“After breakfast, or right this instant?” his father said with a scowl. He bit off a large mouthful of toast and chewed, with a wee glint in his eyes. After swallowing, he further said, “Sorry to see you go, parting is such sweet sorrow,… all that. Though it will be grand to have my house, and its peace, back.”
“God, but you’re the soul of hospitality,” Lewrie scoffed as he came back down from his sudden elation, righting his chair, and sitting back down to resume his breakfast. “If you hold me to be your Prodigal Son, you could at least send me off with the fatted calf!”
“Then we shall have roast beef for dinner … or will you be staying on for supper tonight?” Sir Hugo enquired with pointed sarcasm.
“A carriage to arrange, packing to do,” Lewrie ticked off, “and a Midshipman to collect. Thank God my shopping’s done already. It’ll take a full day t’get back to Portsmouth, if the weather and the roads are passable. Start before first light tomorrow? Ehm … do you still maintain a coach and four?”
“What?” Sir Hugo barked, leaning back in amazement. “Bang up my coach, leave my picked team at some shoddy wayside inn to be stolen? You’ll have to hire your own, boy, and the best of luck to you.”
“The soul of Christian charity you are, too,” Lewrie snapped. “I should have known better, by now, to even ask.”
“I’ll lend you the use of my footmen to hunt up a hired coach, and pass what letters you must,” Sir Hugo grudgingly allowed, as if he felt he’d gone too far towards selfishness. “You are my Prodigal Son, after all, the only one I’d care to claim, anyway.”
“Well, thank you for that,” Lewrie replied, then returned to his breakfast, His father paid closer attention to his own plate, and several minutes passed in uncomfortable silence.
“Mean t’say…,” his father said after stirring cream and sugar into a fresh cup of coffee, “I will allow that I’ve never been what most would call a proper, dutiful father. It ain’t in my nature, d’ye see, never has been. Children, my God, what bothers they are! Get in the way of a man’s life, they do! I’ve tried, in my own way…,” he trailed off, shaking his head.
“Believe me, I’ve noticed,” Lewrie said with an ironic smile.
“They’re best dealt with when they’re grown and on their own,” Sir Hugo said, sighing. “And, what with the Navy, and the wars, I’ve got used to you being … somewhere else, with the odd letter now and then to keep me up with your doings.”
“Well, the acorn don’t fall far from the tree,” Lewrie allowed, confessing his own lacks as a parent. “I was never home with mine, not after Ninety-Three. I’ve seen Hugh of late, haven’t clapped eyes on Sewallis in years, and Charlotte, well … I don’t care t’see her and that’s mutual. I did enjoy ’em when they were little, in the few years I was home, but … you may be right.”
“And, I must confess that I’ve become … set in my ways,” his father said, making a wry face. “At my age, I prefer things to be … sensible, with no upsets. It really has been grand to have you, even for a few days, but I will enjoy the quiet once you’ve gone.”
“I love you, too, you old rogue,” Lewrie said, chuckling.
“Ahem!” Sir Hugo replied, grimacing in acknowledgement, as if to put an end to a maudlin moment, as close to saying “I love you, too” as he would come, and that was the end of the matter.
* * *
Sir Hugo had offered his leave-taking blessings an hour or so after the night’s supper, preferring to sleep through Lewrie’s departure before sun-up. He had, however, directed his kitchen staff to lay on a small basket of food for the journey. Lewrie had perhaps his last hot, shore bath for some time, and a close shave, before retiring for a few hours of rest. All his preparations were a strain on the house staff, to heat and fetch up the water to fill the copper tub, then remove it when Lewrie was done, to prepare that basket of food, and for one unfortunate footman to sit up and watch a mantel clock so he could wake some of the staff, and Lewrie and Pettus. The butler, Harwell, turned up in a quilted dressing gown to unlock the door when the coachman arrived, and knocked. Sleepy, bleary-eyed footmen bore Lewrie’s traps to the coach’s boot and interior, a last-minute mug of tea for the coachman had to be fetched, and when the empty mug was reclaimed, and the coach rattled off, Lewrie was sure that everyone was perfectly sick of his presence, and glad to be shot of him!
* * *
“There are lights in the windows, sir,” Pettus said as their coach drew to a halt in front of the rectory of St. Anselm’s, “so they must be up.”
“Aye,” Lewrie agreed as he kicked the folding metal steps down and dismounted from the coach. He took a deep sniff of the night air, before climbing the stone steps to the front door. At that hour the smell of coal smoke was less, and he could imagine that the cold was not as biting as the day before, and the fog that haloed the lanthorns either side of the door was not as thick, or wet-smelling.
He rapped with the heavy iron door knocker, and a sleepy maid in a mob-cap over dishevelled hair turned the locks and opened it and waved him in. She could not stifle her wide yawn.
“Good morning,” Lewrie said, right-perkily for that early hour, “Captain Alan Lewrie, come to collect Midshipman Chenery.”
“The family’s in the parlour, sir … this way,” the maid said, leading him deeper into the house.
“Good morning, Reverend Chenery,” Lewrie said, sweeping off his new bicorne hat and bowing from the waist as he took in the new faces. There was young Charles Chenery, now in uniform, and standing by his sea-chest, looking quite eager to go.
“Sir Alan,” the Reverend replied in like manner, fully dressed himself but not yet shaven, “allow me to name to you my long-time house guest, Madame Bernice Pellatan. She and her late husband were Royalist refugees who have resided as the parish’s guests for some time, now.”
“M’sieur chevalier Capitaine, enchanté,” a blowsy, over-done older woman cooed as she performed a deep curtsy, with a graceful incline of her head.
“Madame Pellatan, enchanté, aussi,” Lewrie replied, bowing and making a “leg” to her.
Must sleep in all that bloody make-up! he thought.
“And, may I name to you my youngest daughter, Jessica,” the Reverend Chenery continued. “Jessica, this is Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, and Captain of Charlie’s new ship.”
“Mistress Jessica, so happy to make your acquaintance,” Lewrie said, repeating his “leg” as she dipped him a curtsy less grand than the older woman’s.
“Sir Alan,” the young lady replied, looking him right in the eye as she rose, “you will excuse me if I am of two minds regarding making your acquaintance … you are taking my little brother to sea, and war.”
I think I’m in love! Lewrie thought; Well, maybe lust. Hands t’yerself, idiot. Am I droolin’? Good Lord, what a beauty!
Jessica Chenery had not made the same effort as her father or Madame Pellatan to make a proper show. She wore a high-necked winter wool drab-brown gown, with a pale grey shawl over her shoulders, but then, that was more than enough.
She had her younger brother’s dark hair, so dark brown that it was almost black, and, like her brother, her eyes were dark blue. Her brows were dark, thick, and nicely arched. At that early hour, she’d not braided, plaited, or pinned her hair up, either, but had bound it back in a loose fall, though loose locks draped part of her face.
Jessica Chenery’s face was a very English long oval, with good cheek bones, tapering to a square-ish wee chin; her nose was long and straight; her mouth in rest was not too wide, and even when closed had hints of amusement that lifted the outer corners.
“My pardons, Miss Chenery,” Lewrie replied to her, after a moment of surprise at the boldness of her statement. “At this moment I am sure you look at me like a Turk in a turban, and I know your concern. Both my sons are in the Navy, d’ye see, and I worry about ’em the same way. Trust me that your brother is joining a good ship, and that I will do my best t’see him through his
early days.”
Lord, what a flawlessly creamy complexion! he marvelled further as he tried not to ogle too noticeably; slim, too!
“I wonder, Sir Alan,” Rev. Chenery broke in, as if she had given offence to a guest, “if you have time for a cup of tea, or…”
“I’d relish one, sir,” Lewrie quickly and eagerly assured him. “It’s not as cold as it was yesterday morning, but it is very early. I wonder … our coachman is in need of hot tea, as is my cabin steward, Pettus, here.”
“Yes, let us all have tea,” Rev. Chenery enthused. “Betty? Tea for all, if you please. Let us sit. Thoughtful of you, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” the sleepy maid replied, curtsied, and departed for the kitchens, with Pettus in her wake.
“What a strong countenance you have, M’sieur,” Madame Pellatan drawled after studying Lewrie closely. “A face to be painted, n’est-ce pas, Jessica? Though, without the scars, perhaps.”
“Never,” Lewrie said, laughing, “I earned ’em fair and square. Nobody’d recognise me without ’em.”
“Madame Pellatan and her late husband were renowned portraitists before they were forced to flee France during the Terror,” the Reverend supplied, “and Madame still takes commissions from some of the finest clients.”
“And so does Jessica,” Madame Pellatan imparted with a coo and a lean in the young lady’s direction. “From her earliest days, she has shown a remarkable talent, which we were happy to develop … though she prefers a starker realism that is not to most people’s taste. My husband and I follow the style of the famous Élisabeth Vigée-Lebrun … so much softer, romantic, and flattering to customers, n’est-ce pas, M’sieur Capitaine?” She said with a coy titter.
Damme, is the old baggage tryin’ to flirt with me? Lewrie had to wonder.
“Ah, you paint, Miss Chenery?” Lewrie asked, thankful for an entry to conversing with her.
“Yes, Sir Alan, I do,” Jessica told him, darting a quick look at her father. “As Madame Bernice says, I can’t remember when I did not have a brush or a pencil in my hands … sketches, watercolours, or oils, pen and inks?” She became more animated as she told him that, impatiently brushing the stray locks back from her forehead, and her smile made her even more fetching. “I have done several portraits in the last year or so, though I’ve had better luck with fanciful illustrations, amusing scenes suitable for engraving which I have to colour myself, unfortunately, not trusting to the inkers that most printers hire. Madame is right … you would make a fine subject for a portrait.”
“I haven’t sat for one since…” Lewrie replied, furrowing his brow to remember just when he had, “since I was back from the American Revolution, when I was a Lieutenant. Lord, I was a child. And the painter kept chidding me to look stern so often, that I told him it was off if I couldn’t smile. If I was leavin’ my phyz for the ages, I preferred that people knew I had a sense of humour!
“If I wasn’t awaiting sailing orders, I’d be tempted to sit for a new’un,” Lewrie offered. “Perhaps when I return?”
“I am quite reasonable, Sir Alan,” Jessica told him, smiling at him. “Fifteen pounds is my usual fee.”
“Ahem!” Rev. Chenery said, squirming and coughing.
“And da … quite reasonable, too,” Lewrie told her, grinning from ear to ear.
“I’ll show you one of my works,” Jessica said, springing to her feet, and going to a painting near the fireplace. “This is my sister Portia and her first baby,” she proudly said.
“I’m sure that Sir Alan has little time to admire your…” the Reverend Chenery interrupted.
“I see what you mean!” Lewrie exclaimed, going to join her as Jessica shifted a candelabra to better illuminate the painting. “It’s so true to the life that one could imagine they’re sitting behind the wall, holdin’ their breath!”
So taken with the young lady as he was, if the sister and her newborn looked like a cross-eyed sow and a piglet, he would have found a way to praise the work, but … he really was impressed.
The tea service was brought in, and they returned to their seats. Madame Pellatan took the opportunity to produce some more of Jessica’s work, stating that her prints could be found in many of the galleries that sold satiric caricatures.
There was one of a group of children running cross a grassy lea flying a kite, another of a kid goat in the lane of a stable, nose to nose with a horse that leaned down over its stall door to sniff at it. Sleeping kittens, jumbled atop each other; hares springing through some truck garden … all amusing and innocent, suitable for children for the most part.
“Oh, here’s my latest,” Jessica said, “though I must confess that I know little of hunting, or steeplechasing.”
“Hah hah, I love it!” Lewrie said with real delight.
She’d painted a pack of hounds in a country lane, riders in the rear just clearing a gate, most of the hounds looking serious on the scent, but the one in the foreground looking the viewer right in the eyes, tongue lolling comically, and its long ears winged out.
“I toured the galleries yesterday,” Lewrie said, “barely managing t’get close to the windows, or the doors, for all the crowd, but I didn’t see any of these. If I had, I would’ve bought this’un.”
“When it’s printed, I would send you one, Sir Alan,” Jessica offered, her earlier sadness quite flown, and quite outgoing.
“Don’t know where I’d hang it, though,” Lewrie told her. “And, my old cat, Chalky, would hate it. He can barely tolerate the ship’s dog, already. But, thankee kindly for the offer, Miss Chenery.”
“Well, I would suppose if you wish to reach Portsmouth by dark, we must say our adieus,” Rev. Chenery declared as a mantel clock struck five A.M., and, their tea finished, all rose and paid heed to young Charles at last. Madame Pellatan smothered him in a great, voluminous hug, servants curtsied or bowed and said their goodbyes, his father shook his hand and bade him make them proud, and Jessica took him in her arms for one last sisterly embrace.
“Oh Lord, poor Charlie,” she muttered, stroking his hair back into place, “it is so hard you have to go into the world so young. I will miss you horribly, and pray for your safekeeping every day.”
“Oh, I’ll be alright, Jess,” Charlie assured her, “but prayer will still be welcome.”
“Yes, well,” Lewrie said, donning his boat cloak and taking his hat from a footman. “I fear it is time to depart. Ready, Mister Chenery?” he asked his newest Midshipman.
“Yes sir, I am,” the lad said with a firm note in his voice.
“Let’s get your dunnage aboard the coach, then,” Lewrie ordered. “Reverend Chenery, Madame Pellatan, Miss Chenery, I dearly wish I had the time to make more of your acquaintances, but … time and tide, all that. I bid you all adieu,” he said, with a last bow with his hat on his heart.
“And do you return, Sir Alan,” Jessica dared say, looking impish, “I will be honoured to do your portrait.”
“I look forward to that, Miss Chenery,” Lewrie agreed.
They saw Lewrie, young Chenery, and Pettus to the door, house staff hefted the sea-chest into the boot, and waved them away as the coachman cracked his whip and set off into a gathering fog.
* * *
“Well, there it is, then,” Rev. Chenery said with a sad, but relieved, sigh once all were back inside, warming themselves at the fireplace. “I thought Sir Alan a most … distinguished gentleman, who knows what he’s about.”
“So handsome, aussi,” Madame Pellatan commented, “and a gentleman possessed of a fine physique … though rather young to be so distinguished, oui Reverend? I expected the hard-bitten, stern sea-dog, all salt and tar, but … he is so merry and charming, so polite and, I think, re-assuring. Did he not strike you so, Jessica?”
“After meeting him, my qualms over Charlie’s future are somewhat eased,” Jessica said as she dabbed her nose and her eyes with a handkerchief. She sat down in a wing-back chair by the fireplace and drew her shawl closer round her
shoulders. “Yes, Sir Alan is all that you say, Madame. Did you note his eyes? Such a striking blue-grey colour they are, which make him seem even more merry. Do I ever get to paint him, he must be rendered with a smile, as he insisted his first portraitist do.”
“Oh, painting, painting!” her father said with a groan.
“How old do you think he is?” Madame Pellatan wondered aloud. “In his fourties, perhaps?”
“His young fourties, I should imagine,” Jessica agreed, reaching beside her chair for a tablet of sketching paper and a pencil, trying to recall as much as she could of their visitor while her memory was still fresh. Lost in that endeavour, Jessica Chenery began to smile, and hum a tune to herself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Oh, father said to give you this, sir,” Midshipman Chenery said as the coach reached the open country round London’s outskirts. “Five pounds in pence, six pence, and shillings.”
“Hold onto it ’til we’re aboard ship, Mister Chenery,” Lewrie told him with a wave of his hand. “You might have need of your money at one of our stops for fresh horses.”
“Though your father saw to it that we’ve more than enough food in the basket, sir,” Pettus told him after digging through it. “Cold ham, sliced beef, bread, mustard, jam, a jar of pickles … and aha! There are even some berry tarts! Did us proud, he did.”
“Wish there was a way t’carry hot coffee,” Lewrie replied, “a crock of some kind that’d keep it warm.”
“Hmm, a crock jar filled with boiling water, sir,” Pettus fancied, “with a metal bottle inside that, and a screw-down top?”
“I’d hug the bloody thing, first off,” Lewrie grumbled, yawning, “and worry ’bout the coffee, later. Less cold than yesterday is a damned thin comparison. Brr!”
“Thank you for the lap-robe, sir,” Midshipman Chenery said, for all three of them were so supplied, and the coachman out in the wind was swaddled in one, along with his greatcoat.
A Hard, Cruel Shore Page 7
