Duty and Oysters

Rating: R overall

For: The Hhafterhours Secret Santa Challenge. Suzanna, requested Orrock, an Admiral’s daughter, Opposites, Oysters, sweet and steamy.

Chapter 1: All You Pretty Girls

"All You Pretty Girls," XTC, 1984

*****

1806

Land. Charles Orrock was on land again after three-quarters of a year at sea. It wasn’t quite the satisfying experience he’d dreamed.

Whoever had coined the phrase "dry land" had surely never been to the British Isles, at least in April. A sullen mist hung a dismal, damp grey shroud over Portsmouth, dousing all that threatened to be jolly. Charles stood on bleached-dreary stone at the East India Company dock, directing the unloading of crates and heavy sacks turned monochromatic in the early-morning gloom.

Ireland was cold and damp, to be sure, but at least it was green.

He’d been promised a few days’ liberty while the Karen was refitted after her long Indian voyage, and he’d been keyed to throw himself into it with all the parched fervor of an unattached man with a nine months’ wad of pay. Yet like Tantalus’s pool of cool, clear water, minute after minute of his precious leave seeped away as he and his gang did work that rightly belonged to those lazy Indiamen.

He looked up into the whiteness of the sun-free sky, and saw it getting darker, and closer--

"Mary and Joseph! Avast hauling! Belay there, Simons!" Charles yelled and ducked just in time as a dingy, rope-bound crate nearly clipped him where he stood. "You’ll take my head off, and then where will you be?"

"Aye, aye, Sir! Sorry, Sir!"

"At the yardarm you’ll be, and feeling right guilty to make it worse, is where!" Charles quipped in answer to his own question. His mood lightened as his tone did. Nine months’ pay, three of it as Acting Lieutenant. He was a grand deal luckier than many of his colleagues from the Naval College. A deep breath of the cool, humid air reasserted his usual cheerful humor. "Carry on."

Not all was wretched, he reasoned with himself. Solid ground hadn’t proved as awkward as he’d feared after so long upon the rocking waves. And there were women about to look at-- or more precisely, to glance at out of the corner of his eye. True, they were mostly brutes, those muscular, brick-faced women who worked like men along the docks; it was too early in the day even for whores. But it made no matter. They were women, they wore skirts, and thus it was all too easy to imagine those skirts thrown up to cover homely faces. Still, what he wouldn’t give for a stand of green and the sight of a few slim, foxy-faced Irish lasses!

The presence of females was distracting his gang plenty as well if their bawdy mutters and untidy work were any indication. Feeling rightly justified after his earlier near-decapitation, he called the men up sharp.

"Stow your gab! Now, set ‘er down easy, and fetch the next!"

One more crate on the dock meant only a few dozen more to go. Only then could the Karen’s boats be rid of the unwanted goods from that stupid, slab-sided, doomed Indiaman, and the Karen herself floated down to Smith & Sons for repairs. Only then would the clear, pure waters of freedom rise, and Charles vowed he’d drink of them deeply. He took a moment to marvel at his newfound gift for philosophy, and wondered whom he might share it with, later.

"Sir." One of the gang-- Righteous Jenkins, an able seaman and one whom Charles liked-- scratched his eyebrow with a knuckle and shot a significant look from beneath his salt-and-pepper brows. He coughed.

"Yes, man, what is it?"

"Sir." One gnarled finger peeped out of Jenkins’s half-salute and Charles followed its point to starboard. A group of girls-- women-- ladies-- had descended upon Captain Reynolds as he surveyed the various unloading operations. Charles stared for a second, perhaps two, then twitched his upper lip in disdain. They were only some of those fat, useless English ladies, a sight prettier than the dockworkers to be sure, but still drab in their oh-so-fashionable clothing. "Oh. Is that all? Back to work with you! All of you."

"Aye, aye. Sir," came the mumbled, despondent chorus. Yet six pair of eyes still wandered, nearly crossing painfully in their attempts to be dutiful yet subtle.

Charles twisted his sneer into a half-grin at the men’s pathetic ogling, and stole one more look himself before again reprimanding his crew. "Those aren’t for lookin’," he said, not unkindly. "And you won’t see others ‘till we’re through. Which should be quite an inducement, I’d say."

"Aye, aye." Encouraged by that bit of camaraderie, Jenkins smiled, his hooked caricature nose wrinkling and carving deep lines into his sea-scoured face. "Sir, them lazy East Indiamen ort to be unloadin’ their own shite, though, I says. Sir."

Charles knew he ought to be taut and discourage such talk, but at that moment sympathy overrode professional pride. Many of these men had been at sea longer than he, some for years, perhaps, transferred by boat from one posting to another to keep them from running. But these men had proven their loyalty, earning their liberty and the right to a true word here and there. And incentive. "But this is Karen’s until it’s off. Think on this. Finish before Berchie’s Number Four over there, and I’ll buy you all a pint, first chance."

A rousing chorus of aye-ayes and the scraping of foreheads heralded a new burst of activity.

Charles allowed himself one last look at the hen-cluster of chattering, plump ladies-- that tall lass might be considered a mite fair, he supposed-- and caught her return glance down the quay. Embarrassment doused his momentary ardor and wrenched his head for’rard to business. Now would be a very bad time to draw the negative attention of his captain.

His warm ears-- red, he was sure-- caught snippets of conversation floating on the mist. "Those men look quite industrious, Captain," one female voice tittered. "Perhaps one or two of them could assist our dear Delphine here."

"Quite! Some of my best men. Acting Lieutenant’s a volunteer," came the Captain’s reply. The temperature about Charles’s ears shot upwards a few degrees. "Good men, sure not to run. Name your desire, Mrs. Bessamy."

"Whomever you can spare, Captain," another female voice replied. "My eternal gratitude shall be yours. And my Papa’s, of course!"

The louder and not-unexpected call came soon after. "Mr. Orrock! Step over here, if you please."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Charles choked in as near a businesslike-tone as he could muster, and marched over to salute his captain. He avoided the speculative eyes of the gathered ladies.

"Acting Lieutenant Orrock. Mr. Orrock, this is Mrs. Bessamy," Captain Reynolds said, gesturing between them. Mrs. Bessamy was the tall lady who’d caught his eye earlier, the prettiest of the largely unexceptional bunch. She nodded at him, an expectant look in her dark eyes. The other ladies were not named. "Mrs. Bessamy has been given the charge of some of these goods from the Lord Limingham. Please escort Mrs. Bessamy and her maid to her home in Chalming Parish, along with their belongings from the Karen. Choose a man from your division to go with you. It shouldn’t take more than a day or so. Report to Smith & Sons, please, upon your return, and then we’ll see about that liberty." The Lord Limingham had been the unweatherly Indiaman which had shoaled off St. Helena.

"Aye, aye, Sir," Charles replied. There was no other answer possible. The rocks at his feet dried before his glum, philosophical eyes. Pretty or no, this was not the sort of woman he’d wished to spend his first day ashore with.

But duty was duty, and Charles had sworn to do his, always. "I will take Jenkins, sir. Ma’am," he nodded, saluted his captain, and strode back to his gang. A muted, high-pitched ‘oh, I feel so terrible, their leave--’ and a lower ‘not to worry, ma’am, it’s of no account, they’ll have plenty’ followed him.

Jenkins took the bad news with a closed-eyed nod and a quiet ‘aye-aye.’ The man was unmarried; Charles wondered which quayside doxy was waving a white hanky in teary goodbye behind Righteous’s eyelids.

*****

Chapter 2: Village and City Girls

Once set by Captain Reynolds the duty was as irrevocable as a Commandment sent down by God Himself. Charles thought of himself as a practical man as well as a cheerful one, stoical about the present and fatalistic about the past. For instance, he told himself, it was no use thinking on whether or not this particular Holy Commandment might have been assigned to someone else if he’d not drawn attention by goggling at the ladies. No use at all.

The only clear course was to rise to his Captain’s expectations as he always did. Make and implement a plan, then complete it and return to Portsmouth posthaste in hopes of enjoying its dubious delights, myriad and sybaritic to his land-starved eyes and loins.

As he and the equally fatalistic Jenkins stowed and warped down Mrs. Bessamy’s barrels and boxes onto the small, two-horse carriage she’d rented for the drive, he indulged himself only by reflecting inwardly on the upsides and downsides of practicality and reliability. And, perhaps to avoid becoming too philosophical, on thoughts of the clean, warm, flower-scented skin he might get his hands on later, and on what he might do to said female flesh.

The first chink in Charles’s well-sculpted plan came when Mrs. Bessamy ignored his genteel bow as he held open the door of the carriage. Laughing, she begged Jenkins to help boost her up onto the driver’s box. Her little maid protested.

"Ma’am, you oughts to ride inside," she squeaked, earning smiles of approval from Charles and Righteous. She was lately arrived at the dock and was a slender, pretty thing, with wide, doe-startled eyes and a pointed chin under her massive mobcap. "There’s mens present! And the rain--"

"Nonsense, Betty. Here, man, give me a hand. Oof," Mrs. Bessamy said as Jenkins maneuvered her plump form aboard. The short, wiry seaman was strong as spur-shores and amazingly agile; he managed the job without once groping anything unseemly. "The sky has cleared something amazing. Only look at the Sun! I do not wish to miss a minute of it."

Stoical. Right. Charles went around and hoisted himself onto the other side of the box. He took the reins and, not without sympathy, motioned Jenkins toward the rear with a jerk of his chin. Picturing that old salt perched on the boot like a wizened tiger, Charles was glad for one moment that he still had his plain, round Midshipman’s hat. What a sight he’d look wearing a high fore-and-aft on this oddly fitted-out rig! The Royal Navy’s dignity had suffered enough this day, sure.

"At last you smile, Lieutenant. Can you drive?"

Startled a bit at Mrs. Bessamy’s rather bold non-sequitur, Charles could only gather wits enough to stare at her for a moment before looking away with a mumbled "yes."

"Capital!" She sighed and propped two slippered feet on the dash. "Then I shall just lean back the tiniest bit and relax. I was planning to drive myself home, you know, but Mrs. Jones and Captain Reynolds would not hear of it."

"Good on ‘em, ma’am," the maid, Betty, piped up from somewhere inside the coach. "Only think of the footpads and cutthroats."

"In broad daylight, Betty? Codswallop."

Odd didn’t begin to cover it! Charles couldn’t hide a small chuckle at the maid’s, and the lady’s, familiarity. "I’m a bit off-practice, ma’am, but if I can bring a frigate about, I can more’n likely handle this wee carriage."

"Ah! Handsome and capable, I see."

And that, Charles decided as he clamped shut his lips and flicked the reins to start the horses, was that. At least as far as witty repartee. He didn’t mind flirting with women. But ladies were out of his depth.

Captain Reynolds had given him the story in a lowered tone as he’d doled out directions to Chalming Parish and a few coins for incidentals and emergencies. Mrs. Bessamy was the widow of his particular friend, one Captain Thomas Bessamy, who’d taken ill with the Yellow Jack and died on station in the West Indies some few years back. Charles knew his place, and it didn’t include dallying with his Captain’s widow-friends.

The horses were strong-looking beasts but slow starters, and thankfully they consumed his attention as he directed their strange little cargo out and away from the quays. Chalming Parish wasn’t far, perhaps twenty miles, but with this load he’d need to take the trip slowly and be sure to rest the nags stops. Stoic. Soon enough their load would be deposited, duty performed. Aye.

It was still early and traffic was light, thank Jesus. The breeze had freshened and dispersed many of the morning’s earlier clouds. The dull-grey stone warehouses of the waterfront gave way to early fishwives’ stalls, then to wood-and-bricked houses and shops, adding a bit of color to the landscape. The sun Mrs. B had so admired held fast in the sky and provided a weak but cheery warmth. Now and then a maid or shopkeeper threw open doors and shutters, scattering dewdrops that glinted in the sunlight, looking almost like diamond-seawater spray off a ship’s prow. The illusion was furthered by the gentle sway of the laden carriage as they clipped along at a good four knots into the gentle westerly breeze; they might have been floating.

"So, Lieutenant, tell me, please--" Mrs. B began after a bit, shattering the shipboard fairy-illusion. "Why is it that the frigate Karen was obliged to carry cargo for the East India Company? Surely the Royal Navy serves only as escort for the convoy? How alarmed I was when the Company told me the Lord Limington had not arrived with the rest of the fleet! Captain Reynolds never did explain, but perhaps he thought it not a fit subject for ladies. Was it a very bloody battle?"

"No battle, Ma’am," Charles answered without looking at her. "The Lord L shoaled-- ran aground, that is-- leaving St. Helena. Her captain said they were running from a strange sail. All hands were safe," he added, sharing Captain Reynolds’s ideas about the sensibilities of ladies. In truth, only the Karen had been close enough, and had a shallow enough draught, to transfer what they could before the holed Lord L had sunk to the bottom of the shoals.

"Ah," she breathed. "Ran in a panic. Papa always did say that an East Indiaman would rabbit at the first scrap of white, friendly or no."

"Oh, some of them can make a right stand," Charles blurted before thinking. He had friends in the merchant service. Then, it sank in -- her casual tone, and the fact that she’d spoken more knowledgeably than he would have expected, accurate statement or no. "Your father was a naval man, Ma’am?"

"Oh, Lord, yes," she said, waving a hand at him for emphasis. He could feel her laughing eyes boring into the side of his head. "I’ve been surrounded by naval men my entire life. I myself have crossed the Atlantic twice, and have been to Gibraltar and the Med several times. I’ve been in the maintop, and have eaten my weight in ship’s biscuit."

"Truly?" Charles was impressed despite himself; she’d seemed a right pampered, languid sort of lass. It was becoming difficult as well as rude not to face her now and then, since she was so inclined to be chatty, and so inclined to look at him. It was somewhat flummoxing to be watched so carefully.

He turned to stare at her fully, to return her smile, and was flummoxed tenfold at catching it full-on, in all its bright glory. He’d been damnably uncharitable earlier. Delphine Bessamy really was more than passably fair, she was right fetching. She had a sweet, rounded, high-cheeked face. Dark curls peeped out from under her drab bonnet to match the laughing brown of her eyes. Her skin was very fine, smooth yet blooming with healthy color-- not at all pasty or sickly like that of so many English ladies he’d seen.

She was young, near his age, not yet five-and-twenty, perhaps. Young to be a widow, and to have seen so much of the world. And really, she wasn’t fat by any means, just tall-- only a few inches shorter than he, and a little more filled out perhaps than the waiflike Irish lasses Charles usually found so comely. In tribute to the warming weather she’d unlatched the top few buttons of her thick pelisse, and he could glimpse a lovely bit of taut, fresh bosom--

Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the Saints-- Charles realized that it really had been too long since he’d clapped eyes on a woman. Embarrassed to be caught staring like a booby, he coughed and snapped the reins, deciding that his best course was to keep his eyes to windward.

If she noticed, she said nothing, only continued their earlier conversation. "Truly I have, Lieutenant Orrock. Are you also from a Naval family?"

Still caught in his own humiliation, Charles answered honestly. "I’m not sure. I don’t have any family, that I know."

"I’m sorry to hear that. An orphan."

"As far as I know, Ma’am," he managed. He risked a glance and added a grin to show her that it was no call for pity. "Apparently my father had been a seaman, or so I was told.

"Ah." Mrs. B looked thoughtful. "Yet Captain Reynolds most specifically described you as a volunteer; an Irishman, then, not pressed. Perhaps we are becoming the unified nation the Whigs would have us be? Papa says ‘twas not so in his day, but I won’t discompose us both by using his exact words. Papa was from the Old School," she added seriously. "Practically a Lieutenant, Irish, and so young. You must have found a very influential patron."

Shocked a bit at her somewhat offensive speech but unwilling to verbally check a lady, Charles could only stare for a moment before offering a clipped "no, Ma’am."

Her sigh was long and doleful. "I do beg your pardon, sir. Please. I realize that I’m very direct, and used to plain speaking, and sometimes I say things I should not. The sad effect of growing up with sailors, I fear."

Charles exhaled, breathing out his frustration-- frustration with the Royal Navy and its underhanded methods of promotion, with Britain and its Irish policies, and frustration with his own countrymen, who sometimes called him collaborator. She was none of those people and had said none of those things; and he had been fortunate. The Naval College had accepted him to fill a quota, and he’d been lucky in his postings and his commanders-- they'd been men to recognize a man doing a job well, not the crest on his sea-chest. "There’s nothing to forgive, Mrs. B-- I mean, Ma’am. I attended the Royal Naval College, and received a chance posting to Hotspur. We were lucky to have seen some action, some exciting orders and happenings, but likely you know about that."

"Hotspur. Twenty-two," she said, as easily as any naval devotee. Her lovely, expressive eyes widened slightly. "Did you serve with Captain Hornblower?"

"Indeed I did." He raised his chin to her with pride as he said it.

"I met him once, briefly. Quiet man. I hear of him now and then, all of it praise. Another of you handsome devils, rising through the Service on sheer merit."

Charles forced himself not to preen. He’d only done his duty as he’d sworn to do. Yet unlike the dour Captain Hornblower, Charles was not immune to a little flattery. Nor, he was finding, to a little flirtation, even with a lady-- a Captain’s widow. She was being clear enough; why shouldn’t he enjoy it? He would be careful to offer her no insult. He ventured a question, something that had been nagging at him for the last two hours. "Ma’am, I do admire the direct. May I ask the name of your father?"

"Of course, I should have mentioned it earlier. My maiden name is Delphine Richards-- my father is Admiral James Richards, Retired, formerly of the Blue."

Oh, Holy Mother of God, thought Charles. An Admiral’s daughter. There went any more chance at flirtation, anyway. Nipped in the bud. Laid by the lee. Charles would do his duty, aye-- but he had some career ambitions, after all.

*****

Chapter 3: Quiet or Witty Girls

Silence reigned for a short while, a conversational silence, anyway. There was no absence of sound, plenty provided by the snuffled breathing of the horses and their hooves’ measured clop on the tight-packed dirt, a slight metallic jingle from the harnesses; all the light, common sounds that country-dwellers took for granted. All of these Charles had nearly forgotten and wondered how he’d done so. And at first he’d thought the sea so strange; now land meant docks and drinking or doxies. The common sailor rarely saw the best of any shore he visited.

At a question from Mrs. B Charles admitted he’d never traveled this particular road before, and so every now and then she’d point out some bucolic landmark or another for his edification. He let the soothing, everyday nothings flitter about while his own thoughts remained mostly turned inward.

At about six bells, though (elevenish on land), Charles noticed that the horses had slowed some and were a tad lathered. "Ma’am," he ventured, "we ought to rest these beasts a bit-- can you recommend anything close-by?"

"Oh! The Brown Swallow, just past the next crossroads. I’m glad you asked, sir. I know you officers don’t eat until noon, but I had a quick breakfast, we were up so early, and I’ll admit to feeling a bit peckish."

Charles wasn’t really hungry himself, but there would be no harm in stretching his legs, and perhaps in putting something by for later. Soon he could see the inn’s courtyard, lined with the near-skeletons of trees just coming into leaf. As he pulled in he remembered Righteous with a bit of belated guilt. The man had faced worse exposure at sea, sure, but perhaps he’d be glad to jog inside and grab a quick nosh at the tap.

Pulling the reins taut, he called back, "Jenkins! Are you hungry, man?"

The answer was a dutiful but somewhat despondent "no, Sir, thank you, Sir."

"Pfft," said Mrs. B, then turned and hollered into the coach in a most unladylike manner. "Betty! Are you hungry?"

"Lord, yes, I’m famished, ma’am!" came the much more enthusiastic reply. "I thought you’d never ask!"

Mrs. B turned a smug smile on Charles, and said, very low, "Betty’s found the brandy."

There was brandy? Charles shook his head and tossed the reins to an ostler. An aproned, squat, balding man ran out of the inn wearing a broad smile, and scooted across to lend an arm to Mrs. B before Charles had a chance to assist her down.

"Hullo, John," she said, and hopped to the cobbles with an "oof" of tired muscles.

"Welcome, my dear lady," John Innkeeper oozed, grasping her fingers. "Please come inside--"

"No, thankee, John. I’ll just stretch my legs here, but do you have anything small and portable?"

The man sputtered "of course!" and trotted back inside. Feeling a lack of gentlemanly skills, Charles opened the carriage door for the starving Betty, then went around the back to speak privately to Righteous. Jenkins’s lined face was dusty and he drooped a bit, but otherwise he appeared plenty alive. Charles dug in his pocket for one of Captain Reynolds’s shillings.

"Here, Jenkins," he said, and pressed it into the man’s dusty, horny palm. "Take this into the tap, man, and get yourself an ale. I did promise you a pint."

"Take Betty with you," said Mrs. B, overhearing. Jenkins glanced up at the at the pretty little maid and then back down, shuffling his feet, hesitant. Seemed these weren’t quite his idea of accessible women, either.

"Well, c’mere, you!" cried Betty finally, and grabbed Jenkins’s arm, surprising him into a half-toothless but pleased grin, and dragged him off.

Charles couldn’t help it-- he laughed and laughed, until tears started and his belly hurt. When the guffaws slowed he wiped his eyes and looked at Mrs. B to apologize, but stowed it.

She was grinning from ear to ear. "You must never tell your Captain Reynolds a word of this, Lieutenant, and I mean that," she said with a giggle.

This time the sudden ache was not admiration or amusement, but pure lust. Unholy, unsanctified, and all too public, but there all the same-- a painful wrench in his gut, the liquid heat of boiling blood surging through his limbs. And not just because she was a woman, and because he’d been at sea for nearly a year, but because she was jolly, and kind, and lovely, and oh-so-desirable.

It was too obvious, looking into the past through the glass of experience. Even Captain Reynolds had been clearly smitten with her, and John Innkeeper no better off; he bustled about her now, pressing bread and cheese wrapped in paper, water, and various dainties upon her, and offering to brush her dusty shoes. Even the sun showed its face when she wished; what chance did a poor Acting Lieutenant stand?

Charles took the opportunity to step behind the carriage, to whip off his hat and to fan himself out of the weirding frenzied melancholy he’d allowed himself to fall into. How would he survive another four hours with her? He was pathetic, brain all arseways, and he knew it. He wondered if he could find this legendary brandy, and if there was any left.

God Save Ireland-- here was Jenkins, with an extra ale for his lieutenant, bless him.

By the time he’d gulped the cool refreshing ale and the horses had been watered and rubbed down a bit, Charles was no longer acting the maggot. He did take the opportunity to boost Mrs. B back onto the seat when she asked. He accomplished it with nary a misplaced hand, but when her skirts lifted in the breeze, displaying her ankles, he couldn’t help but gawk. Right trim they were, and yet soft-looking and plenty luscious encased in her white stockings, there at eye level. He dragged his gaze upwards only to meet hers.

No shock from she, not a bit, only an intense stare, interested-- and perhaps excited? They stood like that for a long, intimate moment. All seemed silent and contained though surely it couldn’t have been in the bustle of the courtyard. The moment broke at a shout, nothing to do with them. Then Charles, off-kilter, stepped back and gave the carriage’s side a quick double-tap as if touching wood.

Talk. Plain talk was the answer, he told himself. Once on the road again they chatted amiably enough. He told her about the Hotspur, and the Karen; about the Cape, Bombay, the long journey home; the brief battle with a sly French privateer, which had resulted in Lieutenant Stone’s death and his own brevet promotion to Acting Lieutenant, hopefully to be confirmed after an exam. Now and then he caught her intent, approving gaze on him, forthright and silent and downright unsettling, but his brain screamed Admiral! Commission! Post! at him every time ‘till he looked away.

The pale but still-shining sun crawled to its low apex in the clouded southern sky, then dipped. They stopped again at another inn. Another obsequious innkeeper appeared, this time with an equally-fawning wife. Jenkins stepped over and, bowing his salt-and-pepper head, offered an inquisitive "Sir?" Charles nodded, and Jenkins opened the carriage door for Betty. That half-boozy young lass hopped out and laughed roguishly at Jenkins’s crooked elbow.

"For shame, Righteous, you ole letcher, you," she crowed, then linked her arm with his and led him with merry glee to the taproom.

Mrs. B was rebuttoning her fur-lined pelisse and speaking to the innkeeper. "Oh, that sounds wonderful," Charles heard. "Lots of everything, please. And a barrel or two of your Brown, if you can spare them. I’m sure Mary’ll be glad not to cook; she’s got her hands full with Dickie. He was a trifle ill, that’s why they’re not with me, and why I have this nice Lieutenant."

Conscious of being discussed, Charles wandered off a few steps, not enough to leave the lady alone, but enough to give her some privacy. Here in Blandford he could smell the salt air in a way he’d not since they’d left Portsmouth. Escort duty or no he was glad to be on land, but the sea was in him, and like after any absence, howsoever brief, it always spurred a longing in him. He’d chosen the right life despite its dearth of women, and he’d been lucky enough to be successful at it. He was sensible, and unflappable. He closed his eyes and gave himself over to gentle satisfaction for a while.

"I’ll be sure and give them your regards," he heard Mrs. B saying, voice coming closer. A few minutes had passed. Righteous and Betty had returned, and they were stowing a hefty, covered basket and a couple of ale-barrels onto one of the inside carriage-seats. The lady turned to him with a calm smile. "Only a little further now, Sir! Up, if you would be so kind."

And they were on their way.