King, Ship, and Sword

'But I will defer t'your wishes, your ways,' he quickly added.

'For as long as you stay,' Caroline grimly said. 'Which is?'

''Til the French start the war again, I am home,' Lewrie told her. 'It's my home, too. And 'til the boys leave for Hilary term, I hope we can share it… in a sham of harmony, at any rate. After that, well… you're the 'Post-Captain' o' this barge, and I'll try to accommodate my ways to yours. Stay out from under foot… all that,' he allowed in a soft voice that would not carry abovestairs, chin tucked in defensively. 'I don't s'pose Zachariah Twigg's visit made any impression at all?'

'What a horrid man!' Caroline exclaimed, her own arms folded over her chest. 'Like an oily… spider!'

'And a hellish-dangerous one, t'boot,' Lewrie agreed. 'And God help any foe or spy that crosses his hawse. Every time he hauls me in on one of his schemes, it's neck-or-nothing, and cut-throats and murderers on ev'ry hand. Fair gives me the 'colly-wobbles,' he does.'

Zachariah Twigg, until his partial retirement from His Majesty's Government, had served the Crown in the Secret Branch of the Foreign Office for years, and had been Lewrie's bug-a-bear since 1784, off and on. Oh, he'd sworn he'd coach down to Anglesgreen to explain who had Written the poisonously anonymous letters to Caroline- Theoni Kavares Connor-and the why, which had been spite that she could not have Lewrie for her own; and how so many of the sexual dalliances she had accused Lewrie of-in such lurid detail-had been complete fictions,… or so richly embellished.

Twigg's promised expiation could not erase all of Lewrie's overseas doings, of course: his mistress in the Mediterranean when commanding the Jester Sloop of War, or the fact that Lewrie had indeed seeded Theoni Kavares Connor with a bastard son, but… the rest of it was a fantasy meant to harm.

'Have t'talk about us… sooner or later,' Lewrie told her, shrugging as he took another sip of brandy. 'After Epiphany or-'

'Yes, we do, Alan,' Caroline softly agreed, looking down at the pattern of the parlour carpet. She looked up then, almost beseechingly, with the vertical furrow 'tween her brows prominent. 'Do you love me, Alan? Even after all your… do you still love me?'

Caroline was not the sprightly young miss he'd first met during the evacuation of Wilmington, North Carolina, back in his days as a Midshipman in the American Revolution. Nor was she the lissome bride he'd taken vows with at St. George's. Yet…

'Aye, I do, Caroline,' he told her, and felt his chest turn hot, his eyes mist a bit with the truth of it, no matter everything else he had done. 'I still do. Not for the children, not-'

'Then we shall see, Alan,' she promised, arms still crossed in protection. 'Once Yuletide is done, we shall see. Good night.'

She paused at the double doors to the foyer and looked back for a mere trice. 'Merry Christmas,' she said, then headed for the stairs, a very brief smile that might have been wistful, or rueful, turning up the corners of her mouth, wrinkling the riant folds below her eyes for the slightest moment.

'Well I'll be double-damned,' he breathed, muttering softly in wonder. 'Might be a beginnin' after all!' He tossed off his brandy to the last drop, set the glass aside, and went abovestairs to his own bed-down the hall in the guest chamber, still-where Toulon and Chalky at least gave him some affection after he'd rolled into a cold bed. 'Merry Christmas to you, lads. Merry Christmas to us all.'

Though they did not snuggle the way he longed for.

BOOK II

It was the best of times,

it was the worst of times…

CHARLES DICKENS,

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

CHAPTER TWELVE

Christmas Day, and the opening of presents, had passed, as had Boxing Day on the twenty-sixth; most gifts had gone over well, but for the toy muskets and swords. Sir Hugo's real blades had made the biggest impression, and cause for chaotic tumult as Hugh and Sewallis practised their initial lessons on each other… swash-buckling through the entire house 'til Lewrie and his father took them in hand in the barren back garden and gave them both some sword exercises learned from hard and bloody experience. At least Charlotte was ecstatic over her new doll(s), books, and miniature fairy castle.

After Epiphany, though, the boys coached away to begin their new school term, with 'grandfather' Sir Hugo as their avuncular escort, and it was back to the routine drudgery of village and farm life in a cold midwinter, and only Lewrie, his wife, and daughter in the house.

And, much like the descriptions he'd read of North American porcupines mating, Lewrie found the process of reconciliation, and the enforced 'togetherness,' a prickly endeavour. With few occasions for visiting about, or receiving callers in return, and with Charlotte busy at her studies with her hired tutor, there were simply too many hours in a day. Not that it was boresome… exactly.

Wake, rise, and dress in the guest bed-chamber promptly at six; a quick shave and scrub-up, and breakfast was taken in the smaller dining room, en famille, round seven. Farm accounts, worked on together in his office, occupied another hour or so, with Lewrie the student and she the master, striving manful to remember what little he'd known of managing a farm from years before; striving manful to stay awake and pay heed to Caroline's 'surely, you recall how… ' or 'surely, you remember what I once told you of… ' lectures on crop rotation, animal husbandry, and sheep. A full pot of strong, hot coffee was very necessary!

Round ten or so, Caroline was busy with Mrs. Calder, the cook, or the tutor, and Lewrie had time in which to read a book or take a stroll through the barn and stables. Half-past twelve, though, and it was time for dinner. It was only by mid-afternoon that he was free to saddle up his old gelding, Anson, and canter into Anglesgreen to the Ploughman to have a pint or two and read the daily papers coached from London.

And, damn his hide did he linger too long or come home in his cups, either. No, once the papers were read, and a natter or two with Will and Maggie Cony and the idle regulars, life with his wife went so much better did he ride back out to his farm and skirt the bounds over the fallow fields, streams, and wood lots 'til his phyz was chilled to rosy red, and the last, lingering fumes of ale were dissipated. After that, he could return, about an hour before supper, for a stiff session in the parlour with wife and daughter, now free of household chores or lessons. A doting fuss must be made over Charlotte's lap dog, Dolly, though the wee beast still bared her teeth and flattened her ears whenever he got too close. Toulon and Chalky would huddle with him on the settee for safety, for lap, and for affection, flattening their ears, bottling tails and hissing fit to bust whenever Dolly approached too near at her play. His cats got along much better with Sewallis's wee pack of setters, all three of whom would never make true hunting dogs, and were goofily lumbering playmates.

A little music, some teasing banter with Charlotte (and a stiff glass of brandy) and it was time to sup together, again. After that, it was usually back to the parlour for more music together, or teaching Charlotte the simpler card games, before Mrs. Calder herded her up the stairs, leaving Lewrie and Caroline alone together.

'Chess,' Lewrie said, apropos of nothing, to fill a void. 'Or backgammon. D'ye think Charlotte'd enjoy learning those?'

'She hates to lose, though, Alan,' Caroline answered, looking up from her current embroidery project.