Unfortunately, the decision as to how he would spend his time, and in what order, was decided for him at supper that evening, though it was a rather good repast, it must be noted.
“So, you’ve completed your dealings with Admiralty, I take it?” his father, Sir Hugo, surmised over the lamb chops course. “Been to the bank and all, as well? My my, how industrious of you. Speaking of … I’ve arranged for you to meet that estate agent tomorrow morning, no no don’t thank me. He’ll come round to fetch you at Ten, and I’m assured that he has several choice properties for you to see.”
“Tomorrow morning?” Lewrie gawped, with a forkful of asparagus halfway to his mouth. “Mean t’say…”
“No time like the present,” Sir Hugo heartily chortled, “or in this case, the morrow. No sense in wasting your days, gadding about, what? Coffee houses, clubbing, associating with your old friends, of both high and low degree? Plenty of time for that after you’re properly settled.”
“And out from under your feet,” Lewrie sourly responded, reaching for a fresh bread roll.
“You know my ways by now,” Sir Hugo said, striving for an air of philosophical indifference, “I am capable of hospitality and generosity, especially to my kin, but even they cramp my style after a time, and intrude ’pon my desire for privacy. Strike whilst the iron is hot, me lad. Strike whilst the iron is hot!”
* * *
Accordingly, the estate agent, one Mr. George Penneworth, came knocking at the appointed hour and was shown up abovestairs to the drawing room. He came in a handsome coach-and-four, an equipage that Lewrie suspected was his own, not hired on, and a sign that the letting and selling of properties was a most lucrative occupation, one which might end up costing Lewrie rather more than he’d bargained for.
“I know next to nothing ’bout kitchens and such,” Lewrie objected from the first after being introduced, “so you don’t mind if I bring along my cook, Mister Yeovill, to advise me?”
“Certainly not, Sir Alan!” the effusive Mr. Penneworth gushed in total agreement. “Wise of you, I must say, to prepare yourself as much as you may. Most discerning,” he smarmily went on.
Mr. Penneworth was dressed in the very best Beau Brummell fashion, though his bulk stretched it taut; dark green suitings, the trousers strapped under shiny black half-boots, a gold watch chain and fob cross his waist-coat, also stretched by what Lewrie suspected was extra-fine dining that his line of work, and the great profits that he derived from it, allowed him.
Once in the man’s coach, and rattling off to the first house he had arranged to show, Lewrie explained his circumstances, how many he had in his entourage, and his expectations that he could only take a short-term lease should the Navy offer him a new active commission.
Mr. Penneworth pursed his full lips at that news, surely expecting, from what Sir Hugo had told him prior to the appointment, that a longer-term lease would be forthcoming. Not to be daunted, the man put a glad face back on. “I am certain that I can find you a suitable place, at satisfactory terms, though you may have to pay the initial three months up front, with no refund should you be called back to sea.
“Now, then!” Penneworth went on, “For a gentleman of your standing, and fame,” he said with a slight bow from the waist, “nought but a First Rate dwelling will do.”
“What, like a First Rate ship of the line?” Lewrie asked, completely at sea. “Don’t know if I rate a flagship. Wouldn’t that be…?”
With un-quenched enthusiasm, Mr. Penneworth launched into a very brief explanation of the arcane builders’ trade, and a series of Acts which governed them over the last century, entire.
“There have been many requirements decreed over the years, going back to the Great London Fire, sir,” Penneworth happily prosed on, “In short, a First Rate house in London is one worth at least eight hundred and fifty pounds at the time of its construction, and consisting of at least nine squares of room on a lot, the out-buildings extra.”
“Squares,” Lewrie said, most dubiously.
“Oh, my pardons, sir,” Penneworth said, laughing off Lewrie’s ignorance of the contractors’ argot, “but a square is a building measurement of one hundred square feet, ten by ten. A nine-square house would be nine hundred square feet on its foundation, thence the same footage upwards to the ground floor, the first storey, and et cetera.”
“Thirty feet cross the front, and thirty feet deep, I’d think,” Lewrie said with a nod of understanding. “Ah!”
Not so bad, he thought; a manageable size, nowhere near as big as my father’s place. How much did the old fart pay for his?
“About that, sir, though most building lots in London are only twenty-four feet wide, making the overall depth rather tricky to measure out,” Penneworth told him. “Second, Third, and Fourth Rate houses are, of course, smaller, and I doubt you’d wish to waste your time seeing any of those. Why, one would not have enough space in any room to swing the proverbial cat, ha ha! And some of the lesser houses are on much shorter lots, with no back garden, or stabling worth speaking of. No, no, I assure you that what you seek is a First Rate dwelling, one constructed to the highest standards of crafsmanship and materials. All else are little more than shoddily built … hovels!”
Mr. Penneworth at this point launched into a brief lecture upon the differences between superior grey brick for the outer walls, and red brick which was used behind the laths and plaster to make parti-walls and partitions; solid Portland stone for foundation footings, the window dressings, porches, eaves, and cornices, even fireplaces, and why Bath stone did not hold up well in London; how Reigate stone was best for hearths, basement floors and areas, and how handsome upper floors were when halls were paved Purbeck stone; how excellent Welsh slate was to tiles or pantiles for rooves; and Crown glass, not sheet, was better though on their tour they might encounter the newer Plate glass.
“And, here we are!” Penneworth exclaimed as they got to the first house, which turned out to be an eighteen-square grey brick monstrosity available for only fifty pounds a month, and big enough to house an army battalion, if they didn’t much care for bathing, and would tolerate an hourly parade of rats.
On the way to the second to be shown, Mr. Penneworth expressed his belief that such an older place would be better than one of newer construction. “Things settle, d’ye see, after a time, and once settled, they’re sound as the pound, a place that’s been lived in for a decade or so,” he said with a sagacious tap on the side of his nose, which did not go very far towards easing Lewrie’s sudden feeling that a “settled” house, like the one they had just seen, sounded suspiciously like an old ship whose bottom was about to drop right off!
They saw two more places before dinner, then broke their search off to dine at a chop-house of Penneworth’s recommendation; quite good but costlier than most, and Lewrie footed the whole bill, watching Mr. Penneworth put away enough for two!
* * *
They saw one more that afternoon, also too damned big to be managed, before turning off the rich expanse of Hay Hill Street into Dover Street for the last of the day, by which time Lewrie’s reticence had stifled Mr. Penneworth’s “helpful” enthusiasm.
“Quite nicely situated, this one, Sir Alan,” Penneworth told him, “Dover Street runs down to Piccadilly, and a short stroll to the various gentlemen’s clubs. Green Park is quite close by. To the West by a few streets is Park Lane and Hyde Park. Open expanses, fresher air, all that, what? Much less in the way of carting traffic with Green Park on the other side of Piccadilly, too. A quieter street than most, and this one has a roomy stable and coach house I think you’ll like.”
“Don’t have a coach,” Lewrie told him, feeling rather truculent and un-cooperative by then, having tramped up too many flights of stairs, and more in the mood for a comfortable chair, bootless feet, and a glass of whisky.
“Mmm, a saddle horse…,” Penneworth said, a bit surprised.
“I depend on hackneys,” Lewrie said, “or what sort of prad they have in the hired stables at Hyde Park. A trot down Rotten Row, wind and weather permittin’, is the most I can hope for.”
“Ah, sir,” Penneworth said, subdued again, wondering just how a fashionable gentleman could do without either coach or horses. “Ehm, this one should suit a Navy man, Sir Alan. Admiral Lord Nelson resided at Number Seventeen for a time.”
“With his wife, or the Hamiltons?” Lewrie asked with one wry brow up.
“During the Peace of Amiens, after Copenhagen, I believe it was, Sir Alan, so it was surely with Sir William and Lady Emma,” Penneworth said, sniggering. “By which time the lady was quite … rotund. And, here we are!” he suddenly announced, sounding relieved. “Number Twenty-two Dover Street!”
The coach pulled to a stop and they alit on the east side of the street, giving them a wider look to the opposite side where the residence in question sat. Lewrie took a good look round, noting how all the houses seemed to be of a piece, one yellowish-brown brick expanse down each side of the street, punctuated with white-ish foundations, upper parapets, eaves, and cornices, and white-ish stone window treatments and stone courses to delineate each upper floor.
“The tradesmen’s entrance down there, below the wrought-iron ornamental,” Penneworth pointed out the steps leading down to a door in the basement, and the windows set just a bit below the street level. “The entrance is Doric in style,” he said, indicating the stone-framed doorway, with a shallow inverted stone V above it.
“Doors should be Dor-ic, hey, Mister Penneworth?” Lewrie japed.
“Number Twenty-two is a twelve-square residence, Sir Alan,” that worthy said, ignoring the wee witticism, “the lot thirty feet wide, so the main house should be fourty deep.” He produced his large ring of keys, flicked through them, and found the one needed. “Shall we go in, sir?”
They crossed the cobbled street, Lewrie noting the two windows to the left of the entry, and the glossily black-painted door, trying to recall how high the Window Tax was these days.
“Four levels, altogether,” Penneworth said as he opened the door into a foyer laid with the usual black and white chequered tile. The woodwork was painted white, as were the risers of the stair to the right-hand side, though the treads were polished oak. The stairs were about four feet wide, and a long hall stretched all the way to the back of the house, also done in black and white chequer, painted a pale cerulean sky blue.
“The front parlour, here,” Penneworth said, indicating a large room to the left, entered through a wide double door, a spacious room about twenty feet long and perhaps fifteen wide, with a stone fireplace at the far end, and book cases either side. The walls above the white wainscoting were painted a very pale canary yellow, set off by white crown mouldings, and narrow Doric columns rising from the wainscotting.
“Let’s stamp about, Yeovill,” Lewrie said as he took heavy steps cross the oak-planked floor, and looking for wear. But the floor and its supports seemed as solid as a frigate’s timbers. The plaster all round showed no cracks, or damp, either.
Penneworth showed them through another Doric-style wooden door into a dining room behind the parlour, which could also be entered by a hall door in the same style; this room repeated the white mouldings and wainscot work, but its walls were done in a darker blue paint.
And behind the dining room, about equal in size to the parlour, was a morning room at the very back, a smaller dining room where one might breakfast, or dine en famille, if no supper guests were in. It had a pair of windows overlooking the back garden area, and it was repeated in pale canary yellow, about ten feet wide, and only fifteen feet long, with a pair of large pantries along the outer wall. There was another door to the hallway, and a landing which led down to the basement and kitchens, so Penneworth led them down.
There was a solid and stout back door to the garden area, then a pair of rooms before they got to the kitchen, one for the butler’s pantry, and one for the housekeeper’s office and still room, though both were quite empty but for some shelving.
“There’s a bath space, here,” Penneworth said, opening a door into a stone-lined room with a drain hole in the centre. “You are connected to the city drains, and there’s more than enough room for a hip bath tub. Much closer to the kitchen, so the task of fetching water abovestairs in volume is not necessary. And, there’s a small fireplace to keep the bath room warm in winter. And in the kitchen…”
“Your territory, I think, Yeovill,” Lewrie said, waving his cook to be first to enter.
“Larder there, wine cellar … aha, an amply sized Franklin oven!” Yeovill marvelled, opening the oven door to peek in, and lift the various round plates atop where his pots and such would rest. He then crossed to the massive fireplace on the outer wall to look over the iron rods to support large pots or cauldrons over a fire, and the rotating spit above.
“What the Devil’s that contraption, Yeovill?” Lewrie asked as he caught sight of a large, round metal cage wheel, and the chains that led to the spit.
“Oh, sir, that’s what turns the spit,” Yeovill said with a laugh. “You can raise or lower it, depending, and when you wish to do a roast, you put a small dog in the cage to walk the wheel to keep the spit at a steady turn. A terrier would be best for that, so when I don’t do a roast, he can double as a ratter.”
“There are servants’ quarters beyond,” Penneworth pointed out, showing them several small rooms either side of the front passageway that led to the stout door of the front tradesmen’s entrance, all of them thankfully somewhat furnished with single wooden bed-steads, a night table with a drawer each, and small chests of drawers.
“All I’d need, then, are new mattresses and bed linen,” Lewrie said. “Good!”
“Well, there’s pots, cauldrons, pitchers, stone crocks, and implements to be bought, too, sir,” Yeovill informed him, “along with all the flour, sugar, and staples.”
Well-off at last or not, Lewrie pictured growing stacks of silver shillings in his head.
“Here in the front, sir, under the street, actually, there is a large space for fuel,” Penneworth told them. “Coal, wood, and such?”
They took a look at that, then, as long as they were on the basement level, they went out into the back garden to take a look at that, and the stables and coach house.
There was a stone area, then stone steps up to the garden proper, which might have been well-tended in the past, though was now over-grown with scraggly grass several inches long, and some wilting ornamentals. There was a pump lever, a match to the one in the kitchen, to draw water from the company that supplied water to the district.
The stable and coach house had room for two coaches, and at least six horses, plus tack room, hay and grain bins. Above, there was the sparse lodgings for a coachman, groom, and stable boy, if Lewrie was ever of a mind to hire such people on.
“First floor, sir?” Penneworth suggested once they were back inside, and the rear door locked with a loud clank. They went up the back stairs to the ground-floor hallway, then up the front stairs to the first storey, Penneworth describing the curved mahoghany railings on the way up.
The upper hall was also done in sky blue; six feet wide, they were told, more than sufficient for servants with trays, the moving of furniture, and a sense of spaciousness.
There was a front drawing room overlooking the street, with a set of three large windows, this time, equal in size to the parlour below on the ground gloor, done in the same white woodwork and trim, but painted almost a teal blue.
“And not a bit of wallpaper in sight so far, thank the Good Lord,” Lewrie said, for he’d never been big on florals, reproductions of ancient Rome or Greece, or whimsical Chinese gardens and birds.
Off to the right of the drawing room, above the foyer, was a smaller room with only one of the windows, what Penneworth termed a library or study. The rest of the first storey was made up of bed-chambers with dressing rooms, four of them all told, and at the very back, just off the stairs that led to the second storey, was the “necessary closet” which, thankfully, had its own window for ventilation. Chamber pots in each bed-chamber could take care of night-time urination, but the “necessary closet” was for serious work, one with two wooden seats of ease with a shoulder-high partition between, and doors in front of both so the night soil could be taken down the back stairs by the servants each morning without disturbing the “air” of the house.
The second storey proved to be the highest, with a decent-sized nursery and bed-chamber for any children of the house, and servants’ rooms behind, with their own “necessary closet”, all thankfully furnished in some fashion. Penneworth told them that there was a chamber for the female housekeeper up there, so she could keep an eye on the female servants who’d sleep under the roof. And, there was an exit to the roof itself, and a walkway inside the slate roof proper, and the parapet, so tile workers or chimney swifts could access the many chimneys. Penneworth assured Lewrie that the landlord had had the swifts in just after the last family had moved on to larger lodgings, and that there had been no complaints on how the chimneys drew, just a month before.
“How much per month, sir?” Lewrie asked once they were all in the ground-floor parlour for a last look-about.
“Twenty pounds the month, Sir Alan,” Penneworth told him, making a “pooh-poohing” expression, as if it was a grand bargain, “with three months in advance, as I said before, and month-to-month after, if you find it necessary, given the uncertainty of your circumstances.”
“Hmm, I’ll have to purchase some furnishings,” Lewrie speculated, “enough for two bed-chambers, for the drawing room, things which I have no need for at sea, or Yeovill’d need in a ship’s galley. What if, when I do get orders, and a new ship, the rent might be reduced if I leave all that behind for the new tenants?”
“Hmm, I would have to discuss it with the principal, Sir Alan,” Penneworth said, obviously not used to haggling with his sort of customers, who were wont to spend more freely, especially for a house in the Mayfair area. “A few pounds less per month, perhaps, but after the first three-month advance at the stated rate, I fear.”
“That would be alright,” Lewrie told him. “What d’ye think, Yeovill? Just big enough t’be roomy, but not so big I’d need a small army of help t’manage it.”
“Bags of room for all of us belowstairs, sir,” Yeovill agreed, “with Desmond promoted to ‘Bosun’ of the house, Dasher to serve as a footman, Pettus to tend to you, and Deavers to help in the kitchen? We could still use a scullery maid, a pair of chamber maids, but we’d get by handsomely.”
“Right, then,” Lewrie decided, “I’ll take it, sir. If you will come by my father’s house in the morning, I’ll have a note-of-hand on Coutts’ Bank for you for the first three months, and you can negotiate with your principal owner for a longer stay at your leisure.”
“Excellent, Sir Alan, simply excellent!” Penneworth exclaimed, “I am certain that you shall be pleased with your selection, and most comfortable for as long as you stay!”
“In point of fact, if you will come in once we reach my father’s place, you’ll have my note-of-hand at once!” Lewrie assured the man.
And I can get off my screamin’ bloody feet! he told himself.