A Fine Retribution

by Dewey Lambdin

  When Lewrie’s celebratory supper at the Madeira Club finally came to pass, he invited those two rowdies to attend with him and his father, Sir Hugo. Though the Madeira Club did not have the ton of his own gentlemen’s club, Peter had been most impressed by the supper, and the expansive wine cellar, along with the conviviality of the company.

  Upon those outings, and upon his shopping trips round the town, Lewrie was delighted to learn that not everyone in London had succumbed to Beau Brummell fashion, and that his civilian suitings could still be thought stylish, and better yet, still fitted him well, too.

  Finally, with a full house staff engaged, a fourteen-year-old scullery wench no bigger than a “hop-o’-my-thumb”, a maid-of-all-work named Agnes, a chubby nondescript of eighteen or so, and a brace of chamber maids as fearsome in appearance as bull-baiting mastiffs, one Martha and a Margaret, and frankly, hard to tell apart without different-coloured bib aprons, Lewrie was free to consider having that portrait done.

  He sent Dasher in the role of footman/page to bear a note to the Chenery manse, and not without a precautionary protection letter declaring the lad as a member of his retinue, so the Impress Service didn’t snatch up a likely young fellow in sailor’s togs and carry him down to Deptford or the Nore as a “volunteer” for King’s Service! The lad swore he was London born, but definitely in the East End, and was unsure if he could find Piccadilly, right at the end of the street!

  Happily, he was back in less than three-quarters of an hour with a response. Miss Jessica Chenery’s note said that she was not engaged with a project at the moment, and would be delighted to see him, again, and equally pleased to do his portrait!

  *   *   *

  It was such a nice day that he walked the relatively short distance to the manse at St. Anselm’s church, enjoying the sight of Green Park cross the way, and the idlers and strollers out in a dry and warm morning after a rainy night.

  A mob-capped maid whom he recalled as Betty opened the door for him and showed him into the front parlour, taking his hat and walking-stick. A moment later, and Miss Jessica Chenery swept into the room.

  My God, she’s more stunning than I remember! he told himself in awe as she sketched a brief curtsy with a glad smile on her face.

  “Captain Lewrie, how glad I am to see you well,” she said as she rose, “after such a grievously won fight.”

  Damme, she has a pleasant voice! he thought as he bowed in reply.

  “Miss Chenery, how delightful to re-make your acquaintance,” he said. “I must confess that your cheerful letters buoyed my spirits up since sailing for Spain.”

  “Do, sit, Captain Lewrie,” Jessica said, waving him towards the nearest settee. “Would you take tea?”

  “That would be grand, thankee,” Lewrie told her.

  Jessica’s ringing of a wee china bell, though, brought more than a maid servant, for Reverend Chenery’s long-time boarder, Madame Berenice Pellatan, an overly dressed and overly made up French émigré artist, glided in, a hand already extended to be kissed, forcing Lewrie to his feet once again to perform another bow.

  “Capitaine Chevalier Lewrie, enchanté!” Madame Pellatan trilled.

  “Madame Berenice, how grand to see you, again,” Lewrie replied, taking that hand and giving it a peck. “You do well, Madame?”

  “Ah la, Capitaine, the dreads we have suffered over you, young M’sieur Charles, and your ship, out on the vast and dangerous sea…!”

  What expressions of dread were interrupted by a rapid series of clumps down the stairs, and the bursting in of Midshipman Charles Chenery, still in his naval uniform.

  “Captain, sir!” the lad said in glad takings. “Good to see you!”

  “What, Mister Chenery, still ashore are you?” Lewrie pretended to be astonished, and shaking his hand, man-to-man. “I’d’ve thought you would be back to sea before me!”

  “Well, sir, not for want of trying,” Chenery explained with a rueful expression. “I practically haunt Admiralty, but so far, no luck. In truth, sir, but for you I have no patrons, and so little time in the Navy that I’m a complete nobody.”

  “Well, as soon as I get orders to a new ship, Mister Chenery, you may rest assured there’ll be a place in her cockpit for you!” Lewrie promised.

  “Oh Lord, my pardons,” Jessica said, grinning widely and trying to stifle an outright laugh, “but to hear my little brother called by any other name but Charley…!”

  “He’s more than earned it, Miss Chenery,” Lewrie told her with a stab at sternness, “though he’s not yet a ‘scaly fish’, your brother’s done a man’s work since joining Sapphire. Come a long way.”

  “Ah, Betty, tea for all if you please,” Jessica said once the maid showed up, and they all took their seats.

  “Your note said that you now reside in Dover Street, Captain Lewrie?” Jessica asked.

  “Good enough for Nelson for a time, so I s’pose it’s good enough for me, ’til I hear from Admiralty,” Lewrie said.

  “Why, you’re practically just round the corner, almost next-door neighbours to us,” the girl marvelled, prompting Lewrie to tell them the amusing tale of how he’d been forced to take a house instead of “bachelor” lodgings, and the many frustrations of establishing a household with all the appurtenances after years of ship-board living.

  “Why, I’ve even had to find a terrier, to turn the roasting spit!” he declared with a laugh. “Rather a good ratter, too, name o’ Bully!”

  The tea service arrived, a rather ornate one in plate silver, and Jessica poured cups for all, apologising for the lack of tea cakes, and only her brother sounded dis-appointed.

  The first and only time that Lewrie had been face-to-face with Miss Jessica Chenery had been little more than half an hour, a damned early in the foggy, cold pre-dawn when collecting her brother to coach down to Portsmouth to the ship. Even then, despite the gloom of the parlour and the young lady’s drab winter wool gown and shawl, Lewrie had been most impressed by her, and rencontre after so long was not a let-down, nor did his memory play tricks on his recollections of her.

  This morning, her hair was done up instead of maidenly long, and appeared more brown than black in the light, though her eyes, under a pair of thick, dark, and arched brows, were still the most mystifyingly dark blue. Jessica’s face was a lean long oval, with a firm little chin and attractive cheekbones, and her only mar was a nose just a tad too large, rendering her only slightly less than beautiful, but still … striking, and remarkable.

  Lewrie had thought her slim, in the short time they had stood together admiring one of her most-realistic portraits, and today, she appeared even more so, lithe and almost willowy. Drab wool had given way to a light muslin summer gown of dark coral with white lace trim, with puffed quarter-sleeves that bared very slim arms. Her hands with long, fine, talented fingers…!

  Damme, what a fetchin’ girl! he thought as he stirred cream and sugar into his tea, striving not to leer too obviously, and keep up with the conversation.

  “Your father, Reverend Chenery, is well, Miss Chenery?” Lewrie asked.

  “He is, Captain Lewrie,” she replied, beaming at him, “thank you for asking. He would be with us, but he is working on this Sunday’s sermon, and wished me to express his regrets that he could not greet you.”

  “La, now that you reside in the parish, you will of course wish to attend Divine Services at Saint Anselm’s, M’sieur?” Madame Pellatan gushed.

  “Well … of course, Madame,” Lewrie said, taken aback. “At sea, with no Chaplain aboard, me and Sundays don’t get together that often, sorry t’say. The last time I was in a church proper, it must’ve been a Christmas, and I confess I drowsed off a bit during the choir’s cantata, and da uh … came close to applauding when it ended.”

  Keep a civil tongue in yer head, ye twit! he chid himself; You’re not aboard ship any longer!

  His home parish? That would be St. George’s at Anglesgreen, but he hadn’t been there since the war
began again in 1803. Then, he had to explain where Anglesgreen was in Surrey, what sort of village that it was, and why he’d ended up there.

  “You will be welcome in our box, Captain Lewrie,” Jessica told him, with almost a shy look.

  “And I would appreciate that more than you know, Miss Chenery,” Lewrie told her, causing another smile to spread on her features.

  “So,” she said, getting down to business at last and setting aside her cup and saucer on a side-table. “You wish me to do your portrait, sir?”

  “Aye, I do,” Lewrie replied. “I haven’t sat for anyone since I was a Lieutenant, longer ago than I’d care to admit. Your kind offer the last time I was here set me to thinking that I should have a new’un done before I go toothless, wrinkled, and bald as an egg, so people remember me how I looked in my late prime, ha ha.”

  “With your scar, a smile, and … how did you put it, sir, warts and all?” Jessica prompted with a tinkling laugh.

  “Surely a scar nobly earned in battle,” Madame Pellatan cooed.

  “More a silly duel over a young lady’s reputation,” Lewrie corrected. “The honourable marks are in places better left imagined!”

  “My calendar is clear at the moment, sir,” Jessica told him. “I could begin my sketches almost at once. Where, though…” She paused to think. “There’s really very little room here, and the light isn’t of the best our side of the street.”

  “Well, the front parlour at my house faces East, Sou’east, and there’s plenty of morning light, most days,” Lewrie offered. “If that would not compromise your reputation, Miss Chenery.”

  “I could be her chaperone, M’sieur,” Madame Pellatan leaped to suggest.

  “Or I, sir,” Charles Chenery offered. “After all, I only have to call at Admiralty once the week, and would have bags of time on my hands.”

  “And, you could visit with my Cox’n, Deavers, and the other lads,” Lewrie was quick to say, in dread of Madame Berenice’s ogling longer than a Dog Watch. “I’ve Bisquit and Chalky with me, too. I had to take a house. My father took one look at us, swore we resembled an itinerant circus, and wished us out of his place before the beasts wrecked it.”

  “Since you live so close by, that would serve admirably, sir,” Jessica enthused, then turned more thoughtful. “Ehm, would it be too much of an imposition to ah, go see how suitable it might be, Captain Lewrie?”

  “Of course not!” Lewrie declared. “How about this instant?”

  “In case it is, I can carry your easel and such,” Midshipman Chenery volunteered, “and all you need to make an early start.”

  “Yes, let’s go!” Jessica happily agreed. “Though if I do not yet know the size of the portrait that would do Captain Lewrie justice, let us leave the easel, canvas, and such for later. I’ll get my bonnet…”

  Their preparations to rise and depart were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of an energetic dog, a floppy-eared black-and-white cocker spaniel with brown eyebrows, which dashed to Jessica, frantically waggling its butt in an attempt to clamber into her lap.

  “Oh, Rembrandt … snookums!” Jessica cried in delight, cupping the dog’s head in both hands. “Been in the back garden, have you? Mud on your paws? No? Alright, then.”

  “Come here, pest,” her brother coaxed. “Father thinks him more of a trial worthy of Job. He is amusing, though.”

  “And we love you, don’t we, Rembrandt?” Jessica cooed, bending down to give the dog a hug.

  “He could meet Bisquit,” Lewrie suggested. “My dog.”

  “He does need exercise,” Charles Chenery allowed. “Should I fetch his leash?”

  “If Captain Lewrie truly does not mind him?” Jessica asked with a fetching incline of her head. “We try to walk him in Green Park as often as the weather allows, but…”

  “Aye, bring him along,” Lewrie urged.

  *   *   *

  “Apologies for the sparesness,” Lewrie said minutes later after the short stroll to his house. “This is all from my great-cabins,” he explained, then had to tell them when and where he’d gotten the low, brass Hindoo tray-table before the settee, and the small arsenal of firearms; the fusil musket, his Ferguson rifled breech-loader, the Girandoni air-rifle and the unique over-under fowling piece that Viscount Percy Stangbourne had given him, a fifty-guinea presentation sword from the East India Company for saving one of their convoys in the South Atlantic, his preferred everyday hanger, and the older one that he’d surrendered to Napoleon Bonaparte at Toulon in ’94.

  “Bonaparte, himself?” Madame Pellatan gasped, a bit too theatrically. “Mon Dieu, you met the Corsican Ogre?”

  And Lewrie, trying not to appear too smug, explained how he’d ended up on a beach with the survivors of the razeed mortar bomb after she’d been blown sky-high and sunk, and what a drowned rat he’d looked, with his breeches draining gallons of water, and his stockings round his ankles, and why he could not give his parole and keep his sword yet abandon his men.

  “During the Peace of Amiens, my wife and I travelled to Paris,” Lewrie went on, “since everybody was doin’ it, and I was of a mind to get it back. I had several French Captain’s swords, with notes as to whom they belonged, and hoped t’trade. Next thing I knew, we’re at the Tuileries Palace, face-to-face with Bonaparte himself, and him in a powerful snit, but I got it back. They said we might even take wine with him and his wife, Josephine, but that was right out.”

  Then, he had to relate how he and his wife had been warned that they should flee, soonest, and how they had done so, right to the cove near Calais where a boat waited, and how Caroline had been shot in the back and died.

  After expressions of awe and words of sympathy, Lewrie lightened the mood with the tale of how one Pulteney Plumb and his French wife, he a master of quick-change comedic sketches, and she formerly one of the chorus at the Comėdie Française, had spirited them away with an un-ending series of disguises and faux personae, as they had done to rescue French aristocrats during the bloody days of the Terror, and Lewrie mostly playing the role of a mute, an unfortunate kicked in the head by a horse, or a drooling lunatick.

  “He called himself the ‘Yellow Tansy’,” Lewrie said with a laugh. “God knows why. They own a small theatre near Covent Garden, and they do put on a fine, amusin’ show, some of the routines quite topical, as if they base ’em on the latest caricatures by Gillray or Rowlandson, but I wouldn’t recommend the neighbourhood after dark.”

  “La, how tragique, how formidable, how…!” Madame Berenice marvelled, all but blubbing up in awe of his tale.

  “What an adventurous life you have led, Captain Lewrie!” Miss Jessica said in wonder, and what Lewrie happily took as a fair dash of hero-worship.

  Woof? came from the hall, a tentative introduction by Bisquit with his head round the edge of the doors. Rembrandt strained at his leash to go greet him, and Jessica stepped closer to allow him. The dogs did what dogs usually did, sniffing noses, sniffing rumps, then Bisquit was head down, front paws dancing and whining in invitation to play. A moment later and they were off, dashing down the hallway and back again in a headlong gallop. Their return for a quick dash about the front parlour chased Chalky from wherever he had been lurking, and ran him to the top of one book case and atop the mantel, bottled up and spitting in annoyance.

  “So, would this room suit, Miss Chenery?” Lewrie asked, amused by the creatures’ antics.

  “Oh, wondrously well, sir!” Jessica told him, looking about one more time. “And the light yellow colour of the walls brightens the ambient light. Perhaps I can only work from early morning to mid-day, but it will be almost perfect. If you do not mind starting so early?” she asked with a pleased, expectant expression.

  “I am completely at your disposal, Miss Chenery,” Lewrie told her. “My time is yours.”

  “Hmm, then let us say … from the waist up, and a canvas about two feet by three?” she said, raising both hands to frame him in a box.

  “Are
hands extra?” Lewrie joshed. “I’m told that the Spanish painter, Goya, charges more for hands.”

  “Mon Dieu, where would you learn that, M’sieur?” Madame Berenice gasped.

  “One of our spies that I landed ashore in Andalusia wrote back that he’d met the fellow once he got to Madrid,” Lewrie boasted.

  “Espionage. Yet another tale of adventure you must tell us, someday, M’sieur!” she gushed.

  “Like t’see the rest of the house?” Lewrie asked, and, following the dogs’ progress, he showed them the dining room, then upstairs to the drawing room, which they thought most tastefully furnished, and what a shame it would be to leave most of it for the next tenants should he get orders, and a new ship, before he had time to enjoy it.

  *   *   *

  “I fear I must obtain a canvas and stretch it before I can begin,” Jessica told him as they strolled side-by-side back to the church manse, with the dogs roving back and forth before them. “Would Wednesday be a good day to start, Captain Lewrie?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Lewrie happily agreed. “Damn, Bisquit!”

  His dog had rarely been on a leash, simply would not heel, and was torn ’twixt the distractions of busy Piccadilly Street, and his new companion, Rembrandt. Leashes tangled, and Lewrie almost went arse-over-tit several times as he walked on the kerb side, outboard of the girl.

  His curse made Jessica shyly giggle.

  “Pardons,” Lewrie said, embarrassed that he’d been too long away from proper company and the mores of Society.

  “Believe me, sir, I’ve heard worse from Charley since he’s been back,” Jessica said, much amused. “He’s gotten quite … salty, to my father’s distress. Though it’s fun to watch him go red in the face!”

  “Aye, one goes to sea, and learns a lot more than how to hand, reef, and steer,” Lewrie apologised, looking over at her with a grin, and reckoning that Jessica Chenery stood about three or four inches below his own five feet nine in sensible low-heeled shoes.