Making Easterly, they came to the end of the footpath, where it crossed a carriageway, where Lewrie had frozen in midstep, stumbling against his father's arm as he suddenly realised that Dame Fortune- that fickle whore-wasn't done with him!
'God Almighty!' Lewrie had gasped.
'What the Devil's come over ye?' his father had griped.
'Them… in the coach, yonder. Don't look at 'em, damn your eyes!' Lewrie had warned, which made Sir Hugo peer and glower, as if ready to yank the coach door open, drag 'em out, and challenge them to a duel, instanter, the truculent old bastard! Lewrie had tried to see how the clouds were shaping, count leaves on trees, take up the hobby of bird-watching, anything, looking anywhere but at the coach; as two pinched, high-nosed, top-lofty men had glared back before the coachee whipped up and rattled them away.
'What?' his father had demanded, petulant. 'Who were they?'
'One was George John the Earl Spencer,' Lewrie had informed him with a woozy sense of impending doom beyond what Caroline had instilled. 'First Lord of The Admiralty. T'other was Mister Evan Nepean.., the First Secretary. Them who tell me where t'go and what t'do. My damned… employers!'
'Ah!' Sir Hugo had answered, snapping his jaws turtle-like in asperity. 'Well damme, that's a bugger… ain't it.'
'Christ, I am fucked, really, really, really fucked!'
'All's not lost. There's always strong drink,' Sir Hugo said. 'Have I learned a blessed thing in this shitten world, 'tis that wine tends t'soften the blows. Brandy's even better. Aye, brandy's what's called for. What I'd prescribe. Shall we? Mind, you go all weepy in it, and I'll swear I don't know you from Adam.'
'Lead on,' Lewrie had numbly demurred. 'I've seen Disaster in my life. I know how t'bear up.'
'Topping!' Sir Hugo had chortled. 'Forward, then! We'll need song, mirth, and glee, too. Here's one for ye. Irish. It'll make yer bog-trottin' sailors happy, d'ye learn it! Ahem!
with looks so sly will cry 'my eyye'!
Oh, isn't he a dar-el-in',
It had worked, Lewrie had to admit. They'd gathered prancing children, as a marching band might, the sight of a trim and elegant old general with the pace and spine of a younger man, with a brave captain by his side, voices raised in praise of Glory and Women. Even sober-lookin', too! People clapped their approval as they paraded off for a public house.
And bedamned-for the nonce-to Dame Fortune!
CHAPTER FIVE
Lewrie, unfortunately, felt about as 'headed' as any man born, even after rising at a lordly 9 a.m. dousing and scrubbing with a tin of hot water, and receiving a fresh shave from Aspinall whilst he had himself a wee nap. Three gulped cups of coffee had only made him bilious and gassy, with a tearing need to 'pump his bilges,' much like a dairy cow on hard ground, at least thrice.
'Breakfast, sir?'
'Don't b'lieve I'd manage solids this morning, Aspinall,' Alan replied with some asperity, 'but thankee.'
His father, Sir Hugo, came bustling into the set of rooms, done up in his regimentals, less his tunic, and draped in a tan nankeen and flower-sprigged embroidered dressing gown; face fresh-shaved and ruddy, eyes bright and clear, tail up, and bursting with bonhomie.
'Bloody awful mornin!' Sir Hugo rather loudly informed him. 'It is rain, rain, rain. Urchins and mendicants'll drown in this, just you wait an see!
'Hush!' Lewrie begged, squinting one-eyed at that fell apparition, wondering why turning his head resulted in thick, swoony feelings.
'Dear Lord, still 'foxed,' are ye? Out o' practice, I expect. Takes work, d'ye know… years o' conditionin',' his father said with a faint sneer at Lewrie's lack of 'training' as he swept back his gown, plucked a chair from the small card table, and plunked himself down… damn' near by the numbers like a military drill, with all the requisite 'square-bashing' thumps and thuds of the steel-backed Redcoat.
'Christ,' Lewrie grumbled, ready to cover his ears.
'Amateur,' Sir Hugo scoffed with a twinkle. 'Ah!' he cried, as his swarthy, one-eyed Sikh manservant, Trilochan Singh, entered. The pockmarked bazaari-badmash with the swagger of a raja was the terror of half the goose-girls in Anglesgreen; all Surrey, too, for all Alan knew!
' Namastй,*
'Bloody Hell!' Lewrie groaned. 'Chalй jao… mulaayam!' † (†
'Ah, ye do recall some Hindi!' his father noted, clapping his hands. 'Pay him no mind, Singh. Chaay, krem kй saath, and naashtй kй li-ye for do.' ‡ (‡
'Bahut achchaa, Weeby sahib! Ek dum!' §
Lewrie put his head in his hands and laid his forehead on that small table, feeling that whimpering in pain might not go amiss.
'Here, for Christ's sake,' Sir Hugo growled, producing a flask of brandy and pouring. 'Never heard o' hair o' the dog that bit ye? Decent French guzzle, too. Thank God for smugglers. This'll put the spring back in your step, and clear the cobwebs. Aye… good lad.'
Lewrie made 'Bbrring' noises, grimaces and gags, but the brandy seemed liable to stay down, and his vision did slightly clear.
'Caroline scarpered, I take it?' Sir Hugo asked, gazing about the set of rooms, noting the lack of children, noise, clutter, and luggage.
'Aye, more's the pity… soon as they got back from the park,' Lewrie mournfully informed him, giving him a precis of her letter, too. 'Well, damme,' his father harumphed. 'Thought she had more sense than that. Not that she didn't shew it, anent your finances. At least there's no mention of divorcement. Now, were it I who got such a note, I'd heave a great sigh, cry 'thank God for gettin' off so cheap' then dance off t'me bus'ness. Won't break you,
