“I will send you my decision shortly, Sir Alan,” Marsden promised, still looking glum and dubious. “We cannot keep you hanging on tenter-hooks and idle in town whilst the Fleet is denied the use of your frigate,” Marsden said as he finished scribbling the address on a scrap of paper.
“That would be most welcome, sir,” Lewrie told him, preparing to rise and depart. “Either way, clean bottom or foul, I am sure that Channel Fleet will soon find Reliant useful, unless—”
“Captain Home Riggs Popham may find your ship, and your previous experience, useful as well,” Marsden said with a vague-looking smile. “It is he who is to hoist his broad pendant and command the expedition.”
Marsden briefly pursed his lips in a wee moue, as if the choice of officer commanding had not been his. “The fellow who devised the signal flag code. A clever fellow.”
That didn’t sound like much of a recommendation, either.
“Oh!” Lewrie said, perking up. “I served under him briefly, in the winter of 1804, when we made that attack on the port of Calais with catamaran torpedoes and fireships!”
That was not much of a recommendation on Lewrie’s part, either, for the experimental expedition had been a shambles. The few catamaran torpedoes loosed on wind and tide had failed utterly, with only one of them actually exploding, and that nigh miles away from anything that could have charitably been called a real target, and the one fireship had swanned about like a hound on a dozen scents at once before blowing up harmlessly. Perhaps the French had enjoyed the show, and their brief respite from utter boredom.
“Yayss, I do now recall that you were seconded to experimental trials with torpedoes,” Marsden drawled in sour amusement. “A damned foolish idea, those. And, did you enjoy working with Popham?”
“A most inspiriting man, sir,” Lewrie replied, “just bung-full of ideas, and energy.”
“Oh, yes!” Marsden archly agreed, with a grimace. “Energetic, enterprising, and a most mercurial fellow, is Captain Popham. As industrious as an ant hill, just brimming with new ideas. He makes one wonder how he keeps all his balls in the air at the same time, like a juggler at a street fair. A rather un-orthodox man. Who knows what he’ll pull out of his hat next.”
What the Hell have I talked myself into? Lewrie wondered.
“Well, sir,” Lewrie said, getting to his feet, “thank you again for seein’ me, and I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.”
“Good day to you, Captain Lewrie,” Marsden said with a parting smile, if only to be gracious, “and look for my decision by letter at your lodgings.”
Whether he knew that Reliant would be seen to or not, whether he would get orders for Cape Town or the utter dullity of the blockade with a foul bottom, Lewrie put a confident grin on his face for the benefit of those still idling in the Waiting Room. He trotted down the stairs to reclaim his hat and cloak with a spry and cocky show of glee and energy. He doubted that Marsden would have a decision to send him by the end of the day, so he might have time to do some brief shopping to supplement his kit and his personal stores.
There was another letter that he was even more eager to recieve. Now, if only Lydia Stangbourne had not yet left for Portsmouth, there was a chance that he might have a supper companion tonight, and perhaps much, much more!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
That lascivious hope lasted just long enough for Lewrie to pop into the Madeira Club and ask the desk clerk if there had been a reply to his morning note to Lydia’s London residence. There was, indeed, but it was merely a folded-over piece of scrap paper, written in an awkward scrawl in pencil, which stated that Miss Lydia had departed for Portsmouth the previous morning and did not say when she would be returning, signed by someone who claimed to be the family butler, and if it was written in English, his name looked to be Gullyfart or Cully’s Tart. The desk clerk, when consulted, could not make heads or tails of it, either; his best guess was Cuffysdart.
“Is there anything else for me?” Lewrie asked, deflating.
“Just the one, sir,” the clerk told him.
That’un was properly wax-sealed and written in an elegant hand, on good bond paper, to boot. Lewrie had sent a note round to his father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, to inform him that he was in town. Not that Lewrie really cared a fig to see the old fart, but it was what one did to be sociable, and remain in the will … assuming that the old lecher didn’t turn dotty in his head and squander all he had on whores and courtesans and race horses.
He was almost (but not quite) disappointed to discover that his father had other plans for the evening with an intriguing lady just new-come to London. Sir Hugo did not propose an alternate time for him to call, unless he was long in London, and didn’t have to rush back to his ship right away. Sir Hugo was sure he would understand.
I surely do, Lewrie thought in a foul humor; I can always count on my father … he’ll let me down every time!
He slouched into the Common Room and flung himself down into one of the leather wing chairs near the fireplace, wondering what he could do. He ordered American whisky from the steward who came to his side, but there was none available; would Spanish brandy suit, or might he settle for a Scottish whisky? Lewrie stuck with the brandy.
As intently as he’d peered at every passing coach-and-four that had been bound to Portsmouth on the road the day before, he had missed sight of Lydia’s equipage. How irked might she be to arrive, after dark and in a nippy drizzle, most-like, to find that no set of rooms had been booked for her at The George Inn, their usual trysting place, for the very good reason that he hadn’t gotten confirmation that she would be coming down? How even further irked might Lydia be to send word to Reliant and learn that he’d dashed off to London, leaving her to her own devices—without even leaving an explanatory note to mollify her!
It ain’t like we’re married or anything like that, Lewrie told himself, his mood becoming a tad anxious; I’ve not even given her “a packet o’ pins” as promise for anything! By God, though, if she ever speaks t’me after this, I’ll get an ugly ear full!
He considered hiring a coach that instant and dashing back to Portsmouth, no matter the perils of a night-time journey, but … no. He had to stay in London, bide close to the Madeira Club ’til he got word from Admiralty, whichever way that decision would go.
A damn good night t’get blind drunk! he concluded with a sigh, and waved his empty glass at the steward for a top-up.
* * *
Needless to say, his next morning was more than a tad blurry. After breakfast, and nigh an entire pot of hot, black coffee, Lewrie spent his time writing letters. Firstly, he penned a grovelling “forgive me” to Lydia to her Grosvenor Street house, explaining as best he was able why he had had to dash off. With no news from Admiralty, he then wrote letters to his sons, Sewallis and Hugh, who were at sea, Sewallis still most-like on the French blockade, and Hugh and his ship, as he’d learned, with Nelson in pursuit of that Frog Admiral Villeneuve and his large French fleet, its location still unknown.
With nothing else to do, and admittedly hitting his stride with his scribbling, Lewrie wrote chatty letters to his former brother-in-law Burgess Chiswick and his wife, Theodora, the brother-in-law he liked. He wrote to the other one, Governour, who despised him, and his wife, Millicent, again to be sociable. He wrote a separate letter to his daughter, Charlotte, who resided with Governour and Millicent, though he had no idea if she would even read it, or if Governour would even allow her to see it. Then came his former ward, Sophie de Maubeuge, now Mrs. Anthony Langlie. Sophie and his former First Officer in the Proteus frigate were the parents of at least two children by now, and were the most pleasant of his correspondents, were Lewrie given his “d’ruthers”.
With still no word from Mr. Marsden by noon, and with his appetite stifled by the odd rumbles engendered from the night before, he even went so far as to write to Sir Malcolm Shockley and his wife, the twitter-brained Lucy. Back when Lewrie and she had been teens, he’d been head-
over-heels with her, but she had been a Beauman, of the Jamaican Beaumans, and nothing good could have ever come from that clan.
He paused to wonder if Lucy was still slipping under the sheets with other men and gulling poor, honest, and upright Sir Malcolm into believing her faithfulness!
Lewrie penned shorter notes to Peter Rushton, now Viscount Draywick after inheriting his childless uncle’s title; and his younger brother, Harold, who had inherited their father’s title of Baron Staughton when Peter had been elevated upwards. Harold, quite unlike his older brother, was level-headed and rather shrewd, when sober at least, and good company when not. Lewrie hadn’t seen him in years, but Peter had gotten Harold a well-paying government post under the Secretary of State at War, where he wielded considerable influence. One never knew who might come in handy when it came to patronage and influence! Lewrie even wrote another, shorter, letter to another old school chum, that nefarious “Captain Sharp”, Clotworthy Chute, who was rumoured to have turned honest and was now big in the antiques trade. Lewrie carefully stressed that he was in town a little time … too short a time for Clotworthy to hit him up for a loan!
By two in the afternoon, and with still no letter for him at the front desk, Lewrie betook himself on a stroll, threading his way through the pedestrian throngs of Wigmore Street, West to Baker Street, then South to the corner of Oxford Street and one of his favourite taverns, the Admiral Boscawen, where he tentatively supped on sliced roast beef, pease pudding, potato hash, and gravy, and was delighted to discover that what went down would stay down, aided along by two pints of ale.
Not quite as bleary as before, Lewrie returned to the Madeira Club, where he yet had no mail, and whiled away the rest of the afternoon by scribbling notes to his old Cox’n, Will Cony, who now owned the Olde Ploughman in Anglesgreen; to his former cabin steward, Aspinall, who was now a published author here in London; and, frankly, got so bored that he even penned letters to his Lewrie cousins at Wheddon Cross in Devonshire, near Exeter.
By the time he had folded, waxed, and sealed the last letter, it was nigh five o’clock, and the club’s stewards and servants were circulating to stoke up the fireplaces and light more candles to welcome the club’s members back from their days on the town. That passable Spanish brandy appeared on a sideboard.
Pettus made his appearance, yawning and shrugging his clothing into order, looking as if he had used his free time to good purpose whilst Lewrie had spent the day alone, and had caught up on his sleep.
“Will you be dining out on the town tonight, sir?” Pettus asked.
“Hmm … think not, Pettus,” Lewrie told him after deliberating. Gloster’s Chop House and his favourite-of-all restaurant in Savoy Street, were both off the Strand, and either were just too far to go at that hour. “I’ll dine in here. There’s little for you to do for me ’til the morning. Enjoy your idleness,” he said with a smile. “I trust they’re feedin’ ye well, and that your quarters are warm and comfy?”
“Oh, aye, sir, quite pleasant, and they feed extremely well,” Pettus told him, “though I do miss Yeovill’s way with spices and—”
“Pardons, Captain Lewrie,” Lucas, the desk clerk, interrupted, “but a messenger just dropped this off for you, this instant.”
“Aha!” Lewrie exclaimed as Lucas handed him a stiff cream bond letter with a large blob of royal blue sealing wax and the imprint of Admiralty. “Wish me luck, Pettus. Thankee, Lucas.”
He tore it open impatiently, but, once he had it un-folded, he paused and hitched a deep breath, expecting the worst.
“Uhmhmm, ‘directed and required … authorised to make such repairs His Majesty’s Dockyard deems necessary’ … Hell, yes!” he cried, thumping his free left hand on the arm of his chair in triumph.
“Good news, sir?” Pettus asked.
“The best, Pettus, the very best!” Lewrie told him, laughing. “We’ll be off for Portsmouth at first light. See Lucas to arrange a coach for us … not that drunken fool who fetched us up! We have orders for our bottom cleaning, and additional orders for the South Atlantic, soon as we can get the ship back on her own bottom and make sail! Hallelujah!”
“I’ll see to it, directly, sir!” Pettus assured him.
“Something to drink, sir?” a steward asked.
“I think I’ll try the Scottish whisky, this time,” Lewrie said. “That Spanish brandy makes me bilious, haw haw!”
Oh Christ, though, Lewrie had to think a moment later; If I’m off to Portsmouth, I’ll miss Lydia again!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At such short notice, hiring an elegant coach-and-four for the return to Portsmouth was out of the question, so what Pettus managed to turn up was a weather-beaten and drab coach with cracked or stained glass windows, ratty interior fabrics, and leather bench seats so hard that there might not have been any horse-hair padding left. To make things even worse, the team looked more due the knacker’s yard, maybe even overdue. The coachee was rail thin, taciturn, and sour, but swore that he was of the temperance persuasion, and a Methodist Dissenter.
“And here I’ve thought all this time that Methodists were prone t’leapin’ enthusiasm,” Lewrie chuckled after they rattled away from the Madeira Club’s stoop in the “early-earlies” in a light fog. “It must be the temperance part that makes him as dour as Wilberforce’s crowd.”
“Does he stick with cider instead of ale, sir, perhaps he will cost you less,” Pettus suggested. He was cringing in a corner of the coach’s front bench seat, shrunk up in mortification, looking even more abashed than he had when he’d overlooked Lewrie’s presentation sword. “And, twenty-odd miles on, there will surely be a better team.”
“Assumin’ these beasts live long enough t’get to the next posting house,” Lewrie said with a sigh and a roll of his eyes.
“Sorry, sir,” was all that Pettus had to say, in a mutter.
“Oh, worse things happen at sea, I’m told,” Lewrie rejoined in slight mirth. “Do you shuffle over to the starboard side, we can both keep watch for Mistress Lydia’s coach.”
* * *
Out in open country beyond London, on the way to Guildford, the traffic thinned out from the nose-to-tail crush of all the waggons and carts and drays bringing goods and produce to town. Even so, a fresh coach came along at least once every two minutes or so. Some were of local origin, light one-horse or two-horse carriages trotting along to carry country folk from one village or hamlet to the next. Every now and then, with a thunder of hooves, the cracking of whips, and the tara-tara warnings from the assistant coachees, much larger diligence coaches or regularly scheduled flying “balloon” coaches came dashing toward them with six- or eight-horse teams, swaying and pitching fit to throw passengers and luggage from the cheaper seats on the rooves, barrelling “ram you, damn you” and expecting anyone with the least bit of sense to get right out of their way.
There were young, flashing gentlemen, “all the crack and all the go”, driving their two- and three-horse chariots at similar paces as the passenger coaches, dust or mud flying in their wakes, and flashing past their own shabby coach with shouts of glee over how rapidly they could eat the miles, and how daring they were. Lewrie’s coach was passed by a pair bound South from behind them, two chariots racing wheel-to-wheel like ancient Romans in the Colosseum, and damning Lewrie’s equipage for a “slow-coach” as they careened around them!
Now and then, though rarely, a much grander coach-and-four came trotting toward them, with liveried coachmen in the driver’s box and in the bench above the coach’s rear boot. Most of those coaches bore no family crests on their doors, and those that did went by so quickly that it was hard for Lewrie and Pettus to discern even the colours or the shapes of the crests, and it was a rare coach with painted heraldry that bore a crest large enough to be recognised.
Lewrie tried to recall how large the Stangbourne crest had been and the colour of the coach they’d shared to Sheerness, the one she had taken the last time she’d come down to Portsmou
th, and began to wonder if he would recognise it if it sat right in front of him, at full stop! As rich as Lydia and her brother Percy were, they might have more than a dozen carriages and coaches for every occasion!
Assuming that Percy hadn’t gambled them into debtors’ prison in the meantime!
They got to Guildford for a change of horses, and a chance to stretch their legs. The four poor prads were led off to rest and feed, heads hanging low, and as the coachman arranged a fresh team, Lewrie and Pettus had a quick breakfast of bacon strips and cheese on thickly sliced bread with smears of spicy, dark mustard, and pint mugs of ale. When offered, their coachman settled for a hard-boiled egg, toast, and hot tea … without sugar or cream.
“Evidently, cream and sugar are too luxurious for ‘temperance’ people,” Lewrie commented in a whispered chuckle. “God only knows what a cinnamon roll’d do … one bite, and he’d be found in a gutter with crumbs on his face, clutchin’ a bottle o’ rum, weepin’ for bein’ a back-slider!”
Once a slightly more promising team was hitched up, they were off once more, at a slightly better pace this time, for more peering at the passing traffic. They passed the turning for Chiddingfold, the narrow road that led to Anglesgreen and Lewrie’s father’s estate. He wished that he could spare the time to see his daughter, Charlotte, but … no, Lewrie sadly reckoned; that could only turn out stiffly, and badly. He had written her. That would have to be good enough.
* * *
A bit North of Liphook, Pettus pulled his head back into the coach to announce, “Here comes another coach-and-four, sir, with liveried coachee and all.”
Lewrie stuck his head out of the lowered door window, peering ahead. What he could see of the approaching coachman’s livery under his opened black great-coat looked like the royal blue and white trim that he remembered, the coach was very much like the dark green with discreet gilt trim one that Lydia had used in London, and had used to come down to Portsmouth before, and its wheel rims and spokes appeared to be the same jaunty canary yellow.
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