to Lisbon as his guests in his great-cabins, how he'd paid court to her in that port before she'd taken the packet to Liverpool and the in-laws of her late husband! God above, but Caroline had an inkling of an attractive, busty Italian courtesan in Genoa, and in Leghorn, and…!
She'd be shootin' lava 'bout that'un! Lewrie told himself, with a sick and swoony feeling of doom as he dashed a hand cross his brows; Theoni's more blessed in that department, too, and Caroline's more…petite! Damme, don't she know men don't marry teats… they just want t'sup on em a tad, now and then?
Though how in Blazes anyone, much less the anonymous scribbler, knew that much was beyond him; Phoebe, for certain; Theoni, well maybe. But Claudia Mastandrea, too? No, who could've known that much, and who could despise him enough to write his wife and tell all? He had suspected Commander William Fillebrowne, who had openly boasted of taking Phoebe's 'saddle' after she and Lewrie had thrown in the towel with each other; he'd been in Venice, in their squadron, in the Adriatic when Theoni Connor turned up, but Claudia was long before his time, an actual, official 'mission' handed him by that old Foreign Office spook, Zachariah Twigg… damn his blood! That was supposed to be very secret!
He'd also suspected Lucy Beauman, his first and frustratingly unrequited lust way back in the 'early-earlies' of 1780. Now Lady Lucy Shockley, she'd been in Venice, too, also taken with that Fillebrowne; his lover, in point of fact, behind her decent (huge and filthy rich) husband's back not six months after they were wed, the filthy baggage! Lucy and Fillebrowne together, for mutual revenge?
He'd spurned her offer of a tumble or an affair, should handsome Fillebrowne go stale, or fail to clear all his 'jumps'; perhaps at the same time, for all he knew or cared. So rich, spoiled, and pampered… Lucy was not a woman to cross, and Fillebrowne…!
His old schoolmates from his short term at Harrow-Lord Peter Rushton and Clotworthy Chute, ever the 'Captain Sharp' without a pence to his own name-had been in Venice, too, and Clotworthy had diddled Fillebrowne over some 'ancient' Roman bronze statues recently 'dug' in the Balkans… about as old as the half-loaf of bread standing by the wine carafe!
The one letter his father'd seen had been written on fine paper, and done in an elegant copperplate hand, he'd said. Oh, but it was a bootless enterprise, to speculate who'd ruined him. The thing was done, and the fat was truly in the fire!
Caroline had borrowed sixty pounds from his sea chest, she wrote, to sustain their farm 'til his solicitor, Mr. Matthew Mountjoy, could make new arrangements for her and the children's upkeep… which she firmly intended to extract from him, no matter their estrangement. Income from their 160-acre rented farm should be hers alone, she wrote, since he'd never been a bit of help in that regard, and had never done a thing to learn it during his idle years ashore on half-pay, between the wars! He had to admit that that accusation was true.
Lewrie had been a city-raised London lad, only going down to the country on spring or summer jaunts, as a weekend house guest, and knew nothing of crops or livestock, didn't know one flower from another and could really only identify oak trees. Well, he knew good horseflesh if he saw it, and he could ride well… but Hell's Bells, was there any true English gentleman who couldn't, he'd eat his cocked hat!
Caroline then demanded that half his inheritance from his grandmother Lewrie's plate and paraphernalia be turned over to her; that he could live on his damned Navy pay, and the Ј150 per annum that Granny Lewrie had granted him long ago as an annual living, once she had rediscovered his existence during the Revolution.
Sewallis and Hugh must be schooled, she continued; their daughter Charlotte would soon require schooling and 'finishing' in the arts, music, dance, and deportment necessary to a young lady to-be of her due station, then 'dotted' when finally espoused.
The children, she accused, were already inured to his years-long absences on the King's Business, so they would treat his estrangement as just another extremely long active commission. And be the better for't!
'Damme, she's dotted all her I's, crossed all her T's,' Lewrie sadly marvelled. 'Minds her P's and Q's… pints an' quarts, pence'n shillings. Worse'n a publican… pick yer pockets for the reckonin', 'fore he tosses ye in the gutter.'
Her note was, except for the occasional spiteful slur, of course, remarkably icy, as if she'd written a dry commercial contract to a complete stranger!
'Warmin' pan's in yer bed, sir, and yer covers turned down,' his servant announced, padding stocking-footed back into the sitting room.
'Night, Aspinall,' Lewrie said, slumped in defeat.
'Aye, sir,' Aspinall said with a jerky bow, then departed for a bed of his own in what amounted to a large closet, though the children's beds in a proper, separate room were empty, and better-made.
Of a sudden, the carafe of wine was more than tempting. Lewrie poured himself a goodly measure, a brimming glass.
'Oof!' he was forced to exclaim, spilling a few drops on his new snow-white kerseymere breeches as his ram- cat Toulon jumped up into his lap. 'Hallo, Toulon. 'Least you ain't abandoned me, pusslin'.'
The black and white torn, now grown to nigh a stone-and-a-half in weight, and as firmly muscled as a well-fed basset hound-like petting a log with legs-made mouth-shut trills and grunts in welcome as he kneaded Lewrie's lap, rubbed his head against his chest, and slung his bulk against him, his thick, white-tipped ebony tail a brush that lazily twirled and tickled under Alan's nose.
Lewrie managed one sip, then set aside his glass to pet him and stroke him, else he'd be a pluperfect pest for a full half-hour. 'Aye, I know, big baby, been gone too damn' long. Left you behind, did she? Been just you and Aspinall, hours and hours? Well, I'm back now, just you an' me, yyess……'
An' by God, ain't it just.! he sadly told himself; me and a damn' cat, the rest o ' my days, if Caroline don't come round… somehow.
And how his wife could ever reconcile herself with such a faithless hound as he, he couldn't quite fathom… yet, anyway. She wasn't the sort to pine away; she'd proved that by running their farm as well as any man during his other commissions. Rearing the children, becoming such an astute woman of commerce, never given to the vapours, just coping deuced well, with her stillroom, jams, and jellies, the domestics they employed, neighbours, skin-flint horse-copers, homemade vinegars, wines, and spring ales, her sewing, knitting, and economies…
She didn't need him, he realised with a start of revelation; he was a
sometime amusement, like a visiting troupe of jugglers and acrobats! Caroline was complete unto herself, and had been for years; what ties of affection and custom there had been were now severed!
Caroline had kith and kin, the house, the village, and the church, and the long, predictable roll of the seasons in peaceful and settled country life, home and hearth, whilst he had the sea, and…
'Murff, ' Toulon muttered in his lap, strewing hair over the new breeches that he had bought for the celebration ball that they should have attended this evening, done up in their best finery, dancing with the great and near-great in glittering triumph and praise.
Toulon turned about in his own length and slunk inside the sling that bound Lewrie's left arm, stretching out once inside, feeling like a hairy 18-pounder shot, with but his whiskers, nose, and slitted eyes showing after he'd turned about once more. He gave out a long, happy yawn, stretched out his front paws and legs to dangle either side of his master's wrist, and began to purr, rattling like signal halliards and light blocks might clatter in a stiff breeze.
Lewrie was too tired to think anymore, too drunk and too numb for self-pity or a good, cleansing admission of guilt. He was certain those'd come, though, as he picked up his abandoned wineglass and took a melancholy sip. Now that he was alone, and still.
And it was goin ' so bloody good this mornin ', he mourned as he recalled how promising the day had started out…'til that encounter in Hyde Park…
CHAPTER FOUR
He had turned back to face his wife, after perhaps allowing his gaze to linger just a blink too long on the
