Henry Crawford was obviously amused and entertained by his uncle, and the affection between the two was evident. “This rascal nephew of mine has two dangerous hobbies—women and horses. Dangerous and expensive, aye. Did you know he has taken up coach driving—here is a gentleman, born and bred, who, for his own amusement, dresses up as a common coachman and flies about the countryside on top of his barouche, four reins in hand. We Crawfords are never happier than when risking our necks!”
“Nonsense, uncle, I can always control my team.”
“Are we speaking of the ladies or the horses, now boy?” the Admiral laughed and poured Edmund some more wine. “And the flattery he pours into their ears! Nonsense, I say. A needless waste of breath. Speaking now of the ladies, that is. Once a woman sees what we Crawfords have stored in our breeches, no further badinage is necessary. The virgins are near to fainting and the married ladies’ eyes light up, don’t they, boy? The lad is a true Crawford in that regard.” Edmund could hardly gainsay the remark, as the Admiral then casually stood up, unbuttoned himself and, turning to a nearby cupboard, opened a door and pissed in a chamber pot, affording Edmund a view of the organ in question. “The peacekeeper, I used to call it, when your old aunt was alive. At sea they used to call me ‘Long Nine Crawford.’ If you know what that refers to, Bertram. No short-barreled carronade for the late Mrs. Crawford. Well, here’s to her memory.” And the glasses were topped up again.
“They say old Boney can’t come up to the mark with the ladies—his cock, they say, is the size of my little finger. Poor Madame Josephine, hey? But they say she finds consolation elsewhere.”
Remembering the occasional indelicate remarks that his beloved Mary had made in the past, including a vulgar pun about rear and vice Admirals, Edmund could now only wonder that her manners were so very excellent as they were, after having spent much of her girlhood with such a guardian, and he recollected as well an occasion when both he and Fanny thought Mary had spoken disrespectfully of her uncle—he wished he could tell Fanny that he now acquitted Mary entirely—Mary was in fact a marvel of self-restraint so far as speaking the truth about her uncle was concerned.
“But hey, I recollect,” cried the Admiral, breaking in on his guest’s reverie, “Bertram, you are to turn clergyman. Will you not reconsider? Can’t you turn your hand to some honest work—become a highwayman, for example, or a grave robber?”
Edmund smiled weakly but said nothing and Henry Crawford thanked his lucky stars that at least his friend had the good sense not to start prosing away about the virtues of the clerical life, as he had heard him do with poor Mary.
“You mustn’t take offence, Bertram, at anything I say,” the Admiral laughed and refilled his glass. “We sailors are not diplomats. Still, a damned dull life you will lead, by g-d. I hope you sowed your wild oats while at Oxford—had a little friend there, or knew a friendly widow?”
Edmund started, because, in fact, he had had an intimate acquaintance while at college, the respectable young widow of a tradesman with whom he had privately succumbed, for the better part of two years, to the agreeable pastimes that ardent young men will resort to when the opportunity arises. And while he was rather more philosophical than remorseful about his past, he was not accustomed to canvassing the subject openly.
“Sir,” he turned the subject neatly, while raising his glass, “whatever service I may render on this earth, I own without reservation that it will in no way compare with the perils you have endured for our country.”
This was more than pleasing to the Admiral, who then regaled his guest with tales of past engagements with the g-d-damned French, and he pressed the salt cellar and all the cutlery into service to re-enact some of his victories, so that Edmund’s knife tacked nimbly past the soup ladle and fired a broadside at Henry’s fork—and when at last the gentlemen retired to the parlour for a snifter of brandy, he toasted them with tales of prizes won, hurricanes encountered and mutinies suppressed, until sleep claimed him in the middle of recalling the first time he had rounded the Horn.
* * * * * *
The presentation dresses for Maria and Julia, with their hoop skirts and heavy trains, their white silk and extensive silver embroidery, stood poised on wire frames in the middle of their shared bedchamber. Because the hoops commenced just under the bosom (for the fashion of the day was for raised waists), court dresses looked like nothing so much as large be-frilled dinner bells. The gowns had cost Sir Thomas a great deal of money, and were to be worn only once—at the presentation on the coming Monday. The hairdresser was engaged to call on them very early that morning; they would then be corseted and sewn into the dresses, their hair would be arranged with large, dazzling feathers crowning all, and they would be armed with enormous feather fans and high-heeled shoes. Once garbed, they would be transported to St. James’s Palace, where they would stand and wait for hours until summoned for their few minutes before Her Majesty. No wonder the daughters of England’s finest families did not eat or drink anything on the day of their presentations, for to relieve themselves they must resort to a little coach
