South Montagu Mews was a very fashionable street, Nor'east of Oxford Street and its confluence with Park Lane and Hyde Park, within non-strenuous walking distance, really. Though not quite as costly an address as the more stately Montagu Square, it was better than passing-fair as a place to hang one's hat.
Much like the Navy, London houses were under The Rates for tax purposes. A house that took up 900 square feet of footing, no matter how tall, was a First Rate-and Mistress Theoni Connor's was!
"Done herself proud," Lewrie muttered to himself as he climbed down from the back of the one-horse hack that was little better than a two-wheeled country dogcart with a canvas covering, and paid his cabman.
A sullen rain still fell, but nowhere near the morning's deluge, so, clad in a snugly impervious boat-cloak, and a cocked hat that had already seen its share of "heavy weather," he could take time to assay the street and the house before him.
It was a homey red-brown brick, set off with the white cornices and stone bands so popular in the '50s and '60s, with an elevated doorway at the left-hand side, redone Palladian, and trimmed with railings in ornate wrought iron filigree; two wide windows filled the right-hand side. Above, there was the ostentation of a wrought iron balcony across the whole of the first upper floor. It was a four-storey house, with three windows set in each level. Even with a typical two rooms per floor, it was a lot of house!
Up and down the street, Lewrie could see a mix of old brick and the more fashionable Italianate facades that people insisted on putting on lately.
He ascended the steps up from the sidewalk to the door, and lifted the knocker-a grinning Venetian lion's head shockingly similar to the one on his own door, back in Anglesgreen! For a second, he felt his resolve melt, feeling in his bones that seeing Theoni in person was a really bad idea, but… she had asked to see him, for him to call, and they did have a child in common-purportedly. Chiding himself for a coward, he began to rap the knocker.
A cherubic older fellow in a suit of plain, dark grey "ditto" opened the door and beamed at him with the smile of a well-fed prelate in a rich parish. "Sir?" he asked.
"Captain Lewrie, come to call… I believe your mistress expects me?" Lewrie replied, a bit more tentatively than he liked.
"Come into the front parlour, sir… Captain Lewrie, and I'll inform Mistress Connor of your arrival," the old fellow bade, bowing as he stepped aside to wave him in. "Just this way, sir… I do believe you are expected, though there was no reply to mistress's note…?" he seemed to scold; obviously, the old catch-fart knew more of his employer's business than was good for him, though Theoni could only have hired him in the last year. He accepted Lewrie's hat and boat cloak, but only took them as far as the mirrored coat-stand; easily fetched if she shooed him off, or had no time for him.
The parlour was impressive; pale green walls were nicely set off with stark, gleaming white wood trim. Pastoral artwork was hung, along with gilt-framed mirrors. The massive fireplace was smokey-threaded white marble, and the furnishings were upholstered in pale yellow or in floral-patterned ecru, atop gleaming wood floors carpeted here and there with Turkey rugs. There were rather good books in the cases, and might even have been read once, though Lewrie suspected they'd been picked up at a secondhand auction by the lot, displayed mostly for the ornate gilt bindings-the way most new homeowners who aspired to Society did! Lots of brass and silver plate objects out for show…
"Alan… Captain Lewrie!" Theoni called, spinning him about.
"M-Mistress Connor," he barely had the wit to say, though in his heart, as deeply in trouble as he was, thinking "Yum!"
She wore one of those Frenchified concoctions, in an un-widowly azure with white trim, a high waist sash, and no underpinnings, so the gown hung straight, clinging as she walked toward him with her hands out in greeting; puffed upper sleeves, very tight lower sleeves, down to her wrists, and a very low neckline. Her russet-chestnut hair was long and loose, but gathered with matching ribbons.
So exotic-looking, with wide, high cheeks in a fairly lean face, a squareish jaw that tapered to a pert chin, a wide and generous mouth graced by such full, plump lips, eyes so amber-brown and slanted almond-shaped… those gently bobbing poonts!
Their hands met below waist-level, decorously keeping them apart for the servant's eyes, at least, though there was a glimmer of joy in her eyes. She gave his hands a shake, then frowned.
"Sorry, I forgot your noble wound," she said ruefully. "Not the first you've borne," she commented, releasing his left hand. "Captain Lewrie was my rescuer in the Adriatic, Mobley. He took a wound fighting for my life there, as well."
"Yes, madam," the old servant replied, bobbing, blinking, and nigh fawning, admiring the two medals twinkling on Lewrie's chest.
"We'll have coffee, Mobley."
"Right away, madam."
She led him to a settee, each taking one end, with a space apart; again, decorously. There followed some idle chit-chat 'til the coffee arrived, delivered by an older maidservant.
"That should do for now," Theoni said.
"Yes, ma'am," the maid replied, bobbing a curtsy and departing.
"Man and wife," Theoni announced after she had gone.
"Hey?" Lewrie could but gawp. Gawd, what'd she mean by …!
"Mobley and his wife… the maid," Theoni explained. "I took them both on, together. She also cooks. I try to run a small staff, now that the French have occupied the Ionian islands. The currant business is disrupted, you see. They now hold poor Zante, and the English House. My parents get a letter out, now and then. They say things are bad, though the French buy currants, as well. Even if they are tyrants. And tyrants never pay well, not like the days before, so…"
Right, she's out for blood and money, Lewrie thought, steeling himself for a "touch" on his savings!
"You are not in, uhm… financial distress, are you? " he asked, thinking he was getting to the point.
"Oh, no, Alan!" Theoni chuckled, with a generous grin. "What my in-laws sell is dearer than before, and you English must have jams and preserves for your puddings and duffs! I merely take sensible precautions against wasteful expenses. An annual trip to Bristol, so Michael knows his late father's kin… but I do not aspire to a country house or acres, and I do not quite follow London style. I stay in town the whole year round."
"Reassurin' for your servants, then," Lewrie said, feeling as if he would exhale with a loud whoosh if allowed. "No one laid off at the end of the Season, when most folks head for the country, and they end up broke and homeless 'til the Quality come back."
"Yes. It makes for a certain… loyalty," Theoni supposed as she poured coffee for them. "Should I have sent for tea, instead? I prefer coffee… strong and dark, the Turkish way. All those tyrants were ever good for, but…"
Lewrie sugared his and sipped; it was ambrosia! Strong, dark, and heady, indeed, quite unlike most of the coffee served in London.
"The Turkish way is perfect, thankee," he agreed most happily.
"Now," she intoned, setting down her cup, leaning back all prim and folding her hands in her lap. "The reason I asked you to call. I am so very sorry for what you suffered in the park, yesterday… at your hour of honour and triumph, after all! Alan, believe me, it was never my intention to… what we had… it was always my hope that it would remain only between us."
"Have," Lewrie added, turning glum, though able to look her in the eyes; and was puzzled to see her almost stiffen in response, those eyes of hers glittering too brightly, with the ghost of a grin upon her lips! "Father says he has my eyes. Mean t'say…"
"Yes, he does," Theoni cheerfully confessed. "More than your eyes. Barely a year old now, and I swear that he already has your… boldness.