Jessica,” Lewrie said at last, letting her go and stepping back. “What did Romeo say, ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’ … all that?”

  “Go! I will be here,” Jessica laughed, almost sticking her tongue out at him. “The important thing is, so will you.”

  * * *

  There were chests to be fetched up to the bedchamber, civilian clothing hung in the armoire, cabin furnishings stored in the groom’s lodgings above the stables in the un-used coach house, and an ocean of wine and spirits put away in the pantries in the kitchens. They had to hail a handcarter to shift Charlie Chenery’s dunnage to his father’s house at St. Anselm’s manse, and the dray waggoners to be paid. That took at least two hours, hindered by the curiosity of the house dogs. At last, Lewrie hung up his uniform and changed into a fresh, clean shirt, buff trousers and black coat, with a burgundy waist-coat and a black neck-stock, traded Hessian boots for a comfortable old pair of buckled shoes, and trotted downstairs to the kitchens and out the door to the back garden.

  “Sir Alan, sir?” a man in a white apron asked.

  “Aye?” Lewrie said, stopping by the door.

  “Hazelwood, Sir Alan,” the man said, naming himself. “I am cook to the household. And a fine feast Dame Lewrie has demanded of me for your first night home from the sea, sir! I assure you that you will enjoy it.”

  “Well, I’m sure I will, Hazelwood,” Lewrie said, looking the man over closely.

  Must be a good cook, Lewrie thought; he’s round and well-fed as a hog. He found it odd, though, that Hazelwood sported a Frenchified moustachio, and topped off his clothes with a high, puffy white hat with many folds.

  “A feast for six, Sir Alan,” Hazelwood promised.

  “Six?” Lewrie asked.

  “Sir Hugo Willoughby, Reverend Chenery, Madame Pellatan, you, and Dame Lewrie, and Midshipman Chenery, sir,” Hazelwood almost simpered as he ticked names off his fingers.

  “Ah, my father, aye,” Lewrie said with a nod; he had hoped that rencontre with the old rogue could have waited ’til a later day. “I believe my wife said something about tea in the garden?”

  “The water is aboil at the moment, Sir Alan,” Hazelwood said, rising on his tiptoes in an odd fashion. “May I ask, though, Sir Alan, what am I to do with but the one rabbit?” he said, pointing to a cage which held Dasher’s pet doe, Harriet. “It won’t even make soup.”

  “Feed it, Hazelwood,” Lewrie told him. “That’s not for eating, that’s Dasher’s pet.”

  At that moment, Lewrie’s shipboard cook, Yeovill, and Dasher came in from the coach house with his tools of the trade; pots, pans, iron skillets, mixing bowls, measuring cups, and bottles of various sauces, looking for a place to store them.

  “I did not order anything,” Hazelwood said, stiffening, tilting up his nose. “What is all this?”

  “Hazelwood, allow me to name to you Mister Yeovill, who is my personal cook aboard ship,” Lewrie said, “and one of my cabin servants, the aforesaid Tom Dasher. Lads, the cook, Mister Hazelwood.”

  Their responses were more like grunts, and an “Aha!” from the house cook.

  “I’m sure that your Mister Yeovill will enjoy his long rest,” Hazelwood simpered, “since these are my kitchens.”

  Oh, this’ll be joyful t’deal with, Lewrie cringed to himself.

  He went on out the stout rear door, up the stone steps past the water pump, and into the back garden, a
smile creasing his face as he spotted Jessica, already seated at the table in the gazebo.

  “Done with your duties, dear? Good. Let me show you round,” Jessica said, springing from her chair to join him on the lawn and the white pea gravel walk. “Isn’t the garden ever so much nicer?”

  “It is indeed,” Lewrie had to admit. “You’ve simply done wonders.”

  The day was just warm enough, and the air in the garden lush with the aromas of blossoms and new-mown grass. Jessica led him round to admire the flower beds, naming them by turn, though the varieties went right past Lewrie’s head; he knew colours, and whether they were tall or short, skinny or bushy, and that was his horticultural knowledge, and all he needed to know.

  Pettus, now the house’s butler, came out with the tea tray and fixings, whilst Jessica’s personal maidservant, an adorable blonde woman named Lucy, brought out an array of pastries and wee edibles.

  “Shall I pour, sir?” Pettus asked, and at Lewrie’s nod, did so. Jessica preferred her tea with lemon slices, as long as lemons were obtainable, whilst Lewrie went for sugar and heavy cream.

  “How do you like shore duties, Pettus?” Lewrie asked as he eyed the sweet rolls, jams, and butter.

  “Oh, it’s quite fine, sir,” Pettus vowed, looking away, and at Lucy, “Dry, warm, safe in stormy weather, and … filled with infinite possibilities.”

  “Thank you, Pettus, Lucy,” Jessica said, sounding as if she had acquired the manners and authority of a proper housemistress. “I will ring if there’s anything else.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Pettus replied, and Lucy dipped a wee curtsy as they both went back into the house.

  “There is a reason for us to have a talk, Alan dear,” Jessica said, leaning her head towards him.

  “About my father being invited?” Lewrie japed, mouth filled by a sugar and cinnamon stuffed tartlet.

  “No, not that,” she said with a wee laugh. “It’s about Pettus and Lucy.”

  “What about ’em?” Lewrie asked.

  “They have fallen in love, and wish to marry, Alan,” Jessica told him. “Normally, that would mean that one, or both of them, would have to leave our employ, but … if we allow them, to ah…?”

  “Leave? Why?” Lewrie spluttered after a sip of tea.

  Long ago, when Pettus became his cabin steward, the lad had just been scooped up by the Press, roaring drunk in the pit of Hell after losing his employment at a Bishop’s residence, and separated from his true love, a girl named Nancy. Lewrie shook his head in the negative.

  “I was wondering, though, if we…” Jessica was saying.

  “Damned if they’ll have to leave, darling,” Lewrie told her and took her by surprise. “Not only can they stay on, we’ll throw them a wedding.” After another sip of tea, he turned his gaze to the coach house. “There’s rooms yonder, for a coachman and a groom, and it’d make a cozy lodging for a married couple, what? Of course, we’d have to find some stray cats, and Bully, t’clean out all the rats and the mice, first, but…”

  “Oh, my word. Alan,” Jessica gushed with joy, “you do have the soul of a romantic! I was hoping and praying that you could see your way to keeping them on! Oh, let me kiss you! My dear love!”

  That he would definitely allow! And, they could kiss and hug in the privacy of their own, walled garden.

  “They’ll be needin’ furnishings, though,” Lewrie speculated.

  “Clotworthy Chute’s emporium?” Jessica suggested.

  “Perfect!” Lewrie exulted, sitting back down, but holding her hand in his left as he raised his tea with his right.

  “Hoy, Bully, stop ’at!” Dasher yelled as he came running from the back door to the basement, mingled with the barking of the dogs. “Cap’m Lewrie, help! They’s after Harriet!”

  The rabbit was bounding about the garden in great leaps as the dogs, Bisquit, Bully the wee terrier, and Jessica’s usually docile spaniel, Rembrandt, chased after her.

  “No, dogs!” Jessica shouted. “Not my flower beds, my herbs!”

  “Bisquit!” Lewrie roared in his best quarterdeck voice. He rose to intercept them. Though it was a weird sort of chase, for none of the dogs had ever seen a rabbit outside of a cage, and Bisquit had shown no interest in the rabbits or quail in the forecastle manger; and it was good odds that Harriet had never seen a dog aboard ship, either. She might have been running and hopping to enjoy a wee bit of freedom, and the dogs were loping, not running after her just out of curiosity. The rabbit dashed between Lewrie’s feet, did a bound or two beyond, then got cornered by the back wall and gate and the stable. Bully gave out a series of sharp barks, getting into the spirit, which prompted Bisquit to let go with a few.

  “Don’t let them hurt it!” Jessica entreated, staying on the raised gazebo platform as if the rabbit was a very large mouse.

  Penned into a corner, Harriet did a great bound off the stable wall, right back at the dogs, leaping over Bully, who turned a back flip in surprise, and Bisquit collided with him, sending them both sprawling. Jessica’s dog stopped and sat on his haunches, letting out a very confused “Whuff!”

  Up the steps of the gazebo, then round the other side of the garden, Harriet flew, brought short at last at the back wall where Dasher caught her and scooped her up. The confused dogs trotted over to look up at the rabbit while Dasher stroked her, had a sniff or two, then dropped their front ends as if inciting more play.

  “Bad dogs,” Dasher chid them, cradling Harriet protectively, “Bad dogs!”

  “Let’s get her into her cage,” Lewrie suggested, walking over to ruffle all three dogs’ fur. “Maybe Harriet’ll end up chasin’ them like she did Chalky, hey?” Lewrie plucked a dandelion at the edge of a flower bed and offered it to the rabbit. “Jessica, want t’meet the rabbit?”

  “Oh, she’s darling!” Jessica cooed as she stroked Harriet’s ears and head. The rabbit squirmed to free her front paws so she could eat the dandelion. “She keeps in a cage? Perhaps, if the dogs are kept in the house, your pet can have the run of the garden, now and then. She surely can’t eat half what the squirrels can, Dasher.”

  “Oh, thankee, ma’am, thankee! She’d like that!” Dasher beamed.

  “What’s next, dear?” Jessica asked Lewrie. “Parrots? Pigs rooting up the lawn? I like animals, but a menagerie is not what I envisioned.”

  “You must admit that it was amusing, for a bit,” Lewrie said as he tossed off a hapless shrug.

  Thank God she smiled at that moment and began to titter. “You and our beasts are amusing.” She linked arms with him.

  “I’m pleased that you’re pleased,” Lewrie replied, giving her a hug.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Supper would be at seven, and the guests were told to arrive by six, giving everyone a chance to catch up on their doings over the year. Sir Hugo, Lewrie’s father, turned up in grey trousers strapped under the insoles of his low boots, with a cream waist-coat and black coat, in the finest Beau Brummel fashion, with his usual close-fitted white wig that, at first glance, resembled an actual head of hair.

  Reverend Chenery was black from head to toe but for the white bands at his collar, of course, beaming with joy to have his son home, in one piece, and in good health. Young Charles Chenery had changed into some of his old civilian suitings that, unfortunately, looked as outgrown as his uniforms, and Jessica gently chid him about it. The lad had earned some prize-money from his time aboard HMS Sapphire, so he could remedy that fault in short order, and with no need to draw upon his father’s finances, which Lewrie expected were as lean as they were when they’d sailed for Italy. The Reverend’s hobbies were just too expensive. He’d do better betting on horses, Lewrie thought.

  Madame Berenice Pellatan, was, as usual, the fashion plate of the gathering, rigged out in a colourful, nigh gaudy, gown with white shawl, and a high-piled older-fashioned wig sprigged with artificial flowers and butterflies. The French emigré artist who lodged at the manse at St. Anselm’s out of charity and taught drawing to
the parish children swept in with the grandeur of a vicomtesse of the greatest airs. Frankly, she’d always gotten up Lewrie’s nose, but, it seemed as if she would play the honoured widowed aunt to the Chenery family ’til the Second Coming.

  “Chevalier Alan, enchanté” she cooed as she offered a hand to be kissed. “Ooh la, how delightful to see you and young M’sieur Charles, back from your travails at sea. And Dame Jessica, how happy you look, how beau your appearance, to be re-united with your husband! Why, I could almost imagine your are dancing on your tiptoes!”

  “Just this afternoon, Madame,” Jessica japed, describing the “rabbit hunt” in the garden, to the amusement of all.

  “Ah, le aperitifs!” Madame Pellatan gushed as wine appeared, accompanied by some pastries.

  “The wine is a light, delicate vihno verde from Portugal,” Lewrie told everyone. “Found it at Gibraltar before we sailed for home.”

  “Ah, marvellous,” Reverend Chenery said after a tentative sip.

  “Alan brought home a grand selection of wines,” Jessica added, “Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and Sicilian. Sherries, ports, brandy, that are growing rarer on the London market.”

  “I could almost be termed a smuggler,” Lewrie japed.

  “Any Madeira, or Rainwater Port?” Sir Hugo asked.

  “Some Madeira, but not Rainwater,” Lewrie apologised, “it’s as rare as hens’ teeth. I think George Washington, a great lover of a Rainwater Port, bought it all up years ago, hah hah.”

  “Pity,” Sir Hugo grumped, “the club hasn’t seen a single bottle available in ages.”

  That led Reverend Chenery and Sir Hugo to talk about the Madeira Club, which Sir Hugo and some others had founded, and how it had been planned as a gentleman’s club and lodging for people who would never be invited to join White’s, Almack’s, Bootles or Brook’s.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Pettus announced at last, “supper is now ready to be served.” And down from the drawing room they trooped, to the dining room below to seat themselves, sorting themselves out in descending order of status.