“Hunting dogs, ma’am,” Midshipman Munsell had added shyly. “He was big on hunting, and fetched off half a dozen of his favourites. It was Bedlam.”
“And messy, I’m bound, hey, Mister Munsell?” Lewrie had japed.
“When one of them, ah… on the deck chequer or his carpets, he would call his servant… ‘Smithey… dog, uh… stuff!’ ” Munsell had blurted, catching himself a second too late; but all had been amused.
“Ye don’t get that sort o’ mess, with cats,” Lewrie had said.
“Or, the barking in the wee hours, I’m bound?” Lydia had posed to Munsell, drawing a shy nod of red-faced agreement, pleasing the lad right down to his toes.
Yeovill had out-done himself. There had been a soup he’d called a Spanish treat, served cool to suit the weather, loaded with peas and maize kernels, rice, and pureed tomatoes in a spicy beef broth; Yeovill was very high on rice! Next had come quail (old to Lewrie by then but new to the Stangbournes) with fresh asparagus sprigs drizzled in hollandaise sauce and cheesy hashed potatoes. The fish course had been a medley of mussels and peeled shrimp, with buttery wee brussels sprouts; all served with piping-hot rolls and a cool and light sauvignon blanc. There’d been a mid-meal salad of wilted lettuce, drippy bacon, and vinaigrette. Last had come a small chuck roast with boiled carrots and roasted potato halves, boiled onions, and bottles of bordeaux. And, to top it all off, Yeovill had whipped up another of his lemon custards.
“Your cook’s a bloody wonder, Sir Alan!” Percy had exclaimed towards the end. “I’ve half a mind to hire him away from you. Do you dine this well at sea?” he’d marvelled, shaking his head.
“Don’t force me to out-bid you for his services, milord. And, no, not after the first week when the fresh victuals run out, or go bad,” Lewrie had hooted back. “I fear even good Mister Yeovill has to use his creativity and imagination after a while. Even I will be reduced to salt-meats and our famous weevilly ship’s bisquit!”
By 2 P.M. he’d seen them back ashore for a needful nap, and had returned aboard to tend to ship’s business, and a nap of his own. The Stangbournes would return the favour at their lodgings.
Supper ashore was at half past seven, but Lewrie turned up just at seven, this time in his second-best uniform coat, without the sash and star of his new knighthood, or his medals either.
“Would you care for a stroll before supper, Lydia?” he asked. “The sunset’s rather nice, this evening, and from my more pleasant doings with the French, I’ve discovered that they place great faith in a stroll before eating to sharpen the appetite.”
“Why, thank you, Captain Lewrie, and I should be delighted,” she responded. “Percy, we will only be a quarter-hour, half an hour at the most,” she’d told her brother, who had half-risen from his chair before twigging to what she meant; that the invitation was for two, not three. He’d sunk back with a sly grin.
Outside their inn, the shadows were lengthening, the sunset so grand that though their view to the west was blocked, it extended out eastwards to reflect on the hulls of the many warships in harbour, on the sails hung slack aloft to air them and prevent mildew and rot, and shimmer reddish-golden off the Little and the Great Nore anchorage that was, that evening, at least, at slack water and seemingly still, alive with only mill-pond ripples and stirred by light airs.
Merchant ships lay along the quays by which they strolled, her arm tucked inside his, and their hands linked. Jib-booms and bow-sprits jutted high overhead from some which lay bows-on alongside piers built at right angles from the quays, masts and spars and furled canvas soaring aloft even higher amid their mazes of shrouds and running rigging, silhouetted against the greying dusk. Lading was done for the day, so the bustle of waggons and carts, and the rumble of wheels no longer forced people to shout to converse. The last sea birds were winging overhead, or perched on bollards, some peeping or gulls mewing. A few ships had their taffrail lanthorns and work lanthorns lit, while out in the roads, lights could be made out aboard the anchored ships, and it was all rather peaceful. Faint laughter, some song, and strains of musical instruments could be heard coming from the sailors’ taverns along the dockside street.
“What an odd world you live in, Alan,” Lydia said at last. “The ships, and all these mysterious… whatevers you pointed out to us… sheets and braces, jears, and I don’t know what-all you called them. I expect it would take a lifetime to learn it all.”
“I think I had one week t’learn them, else I was bent over the barrel of a gun and thrashed on my bottom with a stiffened rope starter,” Lewrie cheerfully confessed. “It’s called ‘kissing the gunner’s daughter,’ and I kissed her quite often ’til I got ’em all right. Do ye know, the first time they threatened that, I thought the girl must be a really ‘dirty puzzle’ if they meant it as punishment!”
With just the two of them, at last, Lydia could lean back her head and laugh out loud, then place her right hand on his upper right arm and lean closer to him as they walked slowly along, as if trying to snuggle. They shared fond smiles, which Lewrie found himself wishing could go on far longer.
“You’ve changed coats,” she noted. “This is not as fine.”
“And once we sail, my everyday coat is even sorrier,” he said. “The good one, then this’un, will go deep in a sea-chest, along with the star and sash. No call for ’em at sea, unless some admiral dines me aboard his flagship.”
“Along with what passed in London?” she rather meekly pressed.
That drew him to a stop so he could turn and face her. “London was a welcome idyll, and a memorable one. I don’t recall all of it, such as the palace and all, but… but I most certainly will remember the best part, your part. Dare I say… our part?”
“God, how I wish to kiss you!” she whispered.
“Then let’s do!” Lewrie urged, putting his arms round her.
“Do I look like a sailor’s… doxy, do you call them… this way?” Lydia said with a happy, throaty chuckle after she threw her arms round him and shared a long, deep kiss with him.
“It’s a seaport, and I don’t give a damn if you don’t!” Lewrie laughed. “Never a doxy, not you, Lydia… a captain’s lady, is what people will think. And a damned handsome lady, at that.”
“Even one so scandalous?” she teased after kissing him again.
“Oh, bugger that,” he shrugged off. “What’s scandalous about riddin’ yourself of a beast? I’d hope… well.”
“Hope what, Alan,” she purred, looking up at him a bit, her eyes alight.
“That what’s begun would continue… hard as that may be with me at sea,” he confessed, feeling a physical surge of warmth filling his chest. “With Reliant to operate in the Channel at least for the rest of the year, it won’t be months between letters, if you… mean t’say, if I could have your permission t’write, and…”
“Of course I wish you to write me, as often as possible!” she declared. “Just as I swear that I will respond to each, and write to you, even should yours be delayed, or you are too busy. Really, Alan, after what has passed between us, it’s hardly possible to mis-construe me as a spinster-girl whose parents’ permission you must ask, now does it?” She hugged him closer, laughing again. “Though I appreciate the thought, mind,” she wryly added, her smile japing but fond.
“Often as possible,” Lewrie promised as they resumed strolling along, crossing the cobbled street to the wide wooden beams of the seaside quays.
“Tar and salt… the seashore smell,” Lydia mused. “When we went to Brighton for the Summer ocean bathing, I always delighted in its freshness.”
“Quite un-like what a ship smells like,” he japed back. “That reek that greeted you, in spite of all we could do? The manger, our mildew, our wet woolens, our pea-soup farts and sweat? I thought you might heed a scented handkerchief, for a minute or so. The way your nose wrinkled?”