too, I believe. You will most likely wish to avail yourself of it, and I have work to do, God knows. My reward in all this is in seeing the salvation of a fine young man from eventual ruin by his own disgust at himself, and your retribution in society, in being restored to the bosom of your rightful family. And the restoration of your birthright.'
'Words cannot express my undying gratitude to you, Mister Cheatham. Yes, I'm sort of like Cain restored, I suppose.'
'Hmm, those sessions with the captain and the Good Book have done little for your biblical knowledge, I fear.' Cheatham smiled. 'I was thinking more like an Esau restored his birthright, with the curse falling on Rebekah, where it belongs. Rebekah being Sir Hugo, in this instance.'
Alan shook hands with Cheatham and took all the papers back to his mess, to shut himself into the stifling cabin and read, shaking his head over and over at the intricate schemes, either confirmed or implied, that Sir Hugo his father and the solicitor Pilchard had perpetrated over the years against all his children. No wonder he never had a kind moment for any of us, Alan thought. We were just sources of income to him all that time. He never loved anyone but himself.
'By God, no matter how big a sinner I have been,' Alan whispered in the privacy of his cabin, 'I would never have been such a heartless, evil rogue as to do that to anyone.'
Well, perhaps I might have, if pushed to it, he thought sadly. That's the way I was raised in his house, and without two hundred pounds per annum, or one hundred, I would have been up against it devilish hard. Who knows what I might have done to fill my needs? No! He's not that much a part of me, and I'm not the base bastard he told me I was, by God! I'm an English gentleman, a damned rich one, at that. I've my honor and my good name, and no one'll ever put a blot on that again. I've a name to be proud of now, and can hold up my head anywhere.
Even with Lucy Beauman, he realized. Her father had been chary of him even writing to her, safely removed from his presence as she was back on Jamaica. He had had no people he could boast about, no lands, no rents, no hopes of inheritance, and only the Navy as a future, but it was all different now. With his annuity and promised estate, he could support any wife as well as the next man. Lucy, he figured, would be worth at least four thousand pounds as a bride's portion, plus land and slaves in the Indies, or an estate back home. He was suddenly a suitable prospect to come calling on her, as good as even the pickiest daddy could ask for.
With that happy thought in mind, Alan opened the packet of letters from the lovely Lucy and began to read them, which activity took more of his patience as he stumbled over the words she had misspelled so badly that he could not discover what she had meant. There had been almost a letter a week in August and early September, full of 'bawls' and 'tee's' and a 'sworay,' whatever the hell that was, many carriage rides, many dances, an accounting of some Gothick novel so gruesome she had not slept in three nights for fear of something coming for her from the night, her screed about a new harpsichord to replace the old one that had been eaten by termites so badly she could no longer play it in public and her undying shame at her father's frugality in not immediately replacing it that very week, a sea voyage from England to import the new one be damned.
The letters became more plaintive in mid-September, shorter and cooler in tone, with much sighing over his silence, much heartbreak that he no longer wished to write her, and more descriptions of the gallants who had 'skwyred' her to some party or other. Even though they had been most forthright in their presentations of affection, she still held her heart for Her Sailor.
'Damn the mort, what does she expect, penny post from Yorktown?' he grumbled. He had written to her immediately he had gotten to New York and rejoined his ship, but there was no answer as yet to that one. 'I'm dealing with the feeblest woman on God's earth.'
But he could vividly remember how beautiful she had looked when last they had been together, that final ball on Antigua, and how stunning a beauty she really was, how fine her figure, how lustrous her eyes, and how every male that hadn't been docked or had the slightest pretension to manhood had panted to be near her. She was short, petite, ripely feminine—and unfortunately, as ignorant as sheep.
'No matter, she's rich as hell, and she'll be mine one day,' he vowed. His last letter had been full of derring- do, a flattering account of Yorktown and his escape, just the sort of thing to bring a girl like her to heel once more and excuse his silence. And in so doing, make her feel the worst sort of collywobbles when she reflected on how ill she had used him while he was off risking life and limb for King and Country.
The rest of his mail was interesting; Sir Onsley and Lady Maude back in London were full of chattiness about the Admiralty and the London season, noting how the scandal about his father had been an eight-day wonder and how much sympathy the populace (the better sort, anyway) felt for Midshipman Lewrie. Sir Onsley hinted that there might be a change of command in the Indies, and that he would drop a word in the new admiral's ear regarding his favorites.
The Cantners wrote to say that with the impending end of the Lord North government, they were retiring to the country for a space, but he would be welcome to call whenever he returned home. They also made much over the scandal, providing clippings from the more aristocratic West End papers. There was also a veiled promise that even in the Opposition, Lord Cantner could still do him good, once Parliament reconvened.
The letter from his grandmother he saved 'til last, and it was a poignant tale of how she had been torn between wanting to rescue him from his father's house, but not wanting to give Sir Hugo a penny by recognizing him as heir, and her eternal grief that she had left it so late, and that he would not get the full estate. Barbara Nuttbush (
There was also a postscript full of pride at the honor he had done the Lewrie name by his daring escape from Yorktown, so the report to the Admiralty from Hood, Graves, and the new man, Digby, must have already been released at home.
Poor old girl doesn't know me at all, does she? Alan thought. Maybe it's best she doesn't. I'd let her down sooner or later.
Still, there was a good name to uphold now. With all the favorable comment in London and in the Fleet once the news got about, he would be remembered, remarked upon, not just for his past deeds, but for Yorktown as well, and for coming out of the scandal with clean hands. Let them say anything about me, as long as they say something, he thought, remembering a piece of advice he had read or heard in conversation. There might be a new admiral in the West Indies soon, to take over from Hood, and he would have gotten a tip in the right direction from Sir Onsley, perhaps even from Lord and Lady Cantner, would have heard the name Alan Lewrie in the papers before he left England, and would know him at least by reputation, which was thankfully good. He had made master's mate—could a commission be that far away? Would he have to wait four more years to strictly fulfill the qualifications Samuel Pepys laid down so many years before? Or could he count on a promotion by the will of a local admiral, whose decisions on promotions were almost never questioned by higher authorities as long as they made the slightest bit of sense?
Alan got a pot of ink and a new quill from his chest, laid out some fresh stationery, and went out to the mess table where the light was better to write letters. His grandmother first; then his solicitor and then Cheatham's brother at Coutts'; then Sir Onsley and Lady Maude; then the Cantners. His hand was cramping by the time he got around to writing to Lucy Beauman with the delightful news of his new fortune, but for some reason the first words he scrawled on a fresh sheet of paper were:
