King, Ship, and Sword l-16

by Dewey Lambdin

  "And a hellish-dangerous one, t'boot," Lewrie agreed. "And God help any foe or spy that crosses his hawse. Every time he hauls me in on one of his schemes, it's neck-or-nothing, and cut-throats and murderers on ev'ry hand. Fair gives me the 'colly-wobbles,' he does."

  Zachariah Twigg, until his partial retirement from His Majesty's Government, had served the Crown in the Secret Branch of the Foreign Office for years, and had been Lewrie's bug-a-bear since 1784, off and on. Oh, he'd sworn he'd coach down to Anglesgreen to explain who had Written the poisonously anonymous letters to Caroline-Theoni Kavares Connor-and the why, which had been spite that she could not have Lewrie for her own; and how so many of the sexual dalliances she had accused Lewrie of-in such lurid detail-had been complete fictions,… or so richly embellished.

  Twigg's promised expiation could not erase all of Lewrie's overseas doings, of course: his mistress in the Mediterranean when commanding the Jester Sloop of War, or the fact that Lewrie had indeed seeded Theoni Kavares Connor with a bastard son, but… the rest of it was a fantasy meant to harm.

  "Have t'talk about us… sooner or later," Lewrie told her, shrugging as he took another sip of brandy. "After Epiphany or-"

  "Yes, we do, Alan," Caroline softly agreed, looking down at the pattern of the parlour carpet. She looked up then, almost beseechingly, with the vertical furrow 'tween her brows prominent. "Do you love me, Alan? Even after all your… do you still love me?"

  Caroline was not the sprightly young miss he'd first met during the evacuation of Wilmington, North Carolina, back in his days as a Midshipman in the American Revolution. Nor was she the lissome bride he'd taken vows with at St. George's. Yet…

  "Aye, I do, Caroline," he told her, and felt his chest turn hot, his eyes mist a bit with the truth of it, no matter everything else he had done. "I still do. Not for the children, not-"

  "Then we shall see, Alan," she promised, arms still crossed in protection. "Once Yuletide is done, we shall see. Good night."

  She paused at the double doors to the foyer and looked back for a mere trice. "Merry Christmas," she said, then headed for the stairs, a very brief smile that might have been wistful, or rueful, turning up the corners of her mouth, wrinkling the riant folds below her eyes for the slightest moment.

  "Well I'll be double-damned," he breathed, muttering softly in wonder. "Might be a beginnin' after all!" He tossed off his brandy to the last drop, set the glass aside, and went abovestairs to his own bed-down the hall in the guest chamber, still-where Toulon and Chalky at least gave him some affection after he'd rolled into a cold bed. "Merry Christmas to you, lads. Merry Christmas to us all."

  Though they did not snuggle the way he longed for.

  BOOK II

  It was the best of times,

  it was the worst of times…

  CHARLES DICKENS,

  A TALE OF TWO CITIES

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Christmas Day, and the opening of presents, had passed, as had Boxing Day on the twenty-sixth; most gifts had gone over well, but for the toy muskets and swords. Sir Hugo's real blades had made the biggest impression, and cause for chaotic tumult as Hugh and Sewallis practised their initial lessons on each other… swash-buckling through the entire house 'til Lewrie and his father took them in hand in the barren back garden and gave them both some sword exercises learned from hard and bloody experience. At least Charlotte was ecstatic over her new doll(s), books, and miniature fairy castle.

  After Epiphany, though, the boys coached away to begin their new school term, with "grandfather" Sir Hugo as their avuncular escort, and it was back to the routine drudgery of village and farm life in a cold midwinter, and only Lewrie, his wife, and daughter in the house.

  And, much like the descriptions he'd read of North American porcupines mating, Lewrie found the process of reconciliation, and the enforced "togetherness," a prickly endeavour. With few occasions for visiting about, or receiving callers in return, and with Charlotte busy at her studies with her hired tutor, there were simply too many hours in a day. Not that it was boresome… exactly.

  Wake, rise, and dress in the guest bed-chamber promptly at six; a quick shave and scrub-up, and breakfast was taken in the smaller dining room, en famille, round seven. Farm accounts, worked on together in his office, occupied another hour or so, with Lewrie the student and she the master, striving manful to remember what little he'd known of managing a farm from years before; striving manful to stay awake and pay heed to Caroline's "surely, you recall how… " or "surely, you remember what I once told you of… " lectures on crop rotation, animal husbandry, and sheep. A full pot of strong, hot coffee was very necessary!

  Round ten or so, Caroline was busy with Mrs. Calder, the cook, or the tutor, and Lewrie had time in which to read a book or take a stroll through the barn and stables. Half-past twelve, though, and it was time for dinner. It was only by mid-afternoon that he was free to saddle up his old gelding, Anson, and canter into Anglesgreen to the Ploughman to have a pint or two and read the daily papers coached from London.

  And, damn his hide did he linger too long or come home in his cups, either. No, once the papers were read, and a natter or two with Will and Maggie Cony and the idle regulars, life with his wife went so much better did he ride back out to his farm and skirt the bounds over the fallow fields, streams, and wood lots 'til his phyz was chilled to rosy red, and the last, lingering fumes of ale were dissipated. After that, he could return, about an hour before supper, for a stiff session in the parlour with wife and daughter, now free of household chores or lessons. A doting fuss must be made over Charlotte's lap dog, Dolly, though the wee beast still bared her teeth and flattened her ears whenever he got too close. Toulon and Chalky would huddle with him on the settee for safety, for lap, and for affection, flattening their ears, bottling tails and hissing fit to bust whenever Dolly approached too near at her play. His cats got along much better with Sewallis's wee pack of setters, all three of whom would never make true hunting dogs, and were goofily lumbering playmates.

  A little music, some teasing banter with Charlotte (and a stiff glass of brandy) and it was time to sup together, again. After that, it was usually back to the parlour for more music together, or teaching Charlotte the simpler card games, before Mrs. Calder herded her up the stairs, leaving Lewrie and Caroline alone together.

  "Chess," Lewrie said, apropos of nothing, to fill a void. "Or backgammon. D'ye think Charlotte'd enjoy learning those?"

  "She hates to lose, though, Alan," Caroline answered, looking up from her current embroidery project.

  "Can't learn to win 'less ye lose a few first. And she ought to learn that Life don't always let ye win. Even if she is a girl, she musn't be so cossetted, or spoiled, she ends up a sore loser. The boys know it… have t'know it before they enter adult lives and careers."

  "You say I cosset her?" Caroline asked with one brow up.

  "Not at all, Caroline!" Lewrie quickly countered, wondering how deep in trouble he was stepping. "It's just that… damn."

  Caroline gave a rare, mischievous smile. "It's refreshing that you show concern for her improvements, dear. 'Damned if you do, damned if you don't'?"

  "Something like that," Lewrie admitted, squirming.

  "She's always been head-strong," Caroline explained, returning to her embroidery of a new handkerchief. "Though usually a sweet and biddable girl, well… with two older brothers to vie with before we sent them away to school, and now the only child in the house, she's developed a competitive streak… one which I've tried to scotch, as unseemly for a young lady. You may not have noticed, being at sea so long." And for once, that did not sound like a sour accusation.

  "But you think introducin' her to new games'd not go amiss?"

  "Even does she pout when she loses, I think she'd adore them," Caroline told him with another grin. "She's playing with her father, whom she hasn't seen in years, and with both of us cautioning her to be a better sport, well…!"

  "Tomorrow, let's all go for a r
ide together," Lewrie suddenly suggested. "Hang the kitchen and still-room for a day, there's your capable Mistress Calder to oversee things. That new tea shop in the village… tea and sticky buns or muffins… the dry goods store to prowl? Ride the bounds together, maybe put up a fox and have a go at 'View, Halloo'? Away from her tutor and lessons for a bit, that'd be a treat, surely."

  "That is a marvellous idea, Alan!" Caroline eagerly said. "We will tell her at breakfast. And I must own that some time away from household drudgery will suit me right down to my toes, as well."

  "Good, then, we'll do it!" Lewrie exclaimed.

  "Well," Caroline determined, gathering up her embroidery, "it is time for me to retire. Do not sit up too late. Goodnight, dear."

  And, wonder of wonders, she actually crossed the short space 'twixt settee and her chair to lean over and give him a brief peck on his forehead before stepping away.

  "Goodnight, Caroline," he replied, half-stunned, unsure whether he should respond in kind; she was walking to the doors and out of his reach before he could decide.

  "You see, Alan… domesticity can be very pleasant," she said as she paused in the doorway once more, with yet another of those enigmatic smiles. "After so many years of grim war and separation, your family can be a source of joy and contentment."

  Aye, it can, Lewrie thought once she was gone; though nine parts outta ten just bovine boresome!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Huzzah, we've letters!" Lewrie cried as he entered the house after an hour or so at the Olde Ploughman. "Letters and newspapers."

  "Who are they from?" Caroline asked, bustling into the foyer from the kitchens, pantry, and still-room, where Spring cleaning had kept her occupied.

  "Uhm… one from Sophie and Anthony Langlie," Lewrie told her, shuffling through the pack, "one from his parents, too. Burgess has written us… one from my father… "

  "Oh, give me Burgess's!" Caroline enthused, drying her hands on her apron as they went to the many-windowed office at one end of the house, for Charlotte was practicing with her music tutor in the formal parlour. The windows were open, the drapes taken down to be beaten on lines outside and air fresh, as were the carpets. After months with the house shut against winter's chill, the accumulated mustiness from candles, lamps, and fireplaces was being dispelled, replaced with the soft breezes of Spring that wafted in the scents of the first blossoms in the gardens, fresh-springing grass and leaves, the twitter of birds, and the soft cries from the nearest pens where sheep were lambing.

  Along with the first wasps of Spring, which Lewrie spent time to swat or shoo before opening the letter from Sophie, their former ward, and his old First Lieutenant aboard HMS Proteus and HMS Savage.

  "Yes!" Caroline shouted in triumph. "Alan, my brother is to be wed… The first banns were published last Sunday! Oh, how grand!"

  "And good for him, at last," Lewrie heartily agreed. "When do we expect the wedding, and where?"

  "What a splendid match!" Caroline further enthused before giving him the details. "Uhm… at the Trencher family's home parish, in High Wycombe,"

  "Not so very far," Lewrie replied, more intent on the Langlies' letter. "Didn't know the Trenchers were landed. Still… rich as he is, I'm sure her father's found some 'skint' lord with a large parcel that ain't entailed, and willing t'sell up t'settle his debts."

  England was crawling with "new-made men" of Trade and Industry, men risen from the middling classes who aspired to emulate the titled and long-standing landowners, with country estates and acres of their own without renting. The law of entail, though, awarded the inheritance of the income that land generated, not the land itself, to eldest sons, who could not dispose of it; nor could their sons. It was only the grandsons of the heirs who could sell off land, but a new deed of settlement could stave off that shocking event to that heir's grandson for another three generations, and it was a rare thing to see land be sold outright.

  "Uhm… perhaps some former commons land, taken 'tween deeds of settlement, under an Enclosure Act," Caroline, ever practical-minded, idly commented as she squirmed excitedly in her chair. "Oh! The first Saturday after Easter! The boys can be home and attend with us! A suitable wedding present, though… over Christmas, Theodora told me her paraphernalia is quite extensive already, hmm… "

  Beds, linens, plate, and a thousand pounds per annum, to boot, Lewrie idly thought, imagining that the lovely and charming Theodora Trencher might fetch along her own coach-and-four, thoroughbred saddle horses, a likely entry in the Ascot and the Derby, and a townhouse of her own in London. Lucky bugger, that Burgess, he told himself.

  "Good God!" Lewrie exclaimed after scanning the first page of Sophie's letter. "Sophie… she and Langlie have just come back from France! From Paris, and her old lands in Normandy. Them and Langlie's parents, both!"

  "From Paris?" Caroline gawped. "And they didn't lop off their heads? What risks they took!"

  Lewrie had rescued Sophie, her mother, and her brother from Toulon before the besieged forces of the First Coalition had evacuated; the poor girl had been, for a brief time, the Vicomtesse Sophie, pitiful "meat" for the guillotine and the murderous wrath of the Jacobin revolutionaries who were red-eyed-mad for eliminating every "aristo" family, root and branch, and anything that smacked of nobility. Such revolutionary sentiment and old grudges, Lewrie imagined, still held sway.

  "Surely not t'get her lands back," Lewrie said, reading on. "I doubt… aha. Damme if she don't say they had a grand time, a proper honeymoon month. Evidently, they took her for an English girl who-"

  "Would that not be risk enough?" Caroline quipped.

  "… who could speak fluent French. As Missuz Langlie, with an English husband, they hardly had a spot o' bother. Saw all the sights in Paris… ate well, attended balls and levees, all sorts of things. Hmm Lewrie said, reading off salient points. "And it now seems there's t'be a Langlie heir in the near future, Caroline. Sophie says to inform you she is… enceinte. Or grosse, d'ye prefer the colloquial French. Expectin', ha! Here, I'll let you read it for yourself."

  "Later," Caroline demurred. She and Sophie: once one of those lying letters had arrived declaring that Lewrie had been topping her, too, Caroline had turned from fond to outright spiteful towards Sophie, spurring the girl to flee to London into the dubious aegis of Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, her adored, adopted grand-pиre. Even now, after Sophie and Anthony Langlie had wed and those slanders had been found to be utterly false, Caroline still seemed glad to be shot of her. Lewrie doubted if she would read that letter.

  "What is the rest of the post?" his wife asked after putting the glad tidings from Burgess Chiswick aside.

  "Oh, there's two from the boys," Lewrie told her, still engrossed.

  "Oh, you!" she cried, only a tad vexed, springing from her seat to the desk to paw through the stack. "One would think you'd set them aside as if you were still captain of a ship! Official things first, and personal last. You'd deprive me of word from my dear lads?" she said, but it was a teasing, almost fond admonishment for his lapse.

  "Apologies, m'dear," Lewrie told her.

  "Hmm… dear old Wilmington?" Caroline puzzled, looking over a travel-stained letter. "Oh, your old friend, is he not engaged in business there? The one who sent a deposition for your trial?"

  "Christopher Cashman, aye," Lewrie agreed. "He bought into an import-export and chandlery… Livesey, Seabright, and Cashman. Has offices and warehouses on Water Street, he wrote me. The sawmill on Eagle's Island cross the river… "

  "Why, we knew the Liveseys… before the Revolution. Rebels, though decent people in the main," Caroline fondly reminisced of her girlhood home in the Cape Fear Low Country. "The only Seabright that I recall was a new-come from England… an officer of the Royal Artillery who'd emigrated for land. Married a Livesey, I think he did. He was a rebel, too. Helped manage the guns at Widow Moore's Creek bridge… when our friends and neighbours from the Scot settlements at Cross Creek and Campbelltown were slaughtered. Ah, well. An
d… who is Desmond McGillivery, from Charleston?"

  "Say who again?" Lewrie started; he'd missed that'un when he'd hurriedly sorted through them, and, good as things seemed to be going with his wife, they could turn to sheep-shit the instant she learned that Desmond McGillivery was yet another of his bastards, a result of his brief, very unofficial "wedding" to a captured Cherokee slave of the Muskogee Indians when he'd been up the Apalachicola to entice them into war against the Yankee Doodle frontier. "Oh! I remember! He was a Midshipman in the American Navy I met back in Ninety-Eight. His uncle was captain of one of their cobbled-together warships going after the Frogs when America and France got huffy with each other. I felt sad for the lad… His mother was Indian, don't ye know. We've corresponded… on and off. Wonder what he's up to now?"

  Caroline paid that letter no more attention, enrapt by those from Sewallis and Hugh, and thought no more about it.

  Whew! Lewrie secretly gloated; cheated death again! He would reply to Desmond's letter… very much on the sly. And pay stricter attention to the senders' names the next time he collected the mails.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Wonder of wonders, domestic relations took an even sweeter turn as Spring progressed, as Sewallis and Hugh returned from their school for the summer and filled the house with japes, pranks, and laughter. There were more family rides together, more companionable breakfasts, walking tours of the farm through sheep, cattle, and foals, nattering with day labourers and their few permanent employees, and yarns from Liam Desmond and Patrick Furfy about battles and grand adventures.

  The Lewries even went visiting, as a travelling troupe; first to High Wycombe to attend Burgess and Theodora's nuptials, then up to London for some major shopping, and, lastly, down to the Langlies' at Horsham, in Kent, to visit with Sophie and her husband and in-laws. Even Lewrie's father, Sir Hugo, had coached down for that'un, for he'd always been doting-fond of Sophie, as she had been of him, her replacement grand-pиre.