Charles, without his uniform coat and hat, at ease at the table with a glass of wine in his hand and a fund of stories about shipboard life in the French Navy, seemed much the same charming fellow he had in the Caribbean after Lewrie's ship Desperate had taken Caprkieuse, and they'd dined together so often on the sail back to Antigua, with Lewrie rated midshipman and master's mate, in charge of the prize, and Charles on his parole. Not like a baron at all, then or now, Lewrie thought.
Charles appeared more like a member of the petit-bourgeoisie, a chap more comfortable in furry slippers after a long day at a clerking desk. He was distinguished-looking, about Lewrie's age; nothing to write home about, though. Regular features, average height and all the usual forgettable bumf.
The intriguing member of the family was the younger female cousin, Sophie de Maubeuge. Her story was more tragic. Whilst Charles' presence in the Estates-General had saved his family, her father and all her relations had been too well-to-do, too resistant to change-too well known and powerful. She'd fled her convent school to hide in Normandy with the de Crillarts, whilst the tumbrils and the mobs had claimed most of her kin, including her immediate family. She was now the sole survivor, the last Vicomtesse de Maubeuge.
It was a heady title for such a sylph-like, shy, soft-spoken girl. Sophie was only fifteen, slim and petite, the sort who softly whispered when she spoke, and that, rarely. Though graced with the innate, bred-in-the-bone polish of aristocracy, the tutoring in social arts and such, she was as meek as a scullery maid, and smiled or laughed seldom; though Lewrie considered her recent horrible history a damned good reason for her gravity. That, and a proper convent, sergeant-major nun upbringing.
She was of middling height, a bit less than five and a half feet tall, between seven and eight stone in weight. Sophie's features were bewitchingly gamine. High cheekbones, a pertly tapering face, full and wide lips, and crowned by overly large, slightly almond-shaped eyes of a startling green hue, brilliant as cat's eyes, and set like glittering gems in a flawless, "peaches-an'-cream" complexion. Her hair, which she still wore long and simple in girlish fashion, was a fascinating reddish auburn hue, more russet or red chestnut than anything else Alan could think to compare it to. And the very idea that some bloody-eyed peasants, gutter sweepings and mobocracy could even begin to think of chopping the head off such an entrancing and harmless young thing set his blood boiling. Quite apart from being covertly besotted, he found his heart going out to her in sympathy.
There was trouble there, too, he'd noted, when he tried to be his most charming and amusing self, to cosset her into a better mood with songs or japes. Chevalier Louis had left off berating Republicans to glare at him for being amusing, for monopolising her attention. And, Lewrie also noted, when tender young Sophie de Maubeuge had sheep's eyes, or laughed at last, she directed her gaze and encouragement towards Charles, her saviour, as if to share with him!
It had been his family fortune, what little of it was left after selling their estates and most-prized possessions to gimlet-eyed agents or hateful neighbours, that had supported her, had brought her down to Toulon and safety. And, Alan learned, it had taken more than Charles' declaration of support and allegiance to the Republic-it had taken hefty bribes to keep her off the local committee's lists of those who deserved their necks stretched below the blade of a guillotine.
Supper with the family-a hearty and creamy soup, laced with onions and a few dubious shreds of chicken. Scads of crusty bread and butter, a runny omelet served with well-seasoned sliced and fried potatoes, and a small veal cutlet nestled at the side of his plate, aswim in a thin wine gravy, with an abundance of mushrooms, disguising what a tiny cutlet it was, ladled atop. And a marvelous St. Emilion Bordeaux, several bottles in fact, to wash it all down. Enough wine to at last mellow even the sulkiest to a semblance of good cheer, and put
a dimple in Sophie's cheek.
"I must be going, Charles," Lewrie said at last, after mangling a tune on a borrowed recorder and returning it to Sophie's care.
"Back to your ship," Crillart shrugged. "I walk viz you to ze quays, Alain."
"Permettez-moi, maman?" Sophie said quickly, sounding more like a regular girl, eager to go out, at last, as she fetched Lewrie's hat; like the daughter of a middUng-common family might, instead of waiting for some servant to do it.
"Oui," Maman allowed grudgingly, with a stern expression. Her lips flattened over her long teeth and gums, making her look even more horse-faced, and Lewrie caught another subtle undertone, as Madame de Crillart darted her glances to both Sophie and Charles, then at Louis.
Alan made his most courtly goodbye, bowed low in conge, expressed how much he'd enjoyed himself, and promised to repay their generous hospitality. Maman replied in kind, though she sounded doubtful.
It was a lovely time for a stroll. Close to sundown, with cool breezes ruffling the waters of the basin and the farther Little Road, the street lamps being lit, and the apartments and shops aglow with a candle or lantern in every window. The sun was quite low, and it was a gold and orange sunset, dusky rose-reddish grey to the south and east. Louis, thankfully, did not accompany them, so Charles and Alan strode to either side of the shorter Sophie. But it was upon Charles' genteelly extended arm that she rested her fine, white hand.
"Such a lovely evening," Lewrie commented as they strolled downhill. "All the ships, outlined against the setting sun."
"Ze Dauphin-Royal" Charles pointed out, indicating the massive 120-gunned ship on the east side of the basin. "Ze Republicains, zey vill change 'er name. Ze ozzer, Commerce-de-Marseilles. An' ze quatre-vingts canon… ze eighty guns; Tonnant, Triomphant, Couronne."
He reeled off the majestic names of the seventy-four-gunned ships, those the Royal Navy would term 3rd Rates: Apollon, Centaure, Lys (now named Tricolor), Scipion, Destin, Dicta-teur, Duquesne, Hews, Heurewc, Pompee, Commerce-de-Bordeaux, Censeur, Mercure, Alcide, Conquerant, Guerrier and Puissant, Suffisant and Souverain, now called with levelling, Egalitarian logic Souvemin-Peuple; Genereux, Orion,Entreprenant, Patriote, Duguay-Trouin, Languedoc and Trajan.
All as harmless now as a pack of dead otters, their powder away in warehouses ashore, small arms taken off and locked up, though seamen still thronged their decks, for lack of a better place to house them. Strangely silent ships, too, with none of the usual dog-watch music or humumm to be heard, their yards still properly squared and crossed and rigging taut, spider-mazed black against the sunset. Few lights showed, even through lower-deck gunports opened for ventilation. Glims at the belfries and wheels, from wardroom or great-cabin windows, perhaps, but little else; their taffrail lanterns for night-running dark. And flying no flags of any kind.
"An' Alceste" Charles muttered gravely, gazing with a spurned lover's sadness at his ship, his beloved frigate, squeezed in so snug between others on the eastern quay that she looked as forlorn as some barge abandoned in a weeded ship-breaker's yard. "Peut-Stre…"