“You’re better off than most they’ll find,” Sir Hugo sniggered. “And a bloody hero, t’boot, with a knighthood and a bank full o’ prize-money. Well, God help ’em with that project, and pity the poor fool saddled with her, soon as she pups an heir or two, and ends as round as her parents. Best they know your warts, right off.”
“Captain Lewrie… sir,” Strachan intruded with an impatient schoolmaster’s “vex” to his languid purr. “Might you find the time to join us, sir? All are in place but for you.”
“Oh… coming,” Lewrie replied, following the equerry to the middle of the carpet to join the others. He stood by Captain Blanding, took a deep breath to settle himself, and did some last-minute tugging at his shirt cuffs and the bottom of his waist-coat to settle them.
“A grand moment,” Blanding whispered to him, grinning like Puck. “A proud moment, nigh the finest in my life, Lewrie!” He was almost overcome with emotion and awe of the occasion. “Well,” he quibbled, “there was my wedding day, and the arrival of the children, but… to be so honoured!”
“And Rear-Admiral sure t’come, soon after, sir?” Lewrie hinted.
“Oh well, aye, but… to stand before His Majesty, our Soveriegn, to converse with him!” Blanding went on, looking as if he would keel over in a faint, or whirl like an Ottoman Dervish and snap his fingers in glee.
Thud-thud-thud from a ceremonial mace, and a richly toned voice was calling for Captain Stephen Blanding of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy to come forward. For a stout fellow, Blanding did most of that ritual well; deep bow atop the third rosette in the carpet from the dais, advance, stop, and bow again; it was the kneeling part that gave him a spot of bother.
A senior courtier stood by King George to hold an unrolled parchment for him to read from. “Captain Blanding… Captain Stephen Blanding… in honour of your stellar career as a Commission Sea Officer in our Royal Navy, and in grateful recognition of your splendid victory over a French squadron at the Battle of the Chandeleur Isles, we name thee Knight and Baronet,” the King intoned, stumbling a bit over the words as if he missed his spectacles. Down came the sword to tap Blanding on each shoulder, and it was done. There were some words exchanged that hardly anyone ten feet away could catch, then Captain Blanding was up and bowing and backing away for the last bow on the proper rosette, and he half-turned to Lewrie, gaping with joy and with actual tears in his eyes.
Like he just got healed by Jesus, Lewrie thought, finding this ceremony, and the most un-godlike appearance of the King, a bit of a let-down. Blanding might be reduced to a quaking aspic, but for himself, Lewrie could only chide himself for a cynic and a sham.
“Captain Alan Lewrie, of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, will come forward!” the courtier intoned.
Third rosette; Nice carpet, Lewrie thought, looking down at it as he made his formal “leg”; I like the colours. Then it was head-up and stride forward, looking over both the King and the Prince of Wales.
A bit drifty, Lewrie thought of the former, noting how George III was turning his head about like a man looking for where he had left his hat; Bored t’death, was his thought of the Prince. Was he got up too early this mornin’, or do his nails really need a cleanin’?
The last bow, then the kneeling, and the lowering of his head, but… he really was a tad curious to witness what was about to come, so he looked up without thinking… hoping that King George would be a mite more careful with how he slung that sword about.
“Captain Alan Lew… Lewrie,” the King began, leaning to peer at the ornate document the courtier held out for him, “in honour of your stellar career as a Commission Sea Officer in our Royal Navy…”
Christ, can’t anybody pronounce it right? Lewrie thought with a wince; It ain’t like he’s a foreigner, is it?
“… grateful recognition of your inestimable part which led to victory over a French squadron at the Chandeleur Isles,” the King said in a firm voice, though leaning over to squint myopically at the parchment the courtier held, then leaned back to conclude his words. “We do now name thee Knight and Baronet,” he said, looking out over the hall, over Lewrie’s head.
“Ahem?” the courtier tried to correct.
What the bloody…? Lewrie gawped; How’s that? Did he just…?
King George looked down at Lewrie, then at the sword, with a bit of puzzlement, then tapped Lewrie once on each of his epaulets.
“Ahem?” from the courtier a little louder.
“Knight and Baronet,” King George III reiterated in a mutter, as if making a mental note to himself. “Knight and Baronet!” he said once more, as if that sounded better. He returned his placid gaze out to the crowd once more, grinning as if quite pleased with himself.
“I, ah… allow me to express my gratitude, sir… Your Majesty, mean t’say,” Lewrie managed to croak, sharing a glance with that courtier who was shaking his head, with his eyebrows up.
“What? Hey?” King George asked, looking back down at Lewrie as if he’d never seen him in his life, and how the Devil had he got there.
“Uh… that I’m proud and pleased to be so honoured, Your Majesty,” Lewrie tried again.
“Well, of course you are, young fellow, and well-deserving of it, too!” the King rejoined, beaming kindly; addled as an egg, Lewrie deemed him, but kindly! “Now, up you get!”
Lewrie rose to his feet, his mouth agape as he performed a departing bow. Though his head was reeling, he managed to pace back with measured tread ’til he reached the third-from-the-dais rosette in the carpet, made a last “leg” with his hand on his breast, then half-turned to sidle into the larboard half of the crowd, looking for Sir Hugo and Captain Blanding. When he found them, safely deep in the second or third row of onlookers, he spread his arms wide and blared his eyes in a cock-headed grimace of “what the Hell just happened?” incredulity. He was in serious need of a stiff drink, something stronger than the wine that his father had discovered!
“Lewrie, did he say…?” Blanding asked, looking aghast.
“ ’Deed he did, sir,” Lewrie replied, shaking his head. “It must have stuck in his head from yours, and he did it by rote. I’m sure it was a mistake, soon t’be corrected.”
Blanding’s wife was looking huffy, as if Lewrie had both insulted the Sovereign and diminished the grandeur of her husband’s investiture. Chaplain Brundish and the new-minted Reverend Blanding frowned as if someone-like Lewrie-had run stark naked through church, whilst Miss Blanding was making cow-eyes, as if actually impressed.
“Pity it won’t stick,” Sir Hugo drawled, looking wryly amused.
“Where’d ye find the wine?” Lewrie asked him. “And do they have brandy?”
Now the King was conferring honours on the Cambridge don, this time reading much more closely and sticking to the script. A polite round of applause followed. The Foreign Office chap got his knighthood-and no more!-and all applauded again, the tepid sort of acknowledgement preferred in Society; too much enthusiasm was deemed crude and “common.” Once the last claps died, the string music began again, and people began to mingle, filling up the lane between. Trays of wine began to circulate, and Lewrie excused himself from the Blandings to beat up to a liveried servant with flutes of champagne, threading his way between people in his haste, nodding and smiling whenever one of them addressed him as “Sir Alan” in congratulations. He almost snagged a glass, but for the interruption of the senior courtier who’d first steered him to the side-chamber.
“A word, if I may, Sir Alan? May I be the first to address you as such?” he asked.