A King`s Commander

awnings, or down a ventilator chute made from a topmast stays'l, but ashore…! The town had grown in size, had spread out along the strand and up over the scraggly hills on either hand, in the blink of an eye. But, a tent city, mostly-for the sick and wounded from the siege of Calvi. More sick than wounded, though. Illness that accompanied a land force slew even more than shot or shell.

That tumbledown osteria at the waterfront, that sprawling, and sleepy little tavern, had become a fresh-painted wonder; had added some patios, tables, and benches, almost doubling in size. The owners bowed to him as he passed, saluting him in the local dialect, as if he were their feudal liege. Osteria Paoli, their large new signboard boasted, replete with a crude portrait of the Corsican patriot leader. British officers (officers only, Lewrie noted!) were its principal patrons who almost filled every seat and table. Them, and their doxies.

' 'Least someone's profiting.' Lewrie scowled, begrudging. Soon as the Prize Court had released their judgment, the month before, he'd fought a running battle to keep what he'd captured. Off at sea again, taking another pair of prizes in the meantime-large poleacres, this time. Burning or scuttling at least half-a-dozen more for which he'd been unable to supply prize crews… those new captures were all his. But every return to San Fiorenzo had brought new obfuscations about the convoy! And the share-out of prize money. Admiral Hood and his flag captain, his small staff, had already been awarded their eighth, while both Jester and Ariadne were still waiting for their portions. And Lewrie's two-eighths represented nearly Ј4,500! He suspected the agents and commissioners of the Prize Court were having an enjoyable time, just living off the interest, and their 'take' for performing their duties-and those badly. 'Probably spinning this out, damn' near till next Epiphany, so they can play with the… hullo?' He had groused under his breath, suddenly stopped short at the corner, having seen his and Phoebe's town house. 'What the Devil …?'

There were two fashionable carriages, coach-and-fours, along the curbing, equipages that gleamed in the sun. Teams of decent-looking horses flicked their tails and manes against the ubiquitous flies, and liveried coaches and postilion boys did their duties as their masters prepared to depart. Richly clad civilians, done up in gowns or suits that wouldn't have looked out of place on The Strand, back in London!

And another brace of dray wagons along the side street, laden with heaped picture frames, paintings, chairs, and tables. Had Phoebe moved again, taken cheaper lodgings, been forced to…? No, they'd paid the year in advance. Or had she left him? he shivered.

He crossed the street, ready to lash out at somebody… anybody! But was greeted most jovially, in French or Italian; most of which he couldn't follow, but did get some gist from, something to do with being affiliated with 'la contessa,' or 'vicomtesse.' Which association perplexed him even further! Just who the blazes lived here now?

'Phoebe?' he bawled, once past those posturing clowns, and into the cooler air of the courtyard.

Which had turned into a furniture gallery, it seemed. Couches, wine tables, armoires and cabinets, gilded chairs were everywhere, two-a-penny.

'Ah, Alain, mon amour!' a familiar voice called down from the upper floor, and Phoebe appeared in the iron-guarded bedchamber window of the guest room above. 'I be down wiz you, immediate, mon chou!'

She was wearing a new sack gown, something suitable for presentation at Court, though her hair was down, informal and unpowdered, as she tripped across the flagstones to embrace him.

'What the bloody hell is all this, I ask you?' he tried to say sternly, just before she threw her arms around his neck and lifted her feet off the ground. 'Phoebe, I'm serious, girl. Don't… answer me.'

'Oh, Alain, eez merchandise,' she replied, waving one hand, to 'pooh-pooh' its presence. 'I tell you, remembre? Ze йmigrйs royaliste? Zey are sell zer s'ings, bon marchй. I buy from z'em, an' when people come to San Fiorenzo, zen zey buy from moil Non ze bon marchй! '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 Buceo '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.'

'Voilа, 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 rosewood, marbled 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 cloisonnй, 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 thwockl 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 Buceo, 'e is 'ave beaucoup 'ouses for to rent, mais, ze йmigrйs, 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 йmigrйs impoverish… 'ave