Charlotte dearly missed her brothers, and did not understand why her father would so cruelly send Sewallis off to sea, when he was the eldest, who should have still been in school, preparing for a civilian career! She missed her old house, though she quite enjoyed to have her “uncle Burgess” and Theadora living there.
Worst of all, she would still weep when thinking of how much she missed her dear mother, Caroline, though the sunny days now out-numbered the glum ones. Charlotte had adored her Christmas presents from Sir Hugo, when he’d come down briefly from London.
Of missing her father, there was not one ward, at all. Though Lewrie had written her several times, there was no acknowledgement of her reading them, or receiving them, and… there was no letter from her to him enclosed.
The handwriting changed on the next page to Millicent’s finer and more graceful hand, giving him a perky recital of all that Burgess and Theadora were doing with his old house, what colours they chose to repaint the rooms, which pieces of furniture they had retained, and an inventory of what they’d been given, or purchased, and how they had re-arranged. His office-cum-library with its many French doors and windows was now such a delightful, such a splendid garden room, awash in potted or hanging ferns, exotic Indian flowers and palmettos from the Carolinas in America, and one magnificent palm tree so reminiscent of Burgess’s service with the East India Company army, and…!
Lewrie tossed it aside in disgust and sadness. As eager as he had been to flee the place, and escape Caroline’s ghost, to be shot of all the hurtful memories, it still irked that what had been his sheet-anchor was now turned so topsy-turvy. If there had been some way for the children to have stayed on there, when home from school…!
“First Off’cer, SAH!” his Marine sentry bellowed.
“Enter,” Lewrie glumly called back.
“My God, sir!” Lt. Westcott barged in, his hatchet face glowing with delight, and his usual brief flash-grin replaced with one that nigh-reached to his ears. “Captain Sir Alan Lewrie! Good God above, sir! Mister Spendlove and Merriman, both, told me of it, soon as I set foot on the gangway. My heartiest congratulations, sir!”
“Oh, don’t you start!” Lewrie gravelled back. “Blanding earned his, I didn’t, really, and I’ve no idea why I was included. It’s all so damned silly.”
“But, will you say the same at the shore supper, tonight, sir?” Westcott teased.
“What bloody shore supper?”
“Midshipman Bailey, of Modeste, SAH!” the Marine bellowed.
“That’ll be the invitation, I’d think,” Westcott said, chuckling. “Care to lay a wager on it, sir?”
“Enter!” Lewrie barked more forcefully, and a Midshipman from the flagship came in, hat under his arm, and bowing as if to a duke.
Christ, they are bowin’ an’ scrapin’! Lewrie sulkily thought.
“Captain Blanding’s respects, sir, and I am to extend to you an invitation… to you and all your officers an invitation, that is, to join Captain Blanding and his officers at a f… fete champetre, this evening at Two Bells of the Dog Watch,” the lad haltingly said, losing his rehearsed place several times. “It is to be held ashore, sir, at a… restaurante by name of The Rookery, and…”
“Any ladies allowed, lad?” Lt. Westcott asked, tongue-in-cheek.
“Ehm… I do not know, sir, no mention was made…” The Midshipman sneaked a peek at the written invitation to see whether ladies were to be included.
“The Rookery, Mister Bailey?” Lewrie asked. “I’m not familiar with it… why not ‘The Grapes’? They do naval parties just fine.”
And, The Grapes had been a dockside fixture, handily near the boat landings, since long before Lewrie’s Midshipman days; and, they were used to rowdy behaviour and vomit.
“I am not familiar with it myself, sir,” Midshipman Bailey confessed, looking as if he’d like to scuff his youthful shoe-toes together in embarrassment. “But the directions to it are here on the invitation, sir. Ehm… harbourside, further east along the High Street, a brick building with a courtyard, and a curtain wall before the entrances…’tis said the rear dining rooms offer a splendid harbour view.”
“God,” Lewrie breathed, knowing exactly where this Rookery was; he and Christopher Cashman, his friends, and some obliging doxies had celebrated his victory and survival after the Beauman duel, the breakfast turning into a high-spirited, drunken battle of flying food and rolls. And, long, long before, it had had another owner. In 1782, he had gone there, once, a shiny-new Lieutenant.
“Baltasar’s,” Lewrie suddenly recalled. “An emigre Frenchman’s fancy place… Baltasar’s. I know it.”
“Ehm… the invitation, sir. Sorry,” Midshipman Bailey said as he stepped forward and laid it on Lewrie’s desk, so timorously that he appeared to fear being bitten for being remiss; or, hesitant to approach a man newly exalted.
“Thankee, Mister Bailey… my deepest respects to good Captain Blanding, and inform him that I and my officers look forward to the… fete champetre with great delight. Also express my thanks for his kindness,” Lewrie told the lad.
“Aye aye, sir!” Bailey said, stepping back, all but clicking his heels or stamping shoes like a Marine, before turning to go. Once he was beyond the door, Lewrie turned to Westcott, giving him a wink and a looking-over.
“I’d think after a whole morning with your young lady, Mister Westcott, ye might wish t’give her a rest… give yourself one, too,” Lewrie teased. “All that, and supper, would be more than plenty.”
“ ’Twas an entrancing plentitude, sir, and thank you for asking,” Westcott replied, chuckling in reverie. “Mademoiselle du Plessis was her usual delightful self, yet, one always longs for just a bit more.”
Don’t we just, Lewrie thought, grinning tautly.
“I’d expect you’d change shirts before the supper, sir,” Lewrie said with mock sternness. “There seems to be some… reddish, coral-coloured powder on your collar. Rouge? Lip paste?”
“Coloured powder, sir,” Westcott was glad to inform him. “She… Mademoiselle Sylvie, dabs it on to, ah, enhance her breasts, specifically the areoli.”
That’s a new’un on me! Lewrie thought.
“Then it is indeed a pity that there’s no mention of invitin’ any ladies t’this celebration of ours, tonight,” Lewrie japed, referring to the paper Midshipman Bailey had left. “Just as well, I s’pose. She’d be bored t’tears with all the salty talk, then scared when the bread rolls and pudding start flyin’.”
“Well, that is a pity, sir,” Westcott said, looking a tad downcast; or very, very tired after his energetic morning.
“Besides, sir… why drag your Sylvie to such a tarry gatherin’, where ye’d have t’share her attentions with all the other young, un-married, and deprived Lieutenants?” Lewrie pointed out.
“To listen to their teeth grind, sir?” Lt. Westcott shot back with glee.
“Well… even if ladies were invited, the bulk of ’em’d be a pack o’ fubsy chick-a-biddies,” Lewrie said with a sigh. “And, there is the matter of whether Mademoiselle Sylvie would be suitable for our ‘dash it, bedad’ Captain Blanding. Acceptable to Chaplain Brundish, more to the point.”