And thank God it's Christmas! was Lewrie's recurring thought as the Yuletide festivities spun on. His brother-in-law, Burgess Chiswick, now Major of a foot regiment, was down from London with his future in-laws and fiancee, the raptourously lovely Theodora Trencher, and Mister and Mistress Trencher, her parents, both of whom were solidly well-off and immensely 'Respectable' in the new sense; hard-working (prosperous as a result of it), mannerly, high-minded, well-educated, stoutly Christian, involved in 'improving' causes, rigidly moral, and more than willing to impose their prim morals on the rest of Great Britain!
Lewrie could have been treated like a pariah by his country in-laws, but for the fact that Uncle Phineas Chiswick, seeing how rich the Trenchers were and being delighted with such a fruitful match, had to grind his false teeth and simper at the black sheep of the family, welcoming Lewrie like a long-lost son! And Governour, his other brother-in-law, now as rotund and red-faced as the lampoonish cartoons of the typical country-bumpkin Squire John Bull, had to plaster a false face and play the 'Merry Andrew,' though without guests for the holidays he would have happily shot Lewrie!
It was immensely, secretly amusing to Lewrie to see his uncle by marriage and Governour bite their tongues whenever the Trenchers said anything favourable about Lewrie, for the whole family were enthusiastic supporters of William Wilberforce and belonged to his Society for the
Abolition of Slavery in the British Empire; Lewrie was their champion for his 'liberation' of a dozen Black slaves on Jamaica years before, making them freemen and British tars, 'True Blue Hearts of Oak,' and for his acquittal at trial for the deed.
To rankle those two even further, Burgess was for Abolition, as well, and had always thought Lewrie one Hell of a fellow, an heroic figure and a wry wag to boot.
And what was even saucier to relish from Uncle Phineas's and Governor's mute fuming was the fact that Uncle Phineas was still invested in the infamous 'Triangle Trade,' and Governour had been raised in the Cape Fear country of North Carolina before the Revolution and felt that chattel slavery was right and proper!
Oh, it was a merry band of revellers they made, for Chiswicks, Trenchers, and Lewries went everywhere together. Did they not dine at Uncle Phineas's, they were at Governour's, or Lewrie's, along with some of the other worthy families of Anglesgreen. Did they not sup at home, there were parish and community suppers, even an invitation to Embleton Hall with Sir Romney (still among the living despite what Lewrie'd feared!) and Harry. And what Harry made of having his rival for Caroline's hand come for supper, music, and cards, Lewrie could only imagine… and savour. Indeed, having Caroline herself over might have galled the fool equally well, for she'd once lashed him with her horse's reins and made his nose 'spout claret'!
There were carolling parties beginning at sundown, coaching from farmhouse to farmhouse; through Anglesgreen's snowy streets from the Red Swan to St. George's, and bought suppers in both the Red Swan and the Olde Ploughman, with a round dozen or more to treat at-table. And the hunt club ball, again at Embleton Hall, and the cross-country ride that preceded it!
Mr. Trencher was not quite the skilled rider that his wife and daughter were, but he was dogged at it, and wildly enthusiastic for a steeplechase's jumps. All in all, the Trenchers fit right in as well as a country rector or vicar, for, despite the initial impression of being very 'Respectable,' all delighted at dancing and (Theodora aside) could put away the wines, brandies, and punch like the most affable churchman!
And then, two days before Christmas Day, Lewrie's father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, coached down from London to open his home, Dun Roman (his own horrid pun!), a large, rambling one-storey bungalow in the Hindoo style, to pour the rum over the plum pudding, as it were… and to light it!
On top of all that, Lewrie and his children went riding almost every morning before the day's planned activities; went shooting with the lighter fusil-musket or the Girandoni air-rifle. They could not hunt, not even over their own lands, for Lewrie was Uncle Phineas's tenant, not a freeholder, but… they could try their eyes at empty bottles and marks whitewashed on a tree. That was great fun for everyone except Charlotte. She insisted on going with her brothers, with her father too one might imagine, but was interested only in the riding part, on her horse-pony, and whenever Lewrie tried to include her, or jest, or merely converse, Charlotte seemed as uninterested as his wife! It was only when Sir Hugo joined their morning rides, with promises of a cauldron of hot cocoa at his place after, that Charlotte opened up and actually essayed a laugh or two! Sir Hugo had done much the same with Sophie de Maubeuge, Lewrie's orphaned French ward, years before; it was uncanny.
'You should've had daughters, too, besides me,' Lewrie told him in a private moment as they rested their mounts after a spirited gait.
'Had one… Belinda. Recall? Yer bloody step-sister?' Sir Hugo said with a snicker. 'Well, step-daughter, at any rate, and look how that turned out.
Belinda was still listed in the Guide to Covent Garden Women, a highly recommended, and costly, courtesan.
'You bring Charlotte out of her turtle-shell,' Lewrie said. 'I can't make heads or tails of her moods. The boys, aye, but… '
'She's Caroline's, body and soul, lad,' Sir Hugo said, 'onliest child still at home, and lappin' up her anger 'bout ye like it was my chocolate. How's yer happy rencontre with her goin', anyway?'
'Much like a winter's day,' Lewrie had to scoff, 'short, dark, and dirty. I'm in a guest chamber. We talk… of nothing, mostly. Thank God for house-guests and the children, else ye'd be measurin' me for a coffin. She acts jolly, but that's only 'cause of the Trenchers and Burgess's comin' marriage. Zachariah Twigg did coach down to explain things whilst I was in the Baltic, but there's no sign she took any of it to heart. Too much to forgive, really. And too American-raised. An English wife of our class'd be more realistic.'
'Don't lay wagers on that,' Sir Hugo said with a sour cackle. 'Women are women, no matter where, or how, they're raised. She's sense, though. There's her place in Society and the children t'consider. Oh, speakin' of… what'd ye get the children for Christmas?'
'What?' Lewrie gawped at the shift of topic. 'More slide sets for their magic lantern… a new doll for Charlotte… assumin' her bloody dog don't shred it like the others… some French chocolates, now we're tradin' again. Bow and arrow sets, toy muskets and pistols, some more lead soldiers and a model frigate… and a half- dozen oranges each. Why, what'd you do?' he asked, fearing the worst.
'Well, an open-backed doll house for Charlotte,' Sir Hugo said, looking a touch cutty-eyed, 'a castle, really, and for the boys… swords.'
'Swords?'
'Small-swords,' Sir Hugo said on. 'It's time for them to learn the gentlemanly art of the salle d'armes, and there's a skilled man I know from my first regiment, the King's Own, near their school who can instruct them. Do ye not mind payin' half his fee, they should be taught… Hugh especially, since we both know he'll most-like end choosin' either the Navy or the Army for his living.'
'Well, I s'pose…,' Lewrie muttered, seeing the sense of it.
'Started you early, I did, and swordsmanship came in damned useful to you,' Sir Hugo stated. 'Hugh shows promise with the sword, and he's both a decent shot and has a hellish-good seat. He's spunk, and intelligence-'
'Didn't get it from me,' Lewrie said with a snort as they both turned to watch all three children in a rare moment of glee, tossing snowballs at each other and running in circles.
'Grant ye that,' Sir Hugo wryly jested. 'As I said long ago, I still have connexions at Horse Guards, and could have him an Ensign or Leftenant in an host of good regiments. Or, with your renown, you
