Sea of Grey
Page 6
Lewrie, unfortunately, felt about as “headed” as any man born, even after rising at a lordly 9 A.M. dousing and scrubbing with a tin of hot water, and receiving a fresh shave from Aspinall whilst he had himself a wee nap. Three gulped cups of coffee had only made him bilious and gassy, with a tearing need to “pump his bilges,” much like a dairy cow on hard ground, at least thrice.
“Breakfast, sir?”
“Don’t b’lieve I’d manage solids this morning, Aspinall,” Alan replied with some asperity, “but thankee.”
His father, Sir Hugo, came bustling into the set of rooms, done up in his regimentals, less his tunic, and draped in a tan nankeen and flowersprigged embroidered dressing gown; face fresh-shaved and ruddy, eyes bright and clear, tail up, and bursting with bonhomie.
“Bloody awful mornin!” Sir Hugo rather loudly informed him. “It is rain, rain, rain. Urchins and mendicants’ll drown in this, just you wait an’ see!”
“Hush!” Lewrie begged, squinting one-eyed at that fell apparition, wondering why turning his head resulted in thick, swoony feelings.
“Dear Lord, still ‘foxed,’ are ye? Out o’ practice, I expect. Takes work, d’ye know … years o’ conditionin’,” his father said with a faint sneer at Lewrie’s lack of “training” as he swept back his gown, plucked a chair from the small card table, and plunked himself down … damn’ near by the numbers like a military drill, with all the requisite “squarebashing” thumps and thuds of the steel-backed Redcoat.
“Christ,” Lewrie grumbled, ready to cover his ears.
“Amateur,” Sir Hugo scoffed with a twinkle. “Ah!” he cried, as his swarthy, one-eyed Sikh manservant, Trilochan Singh, entered. The pockmarked bazaari-badmash with the swagger of a raja was the terror of half the goose-girls in Anglesgreen; all Surrey, too, for all Alan knew!
“Namasté,1 Leerie sahib!” Singh barked, at stiff attention with a stamp of his boots, damn near saluting in Guard-Mount fashion.
“Bloody Hell!” Lewrie groaned. “Chalé jao … mulaayam!”2
“Ah, ye do recall some Hindi!” his father noted, clapping his hands. “Pay him no mind, Singh. Chaay, krem ké saath, and naashté ké li-ye for do.”3
“Bahut achchaa, Weeby sahib! Ek dum!”4 Stamp-Crash, About-Turn, Crash-Crash-Crash, Quick March, Crash-Stamp Salute, Baroom, Slam Door!
Lewrie put his head in his hands and laid his forehead on that small table, feeling that whimpering in pain might not go amiss.
“Here, for Christ’s sake,” Sir Hugo growled, producing a flask of brandy and pouring. “Never heard o’ hair o’ the dog that bit ye? Decent French guzzle, too. Thank God for smugglers. This’ll put the spring back in your step, and clear the cobwebs. Aye … good lad.”
Lewrie made “Bbrring” noises, grimaces and gags, but the brandy seemed liable to stay down, and his vision did slightly clear.
“Caroline scarpered, I take it?” Sir Hugo asked, gazing about the set of rooms, noting the lack of children, noise, clutter, and luggage.
“Aye, more’s the pity … soon as they got back from the park,” Lewrie mournfully informed him, giving him a precis of her letter, too.
“Well, damme,” his father harumphed. “Thought she had more sense than that. Not that she didn’t shew it, anent your finances. At least there’s no mention of divorcement. Now, were it I who got such a note, I’d heave a great sigh, cry ‘thank God for gettin’ off so cheap’ then dance off t’me bus’ness. Won’t break you, after all … and, there’s a sum of prize money still owin’ that’s yours alone.”
“Damn!” was Lewrie’s sour comment to that. “She’s my wife, not a deal gone wrong, they’re my children, not … oh, why bother trying to explain such to you!”
“Aye, I forgot, I’m a callous ol’ bastard,” Sir Hugo replied as casually as if he’d been told he had grey eyes. “Ah! Breakfast!”
Trilochan Singh entered astern the housemaid, who bore a large tray full of covered dishes, looking like to pinch or goose her, once the tray was safe. Boiling-hot tea was quickly poured, with cream in a small silver plate ewer, and a footed silver bowl of brown West Indies turbinado sugar, pre-pared from the loaf. Aspinall attempted to assist, but was outbustled by the maid and Singh as they removed the lids to reveal both fried and scrambled eggs, buttered hot rusks, and a choice of sizzly-crisp bacon or sliced roast beef.
Lewrie stared at the repast, pondering and massaging his belly, cautiously inhaling the savoury odours and steams; watching, as his father turned a brace of fried eggs into a soupy mess with knife and fork, spooned up some jam to slather on half a rusk, then dredged it in the eggs and took a bite.
“Only enemies of the Borgias died of eatin’,” his father said, chewing and sighing most ecstatically. “Trust me … the greasier the better, in your condition.”
Lewrie tentatively allowed his plate to be laden. Hot tea with cream and sugar, well … hmm, well, well! More cobwebs cleared. A taste of bacon … a forkful of eggs, which needed pepper and a lot of salt, he discovered. The roast beef was a tad dry and crusty, perhaps leftovers of last night’s fare in the common rooms, but … my my, was that mango chutney in the jar with which to liven it up? Yum! Oh, even better, for here came a dab of fried, diced potatoes … his favourite “tatty hash”!
The rusks were crunchy, but softened with good butter, and the jam was a tangy-sweet lime marmalade, and good God, was he out of tea so soon?
“Lazarus … come forth!” Sir Hugo said with a snicker.
“Mmmmf … something like that,” Lewrie confessed, swallowing.
There was a knock at the door, which Aspinall answered, coming to the table a moment later. “There’s a note come for ya, sir,” he announced, setting it beside Lewrie’s plate, sealed and folded shut, with no return address—local? A sudden pall fell over the table.
“Well?” his father pressed at last, as Alan studiously ignored it. “It can’t be from Caroline, surely. She ain’t that prolific!”
Lewrie opened it, wishing he had tongs, sure it’d scald … .
“Ah,” Lewrie commented, after reading the salutation, with the sang-froid he rarely displayed aboard ship. “Of a sort … it regards Caroline,” he lied (main-well, he thought!) as he refolded it and stuck it in his waistcoat pocket. “From my solicitor, Mountjoy. She must have sent him a note before coachin’ back to Anglesgreen. He asks me to come round.”
Actually, he’d meant to call upon Mr. Matthew Mountjoy that day, to make an equitable arrangement—or one that wouldn’t break him!
“I see,” his father replied, going back to his breakfast, but with a leery cast to his eyes; too blasé-bland for comfort!
Not a total lie, Lewrie consoled himself; but, damme, do I dare? All I can do with Theoni is accept her sorrow that she caused a mess in the park yesterday! Be a damn’ fool t’go, but … Gawd, what if she finally cries ‘belly plea’ to a court and takes what I’ve left to keep up her … our son? No, surely not, not Theoni, she’s rich as Croesus in her own right … the currant trade, an’ all? Hmmm … still.
And he thought it deuced odd that, far from having his breakfast turn to lead in his stomach from even more to worry about, he was digesting rather well, thankee very much!
Catastrophe can be stood, he decided!
CHAPTER SIX
South Montagu Mews was a very fashionable street, Nor’east of Oxford Street and its confluence with Park Lane and Hyde Park, within nonstrenuous walking distance, really. Though not quite as costly an address as the more stately Montagu Square, it was better than passing-fair as a place to hang one’s hat.
Much like the Navy, London houses were under The Rates for tax purposes. A house that took up 900 square feet of footing, no matter how tall, was a First Rate—and Mistress Theoni Connor’s was!
“Done herself proud,” Lewrie muttered to himself as he climbed down from the back of the one-horse hack that was little better than a two-wheeled country dogcart with a canvas covering, and paid his cabman.
&nbs
p; A sullen rain still fell, but nowhere near the morning’s deluge, so, clad in a snugly impervious boat-cloak, and a cocked hat that had already seen its share of “heavy weather,” he could take time to assay the street and the house before him.
It was a homey red-brown brick, set off with the white cornices and stone bands so popular in the ’50s and ’60s, with an elevated doorway at the left-hand side, redone Palladian, and trimmed with railings in ornate wrought iron filigree; two wide windows filled the right-hand side. Above, there was the ostentation of a wrought iron balcony across the whole of the first upper floor. It was a four-storey house, with three windows set in each level. Even with a typical two rooms per floor, it was a lot of house!
Up and down the street, Lewrie could see a mix of old brick and the more fashionable Italianate facades that people insisted on putting on lately.
He ascended the steps up from the sidewalk to the door, and lifted the knocker—a grinning Venetian lion’s head shockingly similar to the one on his own door, back in Anglesgreen! For a second, he felt his resolve melt, feeling in his bones that seeing Theoni in person was a really bad idea, but … she had asked to see him, for him to call, and they did have a child in common—purportedly. Chiding himself for a coward, he began to rap the knocker.
A cherubic older fellow in a suit of plain, dark grey “ditto” opened the door and beamed at him with the smile of a well-fed prelate in a rich parish. “Sir?” he asked.
“Captain Lewrie, come to call … I believe your mistress expects me?” Lewrie replied, a bit more tentatively than he liked.
“Come into the front parlour, sir … Captain Lewrie, and I’ll inform Mistress Connor of your arrival,” the old fellow bade, bowing as he stepped aside to wave him in. “Just this way, sir … I do believe you are expected, though there was no reply to mistress’s note … ?” he seemed to scold; obviously, the old catch-fart knew more of his employer’s business than was good for him, though Theoni could only have hired him in the last year. He accepted Lewrie’s hat and boat cloak, but only took them as far as the mirrored coat-stand; easily fetched if she shooed him off, or had no time for him.
The parlour was impressive; pale green walls were nicely set off with stark, gleaming white wood trim. Pastoral artwork was hung, along with gilt-framed mirrors. The massive fireplace was smokey-threaded white marble, and the furnishings were upholstered in pale yellow or in floralpatterned ecru, atop gleaming wood floors carpeted here and there with Turkey rugs. There were rather good books in the cases, and might even have been read once, though Lewrie suspected they’d been picked up at a secondhand auction by the lot, displayed mostly for the ornate gilt bindings—the way most new homeowners who aspired to Society did! Lots of brass and silver plate objects out for show …
“Alan … Captain Lewrie!” Theoni called, spinning him about.
“M-Mistress Connor,” he barely had the wit to say, though in his heart, as deeply in trouble as he was, thinking “Yum!”
She wore one of those Frenchified concoctions, in an un-widowly azure with white trim, a high waist sash, and no underpinnings, so the gown hung straight, clinging as she walked toward him with her hands out in greeting; puffed upper sleeves, very tight lower sleeves, down to her wrists, and a very low neckline. Her russet-chestnut hair was long and loose, but gathered with matching ribbons.
So exotic-looking, with wide, high cheeks in a fairly lean face, a squareish jaw that tapered to a pert chin, a wide and generous mouth graced by such full, plump lips, eyes so amber-brown and slanted almond-shaped … those gently bobbing poonts!
Their hands met below waist-level, decorously keeping them apart for the servant’s eyes, at least, though there was a glimmer of joy in her eyes. She gave his hands a shake, then frowned.
“Sorry, I forgot your noble wound,” she said ruefully. “Not the first you’ve borne,” she commented, releasing his left hand. “Captain Lewrie was my rescuer in the Adriatic, Mobley. He took a wound fighting for my life there, as well.”
“Yes, madam,” the old servant replied, bobbing, blinking, and nigh fawning, admiring the two medals twinkling on Lewrie’s chest.
“We’ll have coffee, Mobley.”
“Right away, madam.”
She led him to a settee, each taking one end, with a space apart; again, decorously. There followed some idle chit-chat ’til the coffee arrived, delivered by an older maidservant.
“That should do for now,” Theoni said.
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid replied, bobbing a curtsy and departing.
“Man and wife,” Theoni announced after she had gone.
“Hey?” Lewrie could but gawp. Gawd, what’d she mean by … !
“Mobley and his wife … the maid,” Theoni explained. “I took them both on, together. She also cooks. I try to run a small staff, now that the French have occupied the Ionian islands. The currant business is disrupted, you see. They now hold poor Zante, and the English House. My parents get a letter out, now and then. They say things are bad, though the French buy currants, as well. Even if they are tyrants. And tyrants never pay well, not like the days before, so …”
Right, she’s our for blood and money, Lewrie thought, steeling himself for a “touch” on his savings!
“You are not in, uhm … financial distress, are you?” he asked, thinking he was getting to the point.
“Oh, no, Alan!” Theoni chuckled, with a generous grin. “What my in-laws sell is dearer than before, and you English must have jams and preserves for your puddings and duffs! I merely take sensible precautions against wasteful expenses. An annual trip to Bristol, so Michael knows his late father’s kin … but I do not aspire to a country house or acres, and I do not quite follow London style. I stay in town the whole year round.”
“Reassurin’ for your servants, then,” Lewrie said, feeling as if he would exhale with a loud whoosh if allowed. “No one laid off at the end of the Season, when most folks head for the country, and they end up broke and homeless ’til the Quality come back.”
“Yes. It makes for a certain … loyalty,” Theoni supposed as she poured coffee for them. “Should I have sent for tea, instead? I prefer coffee … strong and dark, the Turkish way. All those tyrants were ever good for, but …”
Lewrie sugared his and sipped; it was ambrosia! Strong, dark, and heady, indeed, quite unlike most of the coffee served in London.
“The Turkish way is perfect, thankee,” he agreed most happily.
“Now,” she intoned, setting down her cup, leaning back all prim and folding her hands in her lap. “The reason I asked you to call. I am so very sorry for what you suffered in the park, yesterday … at your hour of honour and triumph, after all! Alan, believe me, it was never my intention to … what we had … it was always my hope that it would remain only between us.”
“Have,” Lewrie added, turning glum, though able to look her in the eyes; and was puzzled to see her almost stiffen in response, those eyes of hers glittering too brightly, with the ghost of a grin upon her lips! “Father says he has my eyes. Mean t’say …”
“Yes, he does,” Theoni cheerfully confessed. “More than your eyes. Barely a year old now, and I swear that he already has your … boldness. I know the world would say that I should feel shame, but I do not. I never will,” she vowed, slipping a tad closer to him on the settee, her voice gentle and cooey … loving! “Your wife … did she know, or …?”
“Suspected,” Lewrie said with a sigh, outlining the anonymous letter and its results, despite his father’s assurances back in the summer that he’d seen Alan Connor and saw no resemblance, how there were too many other affairs hinted at. Theoni nodded patiently, and sagely through it all, sipping coffee and pouring warm-ups, but with her gaze demurely averted.
Disappointed, ’cause she’s findin’ out I’m a total rake-hell? he asked himself as he took note of her seeming discomfort; Christ, does she harbour some notion I’d leave Caroline for her, since we have that child, together, or … ?
“Alan, you poor man! I never meant to cause you such a pain!” she vowed, shifting even closer and opening her arms into which he rather gladly sank.
“Didn’t quite plan on it, myself!” he countered, trying for the light note and almost making it, though a tad shakily. “Oh, hell …”
“I must say, though,” she mused as she stroked his hair, leant quite close, almost cheek to cheek, “the look she gave me, just as we were introduced, filled me with dread. If only we had taken another pathway in the park, begun our walk earlier, or …”
“Had to happen, sooner or later, I s‘pose,” Lewrie graveled. “I expect, did her curiosity get the better of her, she’d have called on you on her own. Just what you need, a plague of Lewries ’fronting you in the streets. My father, my bloody in-laws … !”
“Well, Alan,” Theoni all but cooed, “some Lewries are more welcome than others. I was quite surprised by your father’s arrival. A very droll old gentleman.”
“He behaved himself, then?” Lewrie just had to ask; he knew his father too well to trust him around any available, and handsome, lass.
“Quite well.” Theoni chuckled again. “Though he does have the … jaunty? Is that the right word? The jaunty leer in his eye?”
“Aye, jaunty,” Lewrie said with a wry smile. “’Tis the tamest way for what he had in his eye to be said in polite company.”
“Imagine my surprise when he did call,” Theoni said, sitting up and reaching for her cup once more. “Mobley announced a General Lewrie, and I thought he had gotten it wrong … that it was you! He told me about that letter. He apologised for intruding, for … probing about at your wife’s request. Barging in upon a total stranger.”