do his tippling and socializing there for the rest of his natural life, odious as that thought was to him once he had inspected the dim, sooty, slightly rank gloominess of that shoddily delapidated establishment.
And, finally and most unhappily, it had been deemed, again, prudent, for the "happy couple" to depart instanter for Portsmouth, rather than consummate the vows in any local bed.
They had had to coach as far as Petersfield to feel safely out of range of any residual rancor. Once there, in a homey, low-ceilinged set of rooms at a rambling old coaching inn, the happy couple celebrated the especial bliss of newly begun married life in proper style, which left Caroline purring, and Alan so ecstatically spent, and so delighted by her physical charms and her ardor that he wondered just how he was going to deal with being separated from her once his new ship was ready for sea.
Charms or no, there was a thrill of expectation that morning. Following a teasing, tickling, mirthful and infinitely pleasing bout after the "abigail" at the George Inn had brought their tea, breakfast in the public rooms, and a lingering goodbye kiss, Alan still felt an impatient urge to tear away from her.
Dressed in his best, brand-new uniform, white waistcoat and breeches gleaming, and buttons and metal appointments shining fit to blind the unwary, Lt. Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy, made his presence known at the shore offices of the Port Admiral before going out to his new command.
"And you are?" a punctilious silver-buttoned naval clerk said with a traplike opening and shutting of a severe little mouth.
"Lewrie, sir," Alan replied. "I'm come to take command of Alacrity."
The clerk looked him over carefully, one bored eyebrow cocked in cynical appraisal. Silver-Buttons had sometimes been appalled by the turnout of some holders of the King's Commission, by how shabbily and "pinchbeck" salty stalwarts could dress themselves, as if their slightest attempt at nearness was a civilian crime.
Silver-Buttons also made a rough estimate of Lieutenant Lewrie's value during his appraisal. Real gold coat buttons, not gilded; a new cocked hat, and by the officer's London accent, probably from James Lock. Real silver buckles on his shoes; a good watch and impressive fob, and a damned good sword, even if it was a hanger and not a slim, straight smallsword. A Gill' s, and they didn't come cheap! Hmm!
Silver-Buttons rang a tiny handbell on his desk to summon his compatriot, the regulating captain of the Portsmouth Impress Service. Aye, this Lieutenant Lewrie had the wherewithal, unlike so many others, and could pay to get his ship commissioned and manned when the pettifogging frustrations of the dockyards (and Silver-Buttons knew just how to invent said frustrations) became insurmountable for an aspiring young captain. Not too much, though, Silver-Buttons decided; that scar upon the cheek, that restless look in those genial eyes (were they gray or were they blue, he dithered) spoke caution, and a limit to what Lewrie might abide before making loud complaints to Silver-Buttons' superior.
"Might I see your orders, Mister Lewrie?" The clerk smiled, deciding upon a larger measure of civility than was his wont.
Alan surrendered his documents from the Admiralty.
"You'd be amazed how many Sea Officers positively lurk around this anteroom," Silver-Buttons "tsk-tsked" as he read those precious papers. "Or attempt to bluff their way aboard a ship, bold as a dog-in-a-doublet. One must be certain of the bona fides in these times. Aye, yours are quite in order, sir," he concluded with a smirk.
"Quite, sir," Alan nodded, itching to get his documents back, and safely into a deep side pocket of his coat. "Would it be proper for me to make my courtesy call to the Port Admiral at once, sir, or might I perform that chore after reading myself in?"
"I regret to inform you, Lieutenant Lewrie, that that worthy is not here. Nor will he be for the rest of the week," Silver-Buttons
And, finally and most unhappily, it had been deemed, again, prudent, for the "happy couple" to depart instanter for Portsmouth, rather than consummate the vows in any local bed.
They had had to coach as far as Petersfield to feel safely out of range of any residual rancor. Once there, in a homey, low-ceilinged set of rooms at a rambling old coaching inn, the happy couple celebrated the especial bliss of newly begun married life in proper style, which left Caroline purring, and Alan so ecstatically spent, and so delighted by her physical charms and her ardor that he wondered just how he was going to deal with being separated from her once his new ship was ready for sea.
Charms or no, there was a thrill of expectation that morning. Following a teasing, tickling, mirthful and infinitely pleasing bout after the "abigail" at the George Inn had brought their tea, breakfast in the public rooms, and a lingering goodbye kiss, Alan still felt an impatient urge to tear away from her.
Dressed in his best, brand-new uniform, white waistcoat and breeches gleaming, and buttons and metal appointments shining fit to blind the unwary, Lt. Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy, made his presence known at the shore offices of the Port Admiral before going out to his new command.
"And you are?" a punctilious silver-buttoned naval clerk said with a traplike opening and shutting of a severe little mouth.
"Lewrie, sir," Alan replied. "I'm come to take command of Alacrity."
The clerk looked him over carefully, one bored eyebrow cocked in cynical appraisal. Silver-Buttons had sometimes been appalled by the turnout of some holders of the King's Commission, by how shabbily and "pinchbeck" salty stalwarts could dress themselves, as if their slightest attempt at nearness was a civilian crime.
Silver-Buttons also made a rough estimate of Lieutenant Lewrie's value during his appraisal. Real gold coat buttons, not gilded; a new cocked hat, and by the officer's London accent, probably from James Lock. Real silver buckles on his shoes; a good watch and impressive fob, and a damned good sword, even if it was a hanger and not a slim, straight smallsword. A Gill' s, and they didn't come cheap! Hmm!
Silver-Buttons rang a tiny handbell on his desk to summon his compatriot, the regulating captain of the Portsmouth Impress Service. Aye, this Lieutenant Lewrie had the wherewithal, unlike so many others, and could pay to get his ship commissioned and manned when the pettifogging frustrations of the dockyards (and Silver-Buttons knew just how to invent said frustrations) became insurmountable for an aspiring young captain. Not too much, though, Silver-Buttons decided; that scar upon the cheek, that restless look in those genial eyes (were they gray or were they blue, he dithered) spoke caution, and a limit to what Lewrie might abide before making loud complaints to Silver-Buttons' superior.
"Might I see your orders, Mister Lewrie?" The clerk smiled, deciding upon a larger measure of civility than was his wont.
Alan surrendered his documents from the Admiralty.
"You'd be amazed how many Sea Officers positively lurk around this anteroom," Silver-Buttons "tsk-tsked" as he read those precious papers. "Or attempt to bluff their way aboard a ship, bold as a dog-in-a-doublet. One must be certain of the bona fides in these times. Aye, yours are quite in order, sir," he concluded with a smirk.
"Quite, sir," Alan nodded, itching to get his documents back, and safely into a deep side pocket of his coat. "Would it be proper for me to make my courtesy call to the Port Admiral at once, sir, or might I perform that chore after reading myself in?"
"I regret to inform you, Lieutenant Lewrie, that that worthy is not here. Nor will he be for the rest of the week," Silver-Buttons
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