The Invasion Year

Lydia determined to write to Lewrie’s lodgings, informing him of their offer of a more comfortable coach than any he could hire, of which he knew nothing yet… then caution him to take credit for the idea to help Percy find employment for his regiment! It was just as un-seemly to be a clever woman as it was to be a single one!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Lewrie had been delighted by the Stangbournes’ offer, though it made for cramped quarters in their coach. There was Percy’s valet and Lydia’s maid, and Pettus to do for Lewrie, plus two coachmen and a footman, little more than a lad whose sole duty seemed to be tending to the folding steps and the coach doors, and general fetching and toting. It would not do for the maid to ride outside, so one man-servant ended up on the coach roof, like the cheap seats aboard a huge diligence coach, and the luckier two crammed into the outside rear bench above the boot, which bore more luggage than Lewrie’s whole family would need did they dash up to London for their Spring shopping, and spend a week at it!

The sky was clear for their pique-nique atop Shooter’s Hill and it had been pleasantly warm. When Percy was off tramping up to take a gander of the semaphore tower and its method of working, Lydia had given Lewrie a snippet of newspaper.

“In case you haven’t seen this,” she’d whispered, looking away shyly. “I hadn’t thought I would draw unwelcome comment upon you. If you find it embarrassing, then I am sorry I-”

“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie had guffawed, though, to her great relief. “With any luck, people will think it was Captain Blanding! And his wife will give him Hell.”

“You are not…?” Lydia had gasped, with a wide grin.

“Not a bit of it!” Lewrie had assured her. “What Blanding and his brood and his Chaplain think of me doesn’t matter a toss, and if Wilberforce and his lot take me off the ‘champion’ list, then I’ll be spared a parcel of dreadful-boresome suppers!”

His reaction had pleased Lydia greatly, and they’d sat on the quilt close together, hands closer, fingers twining, and both wishing they could embrace and kiss. Her smiles had been lovely and promising, sometimes wistful, sometimes impishly bold, as they’d prated mostly of nothing, wishing that the hovering servants and the enthusiastic Percy could vanish like Will-of-the-Wisps.

They’d found lodgings suitable to their needs at the very same hotel that Lewrie had used long ago when fitting out HMS Proteus for the West Indies, close to the merchant docks and a view of the Little Nore in 1797… the same hotel where Theoni Kavares Connor had stayed, for nigh a week, unfortunately, and did they dine there together, Alan sincerely hoped none of the staff would recall him from that time, and ask of his former mistress (the mother of one of his bastard children) and how she kept!

Then, he hired a boat to bear him out to Reliant. It had been gratifying to be piped aboard not to the usual bare-headed stances of attention from all hands on deck at the moment of arrival, but by the loud cheers and whistles of Reliant’s people as soon as they had seen the sash and star. They had been victorious, they had won it all for him to wear, and a proud reflection upon them and their frigate, as he had told them that instant, before going aft and below.

His cats had been delighted to see him after the short absence, and his cook, Yeovill, had been equally delighted when he had been informed that he would be preparing at least one sumptuous dinner for a Viscount and his sister. The great-cabins, though…

“Scrub and scour, Pettus,” Lewrie had ordered, sniffing at the corners. “The cat’s box especially, fresh sand for the morrow… and the quarter-gallery.”

“Baking soda, sir,” Yeovill had suggested. “A box of it in the sand, sir? Cancels odours, it will. I’ve lots of it, sir.”

“We’ve still some citronella candles, and lamp oil, too, sir,” Pettus had reminded him. “That smells fresh and sweet, it does.”

“Pass word for Desmond and Furfy t’help with the cleaning, and all, Pettus. We’ll start straightaway,” Lewrie had ordered, looking over his modest furnishings and wishing that he could replace or re-furbish half of it overnight. Or, should he, he’d reconsidered. This was how he lived, and-odours aside-this would be what he would show the Stangbournes. He could always explain that the Royal Navy had a dim view of captains who lived too comfortably; bare-bones Spartan was preferred.

He had dined ashore with the Stangbournes, of course, leaving Yeovill even more time to prepare his feast, but had been back aboard just at Four Bells of the Evening Watch to make arrangements for their reception aboard the next day at Noon. Fresh sand and snow-white man-ropes for the entry-port and boarding battens; a bosun’s chair to be prepared for Lydia of a certainty, and for Percy, too, if he proved to be clumsy or had a slip; it would never do to drown a peer! Lastly, he had the largest ship’s boat, the cutter, readied for the next morning. Lt. Westcott had suggested it rather than his shorter gig, and had had the cutter scrubbed out and some of its paint touched up, earlier.

It had not rained, though there was a vast awning slung above the quarterdeck lest it did. Lord Percy had managed to scramble up the battens, Lydia had been delighted to be hoisted high over the bulwarks and deposited on the starboard sail- tending gangway, alighting with an un-ladylike whoop of glee! The tour of the ship had gone well, even if belowdecks had still borne a faint reek of too many people crammed in too close, and the smells of salt-meat casks drifting up from the orlop. They’d emerged up forward by the foredeck hatch and steep ladderway, right by the sickbay and forecastle manger, then had strolled aft past the bowsed-up guns to the base of the main-mast and into his great-cabins for a drink before dinner.

“Somehow, I do not picture you, Sir Alan, a fellow of such bellicose nature, having cats as pets,” Lydia had teased him, forced by the circumstances, and the presence of other dinner guests, to fall back upon her initial formality. At that moment she’d had the impetuous Chalky in her lap, arching and trilling to her lace-gloved stroking, and with Toulon standing by her right, paws working on the settee cushions and about to jump and join them.

“Captains live aft, alone, Miss Lydia,” Lewrie had told her, a prisoner to formality, too, in his speech, at least, though his manner was unchanged. “Might dine a couple of people in each night, but for the most part, well… they’re good, amusing company.”

“Even does Chalky like to nip,” Lt. Westcott pointed out with a laugh. “Learned that to my harm.”

“My last captain preferred chickens, ma’am,” Midshipman Rossyngton piped up, turned out in his best. Lewrie had had to invite all his Commission Officers, of course, but only had chairs, or places, for two more guests, and had chosen the two youngest Mids, even though Mister Entwhistle was an “Honourable,” and the youngest son of another peer.

“Hunting dogs, ma’am,” Midshipman Munsell had added shyly. “He was big on hunting, and fetched off half a dozen of his favourites. It was Bedlam.”

“And messy, I’m bound, hey, Mister Munsell?” Lewrie had japed.

“When one of them, ah… on the deck chequer or his carpets, he would call his servant… ‘Smithey… dog, uh… stuff!’ ” Munsell had blurted, catching himself a second too late; but all had been amused.

“Ye don’t get that sort o’ mess, with cats,” Lewrie had said.

“Or, the barking in the wee hours, I’m bound?” Lydia had posed to Munsell, drawing a shy nod of red-faced agreement, pleasing the lad right down to his toes.

Yeovill had out-done himself. There had been a soup he’d called a Spanish treat, served cool to suit the weather, loaded with peas and maize kernels, rice, and pureed tomatoes in a spicy beef broth; Yeovill was very high on rice! Next had come quail (old to Lewrie by then but new to the Stangbournes) with fresh asparagus sprigs drizzled in hollandaise sauce and cheesy hashed potatoes. The fish course had been a medley of mussels and peeled shrimp, with buttery wee brussels sprouts; all served with piping-hot rolls and a cool and light sauvignon blanc. There’d been a mid-meal salad of wilted lettuce, drippy bacon,