There came a wheezing sound from the organ bellows, the ringing of the bells in the steeple and loft, giving Lewrie a welcome excuse to snap back front, and pass a hand over his ashen face.
"Whatever is the matter, Lewrie?" Caroline rasp-whispered, inclining her head towards him as if meaning to share both prayer book and hymnal with him, but with a fierce look normally reserved for any misbehaving children: Act-Up-Now-And-I-Promise-That-You-Will-Pay! Too much was invested in time and money, in prestige and decorum, in frets and labour on her part, to let anyone spoil this wedding. It was hers as much as it was Sophie's, by God, and the person who ruins it will get drawn and quartered by the horses of the bridal coach!
"Er, uhm… nothing, my dear," Lewrie muttered as the organ music drew them to their feet, awaiting the bride's entrance on the arm of the splendidly turned-out Sir Hugo. "Surprise, I must own, to see an old… companion attending. I will introduce you later, love."
"Hmmf!" was her comment on that; sure that whoever it was, was he a companion of his, he must be a fellow sinner and adulterer, hence, not worth an introduction.
Lewrie? he silently groaned to himself; she called me Lewrie? Have we come to that, like all t'other fed-up-with-the-bastard wives do? Whatever happened to Alan, or "dear,"or… oh, right, all that happened.
Why was Sadler here, 'less the news from the courts was dire? Why would Twigg attend, and how bad could his news turn out to be, as well? Sadly, Lewrie was certain he'd discover the whys, not a second after the happy couple coached off into wedded bliss.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The ceremony went well, as did the new couple's departure, with both ship's officers and Midshipmen forming an arch of bared swords or dirks… though forcing Commander and Mrs. Langlie to duck when they got to the shorter Midshipmen, whose arms and shorter dirks threatened hats, shoulders, and noses.
Once at the George Inn, the wine began to flow almost from the instant that hats, swords (dirks), and walking-sticks were deposited with the doorkeeper, people still sober enough to read the place cards got themselves sorted out, and took their seats, with some of the men, principally Zachariah Twigg, Sir Hugo, and Mr. Sadler, heading straight for the sideboard and its restorative brandy bottle. Lewrie wished he could do the same, but he still had host duties, the requisite speech to make in praise of Langlie and Sophie, toasts to propose… and his wife to puzzle out, for though she appeared gay and chirpy, he could recognise the secret signs that Caroline was missish over something. Too, there were the children to keep an eye on, and there were Sadler and Twigg to avoid 'til the last minute, like rosied plague carriers or peeling lepers!
"A lovely setting for the ceremony, what, Captain Lewrie?" Mr. Langlie the elder remarked with a glass of wine in his hand. "My Missus quite relished it. A most pleasing compromise location, in all."
"Oh, absolutely, sir," Lewrie agreed. "Why, in all my years of passing through Portsmouth, I cannot actually recall my being inside of Saint Thomas A'Becket's before. A most impressive place, indeed."
Langlie slightly cocked an eyebrow over that statement, keeping a mostly serene expression, though implying, I dare say your sort would have not! anyway. Or so Lewrie deduced; he refused'to cringe.
"Your father, Sir Hugo?" Langlie continued. Lewrie managed not to wince as that name was mentioned, as was his usual wont. "A most, ah… colourful character, or so I have heard?"
"Colourful ain't the half of it, Mister Langlie." There came a faint guffaw from over Mr. Langlie's left shoulder as Sir Hugo came to join them. Colourful, indeed, for Sir Hugo's long-time Sikh orderly/valet, Trilochan Singh, he of the swarthy complexion, bristling mustachios, and evil eye patch, stood just off Sir Hugo's larboard quarter in full regimental fig of his old 19th Native Infantry.
"And, never lend him, or let him hold, any monies, either," Mr. Zachariah Twigg chuckled as he joined them, too, and damned if his own personal man, Sri Ajit Roy, wasn't there, as well, right down to those elephant hide sandals of his, red cotton "celebration" stockings, suit of dark buff broadcloth with baggy pyjammy breeches. His mustachios, though greyer than Singh's, were as stiff as anchor cat-heads, too, and it looked as if Roy and Singh had been having an "old boy" reunion much like almuni of Harrow or Eton. Langlie's jaw dropped; so much for serenity!
"Namaste, El-Looey sahib, best wishes," Singh said in a gravelly voice, palms together, and bowing.
"Namaste, Cap-tain El-Looey," Ajit Roy added. "Oh, springing joy to the happy pair!"
"Namaste, Sri Ajit Roy, Sri Trilochan Singh," Lewrie replied as he put his palms together before his face and bowed in return. "'Dhanyavaad… thank you for coming so far, and your wishes."
"Colourful runs in the family, Mister Langlie," Sir Hugo said.
"I dare say!" Langlie replied, unsure whether to smile or flee.
"You've met my father at the church, sir," Lewrie said, attending to the social niceties, "but, allow me to name to you Mister Zachariah Twigg, late of the Foreign Office. Mister Twigg, the father of the groom, and, I am proud to say, my new in-law, Mister Anthony Langlie of Horsham, in Kent."
"Your servant, sir," from Langlie, then from Twigg. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mister Langlie," as Twigg prosed on, smooth and benign as a sated tiger. "Allow me to express my congratulations to you and your wife upon this happy occasion, and remark that you and Mistress Langlie have raised a praiseworthy son, one with great promise to the Crown, and the Navy, whose name has figured prominently in official reports from Captain Lewrie, the last three years, to my superiors, and Admiralty, as well."
"Ah, well?" Langlie puffed up with pride. "Thankee kindly, sir, for your best wishes, and for that information, too."
"Ahem" came a faint throat clearing, a timid cough into a fist from Mr. Sadler, who hovered nearby.
"My old orderly from my time in East India Company service, and a longtime friend, Mister Langlie," Sir Hugo stuck in, "Former Sergeant… Havildar Trilochan Singh?"
Twigg was quick to introduce Ajit Roy as well, outre though an introduction of a servant to a gentleman was, requiring Mr. Langlie to try on the pressed-together palms, head bow, and stab at pronouncing a Hindu greeting, with Langlie looking dazedly bemused, as if wondering whether his son's wedding day could get any stranger.
"Ahem?" Sadler coughed a tad louder. He wasn't exotic, merely impertinent, but evidently thought his case urgent enough to violate the niceties, this once.
"Oh, yes," Twigg said. "May I also name to you another friend of Captain Lewrie's, Mister Langlie, who coached down from London with us?"
He did? Lewrie fearfully gawped to himself; Twigg, father, and Sadler in the same coach} With Ajit Roy and Singh, to boot? Christ, I must really be in the legal "quag"! The two former orderlies/valets surely would have ridden in the coach, not been stuck in the cheap seats atop in the rain; vile as they were, both Sir Hugo and Twigg held high regard and respect for their manservants. Sadler's such a chatter-box away from work, 'tis a bloody wonder he ain 't fluent in Hindi or Urdu by now!