"Perhaps even close enough to get home every month or so," he said with a shrug. "Can't count on it, but… when winter comes down, if I'm still home-ported, the weather'll bind me in harbour for weeks at a time. We could have you and the children down to visit. School can go hang for a bit, or fetch their tutor along…"
Aye, that's the way, m'girl, he thought; perk up game, as you always do! Put the best face on it.
"Care to lay a wager with me, dearest?" he joshed, feeling he was now on safer ground. "Lay odds with me, hmtn? I win, and I get you… with no tykes underfoot… just the two of us, for hotel weekends."
"And what do I win if you're wrong, Alan?" she queried, still dubious, but much closer to an amused grin than she had been.
"Why, you get me, m'dear!" he promised, "a joyous romp, so you may do what you will with me, have your beastly way with me!"
"Oh, you're incorrigible," she sighed. But, Lewrie noted, this time it was a teasing sigh. "I s'pose we should begin packing you."
"Let's both pack… Hell's Bells, let's all pack, Caroline," he insisted, all come over with inspiration. "The overseer can deal with the farm for a few days. We'll all go up to London, perhaps beyond to my new ship, 'til I'm settled aboard."
"Alan, I can't abandon the farm work, not now, not…" Caroline balked, but with a pensive, almost eager sound, as if considering it.
'Course you can!" he rejoined quickly. "Extend the times we have together by a fortnight at least! The boys are out of school; you'll be free of my pesky father for a while… and when was the last time Sophie saw London? Do her good to see more of the world. Other likely young lads, hmm? Turn her head? Gawd, that'd be four birds or more with one stone, hah? Let's do, love! I'm to be made 'post,' so we deserve to celebrate!"
"Well…" She hesitated, head cocked to one side, and swishing her long tail of hair under her mob-cap. A sly smile sprang to life. "Whyever not, then? Yes, let's!" And she sprang to her wardrobe to open it for likely gowns suitable to impress.
And thank bloody Christ that mellowed her! Lewrie thought.
He sat on the foot of the bed to sort the rest of the mail, as she measured a dress against her. Bills, mostly tiny sums, he noted; and thank God for that, else they'd not be able to afford a diverting jaunt to the city. More "prize-money deposited in his Coutts's account by his solicitor, Mr. Mount-joy, aha! But a tithe of what he'd really reaped so far, but more than enough to offset their sudden lunatick excursion and tide the farm over for the rest of the year's needs.
"Bloody Hell!" he barked, of a sudden.
"Yes, it's much too plain," Caroline agreed, misunderstanding his meaning and hanging the last gown she'd tried back in the wardrobe. "Though you needn't take such a harsh tone as to…"
"No, Caroline, look!" he insisted, bounding from the bed. "The scales are gone from our eyes, as it were. This bill from a milliner, a Mistress Cowles…"
"Quite cunning, dearest, and not really that expensive really," Caroline continued to apologise. "Sophie, Charlotte, and I only ordered one apiece for spring."
"Ah, but it's not a bill, love…'tis a billet-doux,/" Lewrie cried, waving it at her. "Wondered why a local bill needed wax seals. It's really from Harry Embleton… suggesting an actual assignation."
"Let me see that!" Caroline demanded, fresh fury in her voice; thankfully for Lewrie, none directed at him for a change. "Why, the conniving… hmph! See if she has our trade in future! I know she's been at her shop quite often lately, but… I hardly expected Sophie to exhibit such back-alley guile. The thoughtless, headstrong chit!"
"Like that Frog novel, Les Liaisons Dangereuses," Lewrie scoffed, more than glad for Caroline to be on other ground. "Lovers passed letters easier than… gas!"
"And what would you know of such scandalous scribbling… Alan?"
"Well, I heard tell…" he waffled, turtling his neck into his collar once more. "Men talk, don't ye know… in the gunroom," Lewrie gruffly, most off-handedly, added.
"I shall speak harshly with her about this," Caroline promised. "All this time I thought her sweet and naive, but now…! Warn that young miss I'll have no lies or dangerous folderol in my household! Surely she must have sense enough to see that he's so bad for her, or any true Christian young lady! I really must put my foot down in this instance… bring her up short before she…"
Uh-oh! Lewrie thought in sudden panic; and when cornered like a rat, accused of foolishness, she 'II turn and bite back and blab about Phoebe Aretino and me… for jingle-brained spite! There's an end to Domestic Bliss, by God!
"Caroline, she's but a child still," he cooed instead, going to embrace his wife to cosset her out of another pet. "Besides, do we accuse her, act as if we don't trust her, we will lose all the affection she's developed with us, and she'll practically run to Harry. Or the first human-lookin' substitute. All the way to Gretna Green, hey? The first hedge-priest or false-justice that'd wed her to a charming rogue? No, dear, that's not the way! I must… insist!"
Beg, would be more like it! he told himself in a fret.
"Use my father. Sophie finds him amusing, calls him Granpere. Some of his rough, uhm… sagacity about men might be of more avail," he urged. "God knows, he must be good for something! She needs soft, insistent, and loving… motherly, paterfamilial… advice. Guidance."
She stared at him for a long moment, her hands and that damned billet-doux limply hung together on her belly. He felt a need to see to his fly-buttons, his neck-stock, under such close inspection.
"Alan, you continually amaze me," she said at last, forming her fondest grin, that furrow disappearing, and the riant folds below her eyes acrinkle. "You're right, of course. Harsh words and accusations… once hurled… can never be recovered-or forgiven."
" 'Least said, soonest mended,' " Lewrie dared breathe in relief.
"Where do you get your insight, being so much in the company of sailors, my dear?" She actually snickered, coming to give him a grateful hug and a peck on the lips. "I'd feared her head being turned by Harry… he is rich, and she is not… we are not."
"Un-used to household drudgery, though she tries to accommodate your wishes… from love and gratitude, m'dear," he tacked on, "with sisterly, dare I even say, uhm… daughterly obedience? She's come to love you… us, after all."
"That's true, too, love," Caroline gently chuckled. "Sophie is never going to be a 'goodie' housewife. A magnificent hostess, wife, or house-mistress, but… yes. Soft words and sage advice, drop by gentle drop, will I be more suitable. And, your father's cautions given her during their rides and card games. A stiff warning to that colluding Mistress Cowles… a word to Harry. Or should I merely take down my horsewhip, do you think, dearest? Might he get the hint?"
"Perfect, my dear. Well, off to London, all of us?"
"Yes. By first light tomorrow. You write your letters, whilst I pack." She kissed him once more, deeper, with more meaning, before going to the door. "And be sure to reserve us a separate room at Willis's, will you? I mean to hold you to your wager… dear Alan!"
Whew! he thought in relief; can I finesse 'em or not?
"Children… boys! Sophie? Guess what?" Caroline announced.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Like a presaging omen of his new-found prospects, the coach ride up to London had been a cool but sunny delight. The weather had turned off splendid, the roads dried out, but not so dusty they couldn't lower the sash windows of their coach and savour the aromas and sounds of a marvelous springtime, though travelling with children aboard wasn't a thing Lewrie was quite used to. There were times he envied Andrews-up on the driver's seat with their coachee to make room in-board and free of the nonsense. " London!" Charlotte would scream, whenever a new village or town loomed up before them. "Are we there yet?" Hugh would demand… at about every tenth milepost. Sewallis, thankfully, kept his own counsel for the most part, and his lip buttoned, decrying only the most marvelous sights which flickered by as their coach reeled off a goodly clip, almost as fast as one of the new "balloon coaches" which bore the Royal Mails. No mud-well, not much, anyway-flew up to daub them, no herds of geese, sheep, beeves, or turkeys blocked the road so completely they'd have to come to a complete stop…