"Fair-clean'un, too, Liam," Furfy replied, spreading his arms and expanding his chest to inhale deeply. "Nothin' like th' reeks o' London. Smells… farm-y… "
"A bit like our auld Maynooth, hey?" Desmond said with a grin.
"Smells ale-y," Furfy decided.
"Ale, aye," Lewrie announced. "Ale for all, 'fore we go on to the house."
Spiteful as Caroline's most-like t'be, I might as well go home foxed, Lewrie decided; it mayn't matter, one way'r t'other.
The Ole Ploughman was ancient, a public house since the days of the Norman Conquest, some speculated. Its interior walls were whitewashed over rough plaster, the few windows Tudorish diamond paned, and the ceiling was low, the overhead beams black with kitchen, fireplace, candle, oil-lanthorn, or pipe smoke.
Or so it had been. During his long absence, old Mr. Beakman and his spinster daughter had added fair approximations of Jacobean Fold wood wainscot panelling. The walls were now painted a cheery red, and the beams, and the barman's counter, looked to be sanded down to fresh, raw wood, then linseeded and polished to a warm honey-brown. Beakman had gone with the times and had set aside a dining area round the fireplace on the right-hand half of the vast room, with new tables covered by pale tan cloths, whilst the left-hand half had been re-arranged to accommodate drinkers and smokers round the other fireplace, with double doors leading out to the trellised and pergolaed side garden, which was no longer a scraggly attempt at lawn, but brick-paved and railed in by low picket fences.
There were brass spitoons for those who chewed their quids, and even more brass candleholders along the walls, and brass lanthorns hung from the overhead beams, making the public house much brighter, warmer, and more welcoming a place than ever it had been before.
"My stars," Lewrie breathed as he shrugged out of his cloak and hat, noting the framed pictures hung on the walls, too; old pastorals and race horses, prize bulls and boars, and hunting scenes featuring packs of dogs gathered round mounted riders. "Who did all this?"
"Will ye look at 'im! Cap'm Lewrie t'th' life!" a woman cried from behind the long bar counter, past the customers bellied up to it. "Will, come see who's come home!"
"Maggie Cony?" Lewrie exclaimed, recognising the round-faced local lass who'd married his old Bosun, Will Cony. She'd thickened and gone "apple dumpling cheeked" but she was still the good-hearted and hardworking woman he remembered when both she and Cony had been in his employ 'tween the wars. "You work here now?"
"Tosh, Cap'm Lewrie, we own the place now!" Maggie said, wiping her red-raw hands on a bar towel and coming round to greet him.
"Old Beakman sold up?" Lewrie asked, puzzled, as he made her a showy "leg" and bow. Maggie dropped him a curtsy.
"La, 'e wuz gettin' on in years, an' not but 'is daughter t'inherit, an' 'er still a spinster, so, once Will paid off from 'is last ship, with all 'is pay an' prize-money, we made an offer an'-"
"Cap'm Lewrie, sir! Welcome 'ome, by yer leave, sir, why I've not clapped glims on ya in ages an' amen!" Will Cony said with glee as he emerged from the back kitchens. The tow-headed, thatch-haired lad he'd been had thickened considerably, too, and his forehead had grown higher, his top-hair thinned considerably, though still drawn back in a sailor's queue.
"Will Cony! My man! Damme, but ye look hellish-prosperous in a blue apron!" Lewrie told him, stepping forward to shake his hand. "When did ye-"
"Last year, sir," Cony told him, pumping away at his "paw" like a well-handle. "After I'd healed up an' got my Discharge." He stomped his right foot on the clean new floorboards, making a loud sound. "Th' Dons went an' shot me foot clean off, sir, but after a spell in Greenwich Hospital, they fitted me with a knee-boot an' an oak foot, and I 'peg' round as good as ever. Ya come for th' good old winter ale, I'd wager, Cap'm? Yer first taste o' 'ome, not a minute back, and ya come t'th' Olde Ploughman, an' bless ya for it."
"Ale for all my party, Will, and right-welcome it'll be, aye," Lewrie agreed, introducing Cony to Desmond and Furfy, explaining how they'd been with him all through HMS Proteus's commission, then Savage, and lastly Thermopylae.
"Beakman's daughter, ehm…?" Lewrie had to ask, for before Will had wed Maggie, he'd spooned round the mort (not all that bad-looking a Wench, really) and though no promises were made, no gifts exchanged to plight a throth-"I give my love a paper of pins, and in this way our love begins"-wasn't this new arrangement prickly?
Happily, Spinster Beakman had found herself a husband at last, a widower with two children, a fellow of middle years hired on by the squire, Sir Romney Embleton, as both a surgeon for the inevitable accidental injuries on his estate, and as a dispensing apothecary in his off-hours. Both the brick-works and the tannery used this new-come Mr. Archer's services, sending their sick and hurt to him with coloured paper chits which required him to treat or dose them for free, though both establishments paid him an annual retainer, as did Sir Romney.
"They've one o' them new cottages, east near the brick-works," Will Cony told them, "an' ol' Beakman's set up proper by their fire in his old age, thank th' Lord… though he does tramp in 'ere when th' weather's good, fer th' newspapers, th' ale, an' th' ploughman's dinner." That would have been an apple, a slab of cheese, a pint of beer, and perhaps a hunk of bread; a fixture on every rural tavern's chalked menu board the whole nation over. "Fall off yer 'orse, Cap'm Lewrie, an' Mister Archer'll fix ye right up, no matter 'ow many bones that ye break!"
After the better part of an hour spent in pleasant nattering, it was time to get on. The day was drawing to a close, the sun was lowering, the temperature was dropping, and damned if it didn't smell like there might be more snow in the offing. The hired coach-and-four could put themselves up at the livery stables for the night (at Lewrie's expense), but it would take longer to unload the dray waggon of all of his goods, and most-like the waggoner and his beasts would have to put up in Lewrie's barns for the night… and he'd have to feed the man, to boot.
The little convoy clattered on westwards, past the much finer Red Swan Inn, then took the turning for the Chiddingfold road. A half mile onwards, in the vale 'tween two rolling ridges, and there was the drive that led to both Chiswick and Lewrie properties; over a wooden bridge that spanned a narrow, shallow creek rippling over rocks, half covered with skims of ice and now filled with fallen limbs and twigs. Just past the bridge there was a fork; the muddy, unkempt track to the left was Uncle Phineas Chiswick's-a man so miserly that gravel and proper up-keep was too dear. Lewrie's drive lay to the right. There was a muddy patch at its beginning, but beyond that, as the drive ascended the low ridge, it was properly gravelled, almost two coaches in width (quite unlike Phineas Chiswick's, which was barely wide enough for one!) and lined by trees; trees that had grown in height and thickness since Lewrie had last seen them. At present they were bare, but in Spring, they'd be delightful, and provide both shade and a sense that the drive would lead to a welcoming establishment, with nesting birds twittering and flitting about their hatchlings.
And there was Lewrie's house, at last. It was of grey brick and stone, with a Palladian entrance faзade, set back from a circular gravel drive and large, round formal flower bed, now bedraggled and not much to look at, unless one appreciated bare brown stalks and weeds. Lanthorns either side of the entrance and stoop and a single lanthorn by the edge of the flower bed gleamed off the shiny royal blue paint of the door and the large brass Venetian lion door-knocker that Lewrie had fetched back from the Adriatic in '96. Despite the cold, drapes were pulled back in the first-storey windows to display candles, and Christmas wreaths of red-berried holly, ivy, and pine. All three of the fireplaces, and the kitchen chimney at the rear of the house, were fuming as chearly as convivial pipe smokers in a very friendly tavern or coffee-house. Everything said "come in, be welcome," yet…