Troubled Waters

sailor, perhaps an idle civilian lecher or two, stopped just long enough to leer at the bride as she emerged and was handed down, grinning to themselves, and wishing to be in the groom's boots that night.

Langlie's Second Officer (his name escaped Lewrie entirely) put out his Spanish cigaro beneath his shoe, then came to hold the doors to the church for them, and doff his hat in salute.

Inside, one of Langlie's Midshipmen ushered them down the aisle to the left-hand pew boxes in the front, whilst Sir Hugo spoke with a curate, then led Sophie to a private room outside the nave where she'd wait 'til the music began.

Once seated, Lewrie checked breast pockets of his uniform coat for the sheaf of folded-over letters he carried; notice from their own church, St. George's, in Anglesgreen, attesting that the Banns had been read three times; the rector's fee for the ceremony, the fees for the organist and bellowsman, the bell-ringers, and small gratuities for the crucifer and acolytes. He looked across the aisle to the groom's side and found Mr. Anthony Langlie, Senior, fidgetting with a thinner stack of letters, as well, and they shared a smile together.

For all his time passing through Portsmouth, it was the first time Lewrie had actually been in St. Thomas A'Becket's, so he simply had to crane his neck and take in all its splendours, the decor of the ceilings, nave, apse, ambo and high pulpit, the carvings of its columns and the intricacies of the stained-glass windows, most so nautical in nature, to match the famous golden galleon atop the spire outside.

Such a wee wedding party, in such a large edifice, nigh echoing empty, with so few relatives or neighbours able to attend. Counting acolytes, musicians, even dustmen, there weren't above two dozen folk present. Behind the immediate family on the Langlie side, there was no one except officers, Midshipmen, and a few sailors off HMS Orpheus.

'Pardons, pardons… by your leave,' someone whispered behind them, and Lewrie turned his head to discover that Burgess Chiswick had managed to make it down from London, after all! He slid into the pew box just behind their full one, making Caroline all but squeal with open delight. 'Coach was late, sorry, can you feature a 'dilly' that runs behind? Hallo, Alan! Oh, sister, you're looking splendid! Just did find lodgings at the Black Spread Eagle, and freshen up, first!'

Burgess no longer wore East India Company uniform, but was most nattily attired in a snug double-breasted tail-coat of bottle green, a sedate but shim-mery fabric that Lewrie didn't recognise; equally snug grey trousers and top-boots, with a new-fangled cravat that completely hid whatever sort of shirt he wore.

Maybe that'll mollify her, Lewrie hopefully thought.

'How do things go, in London?' Lewrie asked, whispering softer than before.

'Won't be a grand regiment, but it looks as if I may purchase a majority for a reasonable sum,' Burgess whispered back, sounding as if he was chortling all the same. 'Army's not doing much, at present, so Horse Guards is a buyer's market. And, I met the Trencher family.'

'Aha!' Lewrie congratulated, much too loud for the occasion. 'Joined the Abolitionist Society… sent my carte de visite up and finally wangled an invitation, and you're right, Alan, Theodora's damned…'scuse me, nearly perfect! Thankee for the suggestion.'

'Well…,' Lewrie said, come over all modest, swivelling so he could face Burgess and see his eager smile, but…

Christ Almighty!'he gawped; what the bloody Hell are they doin' here? For there, a couple of pew boxes 'astern' of those where men off Savage impatiently sat, were Mr. Sadler from his barrister's office, a bird of ill omen to be certain, and… in the same box with him… Mr. Zachariah Twigg, the devious, cold-blooded, murderous, arrogant, and duplicitous, haughty old master spy who had bedeviled Lewrie's very existence since their first encounter in 1784 in the Far East!

Lewrie's jaw dropped open, and he could feel the blood drain from his face; to which struck-dumb expression the cadaverous-looking Twigg responded with a grim nod, a flex of his spidery fingers on top of his silver walking-stick handle which rested between his knees, and then did the very worst thing for Lewrie's equanimity… that cruel visage, so usually set in thin-lipped asperity and high-nosed disdain for the world in general, and sometimes for Lewrie in the particular, twisted up into a rictus of a sly smile… the sort of smile Lewrie might conjure that would appear upon a starving tiger or a nettled cobra just before the leap, strike, or spit. In Lewrie's harshly won experience with the man over the years, nothing good had ever come of a smiling Zachariah Twigg!

There came a wheezing sound from the organ bellows, the ringing of the bells in the steeple and loft, giving Lewrie a welcome excuse to snap back front, and pass a hand over his ashen face.

'Whatever is the matter, Lewrie?' Caroline rasp-whispered, inclining her head towards him as if meaning to share both prayer book and hymnal with him, but with a fierce look normally reserved for any misbehaving children: Act-Up-Now-And-I-Promise-That-You-Will-Pay! Too much was invested in time and money, in prestige and decorum, in frets and labour on her part, to let anyone spoil this wedding. It was hers as much as it was Sophie's, by God, and the person who ruins it will get drawn and quartered by the horses of the bridal coach!

'Er, uhm… nothing, my dear,' Lewrie muttered as the organ music drew them to their feet, awaiting the bride's entrance on the arm of the splendidly turned-out Sir Hugo. 'Surprise, I must own, to see an old… companion attending. I will introduce you later, love.'

'Hmmf!' was her comment on that; sure that whoever it was, was he a companion of his, he must be a fellow sinner and adulterer, hence, not worth an introduction.

Lewrie? he silently groaned to himself; she called me Lewrie? Have we come to that, like all t'other fed-up-with-the-bastard wives do? Whatever happened to Alan, or 'dear,'or… oh, right, all that happened.

Why was Sadler here, 'less the news from the courts was dire? Why would Twigg attend, and how bad could his news turn out to be, as well? Sadly, Lewrie was certain he'd discover the whys, not a second after the happy couple coached off into wedded bliss.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The ceremony went well, as did the new couple's departure, with both ship's officers and Midshipmen forming an arch of bared swords or dirks… though forcing Commander and Mrs. Langlie to duck when they got to the shorter Midshipmen, whose arms and shorter dirks threatened hats, shoulders, and noses.

Once at the George Inn, the wine began to flow almost from the instant that hats, swords (dirks), and walking-sticks were deposited with the doorkeeper, people still sober enough to read the place cards got themselves sorted out, and took their seats, with some of the men, principally Zachariah Twigg, Sir Hugo, and Mr. Sadler, heading straight for the sideboard and its restorative brandy bottle. Lewrie wished he could do the same, but he still had host duties, the requisite speech to make in praise of Langlie and Sophie, toasts to propose… and his wife to puzzle out, for though she appeared gay and chirpy, he could recognise the secret signs that Caroline was missish over something. Too, there were the children to keep an eye on, and there were Sadler and Twigg to avoid 'til the last minute, like rosied plague carriers or peeling lepers!

'A lovely setting for the ceremony, what, Captain Lewrie?' Mr. Langlie the elder remarked with a glass of wine in his hand. 'My Missus quite relished it. A most pleasing compromise location, in all.'

'Oh, absolutely, sir,' Lewrie agreed. 'Why, in all my years of passing through Portsmouth, I cannot actually recall my being inside of Saint Thomas A'Becket's before. A most impressive place, indeed.'

Langlie slightly cocked an eyebrow over that statement, keeping a mostly serene expression, though implying, I dare say your sort would have not! anyway. Or so Lewrie deduced; he refused'to cringe.

'Your father, Sir Hugo?' Langlie continued. Lewrie managed not to wince as that name was mentioned, as was his usual wont. 'A most, ah… colourful character, or so I have heard?'

'Colourful ain't the half of it, Mister Langlie.' There came a faint guffaw from over Mr. Langlie's left shoulder as Sir Hugo came to join them. Colourful, indeed, for Sir Hugo's long-time Sikh orderly/valet, Trilochan Singh, he of the