A King's Commander (14 page)

Toulon interrupted Lewrie's musings, breaking off his own sort of “siege-work” to rub and purr, and meow for attention, which he got at once. Looking up and sneering a lofty “so there, see?” at the cat atop the wine cabinet.

“Only the few days, Toulon,” Lewrie promised him. “
Oww!
” Piqued, perhaps, Phoebe's calico had taken a defensive swat at him, and had connected on his right ear!

“Oh,
merde alors,
”
Phoebe cooed, exiting the sleeping coach in a lacy flutter of feminine finery. “Joliette, elle est ze
méchanceté,
ees ‘naughty,'
oui? . . .
ze
très
naughty
jeune fille.
I
am sorry,
mats
she ees protec', uhm . . . ?”

“It's
my
wine she's protecting,” he groused, placing a handkerchief to his ear. Damme, he carped to himself; the bitch'z drawn blood!

“Oh, Alain!” Phoebe comforted, taking the handkerchief, and dipping it in his hock, to dab at his ear. “I kees, an' mak' . . . uhm . . . a
meilleur?
Ah,
better? Merci.
My Englis', ees . . . better,
mais. . . n'est-ce pas?
I kees an' mak' eet better,
hein?
” she cajoled, swishing her hips and gazing up at him with mischievous, impish eyes.

”Après souper, peut-être,”
he japed in return, any qualms in his head evaporating in another instant.

“Certainement, mon chou,”
she replied, with a promising grin. And retrieving her cat, Joliette, and keeping his wineglass, to sashay off astern to the crude sofa to sit and stroke her beast down. He poured himself another, and joined her.

Along the way, he got a peek into the sleeping coach, to find that her pitiful collection of luggage he recalled from Toulon before the evacuation had grown considerably. There were now two full portmanteau chests, brimming with yard goods. Not only dresses, but bed linens, coverlets, the wink of pewter. There were unopened crates that had rattled as they'd come aboard—glassware and plates.

“I was surprised, your removing,” he began.

“Oh, Alain, to 'ave ze proper establissement
pour vous,
I mus' buy ze many s'ings!” she explained, looking as if she would be eager to jump to her feet, dash into the sleeping coach, and display all her new possessions like a birthday child. “To take ze suite, wiz furnishings, uhm . . . ze chair, ze tables, ze bed,
oui. Mais,
ees ver' empty? So I change rooms, for save you' monnai. An' I buy zose nice s'ings zat mak' eet . . . familial? More homey? Zo when you are ashore, wiz me, you are non asham-ed.”

“Aha,” he said noncommittally. It sounded hellish close to hopes of “familial,” domestic bliss; last year's wren hatchling making a first nest of her own.

'Least I'm fortunate, he thought, taking a cool sip of his hock: don't know why, but all my girls have been the economical sort. Never a spendthrift in the lot! Knock wood!

Phoebe shrugged, turning pensive.

“D'avant, w'en I am leetle girl . . .” She sighed. “Papa an' Maman are
très pauvre . . .
ver' poor. 'E ees ze soap-maker? Maman 'elp eem . . or wash ze laundry for ozzers. Sometime ze
domestique . . .
for ze rich? Ver' poor. 'Ave nozzing. I go wiz 'er, sometime . . . I see what ozzers 'ave, an I wan' zat
pour moi.
For Papa an' Maman,
aussi.”

She put out a hand to him, to draw him to sit by her side more closely on the sofa, as she tried to explain her life.

“Papa, 'e
nous a quittes,
w'en I am
seize,
uhm . . . sixteen? An' Maman ees weak, ver' sick sometime, so I tak' 'er place, an' work 
as ze
domestique.
At firs', in Bastia, w'ere we live. Zen I go Toulon,” Phoebe told him, almost sadly, slipping an arm through his, turning to face him.
“Oui,
I become
putain
. . . ze petite whore.
Domestiques
wiz pretty . . . 'oo
are
pretty, hmm . . . eet 'appens,
n'est-ce pas? C'est dommage, mais . . . ?
'Ave ze
belle vetements,
ze beautiful gowns, go to ze dances . . . ride een ze fine coach?
Mais,
come 'ome to ze rooms zat I on'y rent. Ver' impersonnel, wiz nozzing of mine? Oh, Alain, 'ow ver' much I wan' ze 'ome of my own, someday! Furniture
I
prefer, non w'ot come wiz rent. Forgeev,
plais, mais . .
.”

She ducked her head.

“I take ze smaller rooms to save
monnaie, oui.
Non jus' for you' sake. For
moi.
Zo I 'ave
monnaie
for to buy preety s'ings for . . . for zat someday,
comprendre?
Zo someday, I weel
be
somebody.”

“If you needed more, Phoebe . . .” He chuckled.

“Non,” she insisted, with a somber cast to her features, perhaps for the first time in his experience of her. “You, I adore, Alain,
mon coeur.
Anozzer man, per'aps 'e 'ave more monnaie, can mak' me to be ze somebody at once,
mais . . . j'm'en fous!
Wiz
you,
I am 'appy! Eef eet tak' time for to be ze grande lady,
c'est dommage.
I be mistress to one man, on'y.
Vous!
Non more
putain.
We mak' each ozzer 'appy, an' I wait for you to sail 'ome to me. W'ere I mak' you ze domicile, uhm . . .
intimé et agréable . . .
'ow you say?”

“Pleasant and cozy.” He grinned.

“
Oui,
pleasan' an' . . . cozy!” Phoebe giggled, rewarding his abbreviated English lesson with a chaste little kiss, and settling down on his side, her head on his shoulder, cooing with delight.
“Mon Dieu,
I am so
beaucoup
'appy you 'ave return-ed, Alain! I mees you so much, I
ache
for to be 'appy an' content, again. To be wiz ze on'y man 'oo . . .
care
for me. 'Oo tak' si . . .
such
good care of me! I weel non be expensive, you weel see!
Parce que . . .
because, I love you so much.”

“A quiet,
little
place, then,” he inquired hopefully. Though coin did “chink” about in his head. How much might that “quiet, little place” cost? There'd be furniture, paintings, servants' wages . . . And quiet, secure lodgings meant good neighborhoods, far removed 
from the commercial quarter; a coach-and-four might be necessary! The need for
china, silver plate, cutlery, lanthorns, and candle stands,
beeswax
candles by the gross. Drapers and paperers in and out with even more costly . . . ! He took a fortifying sip of wine.

“Nozzing
grande, mon chou,
”
she reassured him, though, half lost in fantasies of domestic perfection. “I non need ze
palace, hein?
Une leetle
appartement,
wiz balcony. We go to San Fiorenzo?
Bon.
So ver' steep ze hills,
mais . . .
non ze
rent,
Alain! Balcony wiz view of ocean. Zo I watch fo' you'
navire . . .
you' ship.
Une domestique,
on'y, 'oo eez live zere wiz me . . .
une
'oo come for day, to cook an' clean. Corsica . . . ees ver' poor.
Une peu monnaie
go ze long way, zere, you will see, I
promesse.
An' zo many
émigrés royalistes
go zere. You remember, w'en we leave Toulon, zey tak' away zere good s'ings? 'Ave
non monnaie,
now. Zey will be sell zose preety s'ings,
bon marché.
Zat ees ze ‘cheap'!”

Alan turned to peer at her. For such a sweet, seemingly guileless young fairy girl, Phoebe had suddenly sounded as calculating and pinch-penny, as grasping as a Haymarket horse trader!

“Be grow up poor as
moi
, Alain,
mon chou.”
She chuckled, in answer to his puzzled expression, with a wry tip of her glass in salute to her past. “You fin' 'ow to shop for bargain!”

The thought
did
cross his mind (it must be said), even as he was placing a supportive and comforting arm about her shoulders, that there was
still
time to cry off their cozy arrangement. He could give her fifty pounds in coin—the Devil with his note-of-hand! Fifty pounds would be more than enough to support her for months, if Corsican living was as cheap as she described it. Certainly, it would be cheaper than establishing an entire new household, with all the requisite furnishings.

Damme, he thought wryly, I know sailors're said to have a
wife
in every port. But nobody said a bloody thing 'bout whole
houses!

“Trus'
moi,
Alain,” she whispered, her soft breath close, and promising, near his ear. “As I trus' you, wiz my 'hole 'eart.”

Well,
that
did it!

I
do
have a fair lot o' prize money, he relented, anew. Maybe it 
won't be as cheap as it was in Toulon, or aboard
Radical
after the evacuation. God, that didn't cost tuppence, really. And the Navy'd paid most of it, didn't they?

They looked into each other's eyes, fond smiles threatening to break out on each other's lips. Eyes crinkling in remembered delights.

That, too, did it!

Right, so she'd had a hard life, he told himself. She was so lost and alone, in a harsh world. Should he spurn her, she'd find a new patron, of course . . . that was the lot of penniless but beautiful young girls, with no family connections, or power to resist. That was the way of the world! If needs must, Phoebe might return to being a courtesan for a dozen, a hundred other men, to make her way. What was it his brother-in-law Burgess Chiswick had said, when they were besieged at Yorktown? A North Carolina folk colloquialism? “Hard times'd make a rat eat red onions!”

She'd hate doing so, of course. Phoebe had abandoned that life to take up with poor Lieutenant Scott, as her only lover—she his only—not because Barnaby had been any
sort
of decent toward her, really, or kept her in
any
sort of style, but because she didn't want to tumble any farther down that maelstrom spiral to ruin and oblivion that was the lot of most whores, no matter how pretty or clever.

Aye, Phoebe might be a little “Captain Sharp” when it came to finding a bargain, of wheedling for any edge that might guarantee her another week of safety and security. In that, she might be as grasping as the boldest, most raddled dockside “mutton,” as cunning and sly, and rapacious, as a starving fox by the hen-yard fence. But Phoebe hadn't yet grown talons and teeth. Or armored herself against exploitable emotions. She was still vulnerable, and
somewhat
open.

For the sham, the semblance of true love and affection, Phoebe would offer him . . . dammit,
any
man who was halfway kind to her! . . . all that she possessed. So she'd never have to surrender herself to servitude in some filthy knocking-shop. So she could think of herself as something more than an easily expendable commodity.

So she could cling to that longed-for, sometime in the misty future, that “Happy Isles of the West” fantasy of hers that she could rise. That she
could
be somebody fine before she lost her beauty and it was too late to escape her lot, or her poverty-stricken childhood.

Not much of a sham at all, really, Alan told himself as he gave her a gentle kiss on her forehead. God help me, I really
am
fond of her! Can't ever offer her what she most like wishes of me, but . . . even if I'm a halfway port on her passage, the voyage'll be great fun. She's fond enough of me, certainly. And trusting. Rather simple and trusting, when you come right down to it. God help me, again . . . but
I'll
not be the one to turn my back on her. I'll
not
throw her back into the sordid stew she's worked so hard to flee!

“I do trust you, Phoebe,” he told her at last. And giving her a supportive hug. “I won't let you down. Do my best by you, hmm?”