Well, not by all, Alan qualified, as he drew his horse to a halt at the turn-in gate. The hot rum punches he'd downed through an afternoon of war talk and genteel arguing at the Olde Ploughman were working on him something hellish, and the idea of riding in to 'front the bastards direct was rake-hell, damme-boy appealing. No, not all treat us shabby, he snorted. There were a few of the minor gentry, the younger folk, and most of the common sort who thought the Lewrie saga romantic beyond words, and sympathized with them in their banishment.
Lovely and sweet Caroline Chiswick, the poor Loyalist emi-gree home after the Revolution, being "buttock-brokered" by her Uncle Phineas to wed rich, so he could get even more acres by her, her parents almost helpless in their penury to help her. Four suitors: two very old widowers and a sheeper-tenant-all vile beyond belief-and the Hon. Harry Embleton, an MP and heir to untold wealth and power, and next-door acres, the most favoured.
Then, along came Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, RN, and swept her away. Not only rescued her, but came within a hair of dueling Harry for her!
Well, it never came to that, Alan gloated, warmed against the cold as he savoured that long-ago triumph. Harry learned we'd posted banns, and went lunatick at a fox hunt. Took a whip to my treed cat, took his whip to me-'bout as public as it gets! And I flattened his nose and made his bung sport claret. Make matters worse, he goes and whines to Caroline 'bout her choice, goes off again, calls her every vile thing he had in his little mind, and damned if she don't whip him 'cross the field with her reins, too! Bang on his busted nose in front of damn near everyone in Surrey that matters! Lord!