Dewey Lambdin: THE GUN KETCH

"Hello, won't you come into our street?" A whore's greeting.

"Larlcee bahut sundar hai, jeehan, El-looee Sahib." Cony blushed a bit, though still more fluent than Lewrie would ever be. "Bazaari-rahndi naheen hai. Makaan naukari-larkee. "*

*"The girl is very pretty, yes, Lewrie master. Not a bazaar-whore… a house serving-girl."

"Namaste, Cony-ji," Lewrie snickered, putting his palms together and bowing his head, "May God protect you, Cony."

"Got me a cundum, sir," Cony whispered, darting out the door as Lewrie shucked his nightshirt and reached for his stockings.

"God damme, I've corrupted him, swear if I haven't, hey, Pitt? Do they let you take breakfast? Hungry?"

Alan finished dressing and headed for the stairs, and William Pitt leapt off the bed and made a tawny streak ahead of him.

God, there was leftover ham! Salted kippers, hard peppery sausages, crisp bacon strips, boiled, fried, or scrambled eggs on the sideboard, warming in candle-heated covered servers! Racks of thick, chewy home-baked bread toasted on forks over the kitchen fire and fetched out by the half-loaf! The remains of the peach "jumble" sat on a raised pie plate, and stone jugs of preserves, jams and marmalades paraded down the length of the breakfast table, along with huge, sweaty globs of home-churned butter between every two place settings.

And for the serious feeders, there were pork chops sizzling on black-iron pans, heaping bowls of gruel, and three different kinds of cheeses. As for beverages, there was ale, a lighter, gassier beer, tea, coffee, more chocolate, or a heavy, almost-black berry wine made on the property. More of Caroline's doing, he discovered, though he could not assay a taste after heaping a plate and taking three cups of strong tea.

There was a mob at table; Caroline, looking a bit perkier this morning, dressed in a middle-green wool dress with a short jacket for riding on over it, Governour in rustic and worn boots, breeches and waistcoat so he could tour the properties. Millicent was there in a white sack gown, shawl and mobcap. Mother Chiswick was turned out in gray wool. There was the head groom, the gamekeeper, the assistant estate manager, who was trying to keep track of a two-sided conversation between Governour and Uncle Phineas, who was gnawing his way through a stack of pancakes, pork chops and ale, both eager to be out and doing, and a continual parade of underlings there to take orders and turn to with a will.

Alan picked at his food, trying to carry on a conversation with Caroline, who was seated by his side this morning, with William Pitt in either his or her lap, peeking over the top of the table and singling out particularly dainty delicacies from their plates with one sly paw, when not being offered fatty bacon fast enough to suit him.

"Christ, is it always like this?" Alan managed to ask in one of the lulls, broken only by the sounds of somewhat sedate chewing. "I've seen quieter twopenny ordinaries on Boxing Day!"

"I'm afraid so, Alan." She smiled. "The work of a farm starts early, and never stops."

"Then thank God I was never cut out to be a farmer," Alan said in reply. "The Navy's Bedlam enough. Cony mentioned something about riding this morning?"

"If you would wish it, Alan," she assured him. "If you would rather loll about for the morning, we could go later. That is, if you could tolerate my being your guide."

"Anywhere, as long as it's not here," he chuckled, patting her hand. "And anywhere with you, Caroline."

"Then let's be on our way, right now!" she urged, half-rising. "If you have eat sufficient?"

"Point me to a horse!"

She rode as if the Hounds of Hell were at her heels, astride the older-style saddle and bent over low, her light brown hair touched with gold streaming from beneath her straw bonnet like flame. Her mare was a good'un, making it hard for Alan's gelding to keep up for at least half a mile, until they thundered up a rising down towards a patch of wood lot, their mounts sucking and blowing like bellows.

At last they slowed to a walk as they neared the summit, and Alan could draw alongside her to see what had vexed her so.

"Good little mare you have there," he complimented her. "And you ride prettily. But what was all the hurry?"

"I just wanted to get out from under foot," she replied, just a touch wan, though flushed with the exertion and the excitement of a hard ride. "I liked our little house near the road better, instead of all the coming and going around Uncle's. At least down there, we felt… settled and at peace. Snug in our own house, at last."

"I don't see why you had to move, really," Alan said as their mounts cropped grass after getting their wind back. "Surely the maid that cares for your father could have come there instead."

"Uncle insisted on it," Caroline replied with a wry grin, which flitted away quickly. "He insists on rather a lot of things, I fear."

"Caroline, is there something the matter here?" Alan asked. "Far be it from me to presume to intrude in your family's affairs, but…"

"Oh, Alan, you who've done so much for this family already," she warmed to him, leaning over to lay a gloved hand on his sleeve. "As if we don't consider you kin by now… of sorts! You do not intrude to ask me anything."

"Then what's going on?" he shrugged.

"When Father lost his leg and fell ill, he was months in bed," Caroline sighed, looking away down the toppling downs toward the sea to the south. "Governour was head of the family, then. But he was still estate manager to Uncle Phiqeas. And just married to Millicent Embleton. So, by rights, Uncle Phineas is the master of the land. And of our lives. What did the Romans call it… paterfamilias'!"

"And the booty that Burgess sent home from India did not help?"

"Only in improving our finances," Caroline said with a frown. "But not in our station, you see. We are still tenants. Relatives, yes, but mostly tenants when it comes to Uncle Phineas. We had hoped for a warmer reception from blood kin."

"I remember in London, when we were finding Burge his situation, your uncle did not sound wholly… solicitous and charitable to you."

"It was his obligation, nothing more," Caroline told him. "A chore of blood. He was eldest, responsible for his younger brother's folly. That's what our plantation was in the Carolinas… folly. Their father united the two estates after my granduncle died without issue. I've always felt Uncle Phineas feared that Father would split it again, even after getting a fair price for it when he sailed for the Colonies. He didn't have to pay him a shilling for it, after all. He was the eldest, due to inherit everything."

"Yet he gave back 120 acres, for a guinea a year," Alan pointed out.

"Oh, yes, he rented back 120 acres. But that ended last year!" Caroline almost hissed in anger. "Father too ill to work it, Gove up on the larger tract, or pining for the Embleton land… who else could do it? Mother? My mother is a dear woman, Alan, but she depended on my poor father for everything! It could have settled on Burgess, but you know what he thinks of farming."

"And Governour makes no objections?" Alan asked, unable to see the (used-to-be) fiery young hawk-face accede to losing land.

"Dearest Alan, Governour will inherit all when the time comes," Caroline barked in sour amusement "The last, eldest Chiswick male. Then Uncle Phineas will have what he's always wanted."

"And what is that?" Alan asked.

"An heir to hold the land. If he's said it the once, he's said it anhundred times." She frowned. "The land is forever. Men and women rise up and die, but the land is always. And he doesn't want to see it in a stranger's hands. The Embletons get what they want as well," she almost spat in conclusion. "And that is?"