Lewrie had been delighted by the Stangbournes’ offer, though it made for cramped quarters in their coach. There was Percy’s valet and Lydia’s maid, and Pettus to do for Lewrie, plus two coachmen and a footman, little more than a lad whose sole duty seemed to be tending to the folding steps and the coach doors, and general fetching and toting. It would not do for the maid to ride outside, so one man-servant ended up on the coach roof, like the cheap seats aboard a huge diligence coach, and the luckier two crammed into the outside rear bench above the boot, which bore more luggage than Lewrie’s whole family would need did they dash up to London for their Spring shopping, and spend a week at it!
The sky was clear for their pique-nique atop Shooter’s Hill and it had been pleasantly warm. When Percy was off tramping up to take a gander of the semaphore tower and its method of working, Lydia had given Lewrie a snippet of newspaper.
“In case you haven’t seen this,” she’d whispered, looking away shyly. “I hadn’t thought I would draw unwelcome comment upon you. If you find it embarrassing, then I am sorry I-”
“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie had guffawed, though, to her great relief. “With any luck, people will think it was Captain Blanding! And his wife will give him Hell.”
“You are not…?” Lydia had gasped, with a wide grin.
“Not a bit of it!” Lewrie had assured her. “What Blanding and his brood and his Chaplain think of me doesn’t matter a toss, and if Wilberforce and his lot take me off the ‘champion’ list, then I’ll be spared a parcel of dreadful-boresome suppers!”
His reaction had pleased Lydia greatly, and they’d sat on the quilt close together, hands closer, fingers twining, and both wishing they could embrace and kiss. Her smiles had been lovely and promising, sometimes wistful, sometimes impishly bold, as they’d prated mostly of nothing, wishing that the hovering servants and the enthusiastic Percy could vanish like Will-of-the-Wisps.
They’d found lodgings suitable to their needs at the very same hotel that Lewrie had used long ago when fitting out HMS Proteus for the West Indies, close to the merchant docks and a view of the Little Nore in 1797… the same hotel where Theoni Kavares Connor had stayed, for nigh a week, unfortunately, and did they dine there together, Alan sincerely hoped none of the staff would recall him from that time, and ask of his former mistress (the mother of one of his bastard children) and how she kept!
Then, he hired a boat to bear him out to Reliant. It had been gratifying to be piped aboard not to the usual bare-headed stances of attention from all hands on deck at the moment of arrival, but by the loud cheers and whistles of Reliant’s people as soon as they had seen the sash and star. They had been victorious, they had won it all for him to wear, and a proud reflection upon them and their frigate, as he had told them that instant, before going aft and below.
His cats had been delighted to see him after the short absence, and his cook, Yeovill, had been equally delighted when he had been informed that he would be preparing at least one sumptuous dinner for a Viscount and his sister. The great-cabins, though…
“Scrub and scour, Pettus,” Lewrie had ordered, sniffing at the corners. “The cat’s box especially, fresh sand for the morrow… and the quarter-gallery.”
“Baking soda, sir,” Yeovill had suggested. “A box of it in the sand, sir? Cancels odours, it will. I’ve lots of it, sir.”
“We’ve still some citronella candles, and lamp oil, too, sir,” Pettus had reminded him. “That smells fresh and sweet, it does.”
“Pass word for Desmond and Furfy t’help with the cleaning, and all, Pettus. We’ll start straightaway,” Lewrie had ordered, looking over his modest furnishings and wishing that he could replace or re-furbish half of it overnight. Or, should he, he’d reconsidered. This was how he lived, and-odours aside-this would be what he would show the Stangbournes. He could always explain that the Royal Navy had a dim view of captains who lived too comfortably; bare-bones Spartan was preferred.
He had dined ashore with the Stangbournes, of course, leaving Yeovill even more time to prepare his feast, but had been back aboard just at Four Bells of the Evening Watch to make arrangements for their reception aboard the next day at Noon. Fresh sand and snow-white man-ropes for the entry-port and boarding battens; a bosun’s chair to be prepared for Lydia of a certainty, and for Percy, too, if he proved to be clumsy or had a slip; it would never do to drown a peer! Lastly, he had the largest ship’s boat, the cutter, readied for the next morning. Lt. Westcott had suggested it rather than his shorter gig, and had had the cutter scrubbed out and some of its paint touched up, earlier.
It had not rained, though there was a vast awning slung above the quarterdeck lest it did. Lord Percy had managed to scramble up the battens, Lydia had been delighted to be hoisted high over the bulwarks and deposited on the starboard sail-tending gangway, alighting with an un-ladylike whoop of glee! The tour of the ship had gone well, even if belowdecks had still borne a faint reek of too many people crammed in too close, and the smells of salt-meat casks drifting up from the orlop. They’d emerged up forward by the foredeck hatch and steep ladderway, right by the sickbay and forecastle manger, then had strolled aft past the bowsed-up guns to the base of the main-mast and into his great-cabins for a drink before dinner.
“Somehow, I do not picture you, Sir Alan, a fellow of such bellicose nature, having cats as pets,” Lydia had teased him, forced by the circumstances, and the presence of other dinner guests, to fall back upon her initial formality. At that moment she’d had the impetuous Chalky in her lap, arching and trilling to her lace-gloved stroking, and with Toulon standing by her right, paws working on the settee cushions and about to jump and join them.
“Captains live aft, alone, Miss Lydia,” Lewrie had told her, a prisoner to formality, too, in his speech, at least, though his manner was unchanged. “Might dine a couple of people in each night, but for the most part, well… they’re good, amusing company.”
“Even does Chalky like to nip,” Lt. Westcott pointed out with a laugh. “Learned that to my harm.”
“My last captain preferred chickens, ma’am,” Midshipman Rossyngton piped up, turned out in his best. Lewrie had had to invite all his Commission Officers, of course, but only had chairs, or places, for two more guests, and had chosen the two youngest Mids, even though Mister Entwhistle was an “Honourable,” and the youngest son of another peer.
“Hunting dogs, ma’am,” Midshipman Munsell had added shyly. “He was big on hunting, and fetched off half a dozen of his favourites. It was Bedlam.”
“And messy, I’m bound, hey, Mister Munsell?” Lewrie had japed.
“When one of them, ah… on the deck chequer or his carpets, he would call his servant… ‘Smithey… dog, uh… stuff!’ ” Munsell had blurted, catching himself a second too late; but all had been amused.
“Ye don’t get that sort o’ mess, with cats,” Lewrie had said.
“Or, the barking in the wee hours, I’m bound?” Lydia had posed to Munsell, drawing a shy nod of red-faced agreement, pleasing the lad right down to his toes.
Yeovill had out-done himself. There had been a soup he’d called a Spanish treat, served cool to suit the weather, loaded with peas and maize kernels, rice, and pureed tomatoes in a spicy beef broth; Yeovill was very high on rice! Next had come quail (old to Lewrie by then but new to the Stangbournes) with fresh asparagus sprigs drizzled in hollandaise sauce and cheesy hashed potatoes. The fish course had been a medley of mussels and peeled shrimp, with buttery wee brussels sprouts; all served with piping-hot rolls and a cool and light sauvignon blanc. There’d been a mid-meal salad of wilted lettuce, drippy bacon, and vinaigrette. Last had come a small chuck roast with boiled carrots and roasted potato halves, boiled onions, and bottles of bordeaux. And, to top it all off, Yeovill had whipped up another of his lemon custards.
“Your cook’s a bloody wonder, Sir Alan!” Percy had exclaimed towards the end. “I’ve half a mind to hire him away from you. Do you dine this well at sea?” he’d marvelled, shaking his head.
“Don’t force me to out-bid you for his services, milord. And, no, not after the first week when the fresh victuals run out, or go bad,” Lewrie had hooted back. “I fear even good Mister Yeovill has to use his creativity and imagination after a while. Even I will be reduced to salt-meats and our famous weevilly ship’s bisquit!”
By 2 P.M. he’d seen them back ashore for a needful nap, and had returned aboard to tend to ship’s business, and a nap of his own. The Stangbournes would return the favour at their lodgings.
Supper ashore was at half past seven, but Lewrie turned up just at seven, this time in his second-best uniform coat, without the sash and star of his new knighthood, or his medals either.
“Would you care for a stroll before supper, Lydia?” he asked. “The sunset’s rather nice, this evening, and from my more pleasant doings with the French, I’ve discovered that they place great faith in a stroll before eating to sharpen the appetite.”
“Why, thank you, Captain Lewrie, and I should be delighted,” she responded. “Percy, we will only be a quarter-hour, half an hour at the most,” she’d told her brother, who had half-risen from his chair before twigging to what she meant; that the invitation was for two, not three. He’d sunk back with a sly grin.
Outside their inn, the shadows were lengthening, the sunset so grand that though their view to the west was blocked, it extended out eastwards to reflect on the hulls of the many warships in harbour, on the sails hung slack aloft to air them and prevent mildew and rot, and shimmer reddish-golden off the Little and the Great Nore anchorage that was, that evening, at least, at slack water and seemingly still, alive with only mill-pond ripples and stirred by light airs.
Merchant ships lay along the quays by which they strolled, her arm tucked inside his, and their hands linked. Jib-booms and bow-sprits jutted high overhead from some which lay bows-on alongside piers built at right angles from the quays, masts and spars and furled canvas soaring aloft even higher amid their mazes of shrouds and running rigging, silhouetted against the greying dusk. Lading was done for the day, so the bustle of waggons and carts, and the rumble of wheels no longer forced people to shout to converse. The last sea birds were winging overhead, or perched on bollards, some peeping or gulls mewing. A few ships had their taffrail lanthorns and work lanthorns lit, while out in the roads, lights could be made out aboard the anchored ships, and it was all rather peaceful. Faint laughter, some song, and strains of musical instruments could be heard coming from the sailors’ taverns along the dockside street.
“What an odd world you live in, Alan,” Lydia said at last. “The ships, and all these mysterious… whatevers you pointed out to us… sheets and braces, jears, and I don’t know what-all you called them. I expect it would take a lifetime to learn it all.”
“I think I had one week t’learn them, else I was bent over the barrel of a gun and thrashed on my bottom with a stiffened rope starter,” Lewrie cheerfully confessed. “It’s called ‘kissing the gunner’s daughter,’ and I kissed her quite often ’til I got ’em all right. Do ye know, the first time they threatened that, I thought the girl must be a really ‘dirty puzzle’ if they meant it as punishment!”
With just the two of them, at last, Lydia could lean back her head and laugh out loud, then place her right hand on his upper right arm and lean closer to him as they walked slowly along, as if trying to snuggle. They shared fond smiles, which Lewrie found himself wishing could go on far longer.
“You’ve changed coats,” she noted. “This is not as fine.”
“And once we sail, my everyday coat is even sorrier,” he said. “The good one, then this’un, will go deep in a sea-chest, along with the star and sash. No call for ’em at sea, unless some admiral dines me aboard his flagship.”
“Along with what passed in London?” she rather meekly pressed.
That drew him to a stop so he could turn and face her. “London was a welcome idyll, and a memorable one. I don’t recall all of it, such as the palace and all, but… but I most certainly will remember the best part, your part. Dare I say… our part?”
“God, how I wish to kiss you!” she whispered.
“Then let’s do!” Lewrie urged, putting his arms round her.
“Do I look like a sailor’s… doxy, do you call them… this way?” Lydia said with a happy, throaty chuckle after she threw her arms round him and shared a long, deep kiss with him.
“It’s a seaport, and I don’t give a damn if you don’t!” Lewrie laughed. “Never a doxy, not you, Lydia… a captain’s lady, is what people will think. And a damned handsome lady, at that.”
“Even one so scandalous?” she teased after kissing him again.
“Oh, bugger that,” he shrugged off. “What’s scandalous about riddin’ yourself of a beast? I’d hope… well.”
“Hope what, Alan,” she purred, looking up at him a bit, her eyes alight.
“That what’s begun would continue… hard as that may be with me at sea,” he confessed, feeling a physical surge of warmth filling his chest. “With Reliant to operate in the Channel at least for the rest of the year, it won’t be months between letters, if you… mean t’say, if I could have your permission t’write, and…”
“Of course I wish you to write me, as often as possible!” she declared. “Just as I swear that I will respond to each, and write to you, even should yours be delayed, or you are too busy. Really, Alan, after what has passed between us, it’s hardly possible to mis-construe me as a spinster-girl whose parents’ permission you must ask, now does it?” She hugged him closer, laughing again. “Though I appreciate the thought, mind,” she wryly added, her smile japing but fond.
“Often as possible,” Lewrie promised as they resumed strolling along, crossing the cobbled street to the wide wooden beams of the seaside quays.
“Tar and salt… the seashore smell,” Lydia mused. “When we went to Brighton for the Summer ocean bathing, I always delighted in its freshness.”
“Quite un-like what a ship smells like,” he japed back. “That reek that greeted you, in spite of all we could do? The manger, our mildew, our wet woolens, our pea-soup farts and sweat? I thought you might heed a scented handkerchief, for a minute or so. The way your nose wrinkled?”
“Well, I must own to slight notice,” she confessed, chuckling again, concentrating on the toes of her shoes for a moment. “But, I do crinkle my poor nose when amused, or… gawping in awe of all that you showed us,” she said, looking back up at him again.
“Rather a nice nose,” Lewrie fondly told her.
“Oh, tosh! Now you’re being kind,” she demurred.
“No, I’m not,” Lewrie baldly stated.
Three watch-bells chimed from the nearest merchantman, lying alongside the quays, quickly followed by the chimes of dozens more as half-hour glasses ran out a bit later.
Lydia looked to him, part in puzzlement, part in appreciation.
“Such a lovely sound… though a lonely one,” she commented, her head cocked over to listen to the last, distant dings.
“Three bells… half past seven,” Lewrie told her. “I s’pose we should be headin’ back, before Percy gets worried and comes lookin’ for us. Our supper will be late bein’ laid.”
“I do not mind our being late,” Lydia said, hugging him again. “Nor do I much mind Percy fretting. The last few years he’s become quite good at fretting over me, more’s the pity. Yes, we must return to the inn… but slowly, please?”
“Aye, milady,” Lewrie agreed.
“Aye,” Lydia echoed as if savouring the strangeness of the word.
“Then there’s a good pirate’s ‘aarrrh,’ ” Lewrie added. “I use it now and then, for fun.”
“Aarrhh!” she cried, trying it on and finding it thrilling. “I rather like the sound of those bells. They chimed all through our visit aboard your ship. Whatever do they mean, though?”
“Well, a ship’s day begins at Eight Bells of the Forenoon Watch, at Noon,” Lewrie explained as they strolled arm-in-arm, half snuggled down the now-dark street, “and each half-hour, a ship’s boy turns the sand-glass and strikes one bell for each half-hour that passes ’til he reaches eight, four hours later. We name each four-hour watch-”
“So much to learn of your world!” Lydia said, almost gasping. “You must tell me as much as you can, and direct me to books where I can discover more!”
“It’s much like learnin’ Russian, or Greek, I warn you!” Lewrie cautioned her. “Sailors’ cant is contrary and sounds like nonsense to a lubber like you.”
“A lover?” she chuckled.
“Lubber… not even a ‘scaly fish,’ yet,” Lewrie told her.
“And when you return, might you quiz me on what I have learned? Might you bend me over a gun and make me… ‘kiss the gunner’s daughter’ with a what did you call it?” she enthused, skipping ahead of him a step or two, their hands together.
“A twine-wrapped length of rope… about this long,” he said, freeing his hands long enough to indicate a length of eighteen inches. “A stiffened rope starter a Bosun’ll use on the slow-coaches.”
“Mercy, sir! That long, is it?”
“Perhaps, do ye have t’be… bent over a gun, I could discover something else that’d serve,” he said with a leer, a bit startled by her boldness… but liking it very, very much!
“Yayss, I surely think that you could,” Lydia drawled, coming back to tuck herself against him as they walked on towards the welcoming lanthorns of the inn.
Just damn my eyes, but I like this woman! Lewrie happily told himself as they dared to embrace and kiss just once more before they had to go in, a kiss that lasted and lasted, but could not last long enough.