Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Trade

"I'll do most of the exposition, Lewrie," Twigg ordered, leaning back against his facing coach bench. "You just sit there and be stoic, stern, and honourable. Refuse wine, but accept tea or coffee. The sun isn't 'below the yardarm'… all that. Try not to fidget or squirm on your chair. Sound resolute. Boast only when describing what fine tars your dozen Black hands are. You might allude to any religious instruction they've gotten since signing articles. It'd go down well, hmm?"

Like a boxer getting last-moment cautions on his opponent, there was not time enough for Mr. Twigg to impart all of his last suggestions. Before Lewrie knew it, their coach pulled to a stop before an imposing row house's stoop (where, exactly, a preoccupied and benumbed Lewrie in later years couldn't say, and couldn't find with both hands and a whole battalion of flaming link-boys) and their coachman's son, serving as a footman, was folding down the metal steps and opening the door.

Lewrie stepped out onto a fresh-swept sidewalk, looked up at the gloomy, coal-sooted sky, and drew what felt like his last free breath, his left hand fretting on the hilt of his hanger, and his right hanging limp by his side, loath to take a single more step forward, or climb up the steps to the row house's door.

For London, with all its stinks, the air he drew in was rather fresh; it wasn't raining, for a bloody wonder, and as he looked up, as he would to read the set of the sails and the wind's direction, Lewrie could actually make out shape and form in the clouds, even espy several patches of open, wispy blue, here and there. Then, as if the wicks of theatrical lanthorns had been turned up, the sun peeked out briefly, to stab bright shafts down on the city through those wispy cloud-gaps, and brightened the street they stood in.

"Marvellous," Mr. Twigg smirked as he shot his cuffs and tugged down his fashionable waist-coat. "Why, Lewrie, I do declare the sacrificial birds' entrails are found flawless, the auguries are auspicious, and the old gods smile upon us, haw!"

"Bugger the old gods," was Lewrie's muttered reply to that. "If we must, we must. Let's get it done."

T he row house fairly shouted Respectability, though in a muted, subtle way; "shouting" would have been thought too "common" or enthusiastic by its owners, perhaps. The terrace of row houses was a relatively new development outside; once one was in the entry hall, however, it was obvious that materials from older, razed houses had been re-used, for the entry's panelling looked to be authentic Jacobean Fold woodworking, the immense and intricately carved marble staircases had the sheen from many hands and feet over a very long time, too well-crafted to be sent to the scrapyard. The tables and such were of a heavier, past-century style, too, and the framed paintings and mirrors were gilt-framed in a Baroque style. Bright new red, blue, and buff Axminster or Winton carpets covered the usual black-and-white chequered tile floors, and ran up the staircase to cover slick, worn spots on the treads. The house of a serious collector? Lewrie wondered, taking in the statues in the recesses, the noble Greco-Roman busts on plinths; the house of a rich merchant or banker, or someone titled?

A balding old major-domo in sombre black livery took their hats, cloaks, and Lewrie's sword, then ushered them abovestairs without more than a begrudging word or two. Once up, he opened a glossy wooden set of double doors and bowed them into a parlour-cum-library done in much the same You-Will-Be-Impressed decor, but for the massive walls of bookcases from floor to ceiling on two sides; more new-ish, bright Turkey carpets on glossy wood floors, a world globe on a stand in one corner about a yard across, a heavy and ornate old desk before the windows and surprisingly bright and cheery (though heavy) draperies; a desk stout enough for Cromwell and an entire squad of fully-armoured Roundheads to have fought upon, if they'd felt like it. There were several wing chairs and settees, done in brighter chintzes, on which sat some very Respectable and Seriously Earnest men and women, who stared at the newcomers like a flock of vultures waiting for "supper" to go "toes-up" and die.

"Sir," Mr. Twigg intoned with suitable gravity, and a head bow.

"Ah ha," a slim older man seated behind the desk replied, as he rose to his feet. His coat was a sombre black, too, though enlivened with satin facings and lapels, a fawn or buff-coloured waist-coat, and new-fangled ankle-length trousers instead of formal breeches, slim-cut, and light grey. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I name to you Mister Zachariah Twigg, late of the Foreign Office, and his protege, Captain Alan Lewrie…"

Hell if I'm his protege! Lewrie irritatedly thought.

"… man of the hour, and sponsor of human freedom," he heard the fellow conclude.

"Hurrah! Oh, hurrah!" a young lady cried, leaping to her feet and clapping her hands, all enthusiastic Methodist-like, which sentiment was seconded an instant later by all the others present, who stood and began to applaud him, making Lewrie gawp, redden in confusion, and almost start out of his boots. Then, to his further amazement, damned if they didn't begin to sing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" (not at all well or coordinatedly, mind), but, they sounded genuine in their approval. Lewrie decided that lowering his head and coming over all modest was called for, and considered scuffing his boot toes might not go amiss, either. What the bloody Hell? he thought, though.

"Though there are troubling aspects, indeed, to your feat, sir," the fellow behind the desk said as the song (mercifully) ended and he came to where Lewrie stood, "it is an exploit which I, and many others, wish to become commonplace, in future. Allow me to shake you by your hand, Captain Lewrie." Which he did, so energetically that his long, wavy hair nigh-bobbed as he took Lewrie's paw in his and gave it a two-handed pumping. "William Wilberforce, sir… and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Erm… well, thankee, sir," Lewrie managed to say. Wilberforce wasn't half the glum ogre he'd imagined; and, for a Reverend, he dressed in the latest fashion, with the help of an excellent tailor, too!

"Some of your admirers, Captain Lewrie, and the leading lights in the movement to eliminate the scurrilous institution of slavery in every British possession, not merely in the British Isles , which we've already accomplished, thank the Good Lord… Reverend Mister Clarkson… Mistress Hannah More…"

The faces and names went by in a mind-muddling rush, too many at once for Lewrie, though Mistress Hannah More was another surprise to him… she might look him up and down like taking measure of a rogue, with her lips as pursed as Twigg's, but she was, in the main, a rather handsome woman, not half the infamous and forbidding "Kill-Joy" he'd imagined, either. Though granite and ice did come to mind as he made a graceful "leg" to her, getting a coolly-imperious curtsy back.

"… host, Mister Robert Trencher," Wilberforce said, passing Lewrie on to a stout but handsome man in his late fourties, another of those who espoused the latest London fashions, in brighter suiting than one might expect from a run-of-the-mill "New Puritan."

"Your servant, sir," Lewrie said, taking the offered hand.

"Nay, Captain Lewrie, 'tis I who hold that I am your servant," Mr. Trencher heartily replied. " 'Twas a risky business, but commendable, most commendable! And I shall be pleased to do everything in my power to see that you should not suffer for it. Ah… allow me to name to you, sir, my wife and daughter. Captain Lewrie, Mistress Portia Trencher. My dear, Captain Alan Lewrie."