A King's Trade (47 page)

S
o nice of you to invite me,” Lewrie said as they were seated on a deep side veranda at the travellers' inn, where jewel-bright birds in cages flitted and chirped, and a cool breeze blew stirring hanging-baskets of local flowers.

“Well, I saw that your ship was no longer in danger of sinking,” Burgess Chiswick snickered, “and supposed that you'd be off as soon as the next tide, or something, and meant to see you before you departed.”

“Won't sail ‘til you do,” Lewrie told him. “I gather that we're to escort your ships to Saint Helena, to help that lone sixty-four-gun that brought you in. Perhaps all the way to the Thames.”

“Why, that'd be splendid, Alan!” Burgess cried. “Then, with any luck at all, you could even coach me all the way to Anglesgreen!”

“Haven't been home myself in quite a while, aye,” Lewrie said.

Hang it, might as well broach the subject myself,
he thought.

“Not been exactly
welcome
round the homeplace, actually,” Alan added. “Bit of a dither …?”

“Oh, that,” Burgess deprecated with a snort as their first wine arrived. “Women simply
won't
understand the realities, Alan, old son,” Burgess scoffed with a worldly-wise air that he'd not had before he'd headed for India. “Caroline's written me all about it, several times, as has Governour.
He's
quite wroth with you, though before he wedded Millicent, Governour was quite the Buck-of-The-First-Head when we were back in the Carolinas. Tell me, has he
really
gotten as stout as they say? Mother was concerned for his health, in her letters.”

“A proper John Bull stoutness,” Lewrie replied, chuckling.

“Comes of good living, and living under Millicent's thumb, I'd expect,” Burgess said with a frown. “Quite good wine, this. In India, we came to like Cape wines. Their reds don't travel well, but whites keep main-well. Well, Governour…as the eldest, he always
did
see himself the arbiter of just about everything.”

“Threatened to shoot, or horsewhip, me,” Lewrie admitted.

“What a fatuous arse!” Burgess exclaimed. “Just ‘cause
he
can't caterwaul or take a mistress, now he's a down on you. Most-like will take
me
to task, does he ever learn of my
bibikhana.”

As a Major in the East India Company Army, Burgess
would
have lived in a private
bungalow,
apart from the ensigns, lieutenants, and captains who would share quarters off the collegial mess building for his regiment's officers, nearly as grand as a Colonel. And a man with private quarters
had
to have his own cook, manservant, butler, cleaning maids,
punkah
boy to keep the fans or suspended mats swinging for cool air, and no one would think a thing wrong of him did he furnish a women's quarters out back, where he could keep a brace of fetching
bibis
to ease a man's essential needs, without running the risk of a brothel or street prostitute in such a disease-ridden country.

“Impressive, were they?” Lewrie asked with a grin.

“Only the two, but yes, Alan.” Burgess beamed back with a wink. “Most delightful. Now, most English ladies who come out to India
see
that their husbands have needs, and when in the field, are presented with opportunities galore. From what Caroline wrote me, I don't think you ever actually dallied with any wench when you were
home?”

“No, I didn't,” Lewrie quickly said, immensely pleased that his brother-in-law was being so sane and reasonable about it. “Well… I did spend some time at Sheerness with, ah…”

“The Greek widow, yes,” Burgess supplied with another wink and a snicker as the waiter approached their table. “Other than her…”

” ‘Twas all
far
from home, Burge,” Lewrie swore. “With bloody
years,
and thousands of miles, between homecomings.”

“And, you were always careful,” Burgess blithely assumed. “Ah!
Satays
and
boboties,
ye say? Like Hindoo cooking? Splendid. I will essay the ‘country captain,' and be sure to set out a pot of
chautney.”

“I'll have the Cape salmon,” Lewrie decided, looking over their chalked menu slate. “Salad, egg-drop soup, and let us share a platter of eland strips in the plum sauce between us, first off. Fresh-sliced, is it, or are they soaked
biltong?
Fresh is best, thankee, and a glass of your best burgundy each with it.”

“Biltong?”

“What you'd call jerky,” Lewrie explained. “My cats adore it. I have nigh three hundredweight in stores for ‘em.”

“Oh, you and your cats!” Burgess laughed. “I'll see your eland, and raise you the fresh lobster
remoulade,
and make it a
bottle
of the burgundy…my treat, after all, and we might as well make a feast of it whilst we may. Ship victuals are passing-fair, but… ! God, your cats. Two of ‘em, now? I recall that hulking old ram-cat of yours you left with Caroline when we sailed for India. William Pitt, wasn't it? Didn't take to
me,
I'll tell you, though he adored Caroline.”

“They're good company at sea,” Lewrie told him as their waiter topped up their glasses before heading off for the kitchens. “So, you became a ‘chicken
nabob,'
Burge? Lashings of a
rajah
's
loot?”

“Loot,” itself, was a Hindi word.

“I've come away with better than sixty
thousand,
Alan!” Burgess imparted in a careful, but gleeful, whisper cross the table. “Note-of-hand drawn on Army agents, some in
rouleaus
of guineas for easy access, and some jewelry I scooped up when we broke into rebel
rajahs'
palaces, to boot. Haven't even had them assayed, yet, and
still
have no idea of their value. Emeralds and rubies, big as pigeons' eggs, nigh a
pound
of strung pearls and such…”

“Good Lord, you fortunate young dog!” Lewrie congratulated with a hoisted glass. “And, you're looking to buy yourself a British Army commission? Why not a whole regiment while you're at it?”

“Oh, I'll end with a regiment of mine own,” Burgess casually rejoined. “Do I not make brigadier, I'd be more than happy commanding a regiment of regulars. This will be a long war, Alan, longer than any of us expect, and sooner or later, we
must
beard the Frogs on their own ground. A naval blockade won't defeat them, begging your salty pardon. Have to kick them in the teeth, make them howl in anguish, and parade down the streets of Paris before they cry ‘Uncle.'

“I expect to find an opening as a Major, at the least,” Burgess boasted, “even are ‘John Company' officers sneered at by the loftier sorts round Horse Guards. ‘Tis not so much my experience, which
has
to be much greater than theirs, but the
money
I can bid for my ‘colours,' after all. Is there need for a Lieutenant-Colonel in a
middling
regiment, well, I could afford that, too. Then, with what I've learned of
real
soldiering, not ‘square-bashing' and Church Parades, I could turn that middling regiment into one of the finest in the Army. You watch and see if I don't…just like you expect to turn any new ship you're given into the best, as well!”

Lewrie could not remember Burgess being so confident, or so loquacious, but he thought it a grand improvement on the boy he'd known.

“After a proper spell of leave, o' course,” Lewrie chuckled. “A quick run through civilised Society, at least.”

“Aye, that, too,” Burgess agreed. “And, perhaps marry.”

“Well…certainly,” Lewrie said, surprised.

“D'ye know the old Army saying?” Burgess asked with a puckish expression. “Might be King's Regulations, for all I know … ensigns or cornets
must not
marry…captains
may
marry…majors
should
marry, and colonels absolutely
must
wed! A good woman, with the proper taste and manners, sets the right tone in the mess. Seen it, when it's good. And, seen the results when the Colonel's wife wasn't up to snuff.”

“The adorable Miss Brothers, perhaps?” Lewrie japingly hinted.

“Oh, Lord!” Burgess exclaimed, all but writhing in his chair.

“No?” Lewrie teased. “She seems a prim, mannerly sort.”

“The good Reverend and his wife have been all but shoving her at me, Alan, soon as word got round the ship that I'd made a fair pile of ‘tin,'” Chiswick scoffed. “After all my time in India, I'm not sure what a good woman
looks
like, but, for all
her
time in India, Mistress Alicia is still the ‘shrinking violet' sort,
so
prim and sheltered she might as well be new-come from the Moon!

“Besides,” Burgess grumbled, “she and her family are as ‘skint' as… church-mice. I doubt the girl would fetch me fourty pounds per annum for a dowry, and her paraphernalia might not extend beyond poor Hindi-made furniture and bedding. Like … calls to like, what?”

“Definitely not ‘landed,' either, I'd s'pose?” Lewrie asked.

“Spent their whole time traipsing from one poor glebe to a next, doing ‘good works' and ministering to pagans and ‘rice Christians' in the Bengali slums,” Burgess told him with a mocking shudder. “Reverend Brothers may be the
only
man ever took Holy Orders who
believed
in a vow of poverty. Either that, or he's a disguised Catholic monk with a weakness for dour bed-partners, haw haw! Aha! This is our eland?” he exulted as the waiter fetched their first course. Chiswick forked some onto his plate, slathered a bite with the spicy-hot plum sauce, and sampled it. “Marvellous!” he cried after a sip of the local wine. “This Cape burgundy's better than any they sent
us,
too, I'll tell you. That…
biltong
of yours. It's as good as this? Might I be able to purchase some for the voyage home? ‘John Company' victuals are decent, but I'd relish some game meat, now and again.”

“Purchase-able, aye,” Lewrie told him, “though, I shot most of mine. A little hunting down the peninsula to Simon's Town, and back.”

“I'd
adore
an African
shikar,”
Burgess declared, between bites. “Didn't get much chance, our first voyage out East. Hunted all over India, of course, even bagged a tolerable tiger once, but, there might not be time enough, even with the bad water problem. Comes from relying too much on local suppliers, who filled their casks
close
to Calcutta, ‘stead of inland.”

“Hooghly River sewage, no
wonder
they had sickness aboard. ‘Tis a wonder no one died,” Lewrie commented, raking several strips of hot eland meat onto his plate before the ravenous Burgess Chiswick gobbled them all. “I'm told they'll be ready to sail in two days.”

“Not enough time, then,” Burgess said with a disappointed sigh. “Look here, then, Alan…do you recall anyone round Anglesgreen who might be a suitable mate? I intend to heed Millicent's and Caroline's advice in seeking a good match….”

“Well, Caroline might be a touch prejudiced on wedded bliss,” Lewrie admitted with a wee grimace. “Not much local ‘talent'…”

“Always did have her head in the clouds,” Burgess scoffed, “all those horrid romance novels she's read. As you allude, Millicent may be my best advisor.”

“You could call on my father in London,” Lewrie teased, again.

“Not him!” Burgess hooted. “Well, perhaps London, but not with
his
advice. A wider ‘market,' what? In fact, Alan…I've received letters from Sir Hugo, ‘bout once a year or so, and, frankly, had I my druthers, I'm much intrigued to be introduced to your ward,
Comptesse
Sophie de Maubeuge.”

“She's no ‘dot,' no dowry worth mentioning, Burge,” Lewrie had to caution him. “Though, she is become a fine and fetching, mannerly young lady, of the best accomplishments. Beyond the usual parlour and musical doings, she's an excellent horsewoman.”

“Fine as your Russian Cossack wench?” It was Chiswick's turn to tease. “My
word,
but your Mistress Eudoxia was impressive.”

“Not
my
wench,” Lewrie was quick to correct him. Just in case he got home and spoke to Caroline before
he
could. “Never laid a hand on her.
Really!”
he added, at seeing Chiswick's extremely leery expression. “Might have given it a
thought,
but…”

“And I didn't help matters. Ah, well,” Burgess said, sighing again. “Wroth as the mort is with
you,
I doubt a stab at her on my part would go down well, either.
Seemed
taken with you…a while.”