It had been a joy afterwards to greet his brother-in-law, Governour Chiswick, and his lovely dark-haired wife, Millicent. They'd had an heir at last, and Millicent bade fair to present him with a second by late summer. Serene, settled country squire was Brother Governour by then-stout and getting stouter, halfway towards resembling the satirical artist Cruikshank's depictions of John Bull. And where had the panther-lean, rope-muscled side of North Carolina colonist beef Lewrie had known at Yorktown gone, he wondered?
Mother Charlotte Chiswick was there, now living with Governour and Millicent as a doting granny, a bit stooped and myopic, with hair gone white as lamb's wool. And Uncle Phineas Chiswick himself, got up in his best-though he looked as if he'd shopped for clothing in William Pitt the Elder's last term in office. Lewrie had been struck dumb to see the miserly old bastard chortle and whinny with bonhomie, clap Brigadier Sir Hugo on the back, and he almost pleasant for once!
Emily, the vicar's spinster-daughter-traipsing hopefully in a new ensemble of her own, in her father's wake, still single and becoming just the slightest bit long-in-tooth.
And the Embletons and their coterie were there of course. It was damn' near their church, their vicar, their village, their parish, maybe even their half of the county. Dignified old Sir Romney Embleton, now master of the hunt; his slack-jawed, half-wit son, Harry, sporting his Yeoman Cavalry uniform, spurs ajingling, and preening amidst the same pack of rogues and rousters who had always surrounded him-looking a bit put out that no one made notice of his lieutenant-colonelcy of militia-this Sunday, at least.
"Master of hounds now… Harry," Sir Hugo had muttered to his son. "Think he's given up on civilian suitings for the duration of the war, hey? An M.P… oh, very patriotic is Harry Embleton."
"God… pity the poor dogs then," Lewrie had whispered back, which had made his father snigger.
"The sort of man born t'be… cavalry," Sir Hugo sneered, and turned to translate that comment to his valet, a thoroughly ugly, one-eyed, old havildar, Trilochan Singh, of uncertain caste, from Sir Hugo's regiment in India. Had Lewrie run into him in a Calcutta baiaar back in the '80s, he'd have run for his life, for Trilochan Singh was raffish, bearded, and mustachioed, and looked the part of a swaggering badmash, a hill bandit who'd cut a man's heart out just 'cause it was a slow afternoon!
And no wonder Caroline dbesn 't know what to do with Father or his "man," Lewrie wondered to himself; aren't Sikhs supposed to carry five knives all the time, or is it one!1 No matter… God, I'll wager there're more'n one of our maids sportin' more than pinch marks!
"Sir Hugo…" Sir Romney said in passing, doffing his hat, cool but politely punctilious. "Vicomtess Sophie, enchantй… Mister and Mistress Lewrie…"
"Your servant, Sir Romney. And a lovely Easter Day it is, sir," Sir Hugo replied just as formally as they made their way to their waiting coach.
Galling as it was, Lewrie was forced by courtesy to doff a hat and make a "leg" to Sir Romney as well, as Caroline and Sophie dipped the baronet their own polite curtsies. Hugh and Sewallis emulated them, doffing hats, with Sewallis well on his way to a clumsy boy's "leg," as his mother had schooled him.
"Brigadier," Harry Embleton said, trailing his father.
"Ah, Colonel Embleton, sir." Sir Hugo fair-beamed.
"Leftenant Lewrie," Harry added, barely audible and stiff.
"Commander, actually," Lewrie gleefully corrected, turning on the "smarm," "and a good day to you, Colonel Embleton."
"Uhm, ah… yayss," Harry drawled, his gaze riveted upon that gold medal for a startled (or envious!) second or two before gaining his aplomb once more and greeting Caroline and Sophie.
Still cool with Caroline, Lewrie noted; and for good reason, if he knows what's good for him-so she don't take her horsewhip to him a second time! Pleasingly, Caroline gave as good as she got, as coolly pleasant yet formal-for the neighbours' sakes. Hello, though…!
He'spractically slobberin'! Lewrie thought, as poor Harry had a word with Sophie; poor chit, she can't know any better, surely, to simper back at him! Surely, Caroline's filled her in by now, if the servants hadn't, the new neighbours' daughters her age hadn't. Polite is one thing, but, for God's sake… she don't have to play coy at him!
A glance over his shoulder at his impatient sire, already at the coach door, stirred Harry to motion; and he doffed and bowed a parting before making all the haste that "genteel" and "aristocratic languid" would allow to catch his daddy up.
"Well, at last he spoke to you, Alan," Caroline had breathed in wonder, once the Embletons had departed. "The beginning of a thaw, do you not think?"
"Perhaps, my dear," Lewrie allowed, "but he still fair gives me the shivers. Or the 'collywobbles,' " he added, with a sarcastic grin.
"Alan, on church grounds… before the children!" Caroline admonished, all but poking him in the ribs. "May you not moderate your… saltiness?"
"My pardon, my dear."
"Well then, let us be on our way," Caroline decided, "shooing" the children towards their own coach. "Easter dinner will be at… Uncle Phi-neas's in his role as paterfamilias"-she sighed at the necessity-"where we may break our fast with the bounty of the season and celebrate our Lord's ascension."
"Oh, joy," Lewrie had snickered, "fresh-grown bounty… all those ground nuts, tree bark, and mud. Nothing but the best for his kin, hey?"
That set the children to tittering wildly.
"Bark and mud!" Hugh contemplated rather loudly. "Ugghh!"
"Mud pies, with caramel sauce," Lewrie abetted.
"Pig slop soup!" Hugh dreamt up. "With cracklings!"
"Mud pie an' caramel!" Charlotte all but shrieked. "Yahahaha!"
"Children!" Caroline snapped, "do consider where you are, making such a row on God's ground! And of who you are… and comport yourselves according. Alan, really…!" she cautioned, swiveling her gaze upon him, nostrils pinched and like to breathe fire.
"Slip o' th' tongue, mizzuz," he replied, a'grovel, tugging at his forelock like a day labourer and crouching from the waist. " 'Twas drink an' bad companions, ma'am… won't 'appen agin, ma'am, beggin' yer pardon. Oh, don't flog me, ma'am…!"
"Hhmmph!" was her nose-high comment for that, on public view… though there was a forgiving, amused sparkle to her eyes; and her vertical exclamation point of vexation between her brows wasn't that deep, now was it?
CHAPTER SIX
It was a splendid morning for a ride. The faint mists had gone away, the sun was well up, and the dew was barely dried. Birds chirped and fluttered over their newly hatched, young rabbits bounded ahead of them as they flushed them out, not so much a fearful scurrying as it was a playful, cat-like clearing of the ground in exaggerated and exuberant high-heeled hops. The aromas of new shoots, budding fruit-tree blossoms, of virginal, fresh-washed tree leaves commingled with the loamy scents of recently turned, slightly damp earth from planted fields… and the green-sap sweetness of hay, barley, wheat, hops, and rye sprouting in them; turned earth and a faint hint of manure turned in with it, came from the fallow fields which had been left for live-stock to graze over the past autumn, now broken for spring planting.