Chapter 4: Whiskies and Wenches — Spring, 1858

It was two years later, and Sir Charles Tolliver was sitting in his study examining the entries in the accounting ledger, when he heard hoof beat on the cobble stones outside. Looking up and out through the window, he saw that it was a Royal Mail courier on horse. Just moments later, Winslow knocked.

“Come in!”

“Sir Charles, a sealed envelope arrived. It’s from the Admiralty, Sir Charles.”

Sir Charles raised his eyebrows. It had been a decade since he had last received mail from the Admiralty. He took the envelope from Winslow and used a finely honed penknife to cut it open. Inside was a folded blue cloth bundle and a number of paper sheets, one of them printed finely with the Admiralty letterhead.

Sir Charles whistled softly. He had finally attained flag rank after 24 years on the captains list. With that came a significantly increased pay and improved social standing. As a rear admiral he now outranked Brigadier Hellmond, one of his closest neighbours, and was himself outranked only by Admirals Sir Anthony Carter and Sir Jeremiah Anson, both of them veterans of Trafalgar fame who had commanded ships and won battles before he had even been born.

He would need new uniforms and hats, he mused, and there were new visiting cards to be printed. He would have to have the neighbours over for a proper celebration too. Now that Adam’s death lay over three years in the past, a celebratory dinner could not be avoided. To his surprise, he did not find that thought disconcerting at all. Suzanne deserved some social life beyond visiting her circle of friends, and perhaps she could stand in as his hostess. He looked at Winslow.

“Prepare the coach for a ride into London tomorrow. We shall stay a week. Tell Mann to pack for me. Navy uniforms and one civilian suit.”

“Aye-aye, Sir Charles,” Winslow answered, automatically falling back into a habit given up twenty years ago when Winslow, then a sergeant of the Royal Marines, had followed his former captain into civilian life. Officially he was the coachman, but his pay and his standing at Stepley Hall was that of his master’s most trusted servant, outside even of Boswell’s authority. “Begging your pardon, Sir Charles, but will you have a command?”

Sir Charles unfolded the cloth bundle showing it to be the flag of the Blue Squadron.

“I received my flag.”

Winslow’s face split in a proud beam.

“My most humble felicitations, Sir Charles.”

“Thank you, Winslow. They may give me a command to hoist my flag, but it will probably be some shore posting.”

At dinner, Sir Charles informed his daughter-in-law about his new rank, and she too showed her delight. She also took it upon herself to explain the difference between a captain and an admiral to Alice who was suitably if transiently impressed. He also explained that he would have to host a celebratory reception. To this, Suzanne nodded.

“Of course you have to invite the neighbours, Sir Charles. Do you want me to act as your hostess?”

“That would be immensely helpful of you, Madam. It would be advisable to hold the reception sometime in May when we can expect less rain and warmer weather. I shall have to travel to London for a few days. I need to be fitted with new uniform coats, among other things. I trust you will be fine during my absence?”

“Of course, Sir Charles. Alice and I shall want nothing. I have not much experience in organising soirees, but I shall help as much as I can.”

“That is very kind of you, Madam,” Charles answered with a genuine smile.

He had come to appreciate and respect his daughter-in-law over the last three years, and if he was honest, he coveted her very presence. While this filled him with a bad conscience at times, it also made him place more value in his appearance and standing.

Suzanne gave him a smile in return. “It is the least I can do without being ungrateful.”

They continued their dinner in pleasant discussion of the guest list and Sir Charles noticed that Suzanne had gained a very good grasp of the importance of various neighbours. The list was headed by Admiral Sir Anthony Carter, 1st Baronet Matcham, and closely followed by his son, Lord Richard Lambert and his family.

Others were added to the list as they came to mind. Admiral Sir Jeremiah Anson would be a welcome guest, and even more so his wife, Lady Anson, née Maynard, a well known playwright in her younger years. Captain Leander Prendergast, R.N., who had settled in the vicinity after his retirement was an old acquaintance of Sir Charles’s from his service in the Mediterranean. His daughter was married to Mr. Edward Tremayne, another neighbour, and they made it on the list too. Others, though considered important by many, were disregarded by Sir Charles based on his personal dislike. In the end the list stood at twenty-eight names. The big old dinner table in the dining hall could seat this many, but they decided to hire additional, temporary staff for kitchen and table.

In the end, Suzanne had one more point.

“Sir Charles, I shall need a formal dress for the soiree. Can I have Paddington drive me into Abingdon? Siobhan told me of a talented seamstress there. I am sure that Paddington can handle it.”

“But of course, Madam! Perhaps you can also make a list of things I should bring from London?”

“That would be most helpful. I can prepare a list and give it to Winslow? Perhaps two or three small bales of fine cloth and a bale of light blue silk? They should be of better quality in London than here.”

“I shall purchase them at Wilson’s. I am quite positive that they only use the best quality cloths. Perhaps, on your next visit to London, you can go there too. They really are the best.”

“I visited them with Siobhan, but I thought their prices were a bit too steep for me.”

“Madam, nothing would be too dear for you,” Sir Charles smiled.

What Suzanne did next shocked Charles to his core. She stood swiftly and stepped close, bending over slightly and kissing his forehead.

“Thank you,” she said softly before she left the dining hall, leaving Charles flustered and with an almost painful erection. He had to re-adjust his breeches before he dared to stand and he quickly rushed upstairs and to his private rooms to take care of his predicament.

The tailor at Wilson’s, Mr. Oldroyd, nodded to himself.

“Just as I thought, Sir Charles. Your measurements are still the same they were back in ‘49. I still have your dress form stored upstairs. You wish for a dress uniform, a Nº 2 and two everyday coats?”

“Indeed. For the everyday coats please use gilt for the buttons, not bullion. I have no idea whether I’ll ever use them.”

“Shall I use brocade for the sleeve stripes?”

“Yes, you better. It’s an odd thing, those stripes. Didn’t need them when I was active, but the damn French started it and now we have to follow suit.”

“Certainly, Sir Charles. Two pairs of trousers with brocade stripes as well?”

“Make that four, Mr. Oldroyd. I am getting older and I may often spill soup on them.”

The joke by Sir Charles made the tailor gasp. Sir Charles had been a customer for over two decades, always polite, but never smiling, let alone joking.

“Very well, Sir Charles,” he mumbled to cover his surprise. “I shall prepare a tally and have it sent to the St. Croix.”

He had the same choice room on the second floor at the St. Croix gentlemen’s club to which his coveted single-digit membership number entitled him when he visited London. The food was said to be the best in all of London, thus settling the question of where to dine.

For years, Sir Charles had maintained his membership without making much use of the club’s facilities, but now it came in handy. After a visit to a hatter where he ordered three new hats to fit his lofty new rank, he returned to the St. Croix to enjoy his afternoon tea. He was sitting comfortably in an upholstered leather chair reading The Morning Chronicle. Offering a radical paper in one of the most exclusive clubs had a touch of absurdity, but the old Marquis de St. Croix was a living contradiction at times.

“Tolliver? Is that you?” a voice interrupted Sir Charles’s train of thoughts. He looked up to see a man of his own age, with a face that was familiar.

“Duncan?” he ventured.

“The very same! Dear Lord, Tolliver! You’ve not changed at all since we last met. In ‘31 it was, wasn’t it?”

Charles briefly closed his eyes. Eileen had still been alive in 1831. He controlled his emotions.

“Yes, in ‘31. I had just returned from Bombay.”

“So you had, and married to the prettiest girl one could picture. How is she?”

“She died two years later during child birth,” Charles said tersely. Bram Duncan had been a fellow captain then, a good looking fellow, always jolly and seemingly always drunk. Whilst the latter two attributes were still in evidence, the former was a thing of the past. Duncan’s face told of a life of debauchery. In this moment however, the jolliness was wiped from his features and he looked like a sad old Spaniel.

“Oh, I’m ever so sorry. I had no idea. That must have been a terrible blow, old boy. You had a son, hadn’t you?” he kept babbling.

“Yes. He fell at Balaclava,” Charles answered with an effort, causing even deeper mortification in his erstwhile acquaintance. “He left his wife and his little girl. They live with me now.”

“Oh, no! Not him too! I’ve never married, but I have a nephew whom I love like a son. Lucan’s tomfoolery cost him his leg. Damn his bloody eyes, the old fool!”

Charles nodded to this. It was a sentiment that he shared wholeheartedly. He had a feeling that the whole Crimean war was a bungled business from the start, something that would have never happened had the Duke of Wellington still been alive and in charge.

“Damn those Army nincompoops!” he replied.

“Amen,” Duncan answered. “Say, is it too early for a brandy?”

Charles shrugged. At home he enjoyed a glass of brandy now and then, and the talk with Duncan had depressed him. He signalled a waiter.

“A bottle of the St. Croix Ancien,” he ordered, planning to bring the leftovers back home.

The waiter returned with a dusty bottle which he proceeded to wipe clean. He then poured the amber liquid into two huge balloon shakers. Both men smelled reverently before lifting the shakers.

“To the memories of loved ones,” Duncan intoned solemnly.

“To their memories,” Charles answered.

“This is fine brandy, Tolliver. Have you ever tried Scotch barley malt whiskies? Some of our distilleries are turning out a fine drink.”

“I had no idea. I always thought of whisky as some barbarian rotgut.”

“Au contraire, my dear Tolliver. The good distillers produce their own barley malt and they let their liquor age for ten years and more. ‘Tis a fine drink they make and you are not liable to get a headache from it either.”

“I have to take your word for this, Duncan. I’m not...”

“Not so, my dear Tolliver. This bottle is on you, but once we’ve finished it, I shall show you an inn where you’ll taste the finest whiskies in London.”

“I’m not sure I want to debauch,” Charles protested, but Duncan waved away the remark.

“Not debauch, my dear Tolliver. I shall give you an initiation into a world that has been hidden to you. A world of subtle flavours and smells. I promise you, once you’ve tried whiskies you’ll never touch Port or Sherry again. Tell you something, my dear fellow — let’s have one more shaker of this fine French brandy and then cork the bottle. You’re lodging here of course?”

“Yes, my family has held membership since the St. Croix opened.”

“Enviable. I’ve been on the waiting list for seven years. At least they let me into the day rooms now. Let’s get a Hackney, shall we?”

Sighing inwardly, Charles nodded. Then he reconsidered. Why not have a jolly night with Duncan? It had been decades since Charles had spend a wild evening and nobody would know him. He looked down at his uniform.

“Let me change into a civilian suit.”

“Why are you even wearing an old uniform?” Duncan asked. “You’re vying for a command?”

“Not really. I received my flag and I paid a call at Whitehall to collect my back pay.”

“Your flag? Damn it! Rear admiral of the Blue?”

Charles nodded.

“Damn it! That calls for a monumental celebration.”

He called for more glasses and poured brandy in all of them. Not heeding Charles’s protests, he raised his glass.

“Gentlemen, may I bother you to partake of this fine brandy with us and to salute the Royal Navy’s newest flag officer, Sir Charles Tolliver, Baronet Stepley, Rear Admiral of the Blue Squadron!”

The seven or so gentlemen in the reading room rose and accepted the glasses, saluting Charles. He nodded and raised his own glass.

“Gentlemen, this is very kind of you. To Her Majesty’s Royal Navy and to her heroes past and living!”

The toast was accepted with acclamation, but Charles noted with dismay that his bottle of fine brandy was now almost reduced to dregs. He shrugged, the brandy warming him comfortably from inside. To hell with it! He had not lived for years. Why not grab this opportunity? With sudden resolve, he distributed the sad remnants of the brandy and led a last toast.