H. M. S. Cockerel Read Online Free Page A

darker damp spot on her demure woolen bodice—a dottle of lovingly egested milk, and noted the flush of pleasure she usually bore after a feeding.
    Hugh made another blubber-lipped sound of disapproval as he was helped into a chair by the governess.
    â€œYou’ll appreciate girls in your own time, me lad,” Lewrie cautioned him. “Even a little sister.”
    He pulled out Caroline’s chair to seat her at the foot of the table, saw Cony and Mrs. McGowan get the boys placed, and took his own seat at the head. Before he could unfold his napery, out rushed a maid with a steaming tureen of soup, and Cony was uncorking a bottle of hock with a cheery “thwocking” sound.
    â€œHearty chicken soup, with a dash of tarragon,” Caroline announced, urging them all to dig in. “Takes the winter chill away. Out it goes . . . then up? ‘As a ship goes out to sea, so my spoon goes out from me! ’ And young gentlemen never lean over their bowls, do they, Hugh?”
    Hugh gulped what looked like a heaping shovel-full into his greedy maw, hunched over his plate with the spoon held like a ladle in a clumsy little paw. His cheeks puffed out like a squirrel’s as he tried to swallow, and a line of creamy soup frothed between his lips. Followed a second later by the entire mouthful, since it was so hot. He began to fan, buttock-dance on his chair and bawl.
    â€œ Small sips, that’s the way, Hugh. Lord . . .” Caroline sighed, rising to rush to his side to sponge him down and comfort him. “See how Sewallis does it? There, there, Hugh, you’re not hurt. Take a sip of water, there’s my little baby . . .”
    Oh, for God’s sake, Lewrie thought, eyeing them. One son prim as a parson, one looking like he’d just spewed a dog’s dinner, and a dowdy wife! A matronly wife! Definitely matronly.
    Well, she is a matron, ain’t she, he qualified to himself. A young’un, thank the Lord. Seven years wed. Bloom off the rose, and all that. Still, she wore a fiercely white, starched mobcap, with her hair up and almost hidden beneath it; a heavy old woolen gown drab as a titmouse, with wrist-length sleeves and a high-cut bodice, totally unadorned by even a hint of lace; a pale natural wool shawl over her shoulders which plumped and disguised even more of her youth; and a bib-fronted, slightly stained dishclout of an apron, useful during child-rearing of an infant still incontinently in nappies, but Lord!
    And that baby talk— all the time, he thought, feeling guilty and disloyal, comparing his (mostly) delightful wife to the fetchingly handsome girl she once had been.
    â€œI’ll take them, ma’am,” Mrs. McGowan volunteered from the kitchen doors, summoned by the noises. “La, they’re too excitable for a sit-down supper. Not utensil trained, neither. Come, boys? We’ll finish supper in the kitchen. Let Mummy and Daddy eat their meal in peace, and you may see them later, before bedtime.”
    â€œPerhaps that’s best . . .” Caroline surrendered, though she did cock a chary eyebrow in the governess’s direction, and furrowed her forehead in what Alan had long ago learned was simmering vexation.
    â€œGood soup,” Alan commented a minute or two of weighty silence later. “Meaty. And the tarragon brings out the flavor wonderfully well. As do all your spices, dear.”
    â€œI’m pleased you’re pleased with it, love,” Caroline smiled in reply, though with half her attention on the feeding noises from the closed kitchen doors.
    â€œAbout Mrs. McGowan . . .” Alan posed in a soft voice. “I’m not entirely happy to have our own lives ordered about so. We are not her favorite sort of parents, and—”
    â€œI have noticed,” Caroline sighed between dainty spoonfuls. “I will speak to her. If she cannot alter her ways, well—”
    â€œYou are mistress in your own house,