And, there'd been little love lost 'twixt Caroline and Sir Hugo since he'd come back from India, and just popped up as a land owner and immediate neighbour to their rented lands. To Caroline, Sir Hugo was, if not Satan himself, then one of his unsavoury minions, and ever the slightly shameful burden to be borne!
"Grand-pere?" Sophie prompted, with a twinkle."
"Of course, ma cherie," Sir Hugo replied with a wide smile, and offered his free arm to her to escort her downstairs to the coaches.
"Children, next," Lewrie ordered. "Sewallis, see to your sister. Caroline and me, last. We'll debark at the church in the reverse order. First in, last out, like an Admiral, hey? You're to give her away, father?" He got a firm nod from both Sophie and Sir Hugo.
He could understand that; his father had ever been charming and delightfully droll, erudite and surprisingly patient with Sophie as she made her adjustments to English country living. Besides, his father's French was infinitely better than Caroline's. He'd played the "Dutch Uncle" to the girl ever since his arrival, and had kept her chastely amused. Of all Lewrie's household, Sophie, surprisingly, had adored the old rogue the very fondest.
Lewrie offered his own arm to Caroline, and she laid hers atop it… lightly, so very lightly, as if averse. Buggery, buggery, and buggery! Lewrie thought, irked; what's the bloody trouble now?
"You did not ask of Mother, nor Uncle Phineas," Caroline said in a whisper as they trooped in rough order towards the door. "Nor did you ask why Governour and Millicent are not here."
"Well, in the excitement of the occasion, I s'pose I didn't," he whispered back. "Governour, I may assume, thinks me a traitor for spiriting away my Black sailors, undermining slavery worldwide…"
"Mother Charlotte will not see Midsummer's Day," Caroline told him, her whisper turning harsher, "and cannot travel. Yes, Governour will not attend any event where you are also present, and forbade Millicent to come, as well. I know you have no love for Uncle Phineas, nor he for you. Burgess…"
"In London, last I heard," Lewrie responded. Carefully.
"Beguiled by you to purchase Colours in a British regiment, and risk his life all over again, no matter the perils he faced in India," she accused. "He's done enough, God save us, he's done his duty…"
"Entirely his desire, Caroline, I did not… beguile him. He also wishes to wed. I'd think you'd be happy for him," Lewrie said.
"Wed some trull of your acquaintance, pah!" Caroline spat as vehemently as she could get away with as they descended the stairs to the entry hall, to the smiles and bows of the servitors and innkeeper. For them, at least, his wife plastered on a serene and happy smile.
Family! Lewrie scoffed to himself; ain't they so much fun?
CHAPTER TEN
Very few people stopped to ogle as the parade of coaches drew up to the entry of Saint Thomas A'Becket's, for in these wartime days, one more naval wedding was two-a-penny. Perhaps a few wives whose husbands were away overseas paused, and smiled in reverie or bitterness. Maybe a bachelor officer or sailor, perhaps an idle civilian lecher or two, stopped just long enough to leer at the bride as she emerged and was handed down, grinning to themselves, and wishing to be in the groom's boots that night.
Langlie's Second Officer (his name escaped Lewrie entirely) put out his Spanish cigaro beneath his shoe, then came to hold the doors to the church for them, and doff his hat in salute.
Inside, one of Langlie's Midshipmen ushered them down the aisle to the left-hand pew boxes in the front, whilst Sir Hugo spoke with a curate, then led Sophie to a private room outside the nave where she'd wait 'til the music began.
Once seated, Lewrie checked breast pockets of his uniform coat for the sheaf of folded-over letters he carried; notice from their own church, St. George's, in Anglesgreen, attesting that the Banns had been read three times; the rector's fee for the ceremony, the fees for the organist and bellowsman, the bell-ringers, and small gratuities for the crucifer and acolytes. He looked across the aisle to the groom's side and found Mr. Anthony Langlie, Senior, fidgetting with a thinner stack of letters, as well, and they shared a smile together.
For all his time passing through Portsmouth, it was the first time Lewrie had actually been in St. Thomas A'Becket's, so he simply had to crane his neck and take in all its splendours, the decor of the ceilings, nave, apse, ambo and high pulpit, the carvings of its columns and the intricacies of the stained-glass windows, most so nautical in nature, to match the famous golden galleon atop the spire outside.
Such a wee wedding party, in such a large edifice, nigh echoing empty, with so few relatives or neighbours able to attend. Counting acolytes, musicians, even dustmen, there weren't above two dozen folk present. Behind the immediate family on the Langlie side, there was no one except officers, Midshipmen, and a few sailors off HMS Orpheus.
"Pardons, pardons… by your leave," someone whispered behind them, and Lewrie turned his head to discover that Burgess Chiswick had managed to make it down from London, after all! He slid into the pew box just behind their full one, making Caroline all but squeal with open delight. "Coach was late, sorry, can you feature a 'dilly' that runs behind? Hallo, Alan! Oh, sister, you're looking splendid! Just did find lodgings at the Black Spread Eagle, and freshen up, first!"
Burgess no longer wore East India Company uniform, but was most nattily attired in a snug double-breasted tail-coat of bottle green, a sedate but shim-mery fabric that Lewrie didn't recognise; equally snug grey trousers and top-boots, with a new-fangled cravat that completely hid whatever sort of shirt he wore.
Maybe that'll mollify her, Lewrie hopefully thought.
"How do things go, in London?" Lewrie asked, whispering softer than before.
"Won't be a grand regiment, but it looks as if I may purchase a majority for a reasonable sum," Burgess whispered back, sounding as if he was chortling all the same. "Army's not doing much, at present, so Horse Guards is a buyer's market. And, I met the Trencher family."
"Aha!" Lewrie congratulated, much too loud for the occasion. "Joined the Abolitionist Society… sent my carte de visite up and finally wangled an invitation, and you're right, Alan, Theodora's damned…'scuse me, nearly perfect! Thankee for the suggestion."
"Well…," Lewrie said, come over all modest, swivelling so he could face Burgess and see his eager smile, but…
Christ Almighty!'he gawped; what the bloody Hell are they doin' here? For there, a couple of pew boxes "astern" of those where men off Savage impatiently sat, were Mr. Sadler from his barrister's office, a bird of ill omen to be certain, and… in the same box with him… Mr. Zachariah Twigg, the devious, cold-blooded, murderous, arrogant, and duplicitous, haughty old master spy who had bedeviled Lewrie's very existence since their first encounter in 1784 in the Far East!
Lewrie's jaw dropped open, and he could feel the blood drain from his face; to which struck-dumb expression the cadaverous-looking Twigg responded with a grim nod, a flex of his spidery fingers on top of his silver walking-stick handle which rested between his knees, and then did the very worst thing for Lewrie's equanimity… that cruel visage, so usually set in thin-lipped asperity and high-nosed disdain for the world in general, and sometimes for Lewrie in the particular, twisted up into a rictus of a sly smile… the sort of smile Lewrie might conjure that would appear upon a starving tiger or a nettled cobra just before the leap, strike, or spit. In Lewrie's harshly won experience with the man over the years, nothing good had ever come of a smiling Zachariah Twigg!