He'd laid a hand on his heart, cocked back his head, one palm to his "fevered" forehead, and "emoted" like an overly dramatic thespian. "You poor misunderstood fellow, how horrid for you! It is just so unfair!" he'd declaimed. "None o' your doin', I'd vow! There," he said, leaving character. "Was that better?" he asked, reverting to a sardonic squint.
"Damme, you know it's not!" Lewrie had snapped.
"Why'd ye ask, then?" his father chirped back, with a shrug.
"Fair, I mean," Lewrie had stammered. "Mean t'say, a man in his prime, so long away from home… bloody years at sea! What must a woman expect, now the heirs are born, and healthy? The fashionable sort, they spare their wives the risk of more childbirth, it's what people do, for God's sake, and…"
"Oh aye… either of us become the fashionable sort, you just run come tell me," Sir Hugo had sneered. "Caroline ain't the fashionable sort, though, son. Farm-raised, Colonial pious. Not the sort to be thankful for you… sparin' her the terrors o' childbed fever."
"Damn!" Lewrie inwardly groaned, seeing a glum future ahead.
"Women simply won't see things in their proper perspective," the old fellow grumbled peevishly. "Still… a few months' absence might mellow her, once she thinks on her new situation."
"Do you really believe that?" Lewrie had said with a scowl, realising that his wife was not the sort to knuckle under merely for the sake of her financial security, nor her children's sake, either.
"No… but you were castin' for straws."
"Gawd, they never meant a thing to me!" Lewrie had carped. "A night or two o' comfort and pleasure, that's all. Not even Theoni, or Phoebe Aretino. Well, months in her case. Claudia, Lady Emma Hamilton-"
"Name me no names!" his father had cautioned. "Does Caroline know of 'em, I'd best appear clueless. Damme, our Ambassador to the Kingdom of Naples and the Two Sicilies's wife? Umm-hmmm! Impressive!"
"Whatever shall I do?" Lewrie had beseeched.
"Soldier on, buck up! The both of us. I just may've ridden a last time with the local hunt, too. Well, London 's nice this time o' year… top o' the Season, and all. Stock in John Company's doing main-well. May run up a town house, after all. Though I will miss my new bungalow, and the stud…"
"Sorry I ruined your retirement years!" Lewrie had shot back.
An urchin came up with Lewrie's hat, hand out for reward, and Lewrie fumbled a copper from his coin-purse.
"A bluddy pence!" the urchin scowled. "Yer a cheap bashtid… an' a hen-peck!"
"Bugger off." father and son chorused.
The very day of glory, Lewrie had groused as they'd begun a slow walk down the gravelled pathway; a prize frigate sure t'be bought in, a king's ransom for her as my share, real financial security at last, 'stead o dribs and drabs from corrupt overseas Prize Courts paid out years in arrears! What'll this cost me? All, most-like, with kiddies to rear, Sophie to dowry, Charlotte… It'd like to made him weep!
The onlookers had departed, bored with a lame show. His good name might survive the confrontation!
Lewrie had grown up not far from the Park in St. James's Square. He'd learned well the cynical lesson of Society, with all its charade and humbuggery. The world accepted what a man showed, believed an outward, public face. Did one saunter away from such a shaming, languid and unaffected, shrug it off as a minor domestic annoyance, even jape about it, well…! People would even admire his blithe personal
What Men thought-and when you got down to the nub, it was what Men thought that mattered, not women-would depend on his play-acting. Now, did he blub and boo-hoo, act cutty-eyed and overcome, he'd become known as a sentimental cully, one unable to rule his own house or wife, who confessed his affairs, and that would invite sneers and guffawings.
No, no matter how he felt, he'd have to play up bold, the merry
rogue, rake-hell, and "damme-boy"; un-contrite and only a tad abashed! Cynical as Society was, how eager other men enjoyed to see another in their situation escape with a smile upon his lips (and by association be successful at their own failings!), Lewrie was mortal-certain that, did he stay in London long enough, there'd be more'n a few who'd dine him out on his disaster!
Hmmm… disaster, Lewrie had thought; cat-as-tro-phe. Wonder why I don't hurt, bad as yer s posed to? 'Co{I'm a callous bastard? No, that can't be it. Knew I'd trip over my own prick, sooner or later, but… two, three years gone, thousands of miles alee, what was I s posed t'do, live like a hermit monk? This as bad as it gets? Not so bad… yet. Practice my strut? Grin? Put me a bounce on…
Making Easterly, they came to the end of the footpath, where it crossed a carriageway, where Lewrie had frozen in midstep, stumbling against his father's arm as he suddenly realised that Dame Fortune- that fickle whore-wasn't done with him!
"God Almighty!" Lewrie had gasped.
"What the Devil's come over ye?" his father had griped.
"Them… in the coach, yonder. Don't look at 'em, damn your eyes!" Lewrie had warned, which made Sir Hugo peer and glower, as if ready to yank the coach door open, drag 'em out, and challenge them to a duel, instanter, the truculent old bastard! Lewrie had tried to see how the clouds were shaping, count leaves on trees, take up the hobby of bird-watching, anything, looking anywhere but at the coach; as two pinched, high-nosed, top-lofty men had glared back before the coachee whipped up and rattled them away.
"What?' his father had demanded, petulant. "Who were they?"
"One was George John the Earl Spencer," Lewrie had informed him with a woozy sense of impending doom beyond what Caroline had instilled. "First Lord of The Admiralty. T'other was Mister Evan Nepean.., the First Secretary. Them who tell me where t'go and what t'do. My damned… employers!"
"Ah!" Sir Hugo had answered, snapping his jaws turtle-like in asperity. "Well damme, that's a bugger… ain't it."
"Christ, I am fucked, really, really, really fucked!"
"All's not lost. There's always strong drink," Sir Hugo said. "Have I learned a blessed thing in this shitten world, 'tis that wine tends t'soften the blows. Brandy's even better. Aye, brandy's what's called for. What I'd prescribe. Shall we? Mind, you go all weepy in it, and I'll swear I don't know you from Adam."
"Lead on," Lewrie had numbly demurred. "I've seen Disaster in my life. I know how t'bear up."
"Topping!" Sir Hugo had chortled. "Forward, then! We'll need song, mirth, and glee, too. Here's one for ye. Irish. It'll make yer bog-trottin' sailors happy, d'ye learn it! Ahem!
"Oh, there's not a trade that's goin',
wor-rth knowin ' or showin',
li-ike that from Glory growin ',
for a Bowld Soldier Boy!
Whe-ere right or left we go,
sure you know, friend or foe,
we'll wave a hand or tow
from the Bowld Soldier Boy!
There's ain town that we march through,
hut the ladies look, and arch…
through the window panes will sarch
through the ranks to find their Joy!
While up the street, each girl you meet
with looks so sly will cry 'my eyye'!
Oh, isn't he a dar-el-in',
the Bowld Soldier Boy!"
It had worked, Lewrie had to admit. They'd gathered prancing children, as a marching band might, the sight of a trim and elegant old general with the pace and spine of a younger man, with a brave captain by his side, voices raised in praise of Glory and Women. Even sober-lookin', too! People clapped their approval as they paraded off for a public house.
And bedamned-for the nonce-to Dame Fortune!
CHAPTER FIVE
Willis's Rooms had seen its share of wastrels and rollickers in its time. While their common rooms began serving hearty breakfasts for the industrious sort 'round 7 a.m. the kitchen staff also was ready for those idle layabouts who rose much later or sent down for chocolate, rusks, or toast, too "headed" from a night of amusements to even leave their bedsteads… sitting upon plumped pillows, swinging to sit on the side of the mattress for a proffered chamber pot; and one breath of fresh air once the bed curtains had been pulled back, was about all they could manage.