Lewrie, unfortunately, felt about as "headed" as any man born, even after rising at a lordly 9 a.m. dousing and scrubbing with a tin of hot water, and receiving a fresh shave from Aspinall whilst he had himself a wee nap. Three gulped cups of coffee had only made him bilious and gassy, with a tearing need to "pump his bilges," much like a dairy cow on hard ground, at least thrice.
"Breakfast, sir?"
"Don't b'lieve I'd manage solids this morning, Aspinall," Alan replied with some asperity, "but thankee."
His father, Sir Hugo, came bustling into the set of rooms, done up in his regimentals, less his tunic, and draped in a tan nankeen and flower-sprigged embroidered dressing gown; face fresh-shaved and ruddy, eyes bright and clear, tail up, and bursting with bonhomie.
"Bloody awful mornin!" Sir Hugo rather loudly informed him. "It is rain, rain, rain. Urchins and mendicants'll drown in this, just you wait an see!
"Hush!" Lewrie begged, squinting one-eyed at that fell apparition, wondering why turning his head resulted in thick, swoony feelings.
"Dear Lord, still 'foxed,' are ye? Out o' practice, I expect. Takes work, d'ye know… years o' conditionin'," his father said with a faint sneer at Lewrie's lack of "training" as he swept back his gown, plucked a chair from the small card table, and plunked himself down… damn' near by the numbers like a military drill, with all the requisite "square-bashing" thumps and thuds of the steel-backed Redcoat.
"Christ," Lewrie grumbled, ready to cover his ears.
"Amateur," Sir Hugo scoffed with a twinkle. "Ah!" he cried, as his swarthy, one-eyed Sikh manservant, Trilochan Singh, entered. The pockmarked bazaari-badmash with the swagger of a raja was the terror of half the goose-girls in Anglesgreen; all Surrey, too, for all Alan knew!
" Namastй,* (*Namastй = Good morning.) Leerie sahib!" Singh barked, at stiff attention with a stamp of his boots, damn near saluting in Guard-Mount fashion.
"Bloody Hell!" Lewrie groaned. "Chalй jao… mulaayam!" † (†Chalй jao… mulaayam! = Go away, soft(ly).)
"Ah, ye do recall some Hindi!" his father noted, clapping his hands. "Pay him no mind, Singh. Chaay, krem kй saath, and naashtй kй li-ye for do." ‡ (‡ Chaay, krem kй saath/naashtй kй Rye for do - Tea with cream/breakfast for two.)
"Bahut achchaa, Weeby sahib! Ek dum!" § (§Bahut achchaa/Ek dum = Very Good! At once!) Stamp-Crash, About-Turn, Crash-Crash-Crash, Quick March, Crash-Stamp Salute, Baroom, Slam Door!
Lewrie put his head in his hands and laid his forehead on that small table, feeling that whimpering in pain might not go amiss.
"Here, for Christ's sake," Sir Hugo growled, producing a flask of brandy and pouring. "Never heard o' hair o' the dog that bit ye? Decent French guzzle, too. Thank God for smugglers. This'll put the spring back in your step, and clear the cobwebs. Aye… good lad."
Lewrie made "Bbrring" noises, grimaces and gags, but the brandy seemed liable to stay down, and his vision did slightly clear.
"Caroline scarpered, I take it?" Sir Hugo asked, gazing about the set of rooms, noting the lack of children, noise, clutter, and luggage.
"Aye, more's the pity… soon as they got back from the park," Lewrie mournfully informed him, giving him a precis of her letter, too. "Well, damme," his father harumphed. "Thought she had more sense than that. Not that she didn't shew it, anent your finances. At least there's no mention of divorcement. Now, were it I who got such a note, I'd heave a great sigh, cry 'thank God for gettin' off so cheap' then dance off t'me bus'ness. Won't break you, after all… and, there's a sum of prize money still owin' that's yours alone."
"Damn!" was Lewrie's sour comment to that. "She's my wife, not a deal gone wrong, they're my children, not… oh, why bother trying to explain such to you!"
"Aye, I forgot, I'm a callous ol' bastard," Sir Hugo replied as casually as if he'd been told he had grey eyes. "Ah! Breakfast!"
Trilochan Singh entered astern the housemaid, who bore a large tray full of covered dishes, looking like to pinch or goose her, once the tray was safe. Boiling-hot tea was quickly poured, with cream in a small silver plate ewer, and a footed silver bowl of brown West Indies turbinado sugar, pre-pared from the loaf. Aspinall attempted to assist, but was out-bustled by the maid and Singh as they removed the lids to reveal both fried and scrambled eggs, buttered hot rusks, and a choice of sizzly-crisp bacon or sliced roast beef.
Lewrie stared at the repast, pondering and massaging his belly, cautiously inhaling the savoury odours and steams; watching, as his father turned a brace of fried eggs into a soupy mess with knife and fork, spooned up some jam to slather on half a rusk, then dredged it in the eggs and took a bite.
"Only enemies of the Borgias died of eatin'," his father said, chewing and sighing most ecstatically. "Trust me… the greasier the better, in your condition."
Lewrie tentatively allowed his plate to be laden. Hot tea with cream and sugar, well… hmm, well, well! More cobwebs cleared. A taste of bacon… a forkful of eggs, which needed pepper and a lot of salt, he discovered. The roast beef was a tad dry and crusty, perhaps leftovers of last night's fare in the common rooms, but… my my, was that mango chutney in the jar with which to liven it up? Yum! Oh, even better, for here came a dab of fried, diced potatoes… his favourite "tatty hash"!
The rusks were crunchy, but softened with good butter, and the jam was a tangy-sweet lime marmalade, and good God, was he out of tea so soon?
"Lazarus… come forth!" Sir Hugo said with a snicker.
"Mmmmf… something like that," Lewrie confessed, swallowing.
There was a knock at the door, which Aspinall answered, coming to the table a moment later. "There's a note come for ya, sir," he announced, setting it beside Lewrie's plate, sealed and folded shut, with no return address-local? A sudden pall fell over the table.
"Well?" his father pressed at last, as Alan studiously ignored it. "It can't be from Caroline, surely. She ain't that prolific!"
Lewrie opened it, wishing he had tongs, sure it'd scald…
"Ah," Lewrie commented, after reading the salutation, with the sangfroid he rarely displayed aboard ship. "Of a sort… it regards Caroline," he lied (main-well, he thought!) as he refolded it and stuck it in his waistcoat pocket. "From my solicitor, Mountjoy. She must have sent him a note before coachin' back to Anglesgreen. He asks me to come round."
Actually, he'd meant to call upon Mr. Matthew Mountjoy that day, to make an equitable arrangement-or one that wouldn't break him!
"I see," his father replied, going back to his breakfast, but with a leery cast to his eyes; too blasй-bland for comfort!
Not a total lie, Lewrie consoled himself; but, damme, do I dare? All I can do with Theoni is accept her sorrow that she caused a mess in the park yesterday! Be a damn' fool t'go, but… Gawd, what if she finally cries 'belly plea to a court and takes what I've left to keep up her… our son? No, surely not, not Theoni, she's rich as Croesus in her own right… the currant trade, an all? Hmmm… still.
And he thought it deuced odd that, far from having his breakfast turn to lead in his stomach from even more to worry about, he was digesting rather well, thankee very much! Catastrophe can be stood, he decided!
CHAPTER SIX