King`s Captain

'Good to see you too, Father. Damn' glad,' he lied, rather well, he thought. But he'd had a lifetime of practice by then.

CHAPTER FIVE

The next few days were heaven, Lewrie thought. For starters, he got introduced to the dogs so they would not think of him as an entree whenever he wished to walk outside about his own lands. He re-met the pony (without getting nipped), remade acquaintance with his favourite horse, Anson, which whickered in glee to see him once again. They ate in the new, large dining room that night, in the light of those dolphin-and- trident, silvery-brass candelabras he'd bought in Venice before the hurried evacuation of the Adriatic, then spent a lively evening in the salon, opening the latest gifts for the children, for Caroline and Sophie, from Lisbon. Sipping on a fruity, nutty sherry he'd found in-cask from Oporto too. They'd played some tunes, Caroline to her flute, Sophie to the harpsichord, and he on his 'tin-whistle' flageolet, and finally getting a compliment or two on how much he'd improved-though anything better than bird-squawks could be considered an improvement after all those years of practice.

After a tad too much wine, they'd at last retired, were lit up to bed, to a real, soft, and welcoming-unswaying- bedstead crisp and sweet-smelling of scrupulously clean linens, still redolent of a faint floral sachet and the soap in which they'd been boiled. Toulon had found a refuge at last, in their bedchamber, and had crept out of hiding for a frantic quarter-hour of reassuring 'wubbies,' much to Caroline's amusement.

'So much like the early days, my love,' she whispered fondly, slid into bed with him and lying close at last, after brushing out her hair. Toulon was fair-taken with her too. 'You… me, so completely alone and private.' She chuckled, scrubbing Toulon under his chin and chops. 'And old William Pitt to pat and purr us to our rest. Or…' she added in a huskier voice, 'sull up on the fireplace bench whilst…'

'Sull up, Toulon, there's a good puss,' Lewrie growled.

And once the last bed-side candle had been snuffed dark, it was much like their first, nervous 'honeymoon' night at the coaching inn on the way to Portsmouth, as Caroline could finally welcome him home, in her own, inimitable fashion, which fashion left him damned near purring-drained and dreamless.

The next day, they'd coached to St. George's Church for Easter Sunday services, turned out almost regal in their springtime best; and most dignified, Lewrie had thought. Caroline had worn her new gown and bonnet, which had been most fetching; Sophie de Maubeuge too, looking ethereally lovely and being ogled by the young men of the parish; the children adorable, clean and unruffled (for a rare hour or three), and Lewrie and his father tricked out in their best uniforms-Lewrie with that gold St. Vincent medal clapping on his waistcoat buttons and a spanking-new gold-bullion epaulet on his left shoulder, his dark-blue coat stiff with gold lace which hadn't gone verdigris-green from salt air, yet. The whole family, primly a-row in the same rented pew box.

It had been a joy afterwards to greet his brother-in-law, Governour Chiswick, and his lovely dark-haired wife, Millicent. They'd had an heir at last, and Millicent bade fair to present him with a second by late summer. Serene, settled country squire was Brother Governour by then-stout and getting stouter, halfway towards resembling the satirical artist Cruikshank's depictions of John Bull. And where had the panther-lean, rope-muscled side of North Carolina colonist beef Lewrie had known at Yorktown gone, he wondered?

Mother Charlotte Chiswick was there, now living with Governour and Millicent as a doting granny, a bit stooped and myopic, with hair gone white as lamb's wool. And Uncle Phineas Chiswick himself, got up in his best-though he looked as if he'd shopped for clothing in William Pitt the Elder's last term in office. Lewrie had been struck dumb to see the miserly old bastard chortle and whinny with bonhomie, clap Brigadier Sir Hugo on the back, and he almost pleasant for once!

Emily, the vicar's spinster-daughter-traipsing hopefully in a new ensemble of her own, in her father's wake, still single and becoming just the slightest bit long-in- tooth.

And the Embletons and their coterie were there of course. It was damn' near their church, their vicar, their village, their parish, maybe even their half of the county. Dignified old Sir Romney Embleton, now master of the hunt; his slack-jawed, half-wit son, Harry, sporting his Yeoman Cavalry uniform, spurs ajingling, and preening amidst the same pack of rogues and rousters who had always surrounded him-looking a bit put out that no one made notice of his lieutenant-colonelcy of militia-this Sunday, at least.

'Master of hounds now… Harry,' Sir Hugo had muttered to his son. 'Think he's given up on civilian suitings for the duration of the war, hey? An M.P… oh, very patriotic is Harry Embleton.'

'God… pity the poor dogs then,' Lewrie had whispered back, which had made his father snigger.

'The sort of man born t'be… cavalry,' Sir Hugo sneered, and turned to translate that comment to his valet, a thoroughly ugly, one-eyed, old havildar, Trilochan Singh, of uncertain caste, from Sir Hugo's regiment in India. Had Lewrie run into him in a Calcutta baiaar back in the '80s, he'd have run for his life, for Trilochan Singh was raffish, bearded, and mustachioed, and looked the part of a swaggering badmash, a hill bandit who'd cut a man's heart out just 'cause it was a slow afternoon!

And no wonder Caroline dbesn 't know what to do with Father or his 'man,' Lewrie wondered to himself; aren't Sikhs supposed to carry five knives all the time, or is it one!¹ No matter… God, I'll wager there're more'n one of our maids sportin' more than pinch marks!

'Sir Hugo…' Sir Romney said in passing, doffing his hat, cool but politely punctilious. 'Vicomtess Sophie, enchantй… Mister and Mistress Lewrie…'

'Your servant, Sir Romney. And a lovely Easter Day it is, sir,' Sir Hugo replied just as formally as they made their way to their waiting coach.

Galling as it was, Lewrie was forced by courtesy to doff a hat and make a 'leg' to Sir Romney as well, as Caroline and Sophie dipped the baronet their own polite curtsies. Hugh and Sewallis emulated them, doffing hats, with Sewallis well on his way to a clumsy boy's 'leg,' as his mother had schooled him.

'Brigadier,' Harry Embleton said, trailing his father.

'Ah, Colonel Embleton, sir.' Sir Hugo fair-beamed.

'Leftenant Lewrie,' Harry added, barely audible and stiff.

'Commander, actually,' Lewrie gleefully corrected, turning on the 'smarm,' 'and a good day to you, Colonel Embleton.'

'Uhm, ah… yayss,' Harry drawled, his gaze riveted upon that gold medal for a startled (or envious!) second or two before gaining his aplomb once more and greeting Caroline and Sophie.

Still cool with Caroline, Lewrie noted; and for good reason, if he knows what's good for him-so she don't take her horsewhip to him a second time! Pleasingly, Caroline gave as good as she got, as coolly pleasant yet formal-for the neighbours' sakes. Hello, though…!

He'spractically slobberin'! Lewrie thought, as poor Harry had a word with Sophie; poor chit, she can't know any better, surely, to simper back at him! Surely, Caroline's filled her in by now, if the servants hadn't, the new neighbours' daughters her age hadn't. Polite is one thing, but, for God's sake… she don't have to play coy at him!

A glance over his shoulder at his impatient sire, already at the coach door, stirred Harry to motion; and he doffed and bowed a parting before making all the haste that 'genteel' and 'aristocratic languid' would allow to catch his daddy up.

'Well, at last he spoke to you, Alan,' Caroline had breathed in wonder, once the Embletons had departed. 'The beginning of a thaw, do you not think?'

'Perhaps, my dear,' Lewrie allowed, 'but he still fair gives me the shivers. Or the 'collywobbles,' ' he added, with a sarcastic grin.

'Alan, on church grounds… before the children!' Caroline admonished, all but poking him in the ribs. 'May you not moderate your… saltiness?'

'My pardon, my dear.'