Dewey Lambdin: THE GUN KETCH

"The copyhold recorded at which manor?" Alan asked, seeing that only the thin silver line of the small creek and its brushy bottoms separated Embleton land from Chiswick land. "Glandon Park?"

"With the Embletons," Governour said. "Once it was all part of the Goodyers… Norman Guidiers, I think… but the last of 'em died out, Lord, four hundred years ago? 'Twas then the Embletons were made baronets and awarded the land."

"And the old castle and bailey?" Alan pressed. "Theirs? I've a mind to look it over whilst I'm here. Think you I could?"

"The Embletons should allow it," Governour smiled. "It was the Eadmers, vassals to King Harold, built it. I'll ask for you. 'Twas where I did most of my courting with Millicent. Have to have a care, though. There may be mantraps. That's where the rabbit warren is, below the rise there."

"I haven't offered you my congratulations on your marriage!" Alan exclaimed, hitting him on the shoulder once more. "Slipped my mind completely! A lovely bride, hey?"

"The most felicitous of women, Alan, I cannot find words to say how charming, how utterly…" Governour enthused, reddening with embarrassment. Love, which had him half-seas-over, was not an easy topic for English gentlemen. "Wait until you meet her!"

"I look forward to it eagerly," Alan assured him.

They reached a fork in the road and another bridge, this one of stout oak timbers. The fork led off to the right, across the bridge, over which they clattered onto Chiswick lands at last.

"Damn fine lands, Mister Chiswick, sir," Cony volunteered as he beheld the lushness of the growing grain fields to either side, the thickness of the wood lots, and the pastures snowy with young sheep. "Makes old Gloucestershire look like a stone quarry, so it does."

"Two hundred acres in corn and wheat, an hundred in barley and hops. And the rest rotated with sheep for manuring, or hay for fodder," Governour boasted. "Second-best in the county, next to my father-in-law's. Uncle Phineas has made it a paradise. Sheep are the coming thing in the South Counties. Now we've orchards that make the best cider around. And we rent out about eighty or so in sheep."

"Cattle, sir?" Cony asked with relish.

"Not so many as we may sell, Cony, but enough for the use of the home farms. We've pigs and chickens, and ducks, and all. And a small herd of fine horses. You take your pick, Alan, you'll see we have the beginnings of a good stud here."

The road forked again about a quarter-mile on. The right fork went to the thatch-roofed two-story cottage that Alan had visited the last time, and he began to turn his horse's head in that direction.

"No, we're all up at the main house now, Alan," Governour said. "That's leased out. Thought it would be better if Father was under a closer regimen of care under Uncle Phineas's roof."

"And the honeymooners have to share a house?" Alan teased.

"Well, no, I've a new place of my own down near the Chiddingfold Road. It was a rough tenantry, after all, that house. A man name of Byford has it now. He's the sheeper I mentioned."

Around another turn, across a pasture, stood the Chiswick manor house. It was of homey red brick, with a Palladian entrance hall added on in front, with two humbler wings of two stories each forking off at angles to enfold a lawn and flower beds around a curving drive.

"Race you to the door!" Governour shouted, putting spurs to his mount, and was off like a shot. Alan howled like a red Indian and got going in pursuit, and his gelding snorted with alarm, checkedand rose on its hind legs for a moment, then caught the spirit of the game and plunged into a mile-eating gallop, stretching its strong neck out even with the docked tail of Govemour's thoroughbred. They ran on, Alan's horse gaining until its nose was even with the other horse's shoulder, both riders hallooing and yelling to draw the attention of the house to their antics. Out came an older man in breeches and waistcoat, with a green eyeshade still over his brows, an older woman Alan recognized as Mother Charlotte Chiswick, a dark-haired beauty he took for the Amazing Millicent… and there was Caroline!

"Beat you, ha ha!" Governour bragged as they drew rein so hard they set their mounts back on their haunches. "Look who's here!"

Alan's horse couldn't help but paddle on across a flower bed and back in a circle, shaking his head and snuffling rage at being bested, curvetting as Alan patted his neck and realizing that Caroline had never seen him ride before, which made him sit up straighter and extend his booted feet in the stirrups as he calmed the horse.

He sprang down from the saddle as a groom appeared to take the reins, and strode to her side, arms open in greetings.

"How good it is to see you!" he cried. "It's been a long two years and more!"

"Alan Lewrie, oh, welcome, welcome!" Caroline replied. They met, embraced for a second, then held hands at arm's length to gaze at each other and twirl around in a small circle. "At last!"

She had become more lovely! Still too tall at two inches below Alan's height to be thought fashionable, still willow-slim, and what London blades would call "gawky." But filled out rounder and fuller in the most interesting places! Her light brown hair shone like spun gold, her hazel eyes twinkled with joy, and the slight folds below her eyes crinkled in such a merry manner that he thought he could go on gazing at her slim, high-cheeked face for all time.

"We didn't expect you 'til Friday, or the weekend," she said.

"I had good roads," he replied. "I was inspired! I rode like John Gilpin!"

Caroline inclined her head to one side and winked with one eye, forcing Alan to notice that her mother was standing there. He let go of her hands and fell to one knee before the old woman.

"I was inspired by your ginger snaps, Mistress Chiswick," he cried, "I could not wait another instant to taste your ginger snaps!"

"Alan Lewrie, you are such a wag, sir!" Mother Charlotte said with a simpering laugh, tapping him on the head with her fan. "Come here and let me kiss you! Oh, 'tis grand to see you well, after all the adventures you've been up to among the heathens! We've gotten a letter from Burgess telling us all about it. Pirates and such, and a battle! He's well, when last you saw our little Burge?"

"Well, and full of ginger, Mother Chiswick," Alan told her with a droll roll of his head. "It's the Hindoo cooking, ya know, full of ginger and chilies. Well, and in command of his own light company in my father's regiment, so he'll continue in good hands."

If you may call that good hands, Alan qualified to himself. The last time he'd seen him, Burgess was up to his teats in tawny Hindoo maidens that he and a fellow officer shared in the quarters as their private bibikhana. And his father had been going "birr!" into a set of dugs himself! Well, he thought, pirate loot and satisfied creditors in London'd keep his father on the straight and narrow. And now that he was confirmed as Lieutenant Colonel of the 19th Native Infantry, he'd be happy enough. For awhile.

"Uncle Phineas, allow me to name you Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, one who has done so much to restore the fortunes of the Chiswick family, sir."

"Your servant, sir," Alan offered, extending a hand. "I'm delighted to meet you at last."

"And I you, Mister Lewrie," Uncle Phineas replied, not looking one whit delighted by anything in the last thirty years. He was a lean old stick, dressed in rough homespun breeches, wool stockings and old shoes that appeared to have been restitched, but well blackened. The waistcoat he wore was a very old style, as was the linsey-woolsey cut of his shirt and neck-stock. Rich the man might be, but he looked as dowdy as one of his poorer tenants. He must have been in his sixties, wrinkled as last winter's apples, with stray wisps of white hair peeking from under the green eyeshade.