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He could maintain this lifestyle for some time yet, if he was careful with his money. Three hundred pounds a year had been enough to keep a single gentleman in style before the war, and with no need for a horse or coach of his own, and only the one servant, two hundred would do now. He could not purchase every book that struck his fancy. Could not entertain lavishly. Would have to watch for bargains instead of spending like a lord on the Strand.
Oh, he'd had to buy plates, saucers, silverware and serving utensils for the first time. Stock that wine cabinet. In his reverie of accounting his possessions, he opened it and poured his glass of brandy back up to full. Yes, it could be a good life, he decided. Best he'd lost Dolly Fenton, after all. She'd have turned expensive.
"Speaking of Dolly," he said aloud again with a weary mutter.
He had notes to write. One to Dolly, a parting shot to salve his ego. One to the Chiswicks, and Caroline, laying the ground for a proper reunion with her. And one to Lady Delia, to let her know she could expect him by early afternoon, if the weather would allow.
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.
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