The King`s Commission

'I'm not one for the Blue-Devils,' he muttered, pondering his moodiness. 'Must be her, the sour bitch. No wonder her husband took off for the back-country, if that's the sort of thing he had to hear all the time. Well, thankee for the gift, and thankee for all the quim, Betty dear, but that's the last time I sport with you, or give ear to your poison.'

Besides, he assured himself, looking for a cause for joy, wasn't he handsome and pleasing enough to have a younger and prettier wench if the humors took him again? Didn't Lucy Beauman go faint at the sight of him? He had bigger fish to fry, and Betty Hillwood was a possible embarrassment if word got out about their affair. She would be nice to look back on, but that was all.

He headed for 'The Grapes,' the cheery red brick inn and public house at the foot of the docks and the landing stage, for a last cool mug of ale or beer before taking a bum-boat out to Shrike.

The heat was killing, and all his pleasurable exertions had left him loose-hipped and a trifle weak in the knees, so when hearing the clatter of a coach coming down the road from behind him, he gladly shifted over towards the nearest wall, into a patch of shade, and leaned on the wall to take a breather. He turned to see if the coach would miss him in the narrow lane, and was amazed to see that the light open two-horse carriage bore Mrs. Anne Beauman and her maid. He lifted his hat and gave a bow as they neared, and the carriage squeaked to a stop, rocking on its leather suspension straps.

'Mistress Beauman, a good day to you, ma'am.'

'Mister Lewrie.' She beamed back at him, looking fetching in a white and pale-blue gown, and a wide straw hat that echoed her colors. 'Are you forced to walk in this oppressive heat, sir?'

'Shank's ponies, ma'am, for journeys too short for a coach,' Alan laughed lightly in reply.

'So formal, Alan,' she admonished. 'And just two days ago it was Anne. Get you in and we shall deliver you to your destination.'

'My undying thanks, Anne,' Alan said, as the footman got down from the rear postillion, folded down the iron step and opened the low door for him. Alan settled into the rear-facing forward seat next to a large, wrapped bundle. 'I am only going to the docks, Anne, if that is not too large an imposition on your time.'

'None at all,' she replied, reaching over to touch his knee with her large laced fan as the coachee whipped up. 'You come ashore, though, without paying court to our dear Lucy? How remiss of you,' she teased.

'I only had the few hours today,' Alan replied, reddening slightly.

'Then I shall not tell her I saw you, or she would feel slighted, no matter the reason.' Anne chuckled, going back to fanning herself. With one backward glance, she got her black maid to adjust the large parasol over her head so the sun would not strike her and ruin her complexion.

Now why, Alan speculated in appraisal, would Hugh Beauman want to dally with one of his fancies, when he could sport with this one any night?

In bright sunlight, Anne Beauman appeared even more exotic than before, her hair and complexion dark, making Alan wonder if she were the off-spring of some island racial mix herself. Possibly some Spanish blood, or sprung from those 'Black Irish' sired by the survivors of the Armada? There had been damned few Black island women that had tempted him, and he could not think why anyone would spurn the charms of such a handsome woman for those of some slave in the back-country, even if the slave was close to European. But then, why was he fond of chamber-maids and willing widows? he asked himself. Perhaps it was an acquired taste.

'Not much wind today,' Alan observed as the coach clattered on its way towards the center of town. 'I wonder you're out yourself.'

'House-keeping errands, I'm afraid,' she replied with a brief frown. 'My newest gown in that bundle next to you was spotted with soup, and no one seems to be able to get it out. I was hoping my dress-maker could run up a new panel so I could wear it Sunday. And what brings you ashore?'

'Oh, just some shopping.'

'Only poor shops up the way you came,' Anne pointed out. 'You must have been in search of a bargain.'

'And a little sight-seeing. Just to get off the ship for a few hours, see some new faces.'

'And did you see anyone interesting? Any new sights?' Anne rejoined, mildly amused, as though she knew what he had been doing, and with whom.

'Not much up that way, you are right,' Alan replied, flushing with heat under his clothes at her probing. 'Might I offer you some reward for saving me from a long, hot walk? A cool drink, perhaps?'

'There is no need to reward me, Alan, though I must admit something cool would feel welcome. I had no idea it was this hot!' Anne said, plying the fan more energetically. 'Where would you have in mind?'

'Well, there's 'The Grapes,'' he suggested, unable to think up anyplace else on short notice-he had not been ashore in Kingston often enough to know all its establishments.

'Hmm,' she frowned, 'a sailor's haunt, I fear. Not quite genteel, is it.'

'I thought it was rather nice.' Alan shrugged.

'A bit too many Navy officers and merchant captains, trading factors and such. There are few places a lady may go away from home. Ah!' She brightened. 'There is, however, a small public house near my dress-maker's. Baltasar's. The emigй Frenchman who is the proprietor styles it as a restaurant, quite the latest thing in Paris, he says. No lodgings, just food and drink. Can you imagine?'

'The hard part is imagining how the man turns a profit,' Alan said, grinning. Chop-houses and public-houses were usually close by bagnios, had rooms to let for private dining and discreet sport with dinner companions, or could trot out a chambermaid or a prostitute for their patrons. Without that sideline, he could not see how money could be made, not in a harbor town, at any rate.

'If you do not mind me seeing to my errand first?' Anne asked, as though eager to try the place. 'If I do not delay you from returning to your ship at the proper time?'

He was forced to walk her into the dress-maker's shop, where several island ladies of social note were taking rest from the day's warmth, gossiping and killing time, while fabrics and laces were considered, the latest points of style were admired or denigrated, and the small staff bustled about to fetch out requests. Alan felt like a total fool standing by the door with his hat under his arm, feeling the cool gaze of the women. They glanced at him, scowling a bit at the effrontery of a man to invade their sanctuary from husbands, shot glances at Anne, and then shifted to gaze most significantly at each other.

Damn all this feminine truck! Alan fumed, trying to look patient, calm, and innocent, though he felt as examined as if he had gone in naked as the day he was born.

The restaurant a few doors down was almost empty, thank God, but not a bad sort of place, screened from the street by a high brick wall and an iron gate, with a second false wall behind the gate for discretion. The small front garden was sheltered from the sun by thin slats of wood in an overhead screen supported by trellises, all adrip with vines or hung with flowers in hanging baskets. There was another fountain to cool the air. A series of French doors at the back of the garden terrace led into the main dining room and kitchens, and more doors and windows overlooked the harbor from a back terrace with the same sort of screen overhead. Except for a small brass plaque on the iron gate, Alan would have never known it was there; he had walked by it before and thought it a residence.

They were seated at a small table near the back terrace where the shadows were deepest, and the thick walls of the building, the stone floor and the light harbor wind gave the impression of coolness.

The proprietor, a Frog dandy-prat who appeared lighter in his pumps than most, tripped over and bowed deeply and elegantly, making the usual gilt and be-shit flowery words of salutation to what were probably the only new customers he had seen in a long afternoon. And he was disappointed that they did not wish to sample his solid fare, but only wanted drinks. He did, however, serve them a treat he told them was known in the Spanish Indies as sangria, a fruit juice and hock concoction, made to a recipe he had received in Havana during his service to the court of the Captain-General himself.

'It's quite delicious,' Anne said after taking a sip. 'And most refreshing. I have been told that too much acid fruit is bad in a hot climate, but I never saw the sense of it.'

'Hmm, not bad,' Alan had to agree. 'Must keep it on ice. It's almost cold.'

'Or in a hanging ceramic jar,' Anne told him. 'Everyone in the islands learns that if what the Spanish call an olla is hung in shade where there is a chance of wind, water or whatever it seems to cool on its own. One may see beads of water on the outside, and it feels cold to the touch. Quite remarkable, really.'

'Hmm, one could do that aboard ship, below decks, and God knows out at sea, we'd have bags of wind.'