THE GUN KETCH

most talented, I assure you, sir. And dear Millicent fairly makes the harpsichord sing with the angels! What was that piece we heard in London that you both do, my dears? By that German fellow. The dead one.'

'Handel, momma,' Caroline replied, looking in a bit of a sulk.'Public music-hall antics,' Uncle Phineas groused, ringing his tiny china bell for port, cheese and biscuit. 'Trash. Germans, hah!'

'I fear most of the great composers are German,' Alan chuckled. 'There's that fellow in Vienna who's making quite a splash, another of 'em… that Mozart. I heard some of his stuff in London before I went to Devon. And Bach, of course. Now you can hardly call 'Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring' music-hall trash, Mister Chiswick.'

'Oh, we know that!' Millicent enthused. 'Caroline, Mother Chiswick, let us leave these fine gentlemen to their port, whilst we set up the parlor for music and icarte. Mother Chiswick is correct, Mister Lewrie… Caroline is divine on the flute!'

She was indeed divine, for an amateur. While Governour turned pages for them from behind the harpsichord, they played several duets together. And Millicent proved to be a most accomplished young lady as well, playing with feeling and passion, instead of the clumsy, almost monotonous clumping pace and never-varying strength of tinkling one usually heard in someone's salon.

They did assay a Handel piece, a short sonata originally for flute and continuo, intermixing a program of country airs and sober Bach cantatas. Alan watched Caroline, a cup of tea cooling on his knee; he was impressed by the solemnity and deep concentration she showed, but disturbed by the too-bright glitter of her eyes when at the sadder pieces.

Millicent noticed, too, and began to play rounds for them to sing, Governour bellowing out hunting songs and things he'd learned in North Carolina. Alan had to rise and try to sing 'pulley-hauley' chanties for them, rollicking verses each more improbable, and more scandalous than the last, until Uncle Phineas announced that he was tired of all the folderol and was off for bed. And no one seemed the slightest bit interested in ecarte, so Alan could only peck Caroline on the cheek and be lit up to his room for the night, there to ponder what could make a girl of such a gay and stalwart nature so sad.

'Mrroww!' Then again, louder and more plaintive. 'Mrrrowwv!' Howls of torture, of black-hearted denial! Lewrie sprang awake in his bed and tore back the curtains. There came another.

'Mrroww?' from the door, softer and more pleading this time.

'Oww?'

'Bloody, bloody hell,' he muttered, swiping his hair out of his eyes and staggering to the door. He opened it and beheld a very ragged yellow ram-cat of his acquaintance seated on the parquet flooring, one William Pitt. If anything, he had gotten uglier since he'd last seen him in 1784. One ear was tatters, one eye squinted, and the tail was missing a patch or two. But it was the same huge, one-stone-in-weight monster that had ruled the Shrike brig with claw and fang.

'Pitt, you bastard!' Alan said, stooping down to touch him.

But William Pitt was having none of that. He shied away and ran into the bedchamber to leap for the bed, making the mattress bounce on its rope supports, and lashed his tail as he stood there, bristled up.

'Well, you wanted to come in, so what is it you want from me, hey?' Alan went back to the bed and sat at one end, wary that the cat had not remembered their brief, grudging, alliance, and would rip into him as was the animal's wont when he first reported aboard, a barely 'wetted down' commission officer.

He wiggled his fingers and Pitt flicked the good ear, shook his head, then ambled over to sling his considerable bulk against Alan's hip and begin to purr loud as a bilge-pump chain. In stupefied amazement, Alan discovered that William Pitt would allow him to scrub under his chin, on the top of his head, and on his chest!

'By God, but you've mellowed,' Alan whispered in awe. 'Like as not, you'd of had my fingers in shreds by now. Killed any live-stock this week, have you? The odd pig?'

There was a rap on the door and Cony entered with a small tray which bore a china cup, a lidded silver pot, and a sugar and creamer.

'Mornin', Mister Lewrie, sir.' Cony bubbled over with bonhomie. 'Well, if 'tisn't yer ole cat, William Pitt. Got ya up afore I did. 'Tis a fine, fine mornin', perfect for a canter on the downs. Hot chocolate t'perk ya up, sir. 'Ere ya go. Push ya into clothes, an' there's a country breakfast a'waitin' below-stairs, sir. Now, a maid I made h'acquaintance of, she told me that this cat 'ere, 'e's yews'lly a'cryin' at Mistress Caroline's door o' th' mornin's, but I s'pose 'e got yer scent an' come t'see iffen ya'd remember 'im, sir. 'Nother sugar in that, sir?'

'Thankee kindly, Cony. Have you eat yet?'

'Oh, aye, sir!' Cony beamed as he fetched duds from traveling bags. 'Why, this house is a grand feeder, an' the scullery'n all bung t'th' deckheads with fine folk. Some of 'em right pretty,they is, so I'm set from now 'til th' 'Piphany. You'll be needin' me on yer ride this morning, sir?' Cony asked with an askance glance.

'Ah, no, I don't believe so, Cony,' Alan replied after one sip of the perfectly wonderful chocolate, recognizing when his man was so cheerful that he was practicing his own form of coyness. 'We're both here to enjoy ourselves. Ow!'

He had ignored William Pitt, who had rolled over on his right side and was pushing hard against Alan's nightshirt with all four of his paws, claws out and huffing for more attention!

'Now there's a bloody wonder,' Alan sighed, mystified once more and turning one hand back to ruffling the cat's throat and jaws. 'Why don't you just fart about today, have a yam or two with your new, ah… compatriots. Even go down to the village for a pint or two. I'll not need anything more 'til, oh… supper, say?'

'Er, thankee, sir!' Cony showed quick gratitude, then feigned contriteness at abandoning his master, and his responsibilities. 'Iffen ya think there's no service I could be a'doin' for ya, that is…'

'There's two shillings on the dresser there,' Alan said as he finished the cocoa and set the cup down for Pitt to peer and sniff at. 'I trust the girl is pretty? Aha, so that's it, you rogue! Maybe you could practice some of your Hindi on her. Hamare ghali ana, achcha din?'

'Hello, won't you come into our street?' A whore's greeting.

'Larlcee bahut sundar hai, jeehan, El-looee Sahib.' Cony blushed a bit, though still more fluent than Lewrie would ever be. 'Bazaari-rahndi naheen hai. Makaan naukari-larkee. '*

*'The girl is very pretty, yes, Lewrie master. Not a bazaar-whore… a house serving-girl.'

'Namaste, Cony-ji,' Lewrie snickered, putting his palms together and bowing his head, 'May God protect you, Cony.'

'Got me a cundum, sir,' Cony whispered, darting out the door as Lewrie shucked his nightshirt and reached for his stockings.

'God damme, I've corrupted him, swear if I haven't, hey, Pitt? Do they let you take breakfast? Hungry?'

Alan finished dressing and headed for the stairs, and William Pitt leapt off the bed and made a tawny streak ahead of him.

God, there was leftover ham! Salted kippers, hard peppery sausages, crisp bacon strips, boiled, fried, or scrambled eggs on the sideboard, warming in candle-heated covered servers! Racks of thick, chewy home-baked bread toasted on forks over the kitchen fire and fetched out by the half-loaf! The remains of the peach 'jumble' sat on a raised pie plate, and stone jugs of preserves, jams and marmalades paraded down the length of the breakfast table, along with huge, sweaty globs of home-churned butter between every two place settings.

And for the serious feeders, there were pork chops sizzling on black-iron pans, heaping bowls of gruel, and three different kinds of cheeses. As for beverages, there was ale, a lighter, gassier beer, tea, coffee, more chocolate, or a heavy, almost-black berry wine made on the property. More of Caroline's doing, he discovered, though he could not assay a taste after heaping a plate and taking three cups of strong tea.

There was a mob at table; Caroline, looking a bit perkier this morning, dressed in a middle-green wool dress with a short jacket for riding on over it, Governour in rustic and worn boots, breeches and waistcoat so he could tour the properties. Millicent was there in a white sack gown, shawl and mobcap. Mother Chiswick was turned out in gray wool. There was the head groom, the gamekeeper, the assistant estate manager, who was trying to keep track of a two-sided conversation between Governour and Uncle Phineas, who was gnawing his way through a stack of pancakes, pork chops and ale, both eager to be out and doing, and a continual parade of underlings there to take orders and turn to with a will.

Alan picked at his food, trying to carry on a conversation with Caroline, who was seated by his side this