Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

He embraced her, accepted a chaste peck on his cheek.

Three years has done her wonders, he thought. When he'd left, there'd been a girl bereft of fortune, title, family, her intended, and his own family, so sunk in grief that she could barely raise her voice above a mournful whisper, and possessed of the most fractured English. Now, though… but for a lilt, a turn of phrase, there was a girl who had the confidence, the poise and grace, and the easy, unaffected joy of any country-raised young English lady of the squirearchy who never had known any other style of living, or country.

The groomsman, a new face to Lewrie after the old one, Bodkins, was taking the reins from him, reaching out for the reins of the other horse. Then down sprang his father.

Shorter than he'd remembered from the Far East. How odd, Lewrie thought. White-haired now, thinner on top. Liver-spotted, by a dissolute youth. Damme, a dissolute bloody life! Yet still erect as a gun's ramrod, with the Damme-Boy twinkle of old in his eyes.

"My boy! My dearest boy!" Sir Hugo crowded, offering his arms for a paternal hug. "Ten damn' years it's been! Come ye here!"

And a very merry hello t'you too, Lewrie thought, with a weary sigh; you wicked old fart! He plastered a glad grin on his countenance and suffered to be embraced. Embraced his father in return, wondering all the while if Sir Hugo's elation to see him was a ruse… that he secretly was poor as a church-mouse, and this was the last port of refuge for a scoundrel.

Damme, never knew him t'be gladsome…'cept when he was needy o' something! Lewrie thought, as he was pounded on the back most heartily.

"Good to see you too, Father. Damn' glad," he lied, rather well, he thought. But he'd had a lifetime of practice by then.

T he next few days were heaven, Lewrie thought. For starters, he got introduced to the dogs so they would not think of him as an entree whenever he wished to walk outside about his own lands. He re-met the pony (without getting nipped), remade acquaintance with his favourite horse, Anson, which whickered in glee to see him once again. They ate in the new, large dining room that night, in the light of those dolphin-and-trident, silvery-brass candelabras he'd bought in Venice before the hurried evacuation of the Adriatic, then spent a lively evening in the salon, opening the latest gifts for the children, for Caroline and Sophie, from Lisbon. Sipping on a fruity, nutty sherry he'd found in-cask from Oporto too. They'd played some tunes, Caroline to her flute, Sophie to the harpsichord, and he on his "tin-whistle" flageolet, and finally getting a compliment or two on how much he'd improved-though anything better than bird-squawks could be considered an improvement after all those years of practice.

After a tad too much wine, they'd at last retired, were lit up to bed, to a real, soft, and welcoming-unswaying-bedstead crisp and sweet-smelling of scrupulously clean linens, still redolent of a faint floral sachet and the soap in which they'd been boiled. Toulon had found a refuge at last, in their bedchamber, and had crept out of hiding for a frantic quarter-hour of reassuring "wubbies," much to Caroline's amusement.

"So much like the early days, my love," she whispered fondly, slid into bed with him and lying close at last, after brushing out her hair. Toulon was fair-taken with her too. "You… me, so completely alone and private." She chuckled, scrubbing Toulon under his chin and chops. "And old William Pitt to pat and purr us to our rest. Or…" she added in a huskier voice, "sull up on the fireplace bench whilst…"

"Sull up, Toulon, there's a good puss," Lewrie growled.

And once the last bed-side candle had been snuffed dark, it was much like their first, nervous "honeymoon" night at the coaching inn on the way to Portsmouth, as Caroline could finally welcome him home, in her own, inimitable fashion, which fashion left him damned near purring-drained and dreamless.

The next day, they'd coached to St. George's Church for Easter Sunday services, turned out almost regal in their springtime best; and most dignified, Lewrie had thought. Caroline had worn her new gown and bonnet, which had been most fetching; Sophie de Maubeuge too, looking ethereally lovely and being ogled by the young men of the parish; the children adorable, clean and unruffled (for a rare hour or three), and Lewrie and his father tricked out in their best uniforms-Lewrie with that gold St. Vincent medal clapping on his waistcoat buttons and a spanking-new gold-bullion epaulet on his left shoulder, his dark-blue coat stiff with gold lace which hadn't gone verdigris-green from salt air, yet. The whole family, primly a-row in the same rented pew box.

It had been a joy afterwards to greet his brother-in-law, Governour Chiswick, and his lovely dark-haired wife, Millicent. They'd had an heir at last, and Millicent bade fair to present him with a second by late summer. Serene, settled country squire was Brother Governour by then-stout and getting stouter, halfway towards resembling the satirical artist Cruikshank's depictions of John Bull. And where had the panther-lean, rope-muscled side of North Carolina colonist beef Lewrie had known at Yorktown gone, he wondered?

Mother Charlotte Chiswick was there, now living with Governour and Millicent as a doting granny, a bit stooped and myopic, with hair gone white as lamb's wool. And Uncle Phineas Chiswick himself, got up in his best-though he looked as if he'd shopped for clothing in William Pitt the Elder's last term in office. Lewrie had been struck dumb to see the miserly old bastard chortle and whinny with bonhomie, clap Brigadier Sir Hugo on the back, and he almost pleasant for once!

Emily, the vicar's spinster-daughter-traipsing hopefully in a new ensemble of her own, in her father's wake, still single and becoming just the slightest bit long-in-tooth.

And the Embletons and their coterie were there of course. It was damn' near their church, their vicar, their village, their parish, maybe even their half of the county. Dignified old Sir Romney Embleton, now master of the hunt; his slack-jawed, half-wit son, Harry, sporting his Yeoman Cavalry uniform, spurs ajingling, and preening amidst the same pack of rogues and rousters who had always surrounded him-looking a bit put out that no one made notice of his lieutenant-colonelcy of militia-this Sunday, at least.

"Master of hounds now… Harry," Sir Hugo had muttered to his son. "Think he's given up on civilian suitings for the duration of the war, hey? An M.P… oh, very patriotic is Harry Embleton."

"God… pity the poor dogs then," Lewrie had whispered back, which had made his father snigger.

"The sort of man born t'be… cavalry," Sir Hugo sneered, and turned to translate that comment to his valet, a thoroughly ugly, one-eyed, old havildar, Trilochan Singh, of uncertain caste, from Sir Hugo's regiment in India. Had Lewrie run into him in a Calcutta baiaar back in the '80s, he'd have run for his life, for Trilochan Singh was raffish, bearded, and mustachioed, and looked the part of a swaggering badmash, a hill bandit who'd cut a man's heart out just 'cause it was a slow afternoon!

And no wonder Caroline dbesn 't know what to do with Father or his "man, " Lewrie wondered to himself; aren't Sikhs supposed to carry five knives all the time, or is it one! 1No matter… God, I'll wager there're more'n one of our maids sportin' more than pinch marks!

"Sir Hugo…" Sir Romney said in passing, doffing his hat, cool but politely punctilious. "Vicomtess Sophie, enchantй… Mister and Mistress Lewrie…"