The King's Coat

by Dewey Lambdin

  The candles guttered down in puddles of tallow before he allowed her to insist, and win, that she must depart. By his watch it was nearly three in the morning, and the house was dead quiet as he lit her down the stairs with a stub of a candle. She pressed a note with her address into his hand, told him that her only servant had the day off on Thursdays, which was soon, that he must not even consider ever seeing her again, and that there was a garden gate entrance to her lodgings on a quiet side street, but that he must desist in his passion before her husband shot him dead! She slunk into her coach, practically the last one still on the grounds, and plodded away at a pace that would not draw undue attention as birds began to twitter in the trees.

  “Now maybe I can eat that bird,” Lewrie said aloud.

  He found another candle by a cardtable as his own guttered out, then trod softly back up the stairs in his stockinged feet. Once in his room he slid out of his clothes and went to the tray. The wine was enough for a full bumper and still cool. And the cold meat and crusty bread went down pleasantly. He was sitting at the small table stark naked and chewing lustily when he heard a tiny noise in the hall. It brought a grin. Somebody sneaking back to their “lawful blanket,” I’ll warrant …

  A shadow stopped outside his door. A moment later a folded note was pushed with some force under the gap of the door, sliding three or four feet into the room across the polished boards.

  “She’s surely not come back for more,” he scoffed, rising to pick it up and read it. He almost spilled his wine when he realized what he held. Evidently Mrs. Hillwood, the faded blond lady, had not been pleased by his choice of Mrs. Haymer. If she herself had slipped the note under the door, then she had stayed as someone’s guest for the night—he hoped it was Tad Purnell. But she was inviting him to attend her if the Navy did not require him.

  Damme, I love the Navy, he thought happily. Where else can I get into so much mischief, so quickly?

  * * *

  “I trust you both enjoyed Sir Richard’s dinner party,” Kenyon said as they rode back through town in the coach.

  It was much too early for Alan. He had barely gotten to sleep when a servant had arrived with hot coffee and sweetened rolls and practically pushed him into his clothing. He had scarcely had time to shave, not that that was yet a daily necessity.

  “Oh, aye, sir,” he said, worn down to a nubbin. He could not have felt much worse if he had emptied the punchbowl down his own gullet and retired a puking corpse.

  Purnell, on the other hand, glowed in silence with a mystified expression, all youthful innocence. Evidently he had had a restful sleep after his introduction to the Alpha and Omega of pleasure. But his beatific pose was betrayed by the lace-trimmed handkerchief that peeked from a waistcoat pocket. As soon as they had gotten into the coach, Purnell had grinned so hugely that Lewrie was sure that Mrs. Hillwood had been most generous with her favors. Now, Alan’s main concern was if he wished to avail himself of those same favors, and just how he would go about it if he did.

  The somber heat and stillness of the day before had gone with the approach of clouds from the east, and a cooling wind blew dead foul for Antigua, perhaps delaying their sailing. It was only Wednesday, and their distinguished passengers would not board until evening, with a dawn departure planned on the land breeze Thursday, but if the Trades did not back to the nor’east it would be a hard beat just to clear Morant Point, clawing off a lee shore. They would not risk their passengers to that, surely.

  “I don’t think we’re going to get a fair wind by morning,” Lieutenant Kenyon said, surveying the harbor and the wind indicators.

  “Too much easterly for a storm, isn’t it, sir?” Lewrie said. “And too late in the year for a hurricane, I’d have thought.”

  “Perhaps, oh nautical one.” Kenyon laughed. “I shall send Mister Purnell to the flag with a message concerning this wind shift. I doubt if they wish to hazard our lord and lady. We may be delayed.”

  “Oh, good,” Alan said without thinking.

  “Have you some ulterior motive for wishing to stay in Kingston, Mister Lewrie?”

  “Well, there are my pay-certificates, sir. Now I have them, I … have wanted a sextant, like Mister Ellison had in Ariadne. They are more accurate than a quadrant, and if we have to thread up the Bahamas again I would feel more secure in my reckoning. I hear they are fifteen guineas but I may find one for less with something to pledge for credit.”

  Kenyon only stared at him, and Lewrie dropped back in his seat, suddenly intent on the view, hoping his lie might suit.

  But their departure was delayed; the flag did not wish to send a lord to his death on a lee shore, nor did the local admiral desire to have his career end suddenly by losing an important government official. The Cantners would not board Parrot until Thursday evening for a Friday departure. The mail was not a priority, nor were any orders they carried of an urgent nature that would allow no delay of transportation.

  Lewrie went below to change into fresh clothing after sweating up what he had worn at dinner and sport. He also had the wardroom servant haul up a bucket of salt-water so that he could sponge himself somewhat clean in the privacy of his tiny cabin.

  “Mister Lewrie,” Kenyon called from the hatch to his cabins. “I believe you have some shopping to do?”

  “Aye, sir,” he said, halfway into a clean shirt.

  “So do I, and Mister Claghorne does not begrudge remaining in charge for a while longer. At the end of the Day Watch I will allow you to go ashore with me. We’ll leave Mister Purnell here to pursue his own endeavors.”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  Lewrie scribbled a quick note and passed it to a passing bumboat with a shilling for delivery and the return of an answer, taking care that no one noticed.

  Within two hours, a message was returned to him. Mrs. Hillwood would be at home for tea, and would be delighted to have him join her.

  “Alan,” Purnell said, once they were aft by the taffrail deep in the flag lockers for inventory. “It was wonderful!”

  “I thought you did, you little rogue! How does it feel to be a buck of the first head?” he congratulated.

  “Grand, she gave me her handkerchief. It still has her perfume … her…” Tad blushed crimson.

  “Next time you’re back in Kingston you’ll have a place to go,” Alan told him, cringing a bit that he was soon to be coupled with the same woman. “Uhm … how was she?”

  “Well, she was very slim, as you might have noticed. Not bad, though. I thought she was going to eat me alive for a time there…” Tad answered, with a sly, adult grin.

  “How grand for you,” Alan said, smiling at the news that Mrs. Hillwood enjoyed devouring midshipmen.

  He was aching with anticipation by the time he and Lieutenant Kenyon were dropped off at the boat landing a little after 4:00 P.M. as the town began to awaken from the hottest part of the day, and cooling shadows lengthened.

  “I shall sup at the Grapes, yonder,” Kenyon said, pointing to a modest and homely Georgian-style inn. “I wish you back here before midnight. May I trust you, Mister Lewrie?”

  “Aye, sir,” Lewrie said, wondering if Kenyon thought he was going to take “leg-bail” from the Navy.

  “Then leave the lady’s address with the doorkeeper at the inn, should I need you before then,” Kenyon said, making Lewrie gape at Kenyon’s powers of observation.

  “How did you know it was a lady, sir?” he said, flummoxed.

  “That is for masters and commanders to know, and for rutting midshipmen to discover later in their careers. Now off with you, and if you truly do find a sextant for less than fifteen guineas, let me known if they have another.”

  “Aye, sir.” Lewrie was continually amazed by Kenyon and his attitude toward him. It was much more lenient than he had come to expect from a Sea Officer toward a lowly midshipman of so little practical experience. He thought that Kenyon truly liked him, and he knew that he had made great progress in gaining nautical skills as a resul
t of it, but the exact reasons why it was so nagged at him. Who else would be a co-conspirator in his designs on a lonely grass-widow? It was almost beyond credence, and there were times that Alan felt that there was a debt building up which might someday have to be repaid. And, being born a leery soul …!

  He found Mrs. Hillwood’s building, a great walled enclosure with a central court and front double iron gate that opened off a quiet side street. On the alleys there were discreet servants’ entrances. Normally, he would be scratching at one of those, but this afternoon he was an openly invited guest, so he entered the court and was faced with several apartments. Mrs. Hillwood’s number was on the second floor overlooking the court and its garden and fish pool.

  The door was opened by a black maidservant, and he heard the tinny tinkling of a harpsichord and the murmur of several voices. At once his expectant erection became a distinct embarrassment as he realized it truly was a tea, with other guests, and not the sly invitation to strum the damned woman he had thought it was!

  “Ah, our other guest,” Mrs. Hillwood said, rising to greet him. “This is Midshipman Alan Lewrie, from Parrot, the despatch boat. Mister Lewrie, allow me to name to you Reverend Robinson.”

  “Your servant, sir,” Alan said, adjusting roles and making a graceful leg to the man, a young, chubby, and obviously poor sort of curate.

  He met the reverend’s wife, a blubber-booby who had difficulty even bowing from a seated position, a planter and his wife, and an army officer from the local regiment with a young woman of his acquaintance.

  The tea’s good, anyway, Alan thought sourly, sipping from his cup and gathering a small plate of baked trifles to pass the time. It was an agonizing hour and a half of small talk of privateers, prices in the Indies, prospects for crushing the rebellion in America, facing up to the French and the Spanish, the state of the Church, the latest poems, and a screed against those damned Wesleys and Methodism.

  Lewrie got to put his oar in about life in the Navy and hoped he was amusing about some of his first experiences, but he could not hope to match broadsides with the Reverend Mr. Robinson or an opinionated young army major who was barely two years older than himself and sure that he was the last word on military affairs.

  Only reason he’s a major is that he could buy a subaltern’s commission, and then buy his way up as people chucked it, Lewrie told himself. And he wasn’t too sure that he really didn’t know more about small arms and musketry, and most especially artillery, than the young man in the red coat with the scarlet sash, gorget and epaulet.

  Mrs. Hillwood finally began to break up the tea party as the others began to stir in mutual boredom. The major gossip had been delivered, their bladders were full and it was getting on for sundown. Lewrie sighed and looked for his hat while Mrs. Hillwood gushed over the reverend and his chick-a-biddy wife at the door.

  “You hat, sah,” the maidservant said softly. Lewrie had not had many island women; most of them were sure to be poxed if they dwelled anywhere near a harbor, but this one was tempting. She tapped the brim of his hat, forcing him to look down. There was a folded note in the inside of the crown. Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere. Must be from Mrs. Hillwood. I doubt if the servant can write.

  Furtively, he stood to one side, adjusting his neckcloth in a mirror with his hat resting on the small table below it, and opened it to read without the others seeing. He was gratified to see that it was short and to the point: “Return in a quarter-hour.” Alan made his goodbyes publicly with the others and set off at a brisk pace to town.

  When he was readmitted to the apartments the second time after a short detour to allay suspicion, the maidservant was now dressed in a hat and lace shawl. She let him in, then slipped out the door herself, leaving him alone in the front parlor. There was no sign of Mrs. Hillwood but there was now a serving tray on the tea table that held several bottles. Alan helped himself to some claret.

  “Mister Lewrie,” Mrs. Hillwood said sweetly, entering the room from the back rooms. She had changed her more formal sack dress for a loose morning gown and now sported her own hair instead of a floured wig. She walked up to him and gave him a light kiss on the cheek, as one would greet an old friend, before breezing out of his hungry reach to cross to the array of bottles.

  He was amazed to see her pour herself a healthy measure of Blue Ruin. “After the tedium of such guests I have need of gin, Mister Lewrie. I am very happy that you would accept my invitation to return.”

  “I would not have missed it, I assure you, Mrs. Hillwood.”

  “Come sit with me,” she said, alighting gracefully on a sofa and patting the brocaded fabric next to her. He obeyed. “Those people say the same things time after time but it is my duty as a woman of some consequence here on the island to allow them to pay their respects. Though they cost me my time and my patience.”

  “At sea we have no choice of our messmates, either,” Alan said, sipping at his wine. “They can become … predictable.”

  “And you dislike tedium, do you not, Mister Lewrie? As I?”

  “I like adventure.” He grinned, turning in his seat to her.

  “A direct young man, how delightful!” Mrs. Hillwood said, waving her empty glass at him in silent request for a refill. She had the look in her eyes of a predator, and Alan noticed that her nose was long and hawklike, the only mar of her still considerable beauty, though she must have been at least in her mid-to-late forties.

  He took her glass and went to the table to pour her another dose of gin, and to top up his claret as well.

  “Your captain allows you ashore for how long, Mister Lewrie?” she asked, tucking her legs up on the sofa and leaning over one arm.

  “If the wind does not shift suddenly I have ’til midnight,” he said, carrying her drink back to her.

  “How generous he is,” she said, “and such a good friend of Sir Richard Slade?”

  “So he told me, ma’am, though I don’t know the connection.” He handed her the glass. There was now no place to sit next to her so he stood easy, one hand behind his back like a deck officer, and the other at high-port with the glass. She seemed amused.

  “So you like adventure,” she said after a healthy slug of her gin. “Were you adventurous last night?”

  “A gentleman never tells,” Lewrie said with a tight grin, and took a sip of his own drink.

  “Nonsense, gentlemen always tell. Why else do they linger so long over the port while we poor women have to retire to cards and coffee, and talk of tatting lace?”

  “You sound like someone who enjoys adventure yourself, ma’am,” he posed. Oh please be! he thought.

  “Oh, I do. And I was, I confess, disappointed that you found that tawdry little dumpling more preferable. Your friend was amusing, even so, for all his clumsiness.”

  “It was his debut, ma’am. But I trust that your kindness and generosity treated him well,” Lewrie said, feeling somewhat out of his depth. He had never run into a woman of her wealth and position that wasn’t a little sniveller and simperer, always swearing that they had never done anything like that before and that he was the ravisher that broke down their resistance. Yet here was a woman ready to admit to desires of the flesh as strong as his, and from Tad’s description of his night with her, she would be as aggressive as a lioness!

  “He was smiling peacefully when I left him,” she said, finishing her drink and waving for him to serve once more.

  “That’s good,” he said, going back to the table for more gin. “Poor Tad smiles so seldom.”

  “And poor Mister Lewrie?” she purred enticingly.

  “I am always seeking amusements to lighten the soul, ma’am,” he told her with mock gravity.

  He stood close with her drink, but instead of reaching to take it from him, she put out a hand to his crotch and ran light fingers over his evident excitement through the cloth of his breeches.

  “Never send a boy to do a man’s job,” she said. “You look so stifled in that uniform of yours. Tak
e it off and be comfortable.” As he struggled out of his coat and waistcoat she undid his breeches, and as his neckcloth and shirt went flying across the room, she bent down and kissed his manhood.

  “So strong, so upright. And you taste of ocean salt.”

  “Oh God,” he said, throwing his head back to look at the ceiling as she clasped his buttocks and drew him into her.

  “Bring our drinks,” she ordered, breaking off and swaying off to the back rooms, while he tried to shed his shoes and breeches and follow.

  Mrs. Betty Hillwood was, as they said, a man-killer. She sobbed and she groaned deep in her throat, flinging her head back and forth and gasping, riding him rantipole with her hands clawed into his shoulders, and when she hit the melting moments, she sounded like someone being flogged at each warm stroke. She was incredibly slim with much smaller breasts than Alan preferred, but her nipples and aureoles were large and dark. Her hipbones dug into him harshly, but her flesh was incredibly fine and soft over her thin frame. The down of her legs was maddening as she stroked his buttocks with her legs and clasped him tight to her, and she loved to have his fingers twine in the sopping wet hair of her underarms as she gripped the headboard and thrust back at him stroke for stroke.

  They broke for more drink, for a cold supper that they ate in bed, still tangled in the linen. They stood in a large tub of cool water that had been standing all day, and sponged themselves, then went to the edge of her high bed and made love seated. Followed by more to drink.

  Frankly, Betty Hillwood could put gin away like a grenadier, and it only made her more passionate, more animal in her actions, and in her desires, which already seemed insatiable.

  She complained about her dried-up stick of a husband, who liked island boys out at the plantations more than her, of how hard it was to find suitable satisfaction for her own desires in so proscribed a society as the islands, where there were so few true aristocrats who had a freer code of conduct than the squirearchy that made up most of the traders and planters of her own association.