A wet and chilly wind blew Brigadier Lord Clayne Joseph Crawford, Viscount Claymont's slightly-long brown-gold hair across his sun-darkened face, the cold spray whipping the wavy locks back and forth as he stood at the forward rail, taking in his first view of London in oh, so many years. To prevent the permanent loss of, or serious damage to, his beaver top hat due to water or wind, he held it carefully tucked under his tensed arm, his trembling fingers clutching the stylishly shaped brim. His dove-grey many-caped great coat protected the rest of his battle-hardened body from those same merciless elements.

Watching interestedly, although somewhat impatiently, as seamen scurried all over the rigging and unfurled sails until the ship was safely moored at the busy wharf serving the lower Thames, he was more eager to set foot on English soil than he had expected to be. Rubbing his eyes with a leather-gloved finger, he murmured to himself, "England ...Home..." One of the sailors approached cautiously. Tugging his greasy forelock, the seaman mumbled, "Beggin' yer pardon, milord, I am t' give this right int' yer hand." He delivered a folded, hand-written note from the ship's Captain, advising the Brigadier that it was permissible to disembark with the ship's officers, rather than wait with the passengers.

My Lord located the debarkation area amidships, and strode ("Well," he acknowledged to himself, "staggered...") awkwardly, to join the uniformed sailors awaiting their turn to leave the docked ship. The queue moved right smartly, leaving no doubt as to the officers' eagerness to set foot on land, and, as the Viscount surmised, "to find a pub." A healthy application of brandy had masked some of the pain and had kept him more-or-less upright, if not entirely comfortable. Trying to disguise his painful limp by holding carefully to the side railing, he stepped gingerly down the wooden gangplank, feeling a little unsteady after so many weeks asea. Determinedly, he refused to display any infirmity.

He felt a momentary burst of pride remembering that he had managed to keep all his meals down, unlike his traveling companion, Lieutenant Amundson, who was still at this late date lying in a bunk below decks. My Lord mused, "...Probably shooting the cat... again." When the Brigadier Lord Crawford set foot on solid ground, his first mission would be to send men aboard to "fetch" the lieutenant, even if it meant carrying the poor sod ashore on a stretcher. Eventually, that was the case.

My Lord need not give a second thought to his baggage, relying on his man, Gilley, to handle the removal of both his and his guest's things and the conveyance of said "things" to his hotel. His London man-of-business, Mr. James Miller-Smythe, will have arranged transportation to his temporary lodgings at the Clarendon, his initial destination. He would be decamping there until he traveled on to his own country seat, Tall Oaks Hold.

He was ashamed to admit that he was looking forward to a dosing of brandy laced with a drop of the much-despised laudanum to find sweet oblivion during the sure-to-be rough carriage ride into the Hampshires. Blinking into the wind, he tried to remember how the area around Tall Oaks looked, but Zeus take it, he could not.

Having settled Lieutenant Amundson at the Clarendon in the tender care of his man, Tervan, Lord Claymont fortified himself with most of a relatively good bottle of port. Much to Gilley's dismay, My Lord secured a hack, having decided to visit his man-of-business, whose office was located in a tiny storefront off Park Lane. Gilley had tried to argue My Lord out of the excursion, especially in his somewhat inebriated state. Gilley felt that the solicitor should come to the Viscount, as was his due. Claymont overrode his objections, feeling a little hemmed in within the confines of the hotel, insisting that the pain in his leg was sufficient to keep the port from debilitating him. He took himself off to Park Lane.

After a lengthy and informative discussion with Miller-Smythe, Claymont returned to the Clarendon armed with a thick folder of "evidence" of the goings-on at his country seat and a lot of disturbing information emblazoned on his tired brain. My Lord was not happy. The only good news he had garnered from the visit was that he had two coaches and well-matched cattle awaiting his pleasure in the mews at the Clarendon: one being a most exceptional carriage, a capacious and comfortable traveling coach; plus a larger, more functional vehicle for his entourage and luggage.

Eager to get home, the gentlemen and their "gentlemen" opted to spend only one night at the hotel to rest and enjoy a good meal, planning to get an early start in the morning, fed and refreshed. Tervan and Gilley let their masters sleep in as the two batmen prepared the conveyances for the trip. They roused and dressed the Viscount and the Lieutenant after the carriages were loaded.

The Viscount Claymont and Lieutenant Amundson were settled into the traveling coach, made comfortable with blankets, rugs, extra cushions, and warm bricks at their feet. Gilley also deposited a basket with snacks, water, and the inevitable alcohol that his master needed. Gilley was somewhat unnerved when his master took not one, but two, drops of laudanum. Gilley and Tervan were to follow in the second coach.

Realizing how bad his master must feel, Gilley almost decided to ride with Claymont. As soon as the two gentlemen were established in their conveyance, though, both fell into a deep sleep. Gilley thanked God for the little blessing and perched himself on the box on the second coach. The caravan embarked on its lengthy journey into the Hampshires countryside.

After a too-long day, gasping in pain, My Lord Claymont awoke from a worse-than-usual jostling when his coach rumbled over an especially bad rut. Roads in the English countryside suffered much disrepair during the harsh winter months. He knew a longish journey, even in his well-sprung and deeply-padded carriage, would be uncomfortable, but he hadn't realized how ill and nauseated he would feel for most of the carriage ride from London.

Half his body ached in a throbbing burn, only partly alleviated by his personal medicinal efforts. His mind, which until the last few moments, was submerged in a pleasant fog of laudanum-induced oblivion, flinched from the certain knowledge that the "medicine" was wearing off. He was ashamed to admit that he was looking forward to another dosing of brandy, laced with a drop of the regretfully-despised laudanum to erase the distress he was currently suffering.

Dragging his consciousness up from the drug-induced cloud in which he had lounged, he glanced out the windows and found that he was inside the gate house guarded entrance, having already passed through the parkland, and was currently traversing the graveled drive. The drive curved gracefully in front of the expansive doors to Tall Oaks Manor, reached by a pleached lime tree-covered walkway.

"Home...," My Lord murmured to himself, a sweet nostalgia wavering behind his weary eyes. He leaned back into the soft velvet squabs, keeping his moistening eyes on the greenswards and esplaniered downy birch and yew trees that dotted the front lawns. A sentimental smile played about his lips. After a few moments, he closed his eyes in grateful relief, allowing himself to accept the comfort that was "coming home."

He half-opened his eyes and glanced at his sleeping traveling companion, Lieutenant Amundson, who lay sprawled across the rear-facing seat, completely unaware of his surroundings. The Lieutenant having no misgivings about a large "medicinal" dose of laudanum, had not even awakened at the last posting house and had missed, what My Lord Claymont felt, had been a good meal.

John Coachman, with much-practiced expertise, stopped the coach with the carriage door facing the end of the pleached lime tree walkway. A veritable "army" of at least a score of liveried footmen eagerly poured out the great double doors, put down a step next to the carriage, opened the door, and greeted My Lord with unfeigned admiration. Having the Viscount Lord Crawford in residence again would be most satisfying.

Trained not to react, the troop of footmen did a fair approximation of blasé expectation to find that their Viscount required assistance to debark the coach. Nor did an eyelid flicker upon discovering an unconscious Lieutenant Amundson sprawled on the seat facing the Viscount. A second coach had rolled to a stop behind My Lord's carriage, disgorging Gilley and Tervan.

Hurrying forward from the second conveyance, Gilley placed a supporting arm around his master's waist and drew My Lord's arm across his shoulder, holding Lord Claymont nearly upright as though he did not need the help. Clayne glanced up at Gilley's rugged face and whispered a heartfelt, "Thank you." Gilley was so gratified that he nearly blushed.

As the two men passed into the great hall, they were greeted by the sight of three ladies standing with hands clasped in front of their waists and the widest smiles to grace their faces in many long months. My Lord Clayne stopped to greet his mother and sister and to eye Miss Beauvenue questioningly.

His sister, Cicely, belatedly remembering her manners, stepped forward and announced, "Claymont, please be known to Miss Astrella Beauvenue, my companion for the upcoming season. Miss Beauvenue, my brother, Joseph Clayne Crawford, the Viscount Claymont." Astrella dropped gracefully into a deep curtsy, murmuring, "My Lord."

Offering her hand, too late she realized that the Viscount might be unable to respond. Claymont bowed as deeply as he could with Gilley supporting him and taking her hand kissed the air above her knuckles. He beamed a devastating smile, which Astrella was dismayed to notice was tempered by the obvious pain he was trying to hide.

Oblivious to his distress, his mother tapped her cheek for his kiss. Gilley reluctantly released his master, and the Viscount stepped forward carefully and planted a perfunctory kiss on his mother's rouged cheek and gave Cicely a quick hug. Over Cicely's shoulder he espied Timmons, his butler; Mrs. Timmons, his housekeeper; and Cook, his temperamental French chef; all of whom were displaying rarely-seen grins on their respective countenances.

My Lord tried to step around Cicely to greet his faithful retainers and stumbled slightly. Everyone tried at the same time to reach out and catch him. Gilley was the quickest. He snaked an arm around Claymont's waist and grabbed his arm as one would catch a lady who had tripped. Astrella caught My Lord's eye, and the two shared a humorous moment, before she blushingly dropped her eyes.

Timmons moved away from the crowd and signaled for Gilley to follow. Claymont dipped his head to everyone in acknowledgement of the fond greetings and allowed Gilley to more-or-less carry him up the grand staircase. Astrella caught Cicely's hand as she tried to follow her brother. Shaking her head, she led the younger woman to the blue salon to distract her with a tea tray and a set of fashion plates.

The gentlemen were eventually transported to their respective rooms, the Viscount to his suite, where Gilley set about making Lord Claymont comfortable. He rang for a footman to fetch the necessary ingredients for the Brigadier's "medicine."

While greetings were being exchanged in the great hall, Tervan had approached the squad of footmen to organize some of them to transport Lieutenant Amundson into the house. Four of the stronger young men picked the lieutenant up and lifted him in a kind of human sling. The Lieutenant was literally carried to a capacious South-facing chamber, where Tervan undressed him and lifted him as carefully as possible onto the large down-filled mattress provided for him.

The last of the troop of footmen moved to retrieve baggage and trunks from the second conveyance and transport them to their master and his guest. A box of wrapped presents was discovered in the coach and was delivered to the Viscount's quarters. Gilley placed the box carefully in the dressing room separating his small room from My Lord's apartment. When My Lord was feeling more the thing, Gilley would remind him of their existence, since they had been transported all the way from the Continent.