Chapter 3

Mwack. A carping little sound, half trill in the back of the throat. Then the rustle of cleverly parted bed-curtains, and a heavy weight hitting the mattress down near the foot of the bed.

Mwack, again. Something stalking up the side of the bed to the pillows. Then a leap from one side to the other that for one moment put all four paws in an area no larger than a pocket watch. Right in the center of Alan’s belly.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he groaned, opening one eye.

He was confronted by a round, furry face, and two yellow eyes staring back at him somberly from three inches’ range. Mwack! More petulant, louder this time. William Pitt had his best pout on.

“And what the hell do you want, you little bastard?”

William Pitt had been the best mouser aboard the Shrike brig, a ship absolutely infested with the creatures—his former captain, Lieutenant Lilycrop had adored the little beasts—the king ram-cat and the one with the worst disposition of any feline even Lilycrop had ever met. Why he, at long last, took a liking to Lewrie (who had always thought a cat was better drowned at birth), no one could ascertain.

He’d moved into the great cabins once Alan had gotten command. More than that, William Pitt had startled the officer initially appointed into Shrike at the entry port and sent him crashing back into the longboat to break his unfortunate skull before he could even introduce himself.

They’d paid off at Deptford Hard, laying Shrike up in-ordinary, and sending the crew off to civilian pursuits. Somehow, he’d followed Alan’s belongings down the gangplank at the stone pier, and into the coach. The cat had an open door to depart anytime he felt like it, but so far, had shown no signs of taking advantage of it, other than a stroll out into the back-gardens, or sunning himself when the miserable London weather allowed. There were queens enough in the neighborhood for him to roger when they came into heat, and Alan grudgingly let the cat be fed in his apartments.

Pitt slept near the hearth, either in the below-stairs kitchens where the housemaids and other servants slipped him some tucker on the side, or in the bed-chamber. William Pitt wasn’t picky. Nor was he of a disposition that doted on much affection from humans, so he could be tolerated most of the time.

Alan put out a hand and rubbed the top of the cat’s grizzled head. Pitt allowed himself to be greeted, then shook his head vigorously and sank down on his haunches to scratch at his offended ears with a back paw. One did not make the mistake of touching Pitt more than he liked more than once. Not if one enjoyed having fingers.

“How’d you get in here, anyway?” Alan mumbled, sliding up to the headboard and plumping up his pile of pillows.

“Mornin’, sir?” a tentative voice called from beyond the bed-curtains. “Your man Cony said to come wake you, sir? “Us Abigail, I am, sir?”

An “Abigail” named Abigail, Alan grinned lazily. How rare.

“Aye, I’m awake, thankee, Abigail.”

Alan slid the bed-curtains on the inner side of the room back to let the heat of the fireplace in. The room was cold as charity.

The girl was kneeling down by the grate, dropping fresh coal on the embers and stirring them up with a poker.

“Hollo, you’re a new ‘un, ain’t you?” Alan commented.

“Started las’ week, sir,” the girl said, turning to give him a grin. She was a lovely little thing with new-penny coppery hair and blue eyes, not a minute older than fifteen or sixteen, he noted. “Your man already done took your letters, sir. But he says to me on his way out, he says, I’m to wake you, an’ ask you for your key so’s I can make your tea, sir?”

“Ah, right,” Alan said. “In my waist-coat pocket”

She passed out of his sight to the foot of the bed and he heard something rustle as she picked up his clothes from the floor where he’d dropped them. Then she came back to the open side of the bed.

“This be it, sir?” she asked him. Close to, he saw that she had a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her saucy, upturned little nose.

“Aye, that’s it.”

“An’ what’ll you be havin’ this morning’, sir? Tea? Coffee? Chocolate?” she asked.

“Do you-make good coffee, Abigail?” Alan asked her, sitting up higher against the pillows. “I mean, really good coffee?”

“I reckon I can, sir,” she replied, a trifle dubious.

“Grind the beans fine as corned gunpowder. Use a heaping spoonful per cup, mind, don’t scrimp,” Alan instructed. “Water hot as the hinges of Hell, none of this tepid water. And let it steep and drip until all the water’s gone down into the pot, or the cup.”

“Aye, sir, I’ll do it, s’help me, though I know nothin’ ‘bout gunpowder, sir,” she promised earnestly. ‘Toast, too, sir? Or d’you want me t’ go out an’ get some rolls for you?”

“What sort of a day is it, Abigail?” Alan asked.

“ ‘Tis that cold, sir, t’would make a stone cupid shiver,” she informed him. “Snow up t’ the bottom steps already, an’ ice under. An’ more comin’ down, sir, like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Toast, then, from the kitchens. No sense slipping and breaking your pretty young pate for my pleasure,” Alan said, grinning. “First, I need a kettle of hot water for shaving, and then the breakfast.”

“I’ll do her, sir!” Abigail said as she curtsied her way out.

Alan steeled himself, then slid out of bed and toe-walked to his stockings and slippers on the icy cold floorboards. He stripped off his nightshirt and bundled it into the armoire, donned a clean pair of white canvas slop-trousers from his sea-chest, and the heavy dressing gown.

He went to the living room window and rubbed the glass clear of fog and frost on the inside to look out. The semi-translucent view he had of the street reminded him more of the Arctic wastes he’d seen north of Halifax and Louisburg than London. The girl had stoked up the sitting room fire as well, so he sat close to it as he waited for his shaving water.

Abigail was back with a large copper kettle, using a thick rag and both hands to hold it away from her so she wouldn’t sear herself on it. “Your man Cony says t’ me, he says, sir, that you likes plenty o’ hot water o’ the mornin’s, so I brought ya a full gallon measure.”

“Topping!” Alan cried in appreciation. “Wash-hand-stand’s in the bed-chamber. Lay me out a fresh towel and I’ll attend to my shaving things, Abigail. Here, let me take it. It looks heavy.”

“Yessir, it is, sir, but I can manage, sir. No bother.” She poured the bowl full, set the kettle down by the hearth, and handed him a towel on the way out. Alan hummed to himself as he unrolled his “housewife” and stropped his razor. It wasn’t too long before he’d not had to shave every morning, and that only for Sunday Divisions aboard ship, at that. But Delia Cantner appreciated the lack of stubble to irritate her more private parts. If he was to keep his tryst with her that afternoon, he wanted to please.

Once shaved, he fetched out a washcloth and began to sponge himself down from neck to ankles with hot water and a precious bar of scented Italian soap, a present from Lady Delia (one of many she’d given him over the last few months). To do so, he had to drop his slop-trousers.

Ohpe! came a small gasp from the door to the sitting room. The young maid Abigail had come back with his coffee and toast, and was standing in the doorway with the tray in her hands, ready to drop it in shock at seeing him standing there with his robe open and his trousers down around his ankles. Before he could say a word in explanation, she was gone, and he could hear the tray and the items on it rattling as she set it down on the table and began to lay them out.

Alan grinned to himself, finished swabbing himself dry and belted the robe about himself again, neglecting the slop-trousers.

“Ah, hot as the very devil,” Alan said after his first sip. “Abigail, you simply don’t know how bad coffee usually is here in London. Tepid muck, too weakly brewed, looks about the color of China tea. Worst excuse for a beverage I’ve ever seen.”

The girl was blushing a furious red from her startled embarrassment still, and only nodded and avoided his eyes as she finished bustling about with his breakfast things, her hands trembling a little.

“They brew it much stronger and thicker in the West Indies,” Alan went on. “The way I’m used to it. This is good. Very good. You could show my man Cony a thing or two, I’m certain.”

‘Thankee, sir,” she replied, losing her shocked color at last. “I’m that glad you likes it. Jam for your toast, sir? Black currant’s the only sort we had below-stairs this mornin’, sir. Or I could fetch you up some treacle.”

“No, this black currant’ll do right nice, thankee anyway, Abigail,” Alan replied. The girl had looked so abashed a moment before he suspected she’d drop dead of apoplexy, but now, she was grinning again in her shy little way, eager to please with an errand. “Care for some toast, Abigail?”

“Ah, I couldn’t go ...” She blushed again. “I’ve had me breakfast hours ago, sir, an’ there’s so much work to be doin’ ...”

“Do you work for another of the lodgers, or for the housekeeper, hmm?” Alan asked to keep her in the room. She was incredibly pretty in her own way. “And how much work is there, really? Fuss and clean the lodgings after the occupants are off at work? Upstairs maid, or maid-of-all-work, are you?”

“Maid-of-all-work, sir,” she admitted. “An’ I does for that Mistress Harper on the third floor, too, but it’s little enough there is to do for her, her bein’ out on the town so much, you know, an’ she with her own maid already.”

A bell tinkled downstairs and the girl was off like a hare, suspending any further conversation. Alan smeared butter and jam on his toast, spooned sugar into his coffee, and began to munch, missing his newspaper. Usually, he arose late, as he had that morning, had his sparse breakfast and hit the streets, making for a coffee house where he could borrow the house paper and converse with others of his sort. He could not remember the last time he’d stayed in his lodgings this late in the day with nothing to do, long after all the others had departed for their daily chores or rounds of visits.

There was a rap on the outer door, and Abigail was back once more, wiping her hands on her apron so as not to soil the letter she bore in her hands.

“Iss note come for you, sir,” she squeaked, in awe of the crest and the quality of the paper, and the liberality with which it had been sealed in blue wax. “From a great lord, I thinks. The footman come in the downstairs parlor grand as a lord his-self, he did.”

Alan opened it and read that, due to the weather, Lady Delia Cantner would not be receiving that day. She wished his company, but not at risk to life and limb from the slippery streets, nor the risk of sickness at being exposed to such cruel cold. Besides, her previous guests were staying over because they couldn’t get home, and his presence would not go down all that well. Tears, unrequited passion, etc.

“Ah, well,” Alan sighed, folding it back up and tossing it aside, thinking that he’d not had much luck lately in notes from women. “So much for visiting friends for cards this afternoon,” he explained. “Lord and Lady Cantner. Knew ‘em in the Indies. Saved their lives a few years ago.”

“Ah, did you, indeed, sir!” the girl gushed. “Your man Cony, he told me, he says to me, how you were a Sea Officer, an’ how many adventures you’ve had, sir. Yorktown, an’ Red Indians, too!”

“This was before I met Cony, before I joined the ship he was in. Oh, sit you down. Ever had coffee, Abigail?”

“Lord, no, sir! ‘Tis dear stuff for the likes o’ me back in Evesham.”

“Have a few minutes to spare from your work?” Alan cajoled. “Have a chair, pour yourself your first cup of coffee and see if you like it. And I’ll tell you all about how I made the acquaintance of Lord and Lady Cantner.”

“Well .. . just for a few minutes, sir,” she replied shyly, casting a glance toward the hallway door. ‘The housekeeper, she’d turn me out if she thought I was shirkin’.”

“Tell her you’re doing my rooms while my man Cony is off. That I asked you to do it,” Alan coaxed. “Have a slice of toast, too.”

Undermaids usually were run ragged from sunrise to long after sundown for little more than six pounds a year, and not a full day off to themselves. And most were half-starved teens down from the country whose stomachs growled loud as a midshipman on short commons. The offer of a second breakfast, some quiet time away from the demands of the housework and a tale of derring-do alone with a gentleman were too much temptation. She plunked herself down in a chair, snatched toast and knife in a twinkling and laid to with a will.

“Oh, ‘tis bitter,” she said of the coffee, but liked it a lot better with sugar in it—another luxury most servants never tasted except when allowed. And for a few blessed minutes, she sat on the edge of her chair, gasping here and there, uttering an occasional “my stars” or “God bless!” at his saga of desperate danger, as though it were a play she was watching from the cheapest seats in the back.

“Why, sir!” she exclaimed in a soft voice when his narrative was through, “I do believe your man Cony was right! You’re a true English naval hero, that you are, sir, if I may be so bold as t’say so!”

“You’re too kind by half, Abigail,” Alan replied, patting the back of her hand, to test the waters. If Dolly Fenton was on the outs with him, and Delia Cantner was saddled with unwanted house-guests, the day would not have to be a total loss, he decided. He admired the way Abigail’s chest had heaved with emotion.

“You’d not be knowin’ it, sir,” she said, dropping her voice to almost a whisper once more and averting her eyes, “but the first time I clapped eyes on you, I said t’ myself, I says, there goes a fine gentleman. So dashin’ an’ brave lookin’. I... sort of ... well, talk gets around below-stairs, from one servant t’ the t’other, and I heard tell you was a sailor back from fightin’ the King’s enemies an’ all? But Cony didn’t tell me the half of it, he didn’t!”

She didn’t stiffen up as he massaged the back of her hand, nor did she quail as he turned it over and held her small, work-roughened hand in his. He pulled her gently to her feet, towards him as he pushed back his chair. She leaned forward even before he could rise, and in a moment, she was seated on his lap and he was raining kisses on her slim young neck, on her cheeks, and their lips met in a first, clumsy little maidenly kiss. He put a hand to the back of her neck and she opened her mouth to his pressure, slipping her arms about him, warming to his play quickly. Too quickly for the shy maiden she seemed.

“Lor’, they warned me ‘bout London, they did, sir,” Abigail chuckled softly between kisses. “Weren’t no diff’rent man any house a girl could work for in Evesham nor Birmingham, neither.”

“At least the men are gentlemen, Abigail,” he whispered. “The game’s the same, city or country.”

“I can’t afford t’ lose my position, though, sir,” she complained gently as he slid a hand under her skirts and stroked his hand over her warm, incredibly soft and slim young thighs. “If’n I get turned out with no ref’rence, they’s not a house in London’d hire me, ‘cept a bawdy-house.”

“You do for me, like you do Mistress Harper, then,” Alan said, thrilling to the way she was shifting her slight weight on his lap.

“She gives me two shillings a week,” Abigail suggested coyly.

“I’ll match it,” Alan promised. “And on your next day off, I promise you a pretty new hat. A ride in a coach, a grand supper.”

“Like a real lady, sir?” she sighed, parting her thighs so he could stroke her downy groin. She leaned hard into him in passion.

“One day a week, you can play the lady,” Alan swore, too afire at that moment to care. “As long as we may play.”

“You will be careful, won’t you, sir?”

“Go lock the door,” he ordered.

She was too young to need a set of stays, and had only thin, unsupported linen petticoats on under her sackgown. Alan had but to unbutton her down the back and gather her dress around her waist, and he was rewarded with soft, warm, tantalizing flesh under his hands and lips. Smooth young legs wrapped around his hips under his robe as he spread it to cover both of them. Pert young breasts that stood up proud as islets even flat on her back.

“Got t’ hurry, sir, before the missus ...” she pointed out as he licked and kissed and stroked her into flames, taking time with her mounting need as most would not. Pretty young house-servants were fair game for the sons, the fathers, the butlers and footmen. Too poor to be able to complain they were, mostly. Or too willing for the game to continue, as long as they didn’t get caught, or turned up with a jack-in-the-box. Town servants would be turned out come summer, anyway, to spend several months trying to eke out an existence on what pitiful few pence they’d managed to save, until their families returned from summer homes in the country. London was full of part-time courtesans, willing servants such as Abigail. Some like Abigail, indeed, who were more than willing, if they could make some extra money on the side from it, get enough to eat for once, be rewarded with gifts of nicer clothing than most housekeepers begrudged them.

It was a quick, furtive sport, for the most part, done at the top of the stairs, across an unmade bed, in a rarely visited garret storage room. Fast, furious and rapidly over: that was what Abigail had grown used to. Not this langorous, incredibly sensuous stroking and kissing. Hands and lips touching her in places she had never known. Her breath came fast as she swooned with anticipated pleasure, with restless want, fear of discovery a spur to her abandon.

He entered her at long last, his member sheathed in a sheepgut condom, and she bit her lips and turned her face to cry out into the pillows. Experienced she might be at house-games, but still young and snug, reminding Alan of his temporary “wife” among the Creek Indians, Soft Rabbit. She’d been that hot and moist, that firmly gripped around his engine. And that wildly exuberant.

I may be Hell’s own bastard with the women, Alan told himself as he drove deep into her and reveled in how she heaved her hips in synchronicity with him. Them that want to play. But never let it be said I left the little dears wanting for anything!

He held off his own explosion as Abigail clung to him like a squid, buried her face into his neck and squawled and mewed in climax, wishing she could scream out loud in ecstasy. Then she fell away limp and dragged him down atop of her, showering his face with weary kisses.

“Lor’, sir, you’re a terror,” she shuddered, weak as a kitten. “Thankee ... for takin’ time, an’ all? Can’t say when I cared so much for it last. Oooh!”

Alan rose up on his hands to loom over her, and began to stroke into her once more, long and slow, delighting in her surprised look.

“Don’t you be teasin’ me, now, sir,” she whispered, beaming an expectant smile up at him from the pillows. Her red hair had come half unpinned from under her mobcap, and she swiped a tress away from her face. “An’ did I please you, too, sir?”

“Not yet, Abigail,” Alan grinned, punctuating his remark with another, deeper and firmer thrust. “But you will.”

“Oh, darlin’!” She gaped at his meaning, lifting her knees once more. “Hurry! Gallop away, fast as you like! I... oh ... it feels so good! So ... bloody ... good!”

An hour later, she came back, asking if he wanted some more coffee brewed, since he could not go out for it. That was an excuse for another bout of “the blanket hornpipe.” Nothing shy about this time, and they were bouncing across the bed and giggling in covert joy almost before she could set the tray down.

She returned in mid-afternoon with tea and a Cornish meat pasty, and had at each other again. It was too cold to go out for a meal at a two-penny ordinary, she assured him. They snatched another fifteen minutes of utter bliss, with her sprawled face-down on the side of the high bed and her skirts thrown up over her back.

It was almost a relief for Cony to come back from bis day off and putter around the rooms, ranting happily about how grandly he’d been received by the Chiswicks when he visited them. Cony was the one to brave the cold and fetch a meal from the handiest ordinary, though Abigail assisted in laying the table, and gave Alan a most fetching smile or two while Cony had his back turned.

“Wind’s come more sou’westerly, sir,” Cony opined finally as Alan prepared to turn in early that evening. “Snow stopped, an’ h’it’s turnin’ t’ rain, looks like. Be thawin’ t’morro’, thank the Lord.”

“Filthy streets,” Alan yawned, nodding by the fire with his feet up in the second chair and a blanket over his lap while he read a book about the recent war that was as factual as a Turkish rug merchant. “I’ll try getting out to visit tomorrow. Set out my boots, if you would, and give them a daub or two of blacking. We’ll coach where we’re going as well.

“Aye, sir. That be all fer the evening’, then, sir?”

“Yes, you turn in early, Cony. Enjoy a yarn or two with the rest for a change.”

‘Thankee right kindly, sir, that I will. Goodnight, sir.”

All in all, a grandly satisfying day, Lewrie thought smugly as he drowsed by his fire with a book in one hand and a brandy in the other. His personal chronometer read eleven, the one he had “borrowed” from a Spanish brig off Cuba. Time to turn in, he decided.

There was a soft scratching at the door.

“Surely not,” Alan whispered in delight, rising to open it.

Abigail slipped in and shut the door softly behind her, opening her arms to be enfolded and lifted off her feet. Her slippers fell off, and under her thin flannel bedgown, she was as toasty-warm as a bed of coals.

“Just wanted t’ stop by an’ see if you needed anythin’ more tonight, sir,” she said grinning. ‘Turn your bed down? Warm the sheets for you?”

“Off for the night, are we, you little minx?” Alan chuckled, carrying her toward the bedchamber.

“If you wants, I am,” she suggested, bolder with him now.

“I wants,” Alan agreed. ‘”Deed I do!”