The Gun Ketch

PROLOGUE

. . . is not to be entered into unadvisedly, nor lightly; but reverently, deliberately . . . the vicar intoned, his voice ringing in stony, rebuking echoes from the transept of St. George’s of the village of Anglesgreen.

Now they bloody tell me, Lt. Alan Lewrie thought in anguish!

. . . and in accordance with the purposes for which it was instituted by God, the vicar continued, casting a chary eye upon the couple before him, which made Alan almost wilt. He directed his gaze to his right, where Caroline stood flushed and trembling, ready to faint with joy, and the smile she bestowed upon him at that moment was so radiant, so shudderingly glorious, that he found himself quaking as well, not completely in terror of his bachelor-hood’s demise.

Into this Holy Union, Alan Lewrie, gentleman, and Caroline Chiswick, spinster, now come to be joined. If any of you assembled may show cause why they may not be lawfully married, speak now; or else forever after hold your peace, the vicar warned, wincing at the words, as if he expected the Hon. Harry Embleton to charge through the doors at the back of the nave on horseback with sword in hand. The crowd . . . a devilish thin crowd, Alan noted . . . fairly bristled and stirred, and a sigh or two, a grumbly cough could be heard.

I require and charge you both, here in the presence of God, that if either of you know any reason why you may not be united in matrimony lawfully, and in accordance with God’s Word, you do now confess it, the reverend rushed on in breathy relief.

The tiniest quirk of a smile touched Alan’s lips, in spite of his best intentions, as he mulled over his passionate, albeit brief, marriage to a Cherokee/Muskogee Indian girl named Soft Rabbit, and wondered if it counted. No, he sighed, no benefit of proper clergy there, he thought; no way out. Damme, and my enthusiasms for quim!

How do I get myself into these predicaments, Alan groaned.

Caroline, will you have this man to be your lawful husband, to live together in the covenant of marriage? the vicar inquired, not without what to Alan seemed a cocked brow in amazement. Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful unto him as long as you both shall live?

I will, Caroline declared without a pause with a tremulous eagerness and vigor, delivering upon Lewrie once more a visage of pure adoration.

Alan, the vicar intoned, rounding upon him, and to Alan’s already fevered senses seeming to frown the slightest bit, will you have this woman to be your lawful wife . . . ?

Forsake all others? Lewrie shivered. Bloody, bloody hell! Be faithful as long as we both . . . I say, hold on, there! Mine arse on a bandbox! The solemnity crushed in upon him then, and he like as not would have torn out the doors, if his legs would have shown any sign of strength beyond holding him shudderingly upright.

Yet found himself declaring for all time, I will, with a force born on a quarter-deck that echoed off the ancient stones like a pronouncement of doom.

There was a tentative Giving In Marriage by Uncle Phineas, in his role of paterfamilias for the Chiswicks, before the vicar ordered Let us pray and they could thump to their weak knees upon the pad before the altar. And as the vicar recited the short prayer of blessing before the Lesson and Epistle, and the vows proper, Caroline insinuated a slim, cool and soft hand into his and their fingers entwined to squeeze reassurance and strength.

There was no backing out now, Alan thought; in for the penny, in for the pound, ain’t I? Ye Gods, it may not be that bad—I do care for her, well as a rogue like me may care for anyone. I might even call it love. Much as I know what that’s all about!

He returned her squeeze, and they secretly leaned their shoulders against each other, and he became enveloped in the light, citrony scent of her Hungary Water perfume again.

BOOK I

"Sed tamen, nymphae, cavete, quod Cupido pulcher est:

totus est in armis idem, quando nudus est Amor.

Cras amet qui numquam amavit,

quique amavit cras amet!"

"Yet take heed, nymphs, for Cupid is wondrous fair:

when Love is naked, he is fully armed.

Let him love tomorrow who has never loved,

and let him who has tomorrow love!"

Pervigilium Veneris

ALBIUS TIBULLUS

CHAPTER 1

It was springtime in England! Springtime in Surrey, and the High Road south from Guildford to Anglesgreen was aflutter with the stirrings of butterflies. Young birds flitted and swooped, or sat and chirped at their good fortune to be young, alive, and English. Bees buzzed, and if one listened hard enough, one could hear green buds and tender shoots sigh with delight in the somewhat warm wind.

Two young men rode along the verge of the roadway to avoid the muddy spatters and deep ruts carved by winter traffic, and the creaking wagons and wains of the local farmers, the occasional flock of sheep being moved from one grazing to another.

One young fellow was a countryman, towheaded and sinewy on a middling hired mare, leading a pack horse upon which were strapped a few traveling bags of cylindrical leather, or pouchlike carpet material. He was dressed in a sailor’s slop-trousers, shirt and neckerchief, with a low-crowned, flat-brimmed hat of black-tarred straw on the back of his head, and he gazed with a rustic’s fondness on the verdant green countryside, recognizing merit and worth in well-tended flocks and fields, of trimmed hedgerows and woods.

The other was revealed a gentleman by his better horse, by the fineness of his buff-colored breeches and waistcoat, the newness of his plum-colored coat and dark beaver cocked hat, and the sheen of his top boots. This young gentleman snared the attention of passing travelers, and the interest of the farm-girls, whose sap was stirring after a long, miserable winter. There he found merit and worth!

He was three inches shy of six feet tall, trim and lean. Hair of middle, almost light brown, crowned his head, and fell in a short queue at the back of his collar, bound with a bow of black satin, and the hair was not drawn back severely, but allowed to curl slightly and naturally at his temples, over his ears, like the bust of a Roman or Greek warrior. The face was tanned much darker than most fashionable young gentlemen would care to display, providing a background for eyes that would occasionally crinkle in delightful greetings to young farm-girls, eyes that were sometimes gray, sometimes blue. And upon one cheek, there was a slight white pucker of a scar, which gave him the dashing, rakehell air of past, and present, danger. Soldier, or sailor, most judged him. A young man who held the King’s Commission from his clothing, and the way he bore himself, from his fine manners when he lifted his military-cut hat in greeting, from the effortless way he rode as if born to a house of means, with stables and the license of the hunt which did not come to the son of a crofter or tenant.

Lt. Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy, was feeling pleased as punch with himself, and with life in general, at that moment. The spirited roan gelding he rode was a sound mount, and there was nothing better to his way of thinking than to be in the saddle in the middle of a spring morning. Had his father not practically press-ganged him into the Sea Service, he might have considered a career (a short one until he inherited, he reminded himself) in a cavalry regiment. What else was there for a younger son that befitted one raised the way he had been? Trade? A clerking job? Certainly not the clergy, he shuddered!

Much as he had at first despised the life he had discovered in the Fleet (and still looked upon with a chary eye as one of continual deprivation and bleakness), he had in his luggage orders that would put him in command of a ship of war, would transport him a quarter of the way around the world to the Bahamas and the West Indies, for three years of steady pay, at five shillings per diem, to augment his prize money, his French guineas, and his Mindanao pirate’s booty, all now safely ensconced in London at Coutts & Co., bankers and each drawing a tidy sum of its own per annum.

And the world, for once, was at peace. Ninety percent of the Fleet was laid up in-ordinary and there would be no round-shot round his ears for a change. He did, good as he felt, admittedly suffer a tiny twinge of feyness from past experience whenever life tasted so succulently sweet. But it was a very tiny twinge, and it passed.

He had been far to the west country, to Wheddon Cross in Devonshire to visit his grandmother Lewrie, now a Nuttbush, which stratagem by the old lady had saved the estate from his father’s clutches, though to his cost. She had faded since his last visit in 1784, but was still among the living; though that, mercifully, could not be said of the dour old squint-a-pipes she’d wed to transfer coverture, and the inheritance, out of Sir Hugo’s reach.

And now he was due at the Chiswick estate, there to languish in a lotus-eater’s paradise of sleeping late, riding to hounds, and splendid country dinners and dances, until he was due to report to Portsmouth to take command of a vessel named Alacrity. And on that Chiswick estate would be the lovely and charming Caroline Chiswick, who by her evident fondness in her letters, was positively pawing the ground to see him once more.

What could be more perfect, Cony! Alan laughed out loud as he turned to look over his shoulder at his man Will Cony, who had shared his adventures (and his misadventures) since Yorktown.

’Deed i’tis a fair mornin’, sir! Cony enthused back, beaming a farm lad’s pleasure to be in such fair country on such a fine morning. An’ there’s the squire’s house, round the bend, sir. Not a league from the public house at Anglesgreen.

We’ll stop for a pint, how’s that suit you, Cony? Lewrie promised. Then on to the Chiswicks.

Pint’d suit me right down t’me toes, i’t’would, sir, Will Cony agreed, kneeing his mare to match his master’s quicker pace.

Anglesgreen was a quiet community, sited in a small, winding dell along the banks of a sluggish but clear-watered stream, with banks and bed flowing with rushes and grass. The village was surmounted to north and south, and at the far western end, with low and gently rolling hills, some forested, some asweep with velvety swaths of rippling, growing grain. And those hills from the summit of the nearest seemed to topple, to roll on forever like a delightful verdant sea—north toward Glandon Park and the Thames, south all the way to the Channel at Portsmouth.

There were three curving streets to Anglesgreen, two on the north bank, and one on the south bank, with two narrow stone bridges, one at either end of the village. There were shops on the High Street, Georgian-bricked fronts and bay windows for display, spreading to either side of a much older Tudor-timbered public house called the Ploughman. Behind the High Street, the homes were cottages with thatched roofs, while on the opposite bank the houses were newer, some Georgian or semi-Palladian, roofed with slate, and looked upon with some suspicion as being a bit too grand and uppity.

All three streets curved to match the bend in the stream. At the east end, by the oldest bridge, there was St. George’s Church, a high and narrow stone pile dating to the Norman Conquest with a topsy-turvy cemetery nearby that sheltered headstones and monuments green with moss, some from the ancient Anglo-Saxon clan which had erected the now-fallen castle and bailey which brooded half a mile to the north of the first bridge, now lost in scrubby woods and brambles, that marked the edge of the local squire’s lands. To the western end, by the second bridge, was a New Green, a parklike expanse of tall oaks that fronted another public house and inn, replete with stables and a budding row of new cottages around it—the upstart Red Swan Inn—it had only been there since Henry V’s times, and in tiny Anglesgreen, one could ascertain a body’s station in life by whether a person frequented the older, darker (and cheaper) old Ploughman, or rubbed elbows with the magistrate and squire’s crowd at the Red Swan. Lewrie, knowing strangers were more welcome with the elite, headed for the Red Swan, and as they rode at a sedate walk up the High Street, villagers wagered, correctly, they’d not tie reins at the Ploughman.

Anglesgreen could be thoroughly boresome, Alan knew—he’d been there briefly once before in ’84. But it was homey, a village so typically English with its stone buildings and fences, its hedgerows and garden plots, that anyone six months at sea would crave its peaceful boredom. The trees were tall, giving acres of shade. Ducks and swans swam the lazy stream in slow glides. Stocky fellows in homespun or a great house’s castoffs fished from the bridges and banks, gamboled on the greens, strode about in boots and straw hats, or sat sipping their ales in front of the Ploughman, a solid and dependable yeomanry who paid their rents on time, worked their acres with diligence, both prayed and played with vigor, and formed the backbone of the nation.

There were smells of new thatch, of cooking and baking, of a load of wash being boiled, and the scorch of ironing and starch. Of new-brewed ale mellowing in barrels, and of cartloads of manure and animal fodder. Most especially, ale, Lewrie smiled to himself as he drew rein at last in front of the Red Swan.

There was a daisy-kicker there in a twinkling to take reins and lead the horses off for a drink and a rubdown, with the older ostler waiting hopefully by the stable doors to see if he might make money by putting them up for the night, or rent them a coach.

There were quite a few horses tied at the rails, splendid and shiny blooded mounts, all sound hundred guinea horses, with bright saddle leather and clean pads. A backgammon game was proceeding at a table without the welcoming double doors, in the shade of the trees, and a lively sound of merrymaking coming from inside.

Alan and Cony entered, handing their hats to a bobbing Abigail in homespun and a pure white apron and mobcap. The public room was crowded with gentlemen gathered around a large table, all standing and laughing. One of them Alan recognized, and went to his side.

Governour Chiswick! he called. The very fellow I was looking for!

Good God, here already? Governour said, spinning to take his hand and thump him on the back. We didn’t expect you until the end of the week at the earliest! By Christ, but you’re looking fit an’ full of cream! The Chinee and the Hindoos couldn’t put you off your feed, hey?

And I see that married life agrees with your digestion, Alan joshed him, giving him a slight poke in the breadbasket. Governour Chiswick, the whip-lean and dour eldest Chiswick he had met at Yorktown was now becoming a stout, apple-cheeked fellow, a settled and extremely well-married junior squire. Quite a change from the officer of a North Carolina volunteer regiment, and deadly with a Ferguson rifle or sword. Or a pistol, Alan remembered; this was the bloodthirsty, blackhearted devil who’d gut-shot the informer that had gotten half his surviving company killed just before they’d escaped, so he could linger in agony for days. To look at him now, you’d never catch an inkling of that.

It does, indeed, Governour grinned wryly. Come here, Alan, and meet the lads. And Will Cony, still tailing along with this rogue of ours? Well, step forward and take a stoup of ale with us. Good to see you, Alan. And you, as well, Cony.

Thankee, sir, Cony replied, as someone shoved a stone tankard into his paws. He stayed long enough for introductions, then faded off to the counter, apart from the quality, to have a jaw with the publican, and his pretty serving wench.

Alan, this is my father-in-law, and you couldn’t wish a finer, Governour boasted, and the gray-haired man in question pretended to blush with mock embarrassment. Sir Romney Embleton; the fellow who saved my bacon at Yorktown, Lieutenant Alan Lewrie.

Your servant, sir, Alan replied. So pleased to make your acquaintance.

My brother-in-law, Harry Embleton . . . Governour babbled on.

Sir Romney Embleton, Baronet, was about Alan’s height, though heavier, dressed rich and fine in dark brown velvet coat, gray breeches and a white, floral-figured satin waistcoat, with the prerequisite black and brown-topped riding boots on his thin shanks. Sir Romney favored an older man’s short white tie-wig. He looked to have been in his youth a most handsome and well-setup fellow, with clear blue eyes and a fairly smooth complexion free of smallpox scars and such. The nose was a trifle beaky, and the upper lip long as a horse’s.

The same could not be said for the son, the Hon. Harry Embleton, who, though he was dressed richly as his father the baronet in red coat, blue waistcoat and breeches, could not aspire to the easy style and dignity of the father. Harry had the same extremely long upper lip, the narrow horsy face of his father, and, to his misfortune, the same overhanging beak of a nose. But the eyes were set rather close together, and were pouched as though by dissipation or too many late hours. And where Sir Romney’s hair might at one time have been blond, Harry’s was almost black and lank, tied back in a severe style. And finally and most unfortunately, where the elegant Sir Romney Embleton was blessed with a square jaw, young Harry had a pronounced slope from weak chin to the point where his throat dived into his neck-stock. In profile, he resembled an otter.

Now were you with the Army, or with the Navy, Lieutenant Lewrie? Sir Romney inquired as Alan dipped his phiz into his ale.

Navy, milord, Alan answered, wondering if he was teasing.

Lock up the maids and yer daughters! Harry Embleton guffawed. Or yer footmen! The Navy’s here!

Damn the bastard, Alan winced as several of the rowdies had a laugh at his expense! I think I could dislike this piss-proud young fool, Alan stiffened and cut his eyes to Governour, who had winced a little himself.

I can assure you, Mr. Embleton, your virginity is safe with me, Alan stated calmly as the laughter died away. Damme, but this is a good ale! Haven’t tasted its like in weeks.

Just ashore, are you, Mister Lewrie? Sir Romney asked quick as a wink to cover the nervous laughter that reerupted, this time at his son’s expense. Out of the corner of his eye, Alan could see that Governour had gotten a glum expression, and that Harry Embleton was glaring daggers at him, his face gone paler.

Since February, milord, but I was visiting in the west country with my grandmother. I don’t believe Devon has the soil for grains and hops that Surrey has. Certainly not to make such a splendid ale as this, Alan stated. Now the Chinese have good ale, surprisingly.

You were with Burgess Chiswick in the Far East, Sir Romney nodded, dominating the conversation. A trading expedition?

An attempt to increase British trade, milord, Alan said in reply. He could never discuss what occurred in the past two years until England was once more at war with France. The activities of English warships disguised as merchantmen, had they been known, would be a violation of the treaty terms ending the recent war. To . . . uhm . . . open new markets and trading stations, in cooperation with the East India Company.

Trade was not a gentlemanly calling, though profit from an investment in trade was quite acceptable, as long as a proper gentleman did not soil his hands with the sordid details of buying and selling.

This facile explanation, breezed off with a languid wave of a hand, sounded semiofficial, requiring the presence of a naval officer, and Alan had gotten quite good at trotting it out since his return.

Calcutta, Canton . . . Governour said with a wistful look. I believe you saw both, did you not, Alan?

’Deed we did, Governour, Alan turned a thankful grin on his compatriot. And a host of trading posts you wouldn’t believe for horrid heat and rain, too. Took me a month to squeeze the last water out of my hats. But tell me, how does the Chiswick family fare? Is Caroline well?

Quite well, Governour almost snapped. Father, though . . . well, there was bad snow last winter, and his horse fell with him. Laid out for an hour or so before anyone missed him, and . . . the surgeon had to take his leg where it had been broken by the weight of the horse.

Governour, how truly awful, I had no word of it!

He recovered at long last, thanks be to God, but . . . if you do recall how he was in Wilmington when you first saw him . . .

Ah, Alan nodded. Sewallis Chiswick had been half out of his mind back then, brought on by the death of his youngest son George, of being burned out and impoverished by Rebel irregulars led by his own relations because he was a Tory, a Loyalist, and had equipped the regiment in which Governour and Burgess served. A heavy burden on you, Governour, which I am sure you managed well, Alan concluded, laying a supportive hand on Governour’s broad shoulder.

Thank you for that, Alan, ’twas well said. And well meant, to be certain. So, how long can you stay with us? Governour brightened.

Three or four weeks, if you can tolerate me that long, Alan laughed. Then it’s off to Portsmouth and a new ship, Alacrity. To be with the Bahamas Squadron. I’ll need a good last dose of country life to do me.

That we can, that we can, Governour promised. We’ll have you aching for the sea by the time we’re done carousing.

Sounds as if you gentlemen were doing a bit of carousing of your own as I rode up. Alan smiled. Did you race those fine horses I saw outside?

Court day, Mister Lewrie, Sir Romney beamed. We dealt with a couple of ruffians, and were just recalling their appearance.

Two poachers, Harry Embleton explained. We’ve been missing a rabbit or two from the warren, a deer’s carcass was found stripped of meat. Well, last night . . . Harry had to wheeze in fond remembrance for a moment. Last night, Douglas here, our game-keeper, sets a man-trap or two, and bang on midnight, ‘blam’ goes the trap! We run out to see what we caught, and no sign of ’em. But this morning, bold as brass, they turn up at Mister Gallworthy’s the surgeon’s, rattling with buckshot, and he sent his man to fetch us. Caught ’em with the pelts, the meat, an’ all in their larders, and had ’em into court!

One fellow’s bloody eye was gone! chortled Sir Romney. Took the blast right in the face, I suppose, as he crawled up the path in the woods to lay a snare. And will you believe, sir, that he claimed . . . hee hee . . . he claimed he knocked his own eye out!

’Cause the Good Lord told him to, haw haw! another stalwart chimed in. Said he’d looked at a dirty book o’ pictures . . .

With only the one eye, mind, Sir Romney snickered.

An’ th’ good book says, sir, it says . . . Harry continued, trembling with pent-up laughter, iffen yer eye offends ye, then yer s’posed t’ pluck it out, ain’t ye now, sir? Right, yer honor, sir?

As if that offending eye wasn’t holed dead center with shot, Sir Romney frowned. Shot from my spring gun, damme if it wasn’t.

And the other could do no better than to say he’d pelted himself whilst taking a loaded fowling piece down to show it off, Harry grumbled, as though the second victim had been no amusement at all.

So what was the punishment? Alan asked, appalled by them all. He’d seen men quilled with splinters, limbs ripped off with grape-shot, or puking blood from stomach wounds suffered in battle. He’d been hit enough to know what agony those men must have endured already.

Transportation, Sir Romney said. And the families to be put out of the parish. I’ll have no poaching on my lands, and by Jesus, they know it.

And those two tenancies’ll be enclosed. Last of the common lands this side of the stream, anyway, Governour stated calmly. And they were always behind on their rents. Well, Alan. I have to get back home. Finish up your ale and ride with me.

Only if you promise you have some more waiting, Alan managed to smile. Good morning to you, gentlemen, milord. I trust I’ll be seeing you again in the next few weeks. We’ll hopefully have merry times?

CHAPTER 2

Bloody squires, Cony grumbled as they were fetched their horses. A spring gun. A man-trap! Jesus, sir."

And transportation to where, I wonder, with America lost, Lewrie speculated in a soft voice, the Fever Islands? That new Van Diemen’s Land? They’ll rot in the hulks for months. Years.

And the fam’lies turned out, sir, just ’cause they ain’t free-holdin’. Damn the bloody Enclosure Acts, too.

Easy now, Cony, Lewrie warned.

Oh, I knows, sir, Cony huffed, swiping his hair back from his forehead and putting on his hat. Might o’ been practiced sinners’n layabouts. But they might o’ been poor folk what needed the meat t’ keep their young’uns fed, too, sir, an’ not able t’ graze but one cow on the commons. Rabbits eatin’ up what little garden they got, an’ them not able t’ lift a finger, ’cause they’s the squire’s rabbits. Life c’n be hard fer poor crofters, sir.

And a damn sight harder now they broke the law poaching, Alan declaimed with a nod of understanding. But, they knew the risks. And they lost.

Aye, sir. Makes a man sad, even so, sir.

That it does, Cony. Let’s get mounted, then, and go see nicer people than Sir Romney bloody Embleton.

Aye, aye, sir.

That’s Embleton land yonder, Governour pointed out as they rode west out of the village and crested one of those rolling hills. Our land starts at that creek that feeds the stream. Up and over two hills west, about a mile. Then down south to the Chiddingfold Road, and another stream. There were two estates in the beginning, from our grandfathers on down. Two manors, two families. Father was due his parcel in ’46, but he wanted to stay in North Carolina, so he sold it freehold to Uncle Phineas to work as one farm. Paid a good price to us, he did, and brought it up to snuff. Altogether, we’ve about nine hundred acres in freehold or copyhold. And when we came back to England, Uncle Phineas rented one hundred and twenty acres back for a token guinea a year.

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 man-traps. 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 better 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, checked and 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 Governour’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 brrr! 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 was 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 at 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.

Can’t thank ye enough, Mister Lewrie, Uncle Phineas said as he dropped Alan’s hand after one quick, dry, shake, and stuck thumbs into his waistcoat watch pockets. Gettin’ little Burgess employed with the East India Company. Wasn’t sure he’d find a situation, not with times so hard. Wasn’t cut out fer farmin’, that’s God’s truth! And fer seein’ Sewallis an’ his family safe to Charleston so they’d be able to come home where they belong.

And for saving Burge and Governour after Lord Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, Uncle, Caroline reminded him, and he looked as if he’d been reminded of that act of desperation perhaps once too often, for he screwed his wrinkled lips together and merely nodded. I welcome ye to me home, Mister Lewrie. Stayin’ long, is it?

A few weeks, if I may be allowed, sir. Better that than kicking my heels in London, or down in Portsmouth waiting for my new ship to be turned over, Alan replied, wondering just what sort of welcome he’d come to. "Ah, Caroline, Mother Chiswick, look who’s here, too? You remember my man,