Troubled Waters Page 9

  Once seated, Lewrie checked breast pockets of his uniform coat for the sheaf of folded-over letters he carried; notice from their own church, St. George's, in Anglesgreen, attesting that the Banns had been read three times; the rector's fee for the ceremony, the fees for the organist and bellowsman, the bell-ringers, and small gratuities for the crucifer and acolytes. He looked across the aisle to the groom's side and found Mr. Anthony Langlie, Senior, fidgetting with a thinner stack of letters, as well, and they shared a smile together.

  For all his time passing through Portsmouth, it was the first time Lewrie had actually been in St. Thomas A'Becket's, so he simply had to crane his neck and take in all its splendours, the decor of the ceilings, nave, apse, ambo and high pulpit, the carvings of its columns and the intricacies of the stained-glass windows, most so nautical in nature, to match the famous golden galleon atop the spire outside.

  Such a wee wedding party, in such a large edifice, nigh echoing empty, with so few relatives or neighbours able to attend. Counting acolytes, musicians, even dustmen, there weren't above two dozen folk present. Behind the immediate family on the Langlie side, there was no one except officers, Midshipmen, and a few sailors off HMS Orpheus.

  "Pardons, pardons . . . by your leave," someone whispered behind them, and Lewrie turned his head to discover that Burgess Chiswick had managed to make it down from London, after all! He slid into the pew box just behind their full one, making Caroline all but squeal with open delight. "Coach was late, sorry, can you feature a 'dilly' that runs behind? Hallo, Alan! Oh, sister, you're looking splendid! Just did find lodgings at the Black Spread Eagle, and freshen up, first!"

  Burgess no longer wore East India Company uniform, but was most nattily attired in a snug double-breasted tail-coat of bottle green, a sedate but shim-mery fabric that Lewrie didn't recognise; equally snug grey trousers and top-boots, with a new-fangled cravat that completely hid whatever sort of shirt he wore.

  Maybe that'll mollify her, Lewrie hopefully thought.

  "How do things go, in London?" Lewrie asked, whispering softer than before.

  "Won't be a grand regiment, but it looks as if I may purchase a majority for a reasonable sum," Burgess whispered back, sounding as if he was chortling all the same. "Army's not doing much, at present, so Horse Guards is a buyer's market. And, I met the Trencher family."

  "Aha!" Lewrie congratulated, much too loud for the occasion. "Joined the Abolitionist Society. . . sent my carte de visite up and finally wangled an invitation, and you're right, Alan, Theodora's damned . . .'scuse me, nearly perfect! Thankee for the suggestion."

  "Well . . . ," Lewrie said, come over all modest, swivelling so he could face Burgess and see his eager smile, but. . .

  Christ Almighty!'he gawped; what the bloody Hell are they doin' here? For there, a couple of pew boxes "astern" of those where men off Savage impatiently sat, were Mr. Sadler from his barrister's office, a bird of ill omen to be certain, and . . . in the same box with him . . . Mr. Zachariah Twigg, the devious, cold-blooded, murderous, arrogant, and duplicitous, haughty old master spy who had bedeviled Lewrie's very existence since their first encounter in 1784 in the Far East!

  Lewrie's jaw dropped open, and he could feel the blood drain from his face; to which struck-dumb expression the cadaverous-looking Twigg responded with a grim nod, a flex of his spidery fingers on top of his silver walking-stick handle which rested between his knees, and then did the very worst thing for Lewrie's equanimity . . . that cruel visage, so usually set in thin-lipped asperity and high-nosed disdain for the world in general, and sometimes for Lewrie in the particular, twisted up into a rictus of a sly smile . . . the sort of smile Lewrie might conjure that would appear upon a starving tiger or a nettled cobra just before the leap, strike, or spit. In Lewrie's harshly won experience with the man over the years, nothing good had ever come of a smiling Zachariah Twigg!

  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 gre
yer 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, outré 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!

  "Bless me, Mister Twigg, but 'tis a rare thing, indeed, to see a solicitor be so, ah . . . solicitous, as to coach all the way down to Portsmouth for a client's ward's wedding," Mr. Langlie marvelled, and making Sadler turn several livid colours, after Twigg had made but the sketchiest explanation of Sadler's relationship to Lewrie; "financial aspects" was the way he'd phrased it.

  "C . . . Captain Lewrie is a client of long standing, sir," Mr. Sadler managed to say with a straight face. "And, so successful with prizes taken over the years, that, ah . . . ," he trailed off with a sheepish grin.

  "I see," Langlie said, chin lifting and eyes glazing over after meeting one too many below his station. Sadler handled money, so he was a "tradesman," perhaps only a cut above an apothecary or tailor, and not quite a gentleman. "Your servant, Mister Sadler," he said as he turned to Lewrie once more. "A small matter, sir, speaking of financial doings . . . you are agreed, Captain Lewrie, that we each settle one hundred pounds per annum on our newlyweds . . . an hundred from me upon my son, an hundred from you upon Sophie?"

  "Absolutely, Mister Langlie," Lewrie agreed.

  In much better humour, Langlie cocked a brow again, and posed a better offer. "Care to go guineas, instead, Captain Lewrie?"

  Twenty-one shillings to the guinea, as opposed to twenty to the pound, would be £105 per annum, £210 total, in addition to the pay of a Commander in active commission, 8 shillings a day, or a little over £134 per annum, less all the damned deductions, of course, so Sophie and her new husband would start out life on a firm financial footing, even if Sophie chose to reside apart from either set of in-laws.

  I get acquitted, it's not that much more, Lewrie told himself; I get convicted and hung, and it don't matter a toss.

  "Guineas it is, then," Lewrie agreed with a smile, offering his hand to seal the bargain. He could not resist turning to the hovering Sadler and adding, "You'll see to that arrangement, will you, Sadler? There's a good fellow."

  "But of course, Captain Lewrie," Sadler had to respond to keep with the spirit of things, bowing himself away, his neck turned red.

  "Well, shall we seat ourselves, join the ladies, and allow the festivities to begin, sir?" Langlie suggested, main-well pleased.

  "Must speak," Twigg rasped in a harsh, business-like whisper in Lewrie's ear as Langlie preceded him to the table. "Later, hmm?"

  "If we must," Lewrie said with a resigned sigh. "You, father, and Sadler all came down togeth—?"

  "Later," Twigg shushed him. "All will be discovered."

  Chapter Twelve

  Praiseful speeches from Lewrie, from Langlie's father, one shy shamble of thanks from the bridegroom, and even Sophie broke tradition to tap her wineglass with a spoon and rise to express eternal gratitude to the Lewries for her adoption as their ward, which touched upon how courageous Captain Lewrie had fought to conquer the French, who would have butchered the Royalist refugees, but for him; the pledge to her dying cousin to see her safe and protected in life, and, finally . . .

  ". . . to have been so welcomed that I have quite forgotten those times when I was French, and may now make the proud boast that I have been raised as English as—as plum pudding!—and am now as equally proud to be the wife of an heroic British sea-dog. Merci to you, Captain Lewrie . . . to you, Mistress Caroline," she said, tearing up just a bit as she lifted a champagne glass. "To Sir Hugo, my jolly mentor, and to you and your company, Sewallis . . . Hugh . . . Charlotte. Darling and playful companions, all, and, to my many happy years in your family in Anglesgreen, that dear and lovely place, which will remain with me forever, no matter where Anthony and I go. Merci, merci beaucoup, to you all, and bonne chance to all of us!"

  They toasted the King, with the youngest of Langlie's Midshipmen at the foot of the long table proposing it; followed by carefully chosen wardroom toasts—Monday's "To Our Ships at Sea"; Tuesday's "To Our Men"; and Sunday's "Absent Friends." Studiously avoiding, of course, "A Bloody War or a Sickly Season" (which was too much of a reminder of the bridegroom's trade), "Hunting and Old Port" (which wasn't apropos), and most certainly not "Sweethearts and Wives, May They Never Meet!"

  After that, things degenerated to the usual "a glass with you, sir (or ma'am)," and offers of "may I interest you in another slice (serving) of this delectable . . ." ham, goose, roast beef, force meat pie, sausages, bacon, or removes of hashed potatoes, dainty made dishes, or platters of eggs, either fried, scrambled, poached, or Frenchified into omelettes.

  * * * *

  At long last, not long before most people in Portsmouth would be thinking of their mid-day meals, when every attendee and guest had been sufficiently stuffed, and was "nigh-squiffy" with spirits, Langlie and his bride retired abovestairs to refresh themselves and change into travelling clothes, and the wedding party began to break up, in search of ease of their own, or another glass of something wet. Snickering Mids and young officers, with Burgess Chiswick leading Lewrie's children, went out to "decorate" the coach.

  About a quarter-hour later, Sophie and her new husband had come back down, into a shower
of rice and good wishes, some wishes verging on the ribald, said their good-byes, shook the last hands, shared their last hugs and kisses, and departed.

  Thank bloody Christ that's over! Lewrie thought, nearly "half-foxed" himself, and in need of a restorative nap with his boots off, and the waistband of his breeches undone.

  "Done, and done," his father said, beaming with pride over how well things had turned out.

  "You did warn Langlie 'bout Sophie?" Lewrie asked him, thinking that Sir Hugo looked a tad off-centre, too.

  "Whene'er she lapses into French, or gets a thicker accent, he should be on guard, yes," Sir Hugo rumbled, swaying a little. "Guard his purse, too, haw haw!' Where will they lodge?"

  "A posting-house in Brighton," Lewrie told him. " 'Tis summer, so it should be pleasant. Salt-water bathes, flash crowds, even if the King or the Prince ain't there. Then, back to his ship on Monday, and Sophie's to move in with the Langlies near Horsham."

  "Pity," Sir Hugo said, sighing. "Still, I don't s'pose Langlie will begrudge an hour or two of his time. Sadler'll have to go speak with him."

  "Sadler? Why?" Lewrie scoffed.

  "Didn't get his Lieutenant's journals, or get a shot at deposing him for your trial," Sir Hugo explained, as if he'd surely already told his son all about it. "Recall that wee matter, do ye?"

  Here, Anthony, have my lovely ward, Lewrie thought sarcastically; oh, by the by, could you testify t'save my neck? Good trade, hey what?

  "Ahem." Sadler announced his continual, pestiferous presence by coughing into his fist again.

  "Ha, hmm?" Zachariah Twigg cleared his throat from slightly aft of Mr. Sadler, with an impatient and imperious look on his phyz.

  And, to top things off, there also stood Caroline, arms crossed above her waist, tapping a neatly shod foot with one demanding brow up, and that furrow of "Right-Bloody-Now!" between her eyes!

  Oh, Christ, Lewrie groaned to himself; which of 'em can I afford t'shrug off? Eeny-meeny-miney-mo ?