hose, white waistcoat and shirt, legs now encased from the knees down in a spanking-new pair of Hessian boots. He could not resist the temptation of having the London shop sew on tiny gold-fringed tassels. A dark blue coat, with a dark-blue stand-up collar and broad blue lapels, instead of a lieutenantâs white ones. There were two bands of gold lace encircling his cuffs, set with three gilt fouled-anchor buttons. The collar, front, top, and bottom, bore a wide band of gold lace; as did the two outside pocket flaps, along with even more set-in-three gilt buttons. The lapelsâ outer edges, and tops and bottom seams, were gold-laced, and nine gilt buttons to either lapel allowed it to be worn open, or closed in foul weather.
Another thing to rue, he thought suddenly. Going to London to assure his confirmation, and smarm his way through the junior clerks below-stairs, the basement moles who had pored over all his records of service, âtsk-tsk-ingâ over every undotted I or slovenly crossed T.
Then off to Couttsâs Bank with prize-money certificates, off to see his solicitor, Matthew Mountjoy, who handled his affairs ashore; both the farm and his dealings with the financial side of the Admiraltyâand his creditors. Feeling relief, and guilt, that he was called by duty from the bosom of his family after only one night with them in hired lodgings in Portsmouth. And before any trace of his affair with Phoebe showed on his face!
The pleasures of shopping, like a wealthy gentleman, free of a demand upon his time. Of course, he needed new hats from Lockâs, new full-dress and undress coats, pristine white breeches and waistcoats, shoes and bootsâthat was required! Pistols, too, from Manton; his had gone down with Zélé. A new sea chest in which to store all his new finery . . . and a new sword.
Heâd have a Gillâs, no other. Wilkinson was all right, he thought, but a Gillâs heâd had before, and it had never failed him. Until heâd been forced to surrender it to that puffed up, piss-proud young Frog, Colonel Napoleone Bonaparte. Oh, there was the slim, straight rapierlike smallsword heâd taken from the French captain, when heâd taken Jesterâ back when she was named Sans Culottes. But it was much too ornate, a bit too slim and elegant a blade, fit for full-dress occasions, not a real bare-knuckle brawl. He wanted a fighting sword, and that was what heâd found.
It was a Gillâsâat thirty-one, he sensed he had already developed a conservative streak, and some positively rigid prejudicesâless elegant than his lost one, but more fit for the melee. His old hanger had been slimmer, a true gentlemanâs âhunting sword,â slightly curved. His new blade, the cutler had told him, was patterned upon a French grenadierâs hanger. The blade was wider along its entire length, a tad thicker in cross-section, and only slightly curved; much less like a Light Cavalry saber than most, with all but the first two inches before the guard honed razor-sharp, and the first eight inches of the top behind the wicked point as well. It fit his hand, felt solid and durable, yet nowhere near as heavy as a humbler cutlass. Like all hunting swords or hangers, it was shorter than a smallswordâonly twenty-six inches of bladeâbut he preferred that in the confusion of a shoulder-to-shoulder, nose-to-nose melee. And it was reassuringly heavy close to the guard, but wickedly light and quick as it tapered to the point.
Black leather grip wrapped in gilt wire, a slim, gilt-steel swept hilt with a large oval guard to protect his fingers. There were no seashells this time, but a fairly plain pattern of stylized oak leaves. The scabbard was black leather, with gilt furnishings. They had soldered a coin-silver plaque to the outer face of the upper furnishing, with a pair of crossed cannon over a fouled anchor engraved, wreathed in oak leaf. Almost like