"Ehm… are not surrendered swords handed back to the owners?" Sewallis hesitantly asked, tentatively fingering each one.
"They usually are, Sewallis," Lewrie told him with a grin, "but that's hard t'do if they're no longer among the living. That fancy'un there, that was L'Uranie's captain's sword, but he was dead by the time we boarded and took her. A couple of them belonged to Frog Lieutenants, who perished, too. None of the French prisoners would be in a position t'take 'em home to their next of kin… on parole here in England, or refused, and ended in the hulks, so I kept them. Got the dead men's names jotted down, and stuck the notes in the scabbards, so I s'pose I could forward 'em t'Paris someday soon. No time for that, not as long as the war was still on. Don't play with 'em, Hugh. They aren't toy swords. Neither are any of these fire-locks."
"Sir Hugo lets us, when he's down from London," Hugh objected. "He lets us shoot, for real! And he's taught us some fencing, too. Said we should take classes from a fencing master."
"Then we'll give that Girandoni air-rifle a try, once the holidays are over," Lewrie promised, taking a welcome seat in a wing chair before the blazing fire, and motioning the boys to sit on the settee. "Mind, it's not a toy, either, but… if my father allows you use of muskets and pistols already, I think we could have some fun with it. It's very good for silent huntin'."
Charlotte had trailed him round the house, too, though silent as a dormouse, lugging her lap dog, by name of Dolly, as if restraining the little beast from attacking him. Now she was seated in the wing chair opposite Lewrie's, legs sticking out and the dog in her lap, so it could glare and bare its teeth in comfort. Three setters-Dear God, how many are there? Lewrie asked himself-were sprawled before the hearth, and his cats were in the room as well. Toulon and Chalky were quite used to "ruling the roost," furry masters of both great-cabins and quarterdeck, but the big, slobbery setters' antics and curiosity had driven them to the mantel top-even Toulon, who was not all that agile-where they now lay slit-eyed, tail-tips now and then quivering, and folded into great, hairy plum puddings.
"Uhm… how long've ye had the pup, Charlotte?" Lewrie asked.
"Last Christmas," his nine-year-old daughter answered. "Uncle Governour and Aunt Millicent brought her from London."
"Takes a lot o' brushin', I'd imagine," Lewrie observed askance.
"Oh yes, she likes it so!" Charlotte replied. "Every day!"
"Know why she calls her Dolly, Papa?" Hugh said with a snigger. "'Cause she's ripped all t'other dolls t'shreds, ha ha!"
"Jealousy, is it?" Lewrie japed her.
"Just the one, Hugh! Don't be beastly!" Charlotte cried, hugging the dog closer. "She doesn't much care for cats, Papa. Nor do I," she announced.
"Ehm… were you really at Copenhagen, Papa?" Sewallis asked. "And did you see Admiral Nelson?"
"Saw him, spoke with him the night before the battle, and then after it was over, too," Lewrie answered. "Did I not write you about it? And how they sent us into the Baltic t'scout the enemy fleets and the ice… all by our lonesome? Hah! Wait 'til ye see the furs that I had t' wear! Swaddled up like a Greenland Eskimo!"
"Ahem!" Mrs. Calder said from the door to the library, looking as if she disapproved of parents speaking with children. "Mistress Caroline says to tell you that supper is served. Come, children. Yours is laid out in the little dining room."
"Aw! We want t'eat with papa," Hugh griped.
"Yes, why can't we all eat together?" Sewallis complained. "He just got home!"
"It's not-" Mrs. Calder began to instruct.
"Aye, it's high time for a family supper!" Lewrie announced as he sprang from his chair. "Shift their place settings, and there's an end to it. We've catching up t'do, right?"
"Huzzah!" Hugh exclaimed, and even Sewallis, who'd always put Lewrie in mind of a solemn "old soul" due to take Holy Orders, beamed with glee and chimed in his own wishes.
Beats dinin' alone with Caroline all hollow, Lewrie thought as they trooped out; oh, it has t'happen soon, but for now… use 'em as so many rope fenders! She can't scream an throw things at me if the kiddies are present… right?
CHAPTER TEN
And thank God it's Christmas! was Lewrie's recurring thought as the Yuletide festivities spun on. His brother-in-law, Burgess Chiswick, now Major of a foot regiment, was down from London with his future in-laws and fiancee, the raptourously lovely Theodora Trencher, and Mister and Mistress Trencher, her parents, both of whom were solidly well-off and immensely "Respectable" in the new sense; hard-working (prosperous as a result of it), mannerly, high-minded, well-educated, stoutly Christian, involved in "improving" causes, rigidly moral, and more than willing to impose their prim morals on the rest of Great Britain!
Lewrie could have been treated like a pariah by his country in-laws, but for the fact that Uncle Phineas Chiswick, seeing how rich the Trenchers were and being delighted with such a fruitful match, had to grind his false teeth and simper at the black sheep of the family, welcoming Lewrie like a long-lost son! And Governour, his other brother-in-law, now as rotund and red-faced as the lampoonish cartoons of the typical country-bumpkin Squire John Bull, had to plaster a false face and play the "Merry Andrew," though without guests for the holidays he would have happily shot Lewrie!
It was immensely, secretly amusing to Lewrie to see his uncle by marriage and Governour bite their tongues whenever the Trenchers said anything favourable about Lewrie, for the whole family were enthusiastic supporters of William Wilberforce and belonged to his Society for the
Abolition of Slavery in the British Empire; Lewrie was their champion for his "liberation" of a dozen Black slaves on Jamaica years before, making them freemen and British tars, "True Blue Hearts of Oak," and for his acquittal at trial for the deed.
To rankle those two even further, Burgess was for Abolition, as well, and had always thought Lewrie one Hell of a fellow, an heroic figure and a wry wag to boot.
And what was even saucier to relish from Uncle Phineas's and Governor's mute fuming was the fact that Uncle Phineas was still invested in the infamous "Triangle Trade," and Governour had been raised in the Cape Fear country of North Carolina before the Revolution and felt that chattel slavery was right and proper!
Oh, it was a merry band of revellers they made, for Chiswicks, Trenchers, and Lewries went everywhere together. Did they not dine at Uncle Phineas's, they were at Governour's, or Lewrie's, along with some of the other worthy families of Anglesgreen. Did they not sup at home, there were parish and community suppers, even an invitation to Embleton Hall with Sir Romney (still among the living despite what Lewrie'd feared!) and Harry. And what Harry made of having his rival for Caroline's hand come for supper, music, and cards, Lewrie could only imagine… and savour. Indeed, having Caroline herself over might have galled the fool equally well, for she'd once lashed him with her horse's reins and made his nose "spout claret"!
There were carolling parties beginning at sundown, coaching from farmhouse to farmhouse; through Anglesgreen's snowy streets from the Red Swan to St. George's, and bought suppers in both the Red Swan and the Olde Ploughman, with a round dozen or more to treat at-table. And the hunt club ball, again at Embleton Hall, and the cross-country ride that preceded it!