Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

"Damned good soup," he commented again, raising an eyebrow. "Too bad little Charlotte isn't ready for soup such as this. Think of what she's missing, poor tyke. Why, it may be a week or two more before she's even able to take mere gruels and paps, d'ye think, dear?"

Tell me I can have you back, hey? he pleaded, with the merest sign of innocent inquisitiveness on his phiz. Once Caroline put a child on a solid diet and left off nursing, he could play once more with those twin peaks of his delight. Once, that is, she stopped producing milk. He'd rushed it the week before, and still felt embarrassed by the almost perverse, cloyingly sweet taste of mother's milk which had flooded his mouth in the throes of passionate foreplay.

"Oh, I think more than a week or so, Alan," Caroline told him, colouring herself at the memory. "Perhaps another month. She will take tiny spoonfuls of thin paps now, but…" Caroline shrugged in explanation, which was no explanation at all, save for the heavy way her breasts brushed and lifted beneath her prim bodice. Nursing was a very private pleasure-almost as good a pleasure as mel Lewrie wondered. It seemed so. Domesticity, he groaned to himself, keeping his face bland as he hid behind a sip of hock. Ain't it grand, thankee Jesus!

"And how was the village?" Caroline inquired, changing the subject deftly.

"Quiet as usual. Same old complaints. Same old faces." He grimaced slightly and laid aside his spoon. Caroline rang a tiny china bell for the soup to be removed and the mutton chops to be fetched in. "Talk of the French. Bags of it."

"Anything new?" she asked, frowning.

"Fear, mostly. Even the tenant farmers are getting worried all that levelling, Jacobin talk about equality will come here someday. Now they've murdered their king and queen-"

"Perhaps it'll die out, like Nootka Sound," Caroline prayed. "A great deal of commotion, then. It's been ten years since America went the same way, and nothing's come of that," she stated, to reassure them both. "Englishmen aren't as crazed as the French, thank God, nor as empty-headed as the Rebels were. There's nothing wrong with English society needs changing! Let the whole world turn upside down, we'll be here, season to season, sane and orderly, as usual."

"We may, dear," Alan countered gently. "But the Germanies, the rest of Europe… First the Colonies went unhinged, now France, and as bloody as you could ask for. Didn't call it the Terror for nought, y'know. There were no aristocrats to butcher in the Colonies, and a fair number of them were Rebels to start with… My pardons."

Caroline's brother George hadbeen butchered, by Chiswick relatives in the lower Cape Fear of North Carolina. And that pregnant woman murdered in her bed Alan had discovered outside Yorktown, before the siege set in, her unborn babe pinned to the log walls with a rusty bayonet!

"First the Colonies, then France, God knows where next- not England, o' course," he reiterated after a bite of succulent mutton chop, heavy with hot mustard, Navy style. "But if this plague spreads, how long before we're alone in a sea of hostile Republicans?"

"Pray God it will blow over like a summer storm, then," Caroline shuddered, all but crossing herself. Cony fetched out a bottle of burgundy, more suited to mutton, to replace the lighter hock. "And if you are called back, well, it would not be for long."

Nootka Sound, '91: an incredibly petty spat between Spain and England over fishing and furs halfway 'round the world on the grim and forbidding coast of America, almost to the Pole, almost to northernmost Asia! The Fleet had been called up to prepare for war, ships laid up inordinary had been refitted, and new construction begun. Alan had spent six weeks in active commission, first officer into a 5th Rate thirty-six-gun frigate upriver at Chatham, before saner and cooler heads prevailed and the whole business had deflated like one of those Frogs', Montgolfier's, hot-air balloons.

"Another Nootka Sound, I'm certain, dearest," he promised her.

Their bed-chamber was snugly warm, and Alan Lewrie was fighting the urge to yawn, to succumb to sleep-hoping for better things to do in the shank of a cold winter evening. They'd finished supper, taken the boys into the small parlour and let them prate, babble and play as wild as they wished for an hour before shooing them off to bed. Alan and Caroline had played a duet, a medley of reassuringly old country ballads- she on her flute, he on his cheap tin flageolet. Years of practice, and he still sounded so terrible he would not play for any guest. She'd beaten him four games out of seven at backgammon and finished the bottle of claret with him, flushed with victory, liquor and so much happily domestic contentment that she'd quite forgotten her previous worries.

The cook, governess, maidservant, his man Cony, the scullery wenches and the rest of their burgeoning household were all now belowstairs or tucked away in their garrets. Caroline was seated before a mirror at her dressing table, mobcap and dowdy woolen apparel gone, replaced by a flimsy dressing gown. Her hair was down and loose, long and shiny as she slowly and methodically brushed it.

Lewrie was under the pile of coverlets and quilts, with the steamy clothes-iron heat of the recently removed warming pan under his buttocks and back. The fireplace glowed cheery and hot across the chamber, its amber dancing flames reflected into the room by a brass backplate, throwing shadows on paneling and wallpapers.

Beneath his fine linen nightshirt he was happily encouraging a cock-stand.

He smiled in eager anticipation, admiring her reflection in the mirror as she smiled a pleased and secretive smile to herself. She posed her hair, arms lifted, exposing a graceful neck and slim arms, slim back shifting beneath her silken gown. She went back to stroking her hair, underbrushing now, with her head cocked over to one side. In her mirror, shadow breasts rustled against silk, fuller and heavier, so very much more promising than when she was girlish.

When they'd met in Wilmington, North Carolina, during the evacuation, she could not have weighed eight stone sopping wet, and that with half a dozen petticoats. Slim and coltish, still-not the usual apple-dumpling matron, after all. Perhaps a half stone more, Alan wondered? Just the slightest bit fuller in hips and upper thighs-but it was such succulent, acquiescent, yielding and secret excess. Sweeter, softer than ever before, as soft as gosling down.

His fingers began to twitch with a life of their own as he contemplated the butter-softness of the luscious bottom he'd soon be stroking.

"Not much needs seeing to tomorrow, I fear, dear," she said to him, colouring a little as she saw his intent, reflected gaze.

"Muck out, feed the stock," Alan yawned, jaws creaking in struggle against it. "Have the beef cattle driven to the stock-pens. Not a morsel of pasturage left for 'em. And we don't wish to risk any spring calves, if the weather turns off colder."

"You're beginning to anticipate a farm, after all," she replied with a light chuckle, but it was very matter-of-fact. As if sensing that she'd been too blunt and critical of his farming skills, Caroline crinkled her large hazel eyes at him via the mirror, pursed her lips and blew him a distant kiss across the bed-chamber.

"After four years it's about time, don't you think?" he said, shifting under the covers. She was smiling that particular, that secret, heavy-lidded smile-it promised to be an intimate evening indeed! "Like the Navy, knots an' rope," he rambled on, putting his hands beneath his head on the pillows, thoroughly at ease now. " 'Cept for the bosuns who'd flog my bottom raw if I got things wrong. Thank God. 'Can't birth a lamb, Mister Lewrie? Ton my word, sir! No way to bind a sheave, Mister Lewrie! Bosun, dozen o' y'r best, at once, sir! Bend over, kiss the gunner's daughter, Mister Lewrie!' Or is it the farmer's daughter, hmm?"

Caroline giggled, then went back to stroking her hair, humming a tune to herself, almost crooning. "Oh," she paused. "We're invited to a game supper at Govemour's and Milli-cent's. Friday night. He bagged a stag, and it should be well hung by roasting time."

"And Uncle Phineas and his dull compatriots will be there?" Alan frowned with displeasure. "Dear as I love well-hung venison… Pity he didn't bag Uncle Phineas. Might be too tough an old boar to chew, though."

"We're to bring a covered dish," Caroline went on, resuming her stroke. "I thought a dessert would be best from us. Hmm?"

"A tart fruit jumble, that'd go well with venison," he suggested, stifling another yawn. "Something half wild, like that red-currant preserve you put up in the fall."

"Mmm, yes, that might do main-well." She put aside her brush and bound her hair at last into a long, single tress. She rose from her dressing table, let the dressing gown fall open over her bedgown and crossed to the fireplace. William Pitt, their ancient tawny ram-cat, lay stretched out on the narrow padded bench in front of the fire like a rather large orange-coloured plum duff. He was whimpering and grunting in his sleep. Caroline touched his grizzled head and he woke enough to look up, thrust the top of his head against her hand, and turn over to lie facing Lewrie, all four heavy paws together as he stretched. The one good eye regarded the bed. The stubby tail curled lazily as he recalled how cozy-warm it was to sleep with humans on cold winter nights.

Not tonight, you little bastard, Alan gloated at him.

Caroline blew out the last remaining candle and came to the high bedstead, slowly undoing the fastenings of her dressing gown, shrugging it off her shoulders to puddle at her elbows. Her hips swayed in the flickering amber darkness. He put out a hand to her.

And little Charlotte took that exact, and unfortunate, instant to wake, either wet, hungry, lonely, bored or terrified- perhaps a combination of all five-and began to bawl her little head off.

Even in the near dark Alan could see Caroline's face go empty and vacant, then vexed, then subsumed with worry, and after that she had no more thought for her husband than she might for the Man in the Moon. With frantic, matronly haste she did back up her robe and was out the door and down the hall for the nursery.

"Bloody…!" Alan Lewrie groaned in a soft whimper, head back on the pillows in sudden defeat, though still up on his elbows in welcome. "Bloody Hell!" he moaned, collapsing.

"Marrrh," William Pitt announced in a grumpy, closed-mouthed trill as he hopped up on the foot of the bed, as if he had known how the evening would fall out. He padded slowly up the covers, tacking cautiously around the slowly sinking seamount of his master's fading tumescence, and flopped himself sideways against Lewrie's upper chest, leaning his whole, and not inconsiderable, weight against him. Pitt's good eye regarded Lewrie with commiseration, his one undamaged ear gave a tiny twitch and he yawned again, as close to a grin as felines may essay, baring his remaining teeth and mismatched fangs. One heavy, round paw, big as an unhusked walnut, reached out and patted at Alan's chin, claws nicely sheathed, to give comfort. And to demand some for himself.

Lewrie slid an arm down from inside the warm, recently inviting covers to pet him and scratch the top of his head, the shaggy ruff of fur around his thick neck.

"You knew, didn't you, Pitt?" Lewrie whispered, resignedly. "I wish to God I knew how you do these things."

"Murpphh," William Pitt harrumphed, beginning to pun-loud and rattling, like a bilge-pump chain. He closed his eyes in bliss.