"Count Rybakov… Count Levotchkin, allow me to present to you Captain Alan Lewrie of his Britannic Majesty's Navy," Mountjoy quickly intervened to make the formal introductions, "an officer famed for his skill and courage. Captain Lewrie, I name to you Count Dmitri Rybakov and Count Anatoli Levotchkin."
"Your humble servant, my lords," Lewrie chimed in, bowing from the waist and making a "leg" with his hat swept to his chest. "May I present you to my officers, my lords? After all, we shall all be together for some time on our voyage."
"Are any of them noble?" Count Levotchkin asked, giving them all a dubious up-and-down scanning, much like a tailor to the Crown might to a pack of new-come parvenus.
"Uhm, I don't believe…?" Lewrie said, looking to Lt. Ballard for help in that regard. Ballard gave his head a brief shake of no. "No one, sorry."
"Then it is of no matter," Count Levotchkin said with a snobbish sniff. "Where are our quarters? It is cold."
"British sea-dogs," Count Rybakov said more jovially, smiling broadly. " England 's 'wooden walls,' yes? I would like to meet your officers, Kapitan Lewrie. Introduce me to them."
"Of course, my lord," Lewrie said, with a bit of relief that he was going to be friendlier than his colleague. Maybe he won't write complainin' letters, after all, he thought; hoped, rather.
Rybakov shot a stern glare in Levotchkin's direction before he went down the line of officers and Midshipmen with Lewrie, exchanging greetings. Thankfully, Lewrie could call all of them by name by then, right down to the youngest Mids, Pannabaker and Plumb. Levotchkin was forced to trail the elder man, bestowing short jerks of his head when each was named to him, obedient, but letting all know that he was very bored with the proceedings.
"Yes, our quarters, Kapitan Lewrie," Count Rybakov said after the last introductions were done, and the manservants had clambered up to the gangway with the lighter luggage.
"This way, my lords," Lewrie bade. "Mister Ballard, you'll see their dunnage hoisted aboard? I will depend on your servants to show my First Officer which items are required for your everyday existence, and which of the bulkier items may be stowed below on the orlop, sir?"
"Yes, my man, Fyodor, and Sasha, know our wants," Rybakov agreed.
Sasha! Lewrie twigged to the name; Isn't that the fellow Tess's Count called to for help, the night Mother Batson's bucks beat 'em all t'puddin'? God, this'll be really int'restin'!
"Aah… warmth!" Count Rybakov enthused, making a bee line to the Franklin stove to warm his hands, and unbuttoning his long overcoat.
"Take yer things, sir?" Pettus offered. Rybakov looked him over for a moment, as if sizing him up as worthy enough, before handing him his hat and walking-stick, and letting him remove that heavy fur coat. Once rid of his outer wear, Count Rybakov displayed a full head of hair atop his head, light grey, or dingy white, not a peruke, and worn in a modern style. His suit was dark green, waist-length in front with the long tails behind that were all the "crack" in London that season, with snug matching breeches below, and white silk stockings and stout shoes with gilt buckles. There was a waist-coat of jacquard stripes in white and salmon to add a jaunty note to a sombre overall hue, as did his neck-stock, of dark red moire silk. Forgetting his aristocratic airs, Count Rybakov turned about and lifted the tails of his coat to warm his bum, the same as any man, sighing and smiling with pleasure to have a thawed backside.
"A glass of something warming, as well, my lord?" Lewrie asked. "Or might you take tea or coffee, first?' Count Levotchkin?"
Damn the young sprog! He had flung off his own fur hat and his coat, and was prowling through Lewrie's wine-cabinet without leave.
"I'm sure you'll find something warming in there, sir," Lewrie said, allowing his sarcasm a looser rein for a moment. Levotchkin had tossed his hat atop the dining table, and had simply let his coat hit the deck in a furry heap for someone else to pick up later. Whitsell, the cabin boy tried to pick it up, but it was damnably heavy.
Without recognising that Lewrie had even spoken, Count Anatoli took a bottle of Kentucky whisky from the racks, unstoppered the decanter, and took first a sniff, then a short swig straight from the bottle. With a shrug that signifed that it might do, Levotchkin helped himself to a glass and poured it full, before crossing the cabins for a slouch on the starboard-side settee, with one top-booted foot atop the large brass tray-topped low table that Lewrie had fetched back from his time in India, 'tween the wars in the '80s.
"Kulturny, plyemyaneek," Count Rybakov chid him in Russian.
Culture, Lewrie translated from his very limited stock of words and phrases, in his head; T'other's… cousin? Nephew? One of 'em, so they're related somehow. Put some manners on, he's saying.
"Kentucky Bourbon whisky, Count Levotchkin," Lewrie told him. "I am sorry we don't run much to vodka, nor gin, either. Rum's our stock-in-trade… that, and small beer, or wine."
"Tea, yes, Kapitan," Count Rybakov exclaimed, using his enthusiasm to deflect his kinsman's bad manners. "Fyodor, ah… the glasses for tea. We Russians prefer it so hot, the tea glass must be surrounded by a metal holder."
"I'm familiar with 'em, my lord," Lewrie replied, though still fuming over the younger noble making so free with his spirits. "Sorry we don't have a samovar aboard to brew tea the way you like."
"Lots of sugar, Fyodor," Rybakov reminded his servant, who was digging through a small chest. "You have lemon, Kapitan?"
"For now, sir, aye. A limited supply, sad t'say. Hard to get in England, in mid-winter," Lewrie told him. "Tea, pipin' hot, Pettus. For you, Count Levotchkin?"
"Nyet," the young man snapped.
"If you'll take a seat, sir," Lewrie bade the older man, an arm swept in the direction of the settee and chairs. And, cocking a brow over the sheer amount of luggage coming in a solid stream through the forward door and piled by his sailors where the dining coach had been, across from the chart-space. "I've taken the liberty of re-arranging the great-cabins to accommodate you on-passage, my lord," he said once he'd sat down himself. "I've shifted my sleeping space and my desk forrud, nearer the quarterdeck, and given you and Count Levotchkin my old space, there… aft on the starboard side, with a hanging bed-cot each. The, ah… necessary is on the larboard side, yonder, and we must share… sorry. There might be room left for your servants to sleep in hammocks, do you require them to be at hand at all hours."
The new arrangements had looked cramped before; with all the chests and trunks and leather portmanteaus coming aboard, Lewrie began to wonder if there'd be room in which to swing a cat, did Fyodor and that huge Sasha sleep aft, along with Pettus and Whitsell.
Speaking of… Toulon and Chalky, intrigued yet frightened of all the bustle, darted with their bellies scraping the deck to their one secure place, Lewrie's lap.
"You will sleep here, with us?" Count Levotchkin asked, as if the very idea was insulting. "With those filthy little beasts? Pah!"
"He is Kapitan of the ship, Anatoli," Rybakov gently reminded Levotchkin. "We are his guests. The Kapitan must sleep near the helm, and his watch officers, so he may respond to the slightest change, or emergency. It will only be a few weeks, after all," Rybakov said with a grin. "And cats are not as noisy as that damned parrot who shrieked the night through at our hotel last evening. Surely, the pet of some sailor… or a fiend."
"It is not dignified," Count Levotchkin groused, removing his nose from his glass of whisky just long enough to say.
"Would you require your servants to bunk here, my lord?" Lewrie asked again.
"No," said Rybakov. "Da," said Levotchkin. "Nyet," Rybakov insisted, glaring the sulky young man to surrender the point. "They are not necessary after we retire, Kapitan Lewrie," he stated, settling the matter. "And we both understand the constraints placed upon us and our usual comforts when travelling by ship… by a warship, not one built for their passengers' pleasures… do we not, Anatoli." It was not a question, but a pointed warning, to which the young man had to nod agreement… though his face and ears went a bit redder as he swallowed his bile.