A King's Commander

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Oh, Alain, eez merchandise,” she replied, waving one hand, to “pooh-pooh” its presence. “I tell you, remember? Ze émigrés royaliste? Zey are sell zer s’ings, bon marché. I buy from z’em, an’ when people come to San Fiorenzo, zen zey buy from moi! Non ze bon marché! ’Ow do you say, ze uhm . . . profeet, oui? ”

  “You’ve gone into trade? ” he huffed, scandalized.

  “Non, Alain.” She smiled, proud of being so clever. “Non trade. I deman’ ze cash, on’y, now.”

  “Phoebe, I thought . . .” he babbled; not knowing what he thought!

  “ D’avant, uuhm . . .” she explained, threading an arm through his to lead him inside, skipping girlishly, “. . . in beginning, oui, I trade. Zose wiz’ou’ furniture, zey ’ave jewelry, an’ mus’ ’ave beds. Or ’ave gold an’ silver plate, si belle! But, ’ave no monnaie for food, so . . . ze osteria, zose nice people, an’ Signore Bucco ’oo rent to us? Some ozzers, we mak’ ze arrangement. Food an’ lodgings for trade jewelry, or furnishings. Ooh, Alain, close you’ eyes, plais! I s’prise you!”

  “You’ve already done that, Phoebe,” he declared, though obeying her whim and shutting his eyes, allowing himself to be led inside as her “blindman’s buff.”

  “ Voilà, Alain!” she cried, giggling a-tiptoe. “Regardez!”

  “Bloody . . .” He could but weakly gasp at the transformation. The parlor now held cream-painted, gilded couches and chairs, upholstered in shimmery white moire silk, with gold-flecked filigrees. Deep, rich tables and chests—cherry, mahogany, or rose-wood, marble-topped or delicately inlaid with precious ivory. Coin-silver candelabras, tea-things, vases, and trays . . . the kaleidoscopic prism speckling of late-afternoon sunlight glinted off fine crystal gewgaws, or from the magnificent gilt-and-crystal chandeliers! The sooty fireplace had been redone with new marble inlays, dressed in carved stone that was very Romanesque. There were cloisonné, silver, gilt, or Chinese vases, cherubs, candlesticks on the mantel, below a gigantic gold-vein mirror hung above it. Paintings in baroque gilt frames, portraits, landscapes . . . Painted, scoured, papered in some places, elegantly draperied . . . ! The parlor was now a showplace, and not anywhere near the gaudy he’d expected from someone of Phoebe’s provincial, and untrained, background. Their plebeian lodgings had become a miniature palazzo, as genteelly elegant as any fine mansion in the whole of England!

  “Sit, mon chou. ’ Ere. A cool glass, n’est-ce pas? ”

  He had to sit; he was too dumbfounded to stand. He fell into a deep, wide, massy armchair done in burgundy chintz over priceless rosewood, so elegantly carved, his senses reeling as she dashed off to fetch him a glass of something.

  Joliette appeared, prancing into the parlor with her tail erect. She hopped up on the matching hassock and hunkered down warily, barely out of reach but looking as if she might like a petting. Around her slim little ruffed neck, there was a brown velvet riband, from which hung a tiny amber cameo, set in real gold! A cameo of a cat, of course.

  There came the promising thwock! of a cork being pulled, somewhere off to his right in the kitchen. And a moment later, Phoebe reappeared bearing two exquisitely cut crystal flutes of champagne, followed by a slim, dark-haired maid he’d never clapped eyes on before, who carried a most impressive silver wine tray, and a chilling bucket that held the bottle, a wine bucket as big as a coehorn mortar barrel, heavily ornamented with cherubs, pans, and grapes. Solid silver? he goggled. It had to weigh three or four bloody pounds!

  “Cool, too,” he muttered, after the maid had poured them both a glass, and departed without a word.

  “I kep’ ze bes’, you see?” she informed him, waving a slim hand over her new fineries. “You like ze champagne, Alain? Bon. Ve ’ave ze dozen-dozen bottles, now. A ver’ good year.”

  “Just how did you ever . . .” he began to marvel.

  “I tol’ you, Alain,” she chided with a pleased little laugh, as she came to sit on the wideish arm of his chair and play her fingers in his hair. “Signore Bucco, ’e is ’ave beaucoup ’ouses for to rent, mais, ze émigrés, zey cannot afford, n’est-ce pas? I am shopping, for pretty new s’ings, ’e come to tak’ ze old shabbies, as we agree. An’, ’e ees afraid-ed zat what we tell ’eem ees vrai . . . true . . . zat you’ Army will tak’ ’ouses non rented. Zen, when I am market, I fin’ so many émigrés impoverish . . . ’ave s’ings of grande value, but no monnaies, for to eat? So I mak’ ze arrangement wiz ze Monteverdes at ze osteria, ’oo know ze farmers, ze shopkeepers, aussi, et voilà . . . ze entreprise we begin. ’E ’ave monnaies, I ’ave une peu. Pardon, but I see you’ agent, ’e advance me all ze fif’y pound you leave for me at firs’. Be non to worry, mon amour, I pay eet all back, wi’sin ze mont’, from my profeet,” she said with another pleased chuckle, and a toying with his hair.

  “You parleyed fifty pounds into all this? ”

  “Oui,” she admitted, with a proud cock of her head.

  “Bloody hell, you should be in London, at the ’Change!” He gaped. “You’d make a fortune, overnight. And show them how.”

  “ Merci, Alain, you are please-ed? Bon. ” Phoebe smiled, rewarding him with a fond kiss. “Now, non more trade. You’ Navy, you’ Army, so many at San Fiorenzo, ’oo deman’ ’ouses, rooms, food an’ wine. An’ ze refreshment, from ze siege? Ze grande émigrés, zey mus’ ’ave servants, pay rent, buy food an’ wine. An’, where are soldiers an’ sailors and ze rich, zere come domestiques, chefs, ze restaurants an’ cafés . . . ooh la, San Fiorenzo ees awaken! Tailors an’ dressmakers, zey are mak’ money so quick! So, even more people come, from Bastia, Ajaccio . . . all need what we ’ave, comprende? Ze people ’oo are jus’ depart, zey open ze maison public . . . ze ’ore-’ouse, wiz so many beautiful jeune filles. Maison public mus’ be elegant, ’ave furnishings grande, an’ I on’y am ’ave, no one else, so zey buy from moi. ”

  “You’re in the brothel business?” he yelped in alarm. “That’s as good as saying we both are! Now, hold on just . . .”

  ’Course, everyone I knew in the early days said I’d make a hellish grand pimp, he recalled, somewhat ruefully.

  “Non, non,” she countered heartily. “Sell, on’y ze furnishings. For monnaie, an’ some wine. Wine, I sell to ozzers, at profeet. You’ officiers Brittanique, mos’ly. Forgive plais, Alain, mon coeur, but . . .” She sobered, almost biting her lip shyly. “Mos’ of zem, zey are ’aving très monnaies, but are . . . les folletes— ze leetle fools? Pay any sum I as’ for zere port an’ claret. An’, zey mus’ ’ave clubs, hein? Where officers go, when zey wish to be amusant? Zey need furnishing grande for zose, aussi! An’, so many gowns, an’ jewelry I ’ave tak’ in trade. Officers mus’ ’ave zere courtesans . . . and courtesans mus’ ’ave pretty gowns, or jewelry. Or ze les follettes, zey buy for zem, from moi. ”

  “So, we’re . . . you’re running a secondhand shop for whores and such,” he stated flatly.

  “Non!” she declared, aghast, and suddenly losing her gay confidence and pride. “To shop, on’y, Alain, never to . . . I s’ought you be ’appy, zat I do so well. Zat I mak’ ze ’ome beautiful, an’ eet cos’ you nossing!” She began to blubber up, her pouty little lower lip beginning to tremble. “I . . . I s’ought you be proud of me!”

  “Phoebe . . .” he crooned, abandoning his champagne to take hold of her before she fled in tears, to slide her down onto his lap where he rocked her and stroked her like a heartbroken child. “There there, don’t take on so, my girl. Of course, I’m proud of you. ’Bout pleased as punch, don’t ye know! You’re a marvel, so clever, so enterprising . . .”

  Hold on there, he thought, though: let’s not trowel it on too bloody thick! I still don’t know what people think of this place. Or my association with it!

  “It’s just such a surprise, that’s all, Phoebe. Ma cherie, ” he told her softly, cradling her head on his chest. “Aye, you have done a miracle with this house! I’d not recognize it. And so tasteful! Grand as the Walpoles, grand as the richest house ever I’ve
seen back home in England! But I thought I’d be coming back to our . . . to you, my girl . . . and our little hideaway, where we could be private and intimate. Cozy and pleasant, hey, like you said? And I find people crawling about underfoot, jam-packed to the deck heads with stuff like a chandlery, too damn’ busy a bustle, bad as the ’Change back home. And some of ’em not the elegant sort you should—a lady should—be knowing. Now, where is our privacy in all that, hmm?”

  “Ees jus’ . . .” Phoebe hiccupped, snuggling closer even as she dashed away her tears with the back of her hand. “You’ Prize Court . . . zey tak’ so long, an’ eef I mak’ monnaies zen you non worry ’bout eef you can afford me, Alain! Merde alors, eef I lose you, what is zere for me to do? Become ze putain, again? Non. Never again, mon amour! ”

  “Phoebe . . .” he gentled, stroking her back. Touched, though, to his heart by her concern for him. He plucked a dainty, gauzy silk handkerchief from the bosom of her elegant gown and began to dry her tears.

  “Someday, oui . . . ” she whispered, turning her face up to his to be gentled. “You go ’way to sea, return to Englan’. Or, we grow tired of each ozzer? I pray zat do non ’appen for très beaucoup ané, mon amour! All zese I do, so you ’ave nossing to s’ink about but ’ow much you love me, ’ow much I love you! An’ ’ow ’appy we are. Zose zat come ’ere . . .” She sniffed, taking the handkerchief for a vigorous swipe at her nose. “Zey non shame you, Alain . . . or moi. Zey do non come to trade wiz ze leetle ’hore ’oo ’ave e’spensive s’ings,” she swore, all but making the sign of the cross over her heart.

  “Non, zey s’ink zey deal wiz émigré royaliste from Toulon. Our ’ouse ees non ze salon, or ze maison public. Ze courtyard, on’y, ees market. Non ’ere, in ’ouse. Oh, la, I store gowns an’ jewelry, in ze ozzer bedchamber, for sécurité, mais . . . I do non entertain! An’ I am non for sale, ever again, Alain! Eef I mak’ monnaies, honestly . . . zen I am ’ave sécurité so I never ’ave to sell myself to men, ever. Give to a man I love, wiz all my ’eart, oui . . . but, never sell.”

  “Dear God,” he whispered, in awe of her. “Forgive me for rowing you, Phoebe. Forgive everything I said, or thought. You really are a wonder. A bloody knock-down wonder!”

  “Oh, Alain!” she relented, flinging herself upon him once more, this time shuddering with relief, her tears turning to ones of restored joy.

  And a poser, and a puzzle, and God knows what else, Alan thought, damned well relieved, himself; but above all, girl . . . a sweet, cunning little . . . entrancing dear’un!

  C H A P T E R 4

  Contessa!” the street vendor greeted her from his flower cart. Followed by some liquid Italian, and the offer of a nosegay of local blooms.

  “Contessa?” Lewrie frowned anew. It had been the sixth time in their short evening stroll that he’d heard the word, but the first that he’d associated it directly with her.

  “Zey call me zat, Alain.” Phoebe shrugged, a bit too artlessly, and with too much nonchalance, though she could not hide her blushing.

  “Why is that, exactly?” he inquired, striving for an equally offhand air.

  “I do ze bus’nees wiz zem, loan ze une peu monnaies, so . . .” She blushed again. “A lady cannot be padrone, hein? Zat ees for men. I ’elp ’eem buy donkey for ’ees cart, an’ now ’e pay me back, wiz ’ees profits, oui? Like ze padrone does, mais . . . ”

  Several gentlemen and their ladies, out for a stroll of their own, bowed or curtsied to them—to her, specifically—in the next half block, doffing their hats. Fawning over her, chatting away mostly in Italian, making raving sounds over the miniature portrait of Pascal Paoli that hung on a gold chain about her neck.

  “Zey are patriotes, Alain,” Phoebe said, blushing even more prettily. “I tell zem where I fin’ eet, an’ zey wish to purchase, aussi. ”

  “Don’t tell me you paint ’em in your spare time,” he teased with a droll expression. “Assumin’ you have any, that is.”

  “Non, non moi, Alain.” She grinned impishly. “Une of my cousin, ’e ees artiste, in Bastia. ’E do ze portraits, ’ave ees own shop. ’E ’ave now three ozzers work for ’eem. ’E sen’ zem to me, I sell for ’eem, place orders for more. For on’y ze une peu, petite commission, n’estce pas? Mon Dieu merde alors . . . ’e ees kin!”

  She’d already explained to him, long before, on the intricacies of Corsican kinships. Which were pretty much on a par with a

  Scottish clan, with commerce of the most cutthroat kind thrown in. Immediate family, down to distant cousins, came first; second was clan loyalty; then God and Church, with Self coming in a poor fourth, usually. One obeyed the family padrone, then the feudal lords of one’s extended clan, who, it seemed, were forever feuding with each other as bad as Capulets and Montagues in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Blood was always answerable in blood, and they had longer memories, and grudges, than an entire pack of abused hounds. The vendetta, they called it.

  Paoli, everywhere he looked, it seemed, too. Portraits, names of children, names of shops and favorite horses. Troop a large painting or effigy of Pascal Paoli through the streets, and one might imagine the Second Coming—or a Saturnalia, with one and all kneeling in tears or hosannahs like Roosian serfs did to their icons, or their masters. Hero, Saint, Liberator, Caesar—all of them, was Paoli, in the Corsican mind.

  “Hmmf!” Phoebe sniffed suddenly, turning her head, and turning up her nose in remarkable imitation of a grand dowager who’d just delivered the “Cut Sublime” to some mountebank on The Strand back home.

  “What?”

  “’Eem!” She sneered, inclining her head toward a party farther down the street. “Zat Messieur Jheel-ber’ Elliot of you’s.”

  “He’s viceroy of the island, Phoebe, representing our good King George,” Lewrie told her patiently. “What’s he done to you?”

  “Alain,” she rejoined, scandalized and reproving, “’e ees tyrant! Mon Dieu merde alors, Corsica fight ze Genoese hun’erd year, to be independent. Genoa give Corsica to France, an’ zen Signore Paoli lead us in fight zem for year an’ year.”

  “And back in King George the Second’s reign, Corsica offered to become English, as I remember. Sign the whole island over to us,” he countered.

  “ Oui, to rid us of Genoese, so we non become part of France, be free!” she argued.

  “Wait a moment.” He scowled, perplexed again. “ You’re French!”

  “Papa was Français, Maman was Italian, mais . . . Alain, I am Corsican, you see? An’ now, you’ Messieur Elliot, ’e will mak’ us British, wiz monarch. Like you’ Scotland . . . poor relation? When what we wish ees to be Corsica independent. Papa come from France, so long ago, ’e was Corsican. Maman be born ’ere, in Italian clan, but she was Corsican firs’, hein? Say Corsican, non Français or Italiana. You’ Elliot, ’e say we mus’ ’ave king an’ parliament, but mus’ be Corsican king an’ parliament, we say. An’ zat ees quel dangereux . . . ’oo ees king, what clan. Ooh la, you s’ink you see vendetta now . . . ! So,” she summed up with another snooty heave of her bosom, “ze man ’oo open zat box belong to Pandora, zat man ees ze fool grande! ”

  “But not Republicans,” Alan hoped. “Mean t’say, if you don’t have a king, you might as well be like those anarchist Americans. Or the French, these days.”

  “ Mon Dieu, Alain, non!” Phoebe chuckled. “Oo ees say ev’ryone ees egal, zat ees stupeed! People are non born e . . . equal, ever. ’Ow you ’ave padrones an’ clan lords, eef paissans conardes be jus’ as good as ze noblesse? Zat ees seelly idea!”

  Add perplexing to the list, Alan thought of his earlier appraisal of Phoebe Aretino; paradoxical . . .

  “I ’ope you ’ave ze appetite grande, Alain, ze cuisine ’ere ees so ver’ good!” she urged, changing subjects, and moods, as quick as the mercurial little minx she was. “Non Français, but Corsican!”

  The Ristorante Liberatore, with a portrait of Pascal Paoli for its centerpiece, of course, was packed with diners and doing a s
tock-jobbers’ business. But a table was always reserved, it seemed for “la contessa bella” Aretino. And, with much smacking of lips, kissing of fingers, crooning “oohs and ahhs!” of welcome joy—along with an occasional smacking of a forehead—they were led to that table that had a commanding view of the harbor and docks, as well as the rest of that crowded dining room, on a slightly elevated upper terrace. And, as they made their way to it, several of the more fashionable diners paid Phoebe “passing honors” with even more glad cries, some almost groveling at her feet in gratitude for some earlier favor. Her hand was kissed and wrung so often Alan thought she seemed more like a Member of Parliament on the hustings, right after he’d trotted out the free gin and roast beef for purchased votes!

  Hell of a welcome, he thought, for a little slip of a girl. And a retired courtesan, he could not help himself from adding; there must be somethin’ Latin in that, surely. God, what a country!

  With an almost regal air of true nobility, Phoebe smiled and inclined her head, responding to their greetings, before allowing a squad of unctuous waiters to seat her. And grinning, her eyes alight, gleeful as the cat that ate the canary, over her newfound adulation.

  “Oh, there’s some poor fellows can’t get a table,” Alan pointed out. “Damme, it’s Nelson and Fremantle.” Lewrie allowed himself a tiny smirk, to think he was being treated like a prince consort to a queen as Phoebe’s companion, while those two distinguished senior officers were forced to idle in the entryway, pretending with the patience of Job that they weren’t famished. Or humiliated. Or almost reduced to groveling or bribery to gain a table, and a meal.

  Captain Nelson raised a hand to his right brow, of a sudden, and winced as if in mortal agony, pressing his palm to his eye like he was trapping a persistent Corsican fly. Captain Thomas Fremantle left off scowling at one and all to turn to him, solicitously. And Alan could almost read their lips, as they debated whether to stay or to go.

  “Zose officiers, Alain,” Phoebe said as their first wine arrived, a fruity, sparkling blush-pink strawberry something. “Zay are you’ compatriotes, oui? Ze poor man, ’e ees suffer ze mal de tête, per’aps? We should let zem join us. Eef you are willing.”