King`s Captain

Oh, they were a perverse race, the Frogs. He could not imagine that she found Harry attractive-only another otter could be attracted to such a profile. He was an idiot… therefore controllable? Bosh!

Lewrie could not feature Sophie as being so guileful, so mercenary, so… scheming! Yet for no discernible reason, she suddenly had not seemed averse to being fawned at by that feckless fool, Harry. She had few opportunities outside Caroline's sharp notice, but that didn't signify. Caroline was sure that something was going on behind their backs, yet he feared speaking to her about it; speak too often and disparagingly about a swain, and young chits would-perversely!-run with glee to the very thing or person one warned them against!

And God knows, I did… gladly! Alan told himself; not that anyone in charge of me ever took the time to give me fair warnings.

Yet just yesterday, amid all the pomp and pageantry that little Angles-green could produce, the stamp and slap of musket drill and marching, the clatter of cavalry hooves, the tootles of 'The Bowld Soldier Boy' that his father, as the senior officer hereabouts had chosen from his Indian army days as one of his very favourites… there Sophie had been, making sheep's eyes and hooded glances, mostly at Harry.

Oh, she'd bantered prettily with Richard Oakes too; and if Alan had his druthers, of all the rakehellish local lads, Richard Oakes was his choice, should she deign to swoon over anyone! Nowhere near rich, but his family owned their own land; he was handsome, well-knit, rode well, sang well… the best of a bad lot, frankly, for being a member of Harry's roistering, hell-for-leather coterie. Educated, was known to not move his lips when he read… didn't look like a sack of cast-off clothes in his finery… and, most especially, did not resemble an otter with dysentery!

Perhaps I should at least try to solve this one small problem, Lewrie thought with a fresh frown; there's damn-all I can do about the rest. If I m fated to stay 'beached' 'til the mutiny ends, pray God it does… soon! or…

There came a clatter from the East, the sight of a coach rising over the hill by the old ruins, threading the overhanging, road-spanning boughs of centuries-old oaks. Shopkeepers emerged from the doors of their establishments, housewives popped from their homes. The mail coach brought them out to see something new, hear something new, see a strange face in their staid village life.

Lewrie rose too, ignoring his mug of ale, to stand by the kerb in front of the pub where the coach usually stopped. The wee 'daisy-kicker' sprang to seize the reins. A mail sack was flung down. There were no passengers alighting this morning; then the coachee whipped up and clattered the swaying 'dilly' on its way to Petersfield.

'Why, 'tis a good thing you waited, Squire Lewrie, for there's a whole packet for ya,' Miss Beakman tittered. 'Oh, and by-the-by, the milliner, Mistress Clowes, left this note here for you, but it clean fled my mind with all the scrubbin' we…'

'Ah, thankee, Mistress,' Lewrie replied, adding that letter to the pile bound with a hank of twine. 'Bills, bills, bills… ah, ha!'

A larger letter, of much finer paper, watermarked with the GR for Georgius Rex for King George III… sealed with a dark-blue wax, stamped with crown and anchors… Admiralty!

It appeared that domesticity, any worries anent young Sophie de Maubeuge, the spring planting… it could all go hang of a sudden.

And feeling the perversity of being delighted, Lewrie was delighted! But not guilty enough to stifle a broad grin of relief!

Flinging coins on the table, he drained his mug and called out, 'Boy, my horse!'

CHAPTER TEN

Oh m'sieur, you are back so early!' Sophie de Maubeuge said in surprise as he practically burst through the front door. She might have been the belle of yesterday's Militia parade and drills, but Caroline-sprung from more frugal, practical Colonial stock-had engrained real work into her. Sophie was dressed in one of her oldest sack gowns, and a maid's apron and mob-cap. With a cloth-wrapped broom, she had been sweeping for cobwebs in the entry hall. Not very energetically, Lewrie suspected; she had been raised as a French aristocrat since birth.

'The tavern was not amusant?' Sophie enquired, obviously eager for an excuse to leave off servants' work and twinkling with wit.

'Informative, but not amusing, no, Sophie,' Lewrie answered, in a rush still. 'Where is Caroline?'

'In 'er boudoir, up…'

'Excuse me then,' he said, bounding for the staircase.

'Ze post 'ave arriv-ed? You wish zat I, uhm… classer, non… sort it for vous, m'sieurr she offered, stepping forward and eyeing that loose bundle with what Lewrie could only feel was… alarm.

'Thank you, no, Sophie, it's only bloody bills!' Lewrie shouted down from the landing on his way up the second pair-of-stairs. 'I'll sort 'em later. Caroline?'

Helpful little chuck, he thought, but no wonder if she wishes a way out with Harry-or anyone-to avoid Caroline's housewifery work!

'Why, what is it, Alan?' his wife asked, with an amused chuckle in her throat as he stepped into their bedroom. She had been sorting out bed-linens, stowing away home-sewn winter quilts and blankets.

Slaying the triumphant smile he had worn since first breaking the seal on his Admiralty letter, he held it up in mute statement, now unfolded to the full, with its official seals of office in view.

Caroline wrapped one arm about a bedpost to support herself, while her other hand flew to cover her stricken mouth with trembling fingers. 'Oh, no… oh, God, no!' she quavered. 'You're barely home two weeks; they promised you it could be weeks more before…!'

'I'm to have a frigate, dearest,' he told her, 'that means I'll be made 'post'! With this mutiny still on, they simply must get ships to sea, untainted ships, otherwise…'

She positively glowered at him, despite her shock and grief!

Damme, wrong tack, Alan thought, got things out of order!

'Caroline, I truly am sorry; I thought we'd have more time too… peaceful weeks with you and the children, but…' he attempted saying to cosset her, tossing the bundle of unopened letters and bills to the foot of the bed so that he could go and embrace her. 'But as long as this war lasts-'growl ye may, but go ye must.' I can't…'

'I know, Alan!' she gravelled back, arms crossed over her bosom; tears and betrayal-glints in her eyes. 'Dear Lord, how well I know by now. I wish you'd never even seen a warship all your born days!'

'Well…' he stammered, surprised and spurned by her vehemence, 'there've been times I'd wish the same, my love, believe me. Cockerel. My first ship, Ariadne… loony Treghues's Desperate.. .'

'But you're a Navy man,' she jeered back, refusing his offered embraces, back- pedaling towards her cedar chests, 'off like a flash at their first… their every beck and call. Eager to dash away for your glory and honour… while those who love you must remain, abandoned… worrying and fretting, a-and…!'

'Caroline,' he whispered, taking a tentative step forward, but she would have none of it, retreating towards the windows with a swish of her skirts. 'Dear?' he lamely begged to her turned back.

'How little time we've really had, Alan,' she accused. 'Those three years in the Bahamas… a mere four more here, in our own home. Making a life so sweet and filled with every delight a man could imagine. Heirs, and land, friends and community, family, and…!'

'And then a war came, which threatens them all,' Lewrie reminded her, more sternly than he meant to. 'You know I had to respond to our country's call, dear. I don't know what else I could've…'

'You could have stayed, Alan!' she accused, whirling to face him again, that vertical