“Thank you, Father,” Sewallis said at last, looking happy and relieved. “Thank you for that. I can stay aboard?”
“Benjamin Rodgers thinks you’re shapin’ well, and I trust his judgement, so, aye. You’re on your own bottom. And when he gives ye leave t’come ashore with me for a day, you’ll come back aboard much better dressed. We can’t let ye continue on so ‘rag-tag-and-bobtail’.”
“I must admit I look forward to a larger coat,” Sewallis said with an outright laugh.
“Let you stuff yourself at the George Inn, again, and fill up your sea-chest with goodies, too,” Lewrie promised. “Have scones and tea, or a huge breakfast before, with me and… uhm. With Mistress Stangbourne.”
“With whom, sir?” Sewallis asked, checking his pace.
“Lady I met in London last Spring, at the palace when I was presented to the King and got knighted,” Lewrie said, though he winced to have blabbed her existence. “Sister of Viscount Percy Stangbourne, and quite nice. I’d saved Lord Percy’s intended aboard one of the ships in that convoy in the South Atlantic, years ago, when I had Proteus, and we took the L’Uranie frigate. Didn’t know either of ’ em from Adam, but… up they popped at the levee, and…”
Damme, how much o’ that can ye tell, without mentionin’ that Eudoxia Durschenko, the circus, and how she made cow’s-eyes at me? Lewrie thought. That part of his life was terra incognita to his children… so far. They might even still believe that he had been a faithful husband to their late mother!
“They reside here in Portsmouth?” Sewallis queried.
“Uh, no. Their country seat’s near Reading and Henley,” Lewrie tried to breeze off, “but they have a grand house in Grosvenor Street. You’d like Percy. He raised a cavalry regiment, all on his own, and got it taken onto Army List last Summer, and posted to the Kent coast. Damned fine horseman, it goes without sayin’… her, too. Huntin’ and steeple-chasin’… God only knows how many acres they own, or where.” Stop babblin’! he silently chid himself.
“You are seeing her, sir?” Sewallis asked, looking stricken.
“We’ve become friends,” Lewrie cautiously allowed.
“Oh. I see,” Sewallis replied. “It has been three years, now, since Mother… even so…”
“I’d not wish t’hide her under a bushel basket, but… if you don’t care to, we won’t.”
“Well, ehm… I’d…” Sewallis said, groping to express his true feelings. After another deep, pent breath, he, very gravely, added, “This comes as most surprising, sir. Had you written about her… the lady’s existence… first, to prepare the ground, as it were?”
“It’s still early days, and ’til lately, there wasn’t much to write about, ” Lewrie lied, a bit rankled that one of his sons would even think to dictate his personal life, or enforce the lack of one. “Perhaps a brief hour over tea? After we’ve had you at a tailor shop, of course. Can’t have the heir of a Knight and Baronet showin’ up in rags, now can we?”
“No, sir, I suppose not,” Sewallis answered. “If you wish, then I would be pleased to meet your Mistress Stangbourne.”
No, you bloody aren’t! Lewrie scoffed to himself.
“Fine, then,” he said, instead. “Damme, but there’s a tale to amuse ye, the how of gettin’ a title t’boot.”
“I look forward to hearing it, sir,” Sewallis replied, seemingly in better takings.
“Damme, but it’s cold up here! Do I keep you any longer, after all your boat-work in this foul weather, you’ll catch your death. And I should be going back aboard Reliant, anyway. Thaw yourself out in the fug of your Midshipmen’s cockpit. Your fellow Mids’ll have a bowl of hot punch, surely.”
“I expect so, sir… Father,” Sewallis said, grinning at last. “And, in port at least, Captain Rodgers allows us the use of a Franklin stove. For a few hours each day.”
“Oh, don’t get me started on bloody Franklin stoves!” Lewrie cried. “There’s another long, sad tale that ended up costin’ me dear! Well, then, ’til I make arrangements with Captain Rodgers for a shore liberty for ye, I’ll take my leave.”
“’Til then, Father… sir,” Sewallis said, doffing his hat in a formal salute, with a slight bow from the waist.
Lewrie doffed his own cocked hat to his son, as well, a grave exchange from one naval officer to another.
Even if Lewrie still thought his son had made a bad decision, one that he might come to regret.
CHAPTER FIVE
The “hour over tea” with Sewallis, Lewrie, and Lydia had become a late second breakfast that had lasted a bit longer than two hours. Not that it could be described as a resounding success, for Sewallis had had his “grave face” on, like a wary investor offered a “fail-safe” stock. He’d been polite, and had seemed to thaw when Lydia had shown interest in his seafaring life, so far, but the wheels had come off when Lydia had ventured into talk of her brother, and his engagement to a “circus person,” Eudoxia Durschenko.
“You saw her, Sewallis, when we all attended Daniel Wigmore’s circus,” Lewrie had breezily reminded him. “Met her face-to-face when they paraded through Portsmouth, too. Eudoxia rode her white stallion right up to us, remember?”
“Oh, that was she, sir?” Sewallis had said, “Rather racily and scantily clad.” He’d been purse-lipped and dis-approving of that.
“She is fearless, I’ve come to learn,” Lydia had chimed in, “and a crack shot. When Percy brought her up to the country in the fall, we all went birding, and she out-shot me every time. Quite sweet, too.”
“You… hunt, ma’am?” Sewallis had all but gasped, though he’d kept his tone level. He’d dis-approved of women with guns, too.
Their long tea-time had gotten chillier and stiffer from there on, and it was with a shared sense of relief that Lewrie had seen his son to the docks, and back to his ship.
“Dear Lord, Alan, but I think you’ve reared a parson, ” Lydia had chuckled when he’d returned. “A Methodist dissenter, at that! So far, I gather that he’s a ‘down’ on Percy’s gambling, Eudoxia, bawdy women, and my having guns! Such a stiff young man!”
Supper with Benjamin Rodgers went much better; at least he had kept an open mind, and when Lydia, who had been studying and reading every book she could find on seamanship, ships, and their handling since being dined aboard Reliant at Sheerness the previous Spring, could converse somewhat knowledgeably with two senior naval officers, Rodgers had become the soul of geniality and jollity. He’d listened with glee to tales of Percy’s amazing luck at gambling, and the doings of the rich and titled. He’d almost sounded as if he did devour the “Tattler” columns in the papers, despite what he’d said about them.
“Reading and Henley?” Rodgers had exclaimed. “Why, that’s in my bailiwick! My father’s an attorney in Reading, and I grew up there. Punting on the Thames is what led me to the Navy. Good Lord, yes, now I recall your father, too. Big, tall, rangy fellow… Your pardons, Mistress Stangbourne, but we children used to dread the Viscount for how fearsome-featured he was. Not the handsomest man in England, he was, Alan. Splendid rider, though, and a grand sportsman. We used to ride by Stangbourne Park quite often, though, on the way to a day of shooting at my uncle’s… an estate he called The Hermitage?”
“Gabriel Rodgers, of course!” Lydia had gushed quite animatedly. “I knew him well when I was a girl.”
They were “neighbourly”, knew the same people, no matter their class, and Lydia had met Rodgers’s new wife, too. All in all, they’d gotten on like a house afire.
“Quite like her, Alan,” Rodgers had said on the long cold walk back to the boat landing. “And, if the war ever ends, I’d be delighted to have a chance to shoot over their fields. Matter of fact, it’s good odds the house Susannah and I bought in Reading got run up with Stangbourne money and labour. The old Viscount dabbled in rents and real estate in a huge way!”