The King's Marauder

“Covilhā,” Lewrie said, trying on the name, “is that Spanish, Italian, or Portuguese, if I may enquire?”

“I am Portuguese, sir, from Oporto,” she said with a smile and some greater animation, “though my family long ago lived in a town of our same name.”

“Oporto!” Lewrie exclaimed with an easy laugh. “My father was there for several years … hidin’ from his creditors. Never been to that city, but he said it was most pleasant. And, he adored all the wines, of course.”

“But, how can a gentleman of the English aristocracy be so poor that he must seek shelter from debt, Captain?” Maddalena wondered, with a shake of her head.

“He was a Knight of The Garter, but our family was bankrupt, and never noble. He won his knighthood, as I did mine, As for bein’ a Baronet, let’s just say that King George the Third was havin’ a bad day when he dubbed me a knight.”

Maddalena pretended shock that Lewrie would speak so casually of a monarch, much less his own, though she had to stifle an outright peal of laughter.

“Really, sir!” Major Hughes chid him, appalled.

“Really, he did, sir,” Lewrie gladly rejoined. “There was a long line of us t’be honoured, two or three ahead of me were dubbed Knight and Baronet, and I expect it stuck in his head, so when it came my turn, there it was. I thought it wouldn’t count, but the palace flunkies told me that the Crown don’t err,” he related, drawing out “err” into a long growl that sounded more like “Grr”, which set the girl tittering, and Hughes going redder in the face.

He was trying hellish-hard to please, and going for charming, witty, and amusing, and was delighted to see that his effort was working. Mistress Covilhā was giving him the same sort of speculative regard she’d shown him when he’d dined near her and Hughes at Pescadore’s, a frank consideration that he might be more fun than her present companion.

“Well, we were just about to dine, Captain Lewrie, so I’m sure you will excuse us,” Major Hughes said, looking a trifle irked.

“But of course, sir,” Lewrie allowed.

“Perhaps Captain Lewrie might care to join us,” Maddalena suggested quickly.

“Wouldn’t care t’intrude,” Lewrie pretended to beg off.

“Oh, but he must, Major Hughes!” Maddalena eagerly insisted, going kittenish and coy. “You are the … brothers in arms?”

Major? Lewrie scoffed to himself; Is she in his regiment? Why not “my dear” or “darling”, or “woolly bear”? She don’t sound all that affectionate with him.

“We work in close co-operation, yes, m’dear, Captain Lewrie to the sea-side, and me on the land, but…” Hughes tossed off as if it was the sketchiest of associations.

“Then between the two of you, you can tell me all about it,” Maddalena sweetly said,

“Well, if you’d care to, sir,” Hughes grudgingly allowed, looking as pleased with the idea as a Hindoo served a slab of roast beef.

“Well, I must confess t’feelin’ peckish,” Lewrie said with a shrug, as if it did not matter a whit, “but, do allow me to play host. My treat? Where did you plan to go?”

“Thought we’d dine at Pescadore’s,” Hughes gruffly said.

Maddalena made a face, hidden from Hughes by the side of her bo

“An excellent choice,” Lewrie congratulated. “Let us go.”

*   *   *

Later that afternoon, at his total ease in his cabins aboard Sapphire, and slowly nursing a cool glass of sangria, the discovery of which delighted both him and his cook, Yeovill, Lewrie reviewed their mid-day di

When the waiter, Michael/Miguel, had asked for their beverage choice, Lewrie had ordered a pitcher of sangria, claiming curiosity, and Maddalena had seconded him, leaving Hughes to his pale ale, siding with the girl to win a bit more favour, and thank God that it had proved sweetly enjoyable. For his entree, Lewrie had gone for the fried fish and cracked-open lobster, as did Maddalena as if taking her cue from him, leaving Hughes to his roast beef and potatoes.

He’d given Maddalena a culinary tour, from Canton in China to Indian fare at Calcutta, regaling them with the spiciness of the West Indies, the game meats of Cape Town, the glories of Low Country fare in the Carolinas in the United States, even the moose, elk, and cod of Halifax. Hughes, it seemed, had not travelled all that far, and could only speak glowingly of salmon, grouse, and pheasant when shooting or fishing in Scotland.

Despite a strong urge to do so, Lewrie had not boasted of his naval career, or his battles, hopefully leaving the impression that he’d done a slew of things heroic, mentioning only the battle off the Chandeleur Islands of Louisiana which had won him his knighthood in 1803. The faint scar on his cheek? A youthful idiocy when he was a Midshipman, in a pointless duel on Antigua, and he hadn’t even won the girl in the end!

She had asked if he was married, or had children, and he had told her of Sewallis and Hugh, now both at sea in the Navy, and his daughter, Charlotte, back home at Anglesgreen (the less said about that sullen, spiteful wench the better!) and that his wife had died five years before, leaving the details to her imagination; leaving Maddalena with the notion that “poor, widowed Alan Lewrie” was lonely and alone, and possibly available. He told her of his cat, Chalky, who was good company at sea, and the ship’s silly dog, Bisquit, and how he’d been acquired, pretending to laugh off the idea of his loneliness … upon that head, at least.

Did Hughes’s regiment have a mascot animal, like the “Regimental Ram” of the Light Dragoons he’d escorted to Cape Town? The coat of arms and badge of the 53rd featured a gryphon, but, being mythical, were rather thin on the ground, unfortunately.

All in all, it had been a fine di

“Sir Hew’s a bee in his bo

Hughes had grumpily assured him that “the silly baggage” was not a spy, had no maidservant to pick up on careless statements, and did for herself, and in the end had more sense than to blab in the markets. “Women, what?” Hughes had scoffed. “We could most-like include her in the briefings, and she couldn’t make heads or tails of it in the end.”

What a perfect, purblind fool is Hughes, Lewrie thought in smug delight; The bluff bastard doesn’t see her as anything more than a convenient “socket”, and doesn’t know the first bloody thing about keepin’ a woman fond, and it’s God’s own truth that she doesn’t much care for him.

It was the lot of many women in this life to make the best of their shortened circumstances, were they poor, widowed, and had no husband or kinfolk to support them, and it was the rare woman who could follow any sort of trade. The brothels and alleys were full of them, and the prettiest in domestic service were fair game for the masters and the masters’ sons, which usually led to the brothels eventually.

However Maddalena had ended up on Gibraltar, she had had to settle for being a kept woman. Hughes had taken her “under his protection”, as the saying went, the lucky shit, paying for her lodgings and up-keep somewhere here in the town, but was so abstemious that he didn’t provide her with a cook or a single maid-of-all-work when one would be hired so cheap?