“Dame Lewrie is still up, sir, in the drawing room,” Pettus said, pointing upwards. “I’ll have Deavers fetch you a fresh pot and a glass of something.”
“Good, good,” Lewrie said, pulling something from his overcoat pocket.
“And what is that, sir?” Pettus had to ask.
“A loving cup, Pettus,” Lewrie said with a laugh. “See? It now appears I’m a champion to all animals.”
The cup, a chalice really, was about eight inches high, with a wide, scrolled base, and ornate scrollwork round the lip, fitted with two handles. It was sterling silver, rather heavy, and bore an inscription—Capt. Sir Alan Lewrie, RN, Bt. Champion of All Animals.
“Perhaps if I drink from it, I’ll be able to converse with the dogs, and the cat, what?” Lewrie japed as he trotted upstairs. “Hallo, Jessica my darling. I’m back!”
“So, how did your supper go?” Jessica asked, too comfortable and warm to rise from her armchair by the fireplace, with her feet up on a hassock, and a throw on her from the waist to her shod feet. She did lower the book she was reading, and seemed amused.
“Oh, what a horrendous bore,” Lewrie said, leaning down to give her a kiss. “But, I got this. They told me it was sterling silver.”
Jessica took it to look over, and read the inscriptions.
“The National Society To Eliminate Cruelty In All Forms Against Animals, well well, that’s a mouthful,” she commented with one brow up in wry wonder. “Tell me all about it.”
“Well, there was about half an hour before we sat down to eat,” Lewrie said, going to the fireplace to spread the lapels of his coat and warm his chilled hands. “All sorts of bowing and curtsying, and handshakes. Milord this, milady that. They have at least two Barons, a Viscount, and a Marquis as members, and their ladies along. All the names went right past my head, anyway, for I never heard the like. They’re not so much about preventin’ cruelty as they are doin’ away with any sports that involve beasts. Oh, hallo, Bisquit, can you guess where I’ve been? Can you smell supper on me?”
He felt a tug on his trouser leg, looked down, wiggled fingers, and Buffer scrambled nimbly up to his chest, far enough to touch noses, and give Lewrie’s a licking.
“What sort of sports?” Jessica asked, still studying the cup.
“They’re not high on horse racin’, for one,” Lewrie told her, “they think steeplechasin’ is too dangerous for man or beast, besides what it does to poor people’s crops, fox huntin’ is pretty much just as bad, and of course, dog fightin’, bear baitin’, cock fightin,’ and all things like that should be banned.
“Anyway,” he went on, turning to present his chill backside to the fire and stroke the cat, “it was all rather pleasant, at first. We sat down to a tasty supper, beef barley soup, salad greens, and only God knows where they got ’em this time o’ year. Cod for fish, game hens for fowl … rather ironic if you think about it … then roast beef, and lots of vegetable removes, and again, who knows where they found ’em. Maybe have their own hot houses. There was even asparagus and Brussels sprouts!”
“Fresh?” Jessica exclaimed. “My word, I wish I had gone with you!”
“Aye, fresh, or fresh-ish,” Lewrie assured her. “And Nerot’s Hotel has a decent wine cellar, to boot. As the guest of honour, they treated me quite well, and everyone wanted t’chat me up.
“’Til we got to the business part of the meetin’,” he went on, tossing off a quick scowl. “They simply had to read the minutes of the last meeting, which went on and on and on, then open the floor to present matters, and everyone wanted t’stick their oar in about what they discussed last month, how much they’d spent on printin’ tracts and was it too much, would they hire an artist to draw a carter beatin’ on his burro, or his pony. Someone rises to propose this, is there anyone who’d second it, and they’re wranglin’ like so many bears that’ve read Robert’s Rules of Order. I began t’nod off ’til they got round to me and the cup, chalice, or whatever it is.
“I wasn’t told I had to speechify, love,” Lewrie said, sighing as he sat down in the opposite armchair, his backside warm at last.
“Were you sobre enough by then?” Jessica teased.
“Barely,” Lewrie said with a scoffing laugh. “I told you the wine cellars at Nerot’s are good. I told them I was that mad that anyone’d dare steal our dear dogs … yes Bisquit, I’m talkin’ about you,” he cooed as Bisquit laid his front paws on his leg, earning him some pets and head rubs. “… and physically harm you or Lucy, and that I’m not the kind t’wring my hands and trust to the police, or a ransom, to get them back. I told ’em how rewardin’ it was t’clean up the other dogs, place advertisements so people could come and reclaim their dogs, and I was humbled and honoured t’be honoured for what I’d do to the Frogs if they were in the business of stealin’ dogs, and thankee kindly,” he concluded. “Then I got out o’ there as quickly and courteously as I could, and hope never t’hear from that giddy lot the rest of my days.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” Jessica sniggered, a hand over her mouth as she laughed. “You bear a hero’s burden so well!”
“And there’s the proof of it,” Lewrie japed, pointing at the cup in Jessica’s lap.
Bisquit shifted closer, got his front end and his head onto Lewrie’s lap for more “wubbies,” which irked the cat, who jumped down and went to Jessica’s chair, scrambled up the throw over her and padded up to stick his head into the bowl of the chalice, looking for a treat.
“Your master is champion of all animals in the world, Buffer,” Jessica cooed to it as she rubbed his head and chest, “did you know it, little one?”
Buffer dropped to his belly and crawled up to lie on her chest, purring so loud that Lewrie could hear it from his chair.
“Are you sure he was a stray, Alan?” Jessica had to ask. “He’s so very good at using his sand box, he hardly ever climbs the drapes, and he only sharpens his claws on that tree limb you set up in my parlour. I suspect he was someone’s housepet, let out for the morning near the thieves’ lair, and just wandered in hoping to catch himself a mouse amid all the barrels in that abandoned building.”
“Hmm,” Lewrie mused aloud, eyeing Buffer more closely. “He was remarkably clean for a stray, at that. Used to people, and came right up to us, and not just for some leftover scraps. He even gets along with the dogs, like he’s used t’bein’ round ’em. Hmm.”
“Buffer,” Jessica whispered to the cat, “your master just may be a cat buffer. Poor baby, you’ve been kidnapped and held against your will!”
Whatever Buffer thought of that made no difference; he just went a little higher up her chest and began to lick her nose, doing a very thorough job of it, and purring even louder.
* * *
It was days later when his father, Sir Hugo, coached round and asked if Lewrie would join him for a supper at the Madeira Club. It had been a long time since Lewrie had haunted the place on a temporary basis when up to London to call upon Admiralty. He’d taken his house in Dover St., then bought it when Jessica accepted his proposal, and with a wife and a home of his own he hadn’t even thought of going there since.
“It’s more of a quarterly meeting on club business,” Sir Hugo told him as a porter took their hats, overcoats, gloves, and walking sticks.
“Oh, now you tell me?” Lewrie said with an exaggerated groan of protest, “What am I here for, then, to nudge you awake when you nod off? They get to numbers and debts, and my own eyes’ll glaze over!”
“Sir Malcolm will be here,” Sir Hugo said. “He’ll be glad to see you, as I’m certain you are glad to see him. It’s been a while. Ah! Mister Hoyle!” his father cried as he shook hands with the long-time club manager. “I must say the results of the expansion are delightful, and the re-doing of the decor masterful, as grand as any gentlemen’s club in London.”
“Thank you for saying so, Sir Hugo,” Hoyle replied, “she is now properly grand, isn’t she? And Sir Alan! Welcome back. It has been far too long sin
ce you’ve dined with us. Come along, sirs, and join us in the Common Room.”
Part of the far wall had been knocked down to create a double door passage into the new annex, made into a library, expanding the older Common Room to twice its previous size. There were new carpets, brighter paint, more chandeliers overhead, and even more settees and leather chairs. They’d even added a second fireplace, and warm air wafted into the room, making even faraway seating comfortable.
“Sir Malcolm” Lewrie said, extending a hand to Sir Malcolm Shockley, one of the original group of founders. He had been of only middling wealth before coal was found on his estate, and now he was a most prosperous looking older fellow. Sir Malcolm, though, had the misfortune to have been besotted with the much younger Lucy Beauman, a girl Lewrie had lusted after in the West Indies in his teens. He and Lucy had married, and Sir Malcolm had worn a “cuckold’s horns” ever since, whether he knew it or not; Lewrie suspected that he did not, for Sir Malcolm was just too decent a gentleman.
“Aha, Lewrie!” Shockley boomed, “Or should I say Sir Alan now. As fit as a fiddle, and the very image of the man I last saw in the Adriatic. Grand times in Venice, before you dealt with the Serbian pirates. You don’t age at all, do you, sir, haw haw! I read of your marriage, though I was sorry I could not attend, but both Lucy and I pray that you and your lady wife are happy and content.”
“Well, thank you, Sir Malcolm, aye, Jessica and I wished that you could have attended, but we are both very happy, and well settled.”
“Dame Lewrie’s an artist, sir,” Sir Hugo boasted, “She does the most remarkably lifelike portraits, illustrations for novels, and amusing paintings suitable for children.”
When did he get proud of her? Lewrie wondered.
“You and Lucy must dine with me some evening,” Sir Hugo went on, “and see some of her work. I’d not force my aged likeness on a club wall, but you might consider being painted to hang in here as one of the founders.”
“Why, I and my wife would be delighted, Sir Hugo,” Shockley said with some joy, “if you invite Sir Alan and his talented lady. We must meet this prodigy.”
“Well, if it ain’t Sir Alan Lewrie,” older Mr. Giles, who was big in leather goods, cackled as he came up to greet them. Behind him were Mr. Showalter, in town for deliberations in the Commons, Mr. Pilkinton, who was in corn, and a gloomy sort usually sure the markets would crash the next morning, even ex-Major Baird, along with an host of members, most new ones unknown to Lewrie or his father.
Lewrie left his father’s side to greet the older members whom he knew, and allow himself to be introduced to the new ones.
“Sir Alan’s a fighter, gentlemen,” Baird boasted to the circle of younger members, “a proper hero of our Navy, and the victor of more sea battles than most of us have had hot suppers, hah hah! He’s been particularly dashing when he’s ashore, too. Can’t keep an active man idle, what? I’m certain that most of you read about it in the papers?”
Whether they had or not, Baird, with occasional assisting comments from Mr. Showalter, told the story of the kidnapping of the family dogs, the injury to Lewrie’s wife, the ferreting out and the raid on the dog buffers’ lair, their arrest and trial, and the reclaiming of all the other pets.
“Now now, gentlemen,” Lewrie said, trying to sound modest, “it was nothing.”
“But sir, why then have you been crowned the champion of animals?” a younger fellow blurted out.
“What?” Lewrie asked. “Where did you hear about that?”
“You have not seen these tracts, Sir Alan?” the young man said, pulling them from a breast pocket of his coat.
“Good God, how … lurid!” Lewrie gawped. One tract, done by a dab-hand caricaturist, depicted children weeping, praying, lifting hands to Heaven over the corpses of their dead dogs and cats, with a large WILL YOU HELP END THIS?, the text decrying a long list of cruelties inflicted on domestic animals, urging people to donate and join the Society.
Another showed a carter, with an evil grimace on his face, whipping a starving horse that was already down on the cobblestones, sure to die in its traces, from abuse and lack of food.
The third was the worst.
END SUCH DEPRAVITY TOWARDS ANIMALS! it blared, JOIN US! FOLLOW OUR LATEST HERO! That caricaturist must have been at that supper at Nerot’s Hotel, for he’d done a fair depiction of Lewrie, a large and flaming sword in one hand worthy of an avenging angel, and the other hand thrust upwards holding that damned chalice. Lewrie’s hair was waving in the wind, and at his knees, he was dubbed CHAMPION OF ANIMALS!
“Oh, mine arse on a bloody band-box!” Lewrie spluttered as the circle round him began to laugh.
The major patrons of the Society were listed, with Lewrie’s name at the bottom of the list, right above a long screed about the goals. They would ban horse racing, fox hunting, steeplechasing, cock fights, dog fights, bear baiting, greased pig races, duck pulling, the mis-use of whips, spurs, quirts, and horse whips on draught animals and riding horses, the drowning of un-wanted puppies and kittens, the fiendish torture of strays in the streets, starving and over-working, and lashing working beasts by ignorant un-Christian common folk.
“No no no, oh no!” Lewrie gawped, getting louder by each word. “I never agreed with those lunaticks! I never joined their damn-fool Society, I never gave ’em tuppence! Gentlemen, this is all a lie, I tell you! I’m not one of them, and never will be! They dined me out for gettin’ those dogs back, I said thankee and left! They had no right to think I buy their … shite! God damn it, and God damn them.”
But, each protestation only seemed to goad the guffaws louder.
“I’ll bloody sue!” Lewrie roared.
“What’s all this?” Sir Hugo asked, drawn by the laughing.
“This!” Lewrie barked, shoving the tracts at him. “Vouch for me, father. I’ve ridden to hounds, gentlemen, I’ve hared cross-country at steeplechasin’ when I was younger, and foolish, I’ve been to cock fights … lost money on the birds I picked. It’s what two cocks do when they meet! Bear baitin’? Not a lot o’ that happenin’ lately, ’cause where the Devil do you find a bear in England? They import ’em from Sweden, Russia, or Spain! I went to one, and that was for the lack of a bear! I swear to you, I am maligned!”
“Haw haw haw!” from his own father. “The champion of animals? Hee hee hee!”
Just like you, you always let me down! Lewrie fumed in his head.
“All this is a lot of codswallop, sirs,” Sir Hugo exclaimed once he got over his laughter. “My son puts his money on the wrong horse, or the wrong cock, but he adores all the grand outdoor pursuits of an English gentleman … racing, fox hunting, village games and county fairs, cock fights. We would breed fighting cocks if we were down in Surrey more often. I don’t know if suing this pack of fools would avail, but … hmm. That supper you unfortunately attended. How many were there, besides the nitwits on this list?”
“Oh, fourty, fifty at best?” Lewrie told him.
“Sirs, where did you find these tracts?” Sir Hugo asked the men gathered round. “Did they have a lot of them? Were passersby taking them?”
“Ehm, I saw an elderly couple, sir,” the young fellow who had shown them first said, “they had a small stack, no more than fifty or so, and hardly anyone was taking them, and those who did balled them up and tossed them away. Why, some who read them went back to curse them for a pack of fools.”
“Aha!” Sir Hugo barked. “This list of patrons … I happen to know that this Marquis is merely scraping by on pride, this Viscount actually sold half his acres to keep himself from debtors’ prison, ruining what his eldest son would inherit, and these Barons have been made so as reward for their long careers at Cambridge. Haw! Not an hundred pounds ’twixt all of them, so suing them’s right out. Better you write a letter to The Times to clear your escutcheon, my lad.”
“It is amusing, though,” Mr. Giles wheezed, still wiping tears from his eyes. “Isn’t it?”
�
�For a moment,” Sir Malcolm told them. “And the moment’s passed.”
“I need a stiff drink,” Lewrie declared.
“My dear sir, let me stand you one!” Mr. Baird declared. “Here, waiter! A double measure of brandy for Sir Alan.”
“My thanks, Mister Baird,” Lewrie said.
“Ehm, now that we have a quorum present, gentlemen, let’s take seats and open the quarterly business meeting,” Sir Malcolm directed.
“You want these?” Sir Hugo muttered, shoulder-to-shoulder with his son, offering the scurrilous tracts.
“Only do I need to run to the ‘jakes’ after supper,” Lewrie told him, grimacing in disgust. “Mine arse of a band-box, what have I gotten myself into this time?”
“A very minor embarrassment, gone and forgotten by the world by tomorrow morning,” Sir Hugo told him, wadding them up and ready to toss them into the nearest fireplace. “But I must say, you have the knack for looking like a fool. You always have.”
“Oh, thank you so very bloody much … pater,” Lewrie growled as his brandy came. He took a goodly swig, winced and bared his teeth, then sulked his way to a leather armchair, sure to be bored to tears with the reading of the minutes, and the listing of assets and debits.
Gettin’ talked into comin’ along is another of my mistakes, he told himself as he squirmed to get comfortable; I hope he’s right, though, that it blows over.
But then, he was reminded that his father had never been that helpful with parental advice, on much of anything!
* * *
When he told Jessica about it, she was appalled, but her sympathy vanished as soon as she found it amusing, so much so that she buried her face in a settee toss-pillow and cackled so loudly that she wheezed for breath. At breakfast the next morning, sedately enjoying scrambled eggs and sausages, the word “champion” came to mind and her voice, and this time it was a napkin she used to stifle herself.
Later, when he announced that he would stroll up New Bond St. to look for some new books to read, she saw him off in the entry hall.
Much Ado About Lewrie Page 32
