“Meaning, ‘Lewrie, don’t make a muck of it’, hey?” Lewrie asked, with a wry expression.
Mountjoy made no reply, but raised a brow and nodded.
* * *
That’s what comes of bein’ thought an idiot, Lewrie sullenly told himself as he strolled downhill from Mountjoy’s lodgings to the quays; The up-and-comin’ younkers like Mountjoy think they know better than older farts like me. Get a few years on me, and they marvel if I can eat with a knife and fork! Can’t even imagine what the puppies of the 77th make o’ me. Hallo?
He spotted Major Hughes a’stroll along the quays with a woman on his arm, his free hand gesticulating at the harbour, and, from the way his egret-plumed bicorne dipped like a hobby-horse, was happily and boisterously engaged in conversation with her, which conversation seemed to be one-sided, for the woman’s hat and head did not follow his pointing.
Lewrie could only see the couple from behind, but he fancied that she was the intriguing Maddalena. Her dark hair was worn simply in a long fall at the nape of her neck, not teased, roached, or ironed into an intricate updo like most women with pretensions to style wore it, and in comparison to the usual flounces and flummery, her gown was simple, a pale yellow, high-waisted affair trimmed in white. Her up-turned sun bonnet partially masked her head to protect her complexion, tied with a yellow ribbon under her chin.
Hmm, slimmer than I thought, Lewrie appraised as he neared them, noting that her gown was more a sheath than a loose, bell-shaped thing, a modest muslin or linen instead of richer fabrics.
“… and since our families are closely connected, Sir Hew was most accepting of my ideas, don’t ye know, m’dear,” Major Hughes boasted. “Now that I’ve gotten my men trained, it only awaits the go-ahead from him.”
What? Christ on a crutch! Lewrie fumed inside; Takin’ credit for it, are you? And boastin’ that loud where ye shouldn’t?
He’d gotten close enough to overhear that, along with half the dockworkers on Gibraltar, and overtook the pair as they drew to a stop to admire the transport with its waiting landing boats nuzzled alongside.
“Why, Major Hughes, is that you?” Lewrie cheerfully called out, pretending pleasant surprise. “A good mornin’ to ye, sir.”
“Oh, ah!” Hughes replied, turning to regard him with real surprise, his complexion flushing redder. “Ashore for the morning, are you, sir? Well met, Captain Lewrie, well met.”
“And to you, sir,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat.
“I was just telling Maddalena here about the training we have been doing,” Hughes went on. “My pardons. Captain Lewrie, allow me to name to you Mistress Maddalena Covilhā. Maddalena, I name to you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, of the Royal Navy, and the Captain of the Sapphire, out yonder.”
“Mistress Covilhā, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, sweeping his hat onto his chest and making a wee “leg”.
“Captain Lewrie, the delight is mine,” she replied, dropping him a slow curtsy, though keeping her brown eyes on his face, in which there was, alongside a pleased curl of her lips, a glint of amusement.
“Covilhā,” Lewrie said, trying on the name, “is that Spanish, Italian, or Portuguese, if I may enquire?”
“I am Portuguese, sir, from Oporto,” she said with a smile and some greater animation, “though my family long ago lived in a town of our same name.”
“Oporto!” Lewrie exclaimed with an easy laugh. “My father was there for several years … hidin’ from his creditors. Never been to that city, but he said it was most pleasant. And, he adored all the wines, of course.”
“But, how can a gentleman of the English aristocracy be so poor that he must seek shelter from debt, Captain?” Maddalena wondered, with a shake of her head.
“He was a Knight of The Garter, but our family was bankrupt, and never noble. He won his knighthood, as I did mine, As for bein’ a Baronet, let’s just say that King George the Third was havin’ a bad day when he dubbed me a knight.”
Maddalena pretended shock that Lewrie would speak so casually of a monarch, much less his own, though she had to stifle an outright peal of laughter.
“Really, sir!” Major Hughes chid him, appalled.
“Really, he did, sir,” Lewrie gladly rejoined. “There was a long line of us t’be honoured, two or three ahead of me were dubbed Knight and Baronet, and I expect it stuck in his head, so when it came my turn, there it was. I thought it wouldn’t count, but the palace flunkies told me that the Crown don’t err,” he related, drawing out “err” into a long growl that sounded more like “Grr”, which set the girl tittering, and Hughes going redder in the face.
He was trying hellish-hard to please, and going for charming, witty, and amusing, and was delighted to see that his effort was working. Mistress Covilhā was giving him the same sort of speculative regard she’d shown him when he’d dined near her and Hughes at Pescadore’s, a frank consideration that he might be more fun than her present companion.
“Well, we were just about to dine, Captain Lewrie, so I’m sure you will excuse us,” Major Hughes said, looking a trifle irked.
“But of course, sir,” Lewrie allowed.
“Perhaps Captain Lewrie might care to join us,” Maddalena suggested quickly.
“Wouldn’t care t’intrude,” Lewrie pretended to beg off.
“Oh, but he must, Major Hughes!” Maddalena eagerly insisted, going kittenish and coy. “You are the … brothers in arms?”
Major? Lewrie scoffed to himself; Is she in his regiment? Why not “my dear” or “darling”, or “woolly bear”? She don’t sound all that affectionate with him.
“We work in close co-operation, yes, m’dear, Captain Lewrie to the sea-side, and me on the land, but…” Hughes tossed off as if it was the sketchiest of associations.
“Then between the two of you, you can tell me all about it,” Maddalena sweetly said,
“Well, if you’d care to, sir,” Hughes grudgingly allowed, looking as pleased with the idea as a Hindoo served a slab of roast beef.
“Well, I must confess t’feelin’ peckish,” Lewrie said with a shrug, as if it did not matter a whit, “but, do allow me to play host. My treat? Where did you plan to go?”
“Thought we’d dine at Pescadore’s,” Hughes gruffly said.
Maddalena made a face, hidden from Hughes by the side of her bonnet, and allowed her to share a wry smile with Lewrie.
“An excellent choice,” Lewrie congratulated. “Let us go.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, at his total ease in his cabins aboard Sapphire, and slowly nursing a cool glass of sangria, the discovery of which delighted both him and his cook, Yeovill, Lewrie reviewed their mid-day dinner with a great deal of satisfaction.
When the waiter, Michael/Miguel, had asked for their beverage choice, Lewrie had ordered a pitcher of sangria, claiming curiosity, and Maddalena had seconded him, leaving Hughes to his pale ale, siding with the girl to win a bit more favour, and thank God that it had proved sweetly enjoyable. For his entree, Lewrie had gone for the fried fish and cracked-open lobster, as did Maddalena as if taking her cue from him, leaving Hughes to his roast beef and potatoes.
He’d given Maddalena a culinary tour, from Canton in China to Indian fare at Calcutta, regaling them with the spiciness of the West Indies, the game meats of Cape Town, the glories of Low Country fare in the Carolinas in the United States, even the moose, elk, and cod of Halifax. Hughes, it seemed, had not travelled all that far, and could only speak glowingly of salmon, grouse, and pheasant when shooting or fishing in Scotland.
Despite a strong urge to do so, Lewrie had not boasted of his naval career, or his battles, hopefully leaving the impression that he’d done a slew of things heroic, mentioning only the battle off the Chandeleur Islands of Louisiana which had won him his knighthood in 1803. The faint scar on his cheek? A youthful idiocy when he was a Midshipman, in a pointless duel on Antigua, and he hadn’t even won the girl in the end!