The French Admiral (54 page)

“Sir Hugo's in trouble with creditors?”

“More and more. Evidently, the Cockspur estates are as empty as his own by now, and he's sold off most of the country property to keep going in proper style, and your Gerald and Belinda must be expensive little darlings, too, quite a drain on his resources. It seems Gerald and Belinda are also suing your father for wasting and mismanaging their share of the Cockspur estates.”

Alan whooped and kicked his heels against the keg on which he sat, utterly floored by this turn of events. “Serves the bastard right!” he crowed in a joy that almost transported him to ecstasy. “Confusion to his cause, and may he get what's due him at long last. He could go to prison, couldn't he? Debtor's prison at the least, and real confinement as a felon if there is a just God in Heaven! I love it! I love it!”

“To victory,” Cheatham proposed, raising his glass to Alan's.

“And revenge, Mister Cheatham. Don't forget sweet revenge!”

“And revenge on your foes,” Cheatham said. “Now, I hope you do not mind, but you are now a depositor with Coutts' Bank in London. It seemed a good way to help repay my brother Jemmy for all his research and investigative work. Coutts' is a solid bank, near as good as the Bank of England, even if it is privately held. Your annuity shall be remitted you within the month, less fifty pounds which Jemmy had to spend for postage, travel expenses, and hiring some hungry young lawyers to do the discovery of all the background material. I hope you do not mind.”

“Mister Cheatham, that's better than what my father would have sent me. So as far as I'm concerned, I'm fifty pounds to the good. I can't thank you enough, you and your brother James, for doing all this for me. You went to so much trouble to determine my heritage, and got what was due me. You believed in a scoundrel, and I'll find a way to repay you for your kindnesses.”

“Well, before you do that, you should reflect on the fact that the Lewrie estate was worth fifty thousand pounds in freehold and copyhold lands, and between the home-farm, the rents and returns on investments, provided over three thousand pounds a year income. You'll not share in that,” the purser told him with a shrug of commiseration.

“Hang the money, I'm still delighted,” Alan vowed. Hold on, did I just say that? I must be deranged to think something like that. But, I'm due double what I would have gotten from Sir Hugo, and there might be eight or ten thousand waiting for me when my grandmother dies. And I still have my two thousand from
Ephegenie,
he rapidly calculated.

“Remember what I told you about having friends in this world, in the Navy, who care about you with genuine affection,” Cheatham said, his eyes moist with emotion. “You could not have earned that affection unless we thought you worthy of it, no matter what you thought of yourself. Oh, Mister Lewrie—Alan—when you expressed your disgust with yourself months ago, pronounced yourself so unworthy of any love or real friendship in this world, my heart went right out to you. Treated so badly by your father, with the word ‘bastard' branded into your soul as a cruel lie all these years, no wonder you thought yourself base and unworthy. Now you know the truth about yourself. You're legitimate, with a fine name that anyone in England could be proud of. Forced to naval life or no, you've done well at it, whether you loved it or not, and have the beginnings of a fine career in the Sea Service, and that's a gentlemanly calling a thousand lads would sell their souls to have. Do not let what you thought of yourself in the past color the rest of your life. Reflect on what you have gained and how a truly just God has brought the wheel of righteous retribution full circle until you may come into your own. Not just the money, but this new beginning, this clean slate upon which you may . . . oh, devil take it, I . . .” Cheatham wept.

“I shall, Mister Cheatham. I promise you I shall,” Alan said in all seriousness. He set down his wine glass and the men embraced and thumped each other on the back.

“Well,” Cheatham said, stepping back to fetch out his handkerchief and blow his nose and wipe his eyes. “There is a power of correspondence for you in this packet from Jemmy. Legal bumf explaining all the particulars, word from your solicitor Mr. Mountjoy with reports of the progress of your suit, and a letter from your grandmother, too, I believe. You will most likely wish to avail yourself of it, and I have work to do, God knows. My reward in all this is in seeing the salvation of a fine young man from eventual ruin by his own disgust at himself, and your retribution in society, in being restored to the bosom of your rightful family. And the restoration of your birthright.”

“Words cannot express my undying gratitude to you, Mister Cheatham. Yes, I'm sort of like Cain restored, I suppose.”

“Hmm, those sessions with the captain and the Good Book have done little for your biblical knowledge, I fear.” Cheatham smiled. “I was thinking more like an Esau restored his birthright, with the curse falling on Rebekah, where it belongs. Rebekah being Sir Hugo, in this instance.”

Alan shook hands with Cheatham and took all the papers back to his mess, to shut himself into the stifling cabin and read, shaking his head over and over at the intricate schemes, either confirmed or implied, that Sir Hugo his father and the solicitor Pilchard had perpetrated over the years against all his children. No wonder he never had a kind moment for any of us, Alan thought. We were just sources of income to him all that time. He never loved anyone but himself.

“By God, no matter how big a sinner I have been,” Alan whispered in the privacy of his cabin, “I would never have been such a heartless, evil rogue as to do that to anyone.”

Well, perhaps I might have, if pushed to it, he thought sadly. That's the way I was raised in his house, and without two hundred pounds per annum, or one hundred, I would have been up against it devilish hard. Who knows what I might have done to fill my needs? No! He's not that much a part of me, and I'm not the base bastard he told me I was, by God! I'm an English gentleman, a damned rich one, at that. I've my honor and my good name, and no one'll ever put a blot on that again. I've a name to be proud of now, and can hold up my head anywhere.

Even with Lucy Beauman, he realized. Her father had been chary of him even writing to her, safely removed from his presence as she was back on Jamaica. He had had no people he could boast about, no lands, no rents, no hopes of inheritance, and only the Navy as a future, but it was all different now. With his annuity and promised estate, he could support any wife as well as the next man. Lucy, he figured, would be worth at least four thousand pounds as a bride's portion, plus land and slaves in the Indies, or an estate back home. He was suddenly a suitable prospect to come calling on her, as good as even the pickiest daddy could ask for.

With that happy thought in mind, Alan opened the packet of letters from the lovely Lucy and began to read them, which activity took more of his patience as he stumbled over the words she had misspelled so badly that he could not discover what she had meant. There had been almost a letter a week in August and early September, full of “bawls” and “tee's” and a “sworay,” whatever the hell that was, many carriage rides, many dances, an accounting of some Gothick novel so gruesome she had not slept in three nights for fear of something coming for her from the night, her screed about a new harp-sichord to replace the old one that had been eaten by termites so badly she could no longer play it in public and her undying shame at her father's frugality in not immediately replacing it that very week, a sea voyage from England to import the new one be damned.

The letters became more plaintive in mid-September, shorter and cooler in tone, with much sighing over his silence, much heartbreak that he no longer wished to write her, and more descriptions of the gallants who had “skwyred” her to some party or other. Even though they had been most forthright in their presentations of affection, she still held her heart for Her Sailor.

“Damn the mort, what does she expect, penny post from Yorktown?” he grumbled. He had written to her immediately he had gotten to New York and rejoined his ship, but there was no answer as yet to that one. “I'm dealing with the feeblest woman on God's earth.”

But he could vividly remember how beautiful she had looked when last they had been together, that final ball on Antigua, and how stunning a beauty she really was, how fine her figure, how lustrous her eyes, and how every male that hadn't been docked or had the slightest pretension to manhood had panted to be near her. She was short, petite, ripely feminine—and unfortunately, as ignorant as sheep.

“No matter, she's rich as hell, and she'll be mine one day,” he vowed. His last letter had been full of derring-do, a flattering account of Yorktown and his escape, just the sort of thing to bring a girl like her to heel once more and excuse his silence. And in so doing, make her feel the worst sort of collywobbles when she reflected on how ill she had used him while he was off risking life and limb for King and Country.

The rest of his mail was interesting; Sir Onsley and Lady Maude back in London were full of chattiness about the Admiralty and the London season, noting how the scandal about his father had been an eight-day wonder and how much sympathy the populace (the better sort, anyway) felt for Midshipman Lewrie. Sir Onsley hinted that there might be a change of command in the Indies, and that he would drop a word in the new admiral's ear regarding his favorites.

The Cantners wrote to say that with the impending end of the Lord North government, they were retiring to the country for a space, but he would be welcome to call whenever he returned home. They also made much over the scandal, providing clippings from the more aristocratic West End papers. There was also a veiled promise that even in the Opposition, Lord Cantner could still do him good, once Parliament reconvened.

The letter from his grandmother he saved 'til last, and it was a poignant tale of how she had been torn between wanting to rescue him from his father's house, but not wanting to give Sir Hugo a penny by recognizing him as heir, and her eternal grief that she had left it so late, and that he would not get the full estate. Barbara Nuttbush (
née
Lewrie) had evidently not known the full circumstances of his joining the Navy, for she declared him to be a true patriot and a fine English lad to volunteer for Sea Service. Bad as her health was, she lived only to see him once before she passed over, if he should come home when the war ended, and to her poor mind that seemed soon, the way people were talking. There had even been a motion made in Parliament, voted down of course, that anyone who recommended or supported the continuation of the war should be tried for sedition. There was talk of a peace conference, talk of an envoy from the Crown to be sent to treat with this Continental Congress in Philadelphia or Boston.

There was also a postscript full of pride at the honor he had done the Lewrie name by his daring escape from Yorktown, so the report to the Admiralty from Hood, Graves, and the new man, Digby, must have already been released at home.

I can but shew only the most heart-felt Relief and lift up my prayers to the Almighty that you escaped the Clutches of that despicable Monster, and have shewn such Courage and Honour as to be an ever-lasting Credit to the memory of your poor Mother. If it is your Wish to remain a Sea-Officer, then uphold the Lewrie name with Boldness and Pride and pass the name on to your own Sons and Daughters once more untarnished.

Poor old girl doesn't know me at all, does she? Alan thought. Maybe it's best she doesn't. I'd let her down sooner or later.

Still, there was a good name to uphold now. With all the favorable comment in London and in the Fleet once the news got about, he would be remembered, remarked upon, not just for his past deeds, but for Yorktown as well, and for coming out of the scandal with clean hands. Let them say anything about me, as long as they say something, he thought, remembering a piece of advice he had read or heard in conversation. There might be a new admiral in the West Indies soon, to take over from Hood, and he would have gotten a tip in the right direction from Sir Onsley, perhaps even from Lord and Lady Cantner, would have heard the name Alan Lewrie in the papers before he left England, and would know him at least by reputation, which was thankfully good. He had made master's mate—could a commission be that far away? Would he have to wait four more years to strictly fulfill the qualifications Samuel Pepys laid down so many years before? Or could he count on a promotion by the will of a local admiral, whose decisions on promotions were almost never questioned by higher authorities as long as they made the slightest bit of sense?

Alan got a pot of ink and a new quill from his chest, laid out some fresh stationery, and went out to the mess table where the light was better to write letters. His grandmother first; then his solicitor and then Cheatham's brother at Coutts'; then Sir Onsley and Lady Maude; then the Cantners.

His hand was cramping by the time he got around to writing to Lucy Beauman with the delightful news of his new fortune, but for some reason the first words he scrawled on a fresh sheet of paper were:

Aboard the
Desperate
frigate, English Harbor, Antigua
January 5th, 1782
Dear Mistress Caroline,

Now why the devil did I do that? he wondered, ready to cross it out. But that would waste a sheet of vellum, and Lucy would go barking mad if she received a letter headed by another girl's name, even crossed out, and he was not so rich that he could take that liberty with her.