"Oh yes, she likes it so!" Charlotte replied. "Every day!"
"Know why she calls her Dolly, Papa?" Hugh said with a snigger. "'Cause she's ripped all t'other dolls t'shreds, ha ha!"
"Jealousy, is it?" Lewrie japed her.
"Just the one, Hugh! Don't be beastly!" Charlotte cried, hugging the dog closer. "She doesn't much care for cats, Papa. Nor do I," she announced.
"Ehm… were you really at Copenhagen, Papa?" Sewallis asked. "And did you see Admiral Nelson?"
"Saw him, spoke with him the night before the battle, and then after it was over, too," Lewrie answered. "Did I not write you about it? And how they sent us into the Baltic t'scout the enemy fleets and the ice… all by our lonesome? Hah! Wait 'til ye see the furs that I had t' wear! Swaddled up like a Greenland Eskimo!"
"Ahem!" Mrs. Calder said from the door to the library, looking as if she disapproved of parents speaking with children. "Mistress Caroline says to tell you that supper is served. Come, children. Yours is laid out in the little dining room."
"Aw! We want t'eat with papa," Hugh griped.
"Yes, why can't we all eat together?" Sewallis complained. "He just got home!"
"It's not-" Mrs. Calder began to instruct.
"Aye, it's high time for a family supper!" Lewrie announced as he sprang from his chair. "Shift their place settings, and there's an end to it. We've catching up t'do, right?"
"Huzzah!" Hugh exclaimed, and even Sewallis, who'd always put Lewrie in mind of a solemn "old soul" due to take Holy Orders, beamed with glee and chimed in his own wishes.
Beats dinin' alone with Caroline all hollow, Lewrie thought as they trooped out; oh, it has t'happen soon, but for now… use 'em as so many rope fenders! She can't scream an throw things at me if the kiddies are present… right?
CHAPTER TEN
A nd thank God it's Christmas! was Lewrie's recurring thought as the Yuletide festivities spun on. His brother-in-law, Burgess Chiswick, now Major of a foot regiment, was down from London with his future in-laws and fiancee, the raptourously lovely Theodora Trencher, and Mister and Mistress Trencher, her parents, both of whom were solidly well-off and immensely "Respectable" in the new sense; hard-working (prosperous as a result of it), mannerly, high-minded, well-educated, stoutly Christian, involved in "improving" causes, rigidly moral, and more than willing to impose their prim morals on the rest of Great Britain!
Lewrie could have been treated like a pariah by his country in-laws, but for the fact that Uncle Phineas Chiswick, seeing how rich the Trenchers were and being delighted with such a fruitful match, had to grind his false teeth and simper at the black sheep of the family, welcoming Lewrie like a long-lost son! And Governour, his other brother-in-law, now as rotund and red-faced as the lampoonish cartoons of the typical country-bumpkin Squire John Bull, had to plaster a false face and play the "Merry Andrew," though without guests for the holidays he would have happily shot Lewrie!
It was immensely, secretly amusing to Lewrie to see his uncle by marriage and Governour bite their tongues whenever the Trenchers said anything favourable about Lewrie, for the whole family were enthusiastic supporters of William Wilberforce and belonged to his Society for the
Abolition of Slavery in the British Empire; Lewrie was their champion for his "liberation" of a dozen Black slaves on Jamaica years before, making them freemen and British tars, "True Blue Hearts of Oak," and for his acquittal at trial for the deed.
To rankle those two even further, Burgess was for Abolition, as well, and had always thought Lewrie one Hell of a fellow, an heroic figure and a wry wag to boot.
And what was even saucier to relish from Uncle Phineas's and Governor's mute fuming was the fact that Uncle Phineas was still invested in the infamous "Triangle Trade," and Governour had been raised in the Cape Fear country of North Carolina before the Revolution and felt that chattel slavery was right and proper!
Oh, it was a merry band of revellers they made, for Chiswicks, Trenchers, and Lewries went everywhere together. Did they not dine at Uncle Phineas's, they were at Governour's, or Lewrie's, along with some of the other worthy families of Anglesgreen. Did they not sup at home, there were parish and community suppers, even an invitation to Embleton Hall with Sir Romney (still among the living despite what Lewrie'd feared!) and Harry. And what Harry made of having his rival for Caroline's hand come for supper, music, and cards, Lewrie could only imagine… and savour. Indeed, having Caroline herself over might have galled the fool equally well, for she'd once lashed him with her horse's reins and made his nose "spout claret"!
There were carolling parties beginning at sundown, coaching from farmhouse to farmhouse; through Anglesgreen's snowy streets from the Red Swan to St. George's, and bought suppers in both the Red Swan and the Olde Ploughman, with a round dozen or more to treat at-table. And the hunt club ball, again at Embleton Hall, and the cross-country ride that preceded it!
Mr. Trencher was not quite the skilled rider that his wife and daughter were, but he was dogged at it, and wildly enthusiastic for a steeplechase's jumps. All in all, the Trenchers fit right in as well as a country rector or vicar, for, despite the initial impression of being very "Respectable," all delighted at dancing and (Theodora aside) could put away the wines, brandies, and punch like the most affable churchman!
And then, two days before Christmas Day, Lewrie's father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, coached down from London to open his home, Dun Roman (his own horrid pun!), a large, rambling one-storey bungalow in the Hindoo style, to pour the rum over the plum pudding, as it were… and to light it!
On top of all that, Lewrie and his children went riding almost every morning before the day's planned activities; went shooting with the lighter fusil-musket or the Girandoni air-rifle. They could not hunt, not even over their own lands, for Lewrie was Uncle Phineas's tenant, not a freeholder, but… they could try their eyes at empty bottles and marks whitewashed on a tree. That was great fun for everyone except Charlotte. She insisted on going with her brothers, with her father too one might imagine, but was interested only in the riding part, on her horse-pony, and whenever Lewrie tried to include her, or jest, or merely converse, Charlotte seemed as uninterested as his wife! It was only when Sir Hugo joined their morning rides, with promises of a cauldron of hot cocoa at his place after, that Charlotte opened up and actually essayed a laugh or two! Sir Hugo had done much the same with Sophie de Maubeuge, Lewrie's orphaned French ward, years before; it was uncanny.
"You should've had daughters, too, besides me," Lewrie told him in a private moment as they rested their mounts after a spirited gait.
"Had one… Belinda. Recall? Yer bloody step-sister?" Sir Hugo said with a snicker. "Well, step-daughter, at any rate, and look how that turned out.
Belinda was still listed in the Guide to Covent Garden Women, a highly recommended, and costly, courtesan.
"You bring Charlotte out of her turtle-shell," Lewrie said. "I can't make heads or tails of her moods. The boys, aye, but… "
"She's Caroline's, body and soul, lad," Sir Hugo said, "onliest child still at home, and lappin' up her anger 'bout ye like it was my chocolate. How's yer happy rencontre with her goin', anyway?"
"Much like a winter's day," Lewrie had to scoff, "short, dark, and dirty. I'm in a guest chamber. We talk… of nothing, mostly. Thank God for house-guests and the children, else ye'd be measurin' me for a coffin. She acts jolly, but that's only 'cause of the Trenchers and Burgess's comin' marriage. Zachariah Twigg did coach down to explain things whilst I was in the Baltic, but there's no sign she took any of it to heart. Too much to forgive, really. And too American-raised. An English wife of our class'd be more realistic."
"Don't lay wagers on that," Sir Hugo said with a sour cackle. "Women are women, no matter where, or how, they're raised. She's sense, though. There's her place in Society and the children t'consider. Oh, speakin' of… what'd ye get the children for Christmas?"
"What?" Lewrie gawped at the shift of topic. "More slide sets for their
magic lantern… a new doll for Charlotte… assumin' her bloody dog don't shred it like the others… some French chocolates, now we're tradin' again. Bow and arrow sets, toy muskets and pistols, some more lead soldiers and a model frigate… and a half-dozen oranges each. Why, what'd you do?" he asked, fearing the worst.
"Well, an open-backed doll house for Charlotte," Sir Hugo said, looking a touch cutty-eyed, "a castle, really, and for the boys… swords."
"Swords?"
"Small-swords," Sir Hugo said on. "It's time for them to learn the gentlemanly art of the salle d'armes, and there's a skilled man I know from my first regiment, the King's Own, near their school who can instruct them. Do ye not mind payin' half his fee, they should be taught… Hugh especially, since we both know he'll most-like end choosin' either the Navy or the Army for his living."
"Well, I s'pose…," Lewrie muttered, seeing the sense of it.
"Started you early, I did, and swordsmanship came in damned useful to you," Sir Hugo stated. "Hugh shows promise with the sword, and he's both a decent shot and has a hellish-good seat. He's spunk, and intelligence-"
"Didn't get it from me," Lewrie said with a snort as they both turned to watch all three children in a rare moment of glee, tossing snowballs at each other and running in circles.
"Grant ye that," Sir Hugo wryly jested. "As I said long ago, I still have connexions at Horse Guards, and could have him an Ensign or Leftenant in an host of good regiments. Or, with your renown, you could get him aboard a warship captained by one of your friends. What Interest and Patronage is all about, after all."
Fellow captains who like me? Lewrie asked himself; I can count them on the fingers of one hand!
"Another year and he's twelve," Sir Hugo further speculated. "More school'd just ruin him-"
"Ruined me!" Lewrie barked sarcastically.
"And one can't make General or Admiral if ye start late," Sir Hugo pointed out. "Something t'think about. Hope ye don't mind."
"No, not really. I just worry what Caroline'll make of it when they open their presents," Lewrie said. "Perhaps the Army's best for Hugh. She's rather a 'down' on the Navy, 'cause o' me, and won't much care t'see him followin' in my footsteps. And it don't look like our Army's ever going to do all that much overseas, after the shambles we made of it in Holland a while back. Re-take French and Dutch colonies all over again in the Indies, aye, but… "
The British Army, in concert with the Russians during a brief alliance, had landed in Holland, but had been muddled about like farts in a trance had been confronted with regular French troops for the first time, and had been humiliatingly beaten like a rug and run out of the country with their tails 'twixt their legs.
As for re-taking West Indies colonies… it was never the risk of battle that could worry Lewrie as a father; it was the sicknesses that had slain fifty thousand British soldiers and officers since 1793. The Indies-East or West-were not called the Fever Isles for nought.
"Gad, ye'll be chilled t'th' bone, th' three of ye!" Sir Hugo shouted to the boys, who had given up on snowballs and had gone for tackling each other and heaping armloads of snow over heads and shoulders, breaking off just long enough to chase Charlotte and make her screech. "Hot cocoa at Dun Roman! Leave off and saddle up!"
And off they went to Sir Hugo's estate, and his eccentric home with its wide and deep porches all round. It had been a Celtic dun, a hill fort, once in the early-earlys, then a Roman legionary watch-tower, then a tumbledown ruin, which Sir Hugo had incorporated into one corner of his home-site, and partially re-furbished; his folly some called it, like the architectured grottoes some very rich landowners had erected in their gardens, lacking only a hired hermit to make them authentic. Moated, once, outer fosse wall restored, though most stone work blocks had gone to make the foundation of Sir Hugo's house. The boys found it the very finest play-fort that any lad could wish.
When it was Phineas Chiswick's land, I courted Caroline there, Lewrie painfully recalled as they topped a rolling rise and the broken-toothed tower came into view; spread a blanket outside the fosse… chilled our wine bottles in the stream… kissed her the first time. Where'd all that go? Oh, right. I'm a bastard… in more ways than one!
"Last one t'th' door's a Turk in a turban!" Sir Hugo shouted, spurring his mount, and they were off, snow, slush, and turf spraying from their horses' hooves, and all, Charlotte included, hallooing and whooping with happiness-'til she came in last, of course, was dubbed that Turk in a turban, and got all sulky again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Respectability had altered the celebration of Christmas, even in Alan Lewrie's times. Gangs of drunken revellers invading a house, led by the Lord of Mis-Rule and bought off with food and drink, were not much seen any longer, even in tumultuous, unruly London. The old custom of church "ales" in which every communicant in the parish, wealthy or poor, honest or otherwise, drank and supped together were things of the past in all but the most rural places, mostly reduced to a supper hosted by landowners for their own cottagers and labourers, more of a post-harvest celebration than a religious one.
So the Lewries, the Trenchers, the Chiswicks, and several other families, direct kin or long-time neighbours, spent Christmas Eve at Uncle Phineas's, with gay dancing right out and carols and hymns round the harpsichord replacing merriment. Mostly due to the fact that Phineas Chiswick would not pay for musicians, and held that too much gaiety anent the Birth of the Saviour was irreligious and unseemly. There was not enough wine to enliven things, anyway, or wash down their mediocre supper.
They coached home round ten in the evening, gathered about their own harpsichord, and sang and played livelier airs on their own, with Lewrie on his penny-whistle, Charlotte scraping away on her small violin, Sewallis strumming a guitar, and Hugh making odd notes on his recorder. There was hot chocolate, with scones and jam to make up for the supper, and… from the kitchens the competing sounds of Liam Desmond and his uilleann lap-pipes, the thudding of Patrick Furfy on a shallow bodhran drum, and someone on the fife.
"Sounds like they're havin' a good time," Lewrie said as their last passable effort at a carol came to a merciful end. "Let's have my lads in for tune or two, and a glass of something."
Mrs. Calder, who had been rocking and knitting in silent disapproval in the corner, gave a faint snort and looked to her mistress to scotch such nonsense.
"They're servants, my dear," Caroline pointed out, making her "my dear" sound strained and forced, said only for the children's sake.
"Who'll attend church with us tomorrow morning," Lewrie countered, "whom we'll gift the day after on Boxing Day, and… Desmond and Furfy are sailors, dearest… my sailors. Mistress Calder, I would admire did ye fetch a bottle of brandy and sufficient glasses, as you summon them to the parlour."
"Very well, sir," Mrs. Calder replied with a stiff nod, putting away her knitting as if she'd been commanded to set out drink for the Devil himself.
His wife and her chief housekeeper might not have approved, but Lewrie and the children enjoyed the improvement. Sewallis and Hugh learned a "pulley-hauley" chanty or two, and got instruction on how to do a hornpipe dance, then a bit of clogging Irish step-dance, at which the burly Furfy was surprisingly light-footed. The cook and her husband, the scullery girl, Charlotte and Caroline's maids, and the maids-of-all-work (who'd been nipping at a bottle of their own on the sly) got into the spirit of things too and wanted to dance, which required Lewrie and Caroline to play some lively airs to accommodate them. It was nigh eleven before Lewrie uncorked the brandy bottle and began to pour all round.
"Tomorrow, we'll be prim, proper, and serious," Lewrie told them, "and surely inspired by the vicar's homily, but tonight… on the eve of our Saviour's birth, let us count our blessings. All charged? May I and my wife wish you all a very Merry Christmas. Now… 'heel-taps' and then to our rest!" They all lifted their glasses and drank them down to the very last drops, glasses inverted at the last to show that "heel-taps" had been attained. "Good night, all, and
thankee for the merriment."
The children were hugged, hands were shaken, Charlotte kissed and wished sweet dreams, then all were herded upstairs by the sour Mrs. Calder-sure to hiss and take all joy from the previous hours before they were all tucked in for the night.
"Not sure I like that woman," Lewrie grumbled as he poured himself another glass of brandy. "Stiff as that'un we had years ago… Missuz McGowan, wasn't it?"
"You disapprove of my choice of housekeeper, or governness, do you?" Caroline snapped. "It is my house, after all… my housewifery, year in and year out, but for the few brief spells you allow us from the Navy. I am quite satisfied with Mistress Calder's management of both house and children… else the boys would be as wild as so many Red Indians… as wild as you, sir!"
Merry bloody Christmas t'you, too! Lewrie thought with a groan, his nose in his glass; this ain't workin'. Never will, most-like. I might as well lodge in London at the Madeira Club 'til Hellfreezes up.
"The boys are only home 'tween school terms, these days," Lewrie pointed out. "And Charlotte ain't the wild sort, Caroline. She's more in need of tutorin' at dancin' and music than grim discipline."
The glare he got could have shattered boulders.
"But I will defer t'your wishes, your ways," he quickly added.
"For as long as you stay," Caroline grimly said. "Which is?"
"'Til the French start the war again, I am home," Lewrie told her. "It's my home, too. And 'til the boys leave for Hilary term, I hope we can share it… in a sham of harmony, at any rate. After that, well… you're the 'Post-Captain' o' this barge, and I'll try to accommodate my ways to yours. Stay out from under foot… all that," he allowed in a soft voice that would not carry abovestairs, chin tucked in defensively. "I don't s'pose Zachariah Twigg's visit made any impression at all?"
"What a horrid man!" Caroline exclaimed, her own arms folded over her chest. "Like an oily… spider!"
King, Ship, and Sword l-16 Page 7
