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A Late Lunch, 24th, 1pm- Xmas 1677


Lucas Cole

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Over the last few months, whenever the pressures of life threatened to become overwhelming, it had become Master Cole's habit to take a long walk.

 

What had begun as a ploy to distract from the inevitable lure of laudanum, (a simpler but far more insidious form of relaxation that still, on occasion, proved tempting) had soon become a habit unto itself, for Lucas found the act of walking to be a supremely restful one. Aside from the rhythmic motion of it, there was something very satisfying in being alone with one's thoughts and freed from all obligation. Nothing could be demanded of one who was busily walking, after all, except for the act of walking itself.

 

He had wandered all over London these last few weeks, in all weathers, at all times of the day and night, hands buried deep within the pockets of his warm greatcoat, collar turned up against the wind... directionless, and surprisingly content. And as the opera's debut had approached, the habit had become ever more necessary. Indeed, some nights, the only way he could get any sort of sleep at all was to walk himself to exhaustion, and then collapse.

 

This evening, the opera would grace the stage for the very first time, before King, patron, and court. And so today, the composer walked, snow be damned. Along the Strand and up Maypole, through Wich street and Drury lane, skirting through Covent Garden and then north, through narrow alleys carpeted in grey, furrowed slush, toward Holburn. The winter air was crisp with the clean, sharp scent of the snowfall; the sun threw long, blue shadows from every wall and tree and rooftop. These simple things were somehow deeply soothing.

 

Still, given enough time the English winter would drive even the most determined of men indoors, and by the time Lucas had reached the end of Monmouth street, he had begun to feel hungry, and despite his thick wool socks and gloves, his fingers and toes had begun to grow numb with cold. Reluctantly, he turned south toward Charing Cross... and the nearest warm hearth.

 

The Red Lion Inn is located at Charing Cross. Solidly built in grey stone the inn has an air of permanence and protectiveness. The three storied building displays a shield-shaped sign of a red lion rampant guardant on a white ground. The legend above the door reads "Red Lion Inn. Hezekiah Golightly, lndld."

 

The taproom is furnished with an oak settle before the fireplace and tables and stools are scattered in congenial groups around the room. The floor is covered with the finest sand which is changed weekly.

 

Before the fire, (with a bowl of white bean soup, a cup of mulled wine, and his boots off) Lucas let out a long, contented sigh, enjoying the comfortable tiredness of limbs, of extremities thawing. The snow clinging to his coat had begun to melt, beading upon the nap. For a time, this restful state of mind would persist... though what he was expected to do with the remainder of this anxious day, he had no idea.

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ooc: I was just making a lunch thread and saw yours! So shall join it if you dont mind.

IC:

 

 

His morning had been spent on Whitehall-grounds patrol, with chill nipping at feet through his jackboots. Turnbull and Burrows ignored the cold as they walked, maintaining stoic silence when anyone passed, though breaking into conversation when not observed. Their topic; the important consideration of what's-for-lunch. It was here that Turnbull learned about the Red Lions Kitchens, the hostess of which (whose name was spoken with veritable reverence) surpassed all others. The description of Mrs Golightly's leek and rabbit pie was the final straw, come hell or high water, he would be going to the red lion for lunch!

 

"Sure you cant come?" But Burrows had an errand, some trinket he had to pick up in town. So our Lieutenant, bade him a goodbye at the Charring cross intersection, "I shall see you later friend!"

 

Even before he entered the Inn a waft of baked goods greeted his nose. Ambrose Turnbull's was just one of any number of grumbling stomachs crossing the threshold of the Red Lion on this lunch hour.

 

...

 

Carrying a plate bearing a generous slice of pie, and tin mug full of spiced ale, hat tucked under his arm, the uniformed man looked around for a seat?

 

Thinking he saw a spot at a table he took a few steps that way, but then the spot was claimed. Or over there, near the window? He took another few steps, but again he'd been too slow. Shite. But then, near the fire. A chair. While not in the dining room itself, it was near a fire, adjacent to a gourmand already roasting himself. Making an approach he asked, "Is this seat free?"

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Lucas barely heard; he had been lost in the hypnotic dance of the flames in the hearth. The warmth of it had a pleasant, soporific effect. His boots rested rather nearer the hearth, drying out; between his hands, his cup of mulled wine warmed his long fingers. He was pleasantly transfixed... absent-mindedly thinking of very little, and enjoying the absence.

 

And then he noticed someone appeared to be standing over him. The composer looked up to discover a tall gentleman in red Lifeguard's uniform, hovering expectantly. There seemed to be only one proper response. "Hmm? Oh... yes. Please, be my guest." Lucas gestured to an empty chair. He took a sip from his wine, and after a pause added, "I'm sorry, my mind was elsewhere."

 

He did not seem to have anything at all to add to that: the composer turned his attention back to the fire, and to his thoughts. Or the comfortable lack thereof.

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With polite consent received, the Royal Life Guard was pleased to lay claim to the seat. "Sterling." Ambrose thanked Lucas with a grateful nod swiftly settled himself in. While now close enough to conduct a conversation, he did not assume that sitting next to someone obliged nor promised conversation -- Lucas looked like a man with a lot on his mind.

 

And he had his own agenda - the pie.

 

Appetite for this particular pie had been whetted and nurtured for some hours now, his mouth was watering so much for it that the first mouthful might have been digested prior to even being swallowed... Oh! And it was divine! It was everything Burrows had said it would be. The buttery crunch of the crusty, the creaminess of the leeks in white sauce, and the bauble-like chunks of seared rabbit meat throughout - all with just the right of dash of salt and sprinkling of pepper.

 

"Mmm..." he groaned pleasure involuntarily, then throwing a skewed smile at the man just there, "There is nothing like that which is long awaited eh?" Which might be an overture towards chewing the fat if if the other was inclined.

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While Ambrose ate, Lucas attended to his own meal - a hearty soup, chosen purely for its ability to chase away the winter's chill. For a time, the two men ate in a companionable silence, and then Lucas returned to gazing into the fire, thoughtfully. At least until Ambrose spoke.

 

"Indeed," the composer agreed, turning to look at the stranger. He managed a thin smile, "But the waiting is a damnable thing."

 

He did not seem at all inclined to expound upon that remark, instead sitting back in his chair with a sigh and folding his hands before him. After a brief pause he added, "May I ask, are you with Lord Langdon's regiment?" It seemed Lucas was rather more interested in listening than speaking, turning the burden of the conversation firmly upon Ambrose, and whatever his doings might be.

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.."some 'waits' being more difficult than others." Ambrose agreed, licking crumbs from his lips he took a sip of his ale and sunk back into the chair. The wait for the pie had been worth it. What was this fellow there on tender hooks about, he did not seem to be talking about his soup. Ah well...

 

"The name is familiar." he replied, eyes brightening, "though I have not yet met him, I am just new to the 2nd troop. I'm an ex-navy man - only just washed the salt from my hands." He gave a good natured chuckle, then thought to extend, "Turnbull's the name."

 

"Ah, but I heard the Colonel has the nickname Lightening Langdon - what is that about do you know?"

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Lightning Langdon, ah yes. Lucas smiled, as though amused by some private joke. "That may depend upon who you ask," he replied, evenly. "Ask any respectable gentleman, and he might tell you it is because of Lord Langdon's prowess upon the racetrack. He is said to be a prodigious horseman..."

 

He paused, swirling his wine in his cup thoughtfully, and cast Ambrose a sidelong look, one eyebrow quirked. If the man were from the Navy, Lucas rather doubted he was at all precious. Naval men so rarely were. "Less respectable courtiers might advise you... that it would be wise to keep any sisters you may possess away from the Earl of Langdon." The composer shrugged, and added with particular care; "I am sure I cannot comment either way."

 

Which left the question of whether Lucas could be considered at all respectable entirely open for interpretation. By design, of course; his particular thoughts on Langdon most certainly were not for public consumption. Besides, he only had the vaguest recollection of their last meeting... he had been rather the worse-for-wear, at the time.

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The way Lucas smiled told the lifeguard he was onto something; what man new to a job did not want some inside knowledge to those in charge? Moving forwards in his own chair, Ambrose rested elbows on knees as he leaned closer for better listening.

 

Horse racing? He frowned at the dullness. The negative position of his eyebrows serving as an extreme to their subsequent pitching upwards in with amusement, a hearty chuckle loosed. "Aha, those poor sisters, deserving of more than a burst of brilliance. Lo, a shame upon the cannon fired too soon to hit the target!"

 

Though by the way Lucas avoided confirmation either way, had Ambrose straighten his face (well try to) and add, "In some circles a fast horse is the stock of choice for breeding, some sisters might even find it preferable..." but he snickered still.

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Lucas smirked. "As much as I'd enjoy seeing that rumour spread..." he began, carefully, "Perhaps you misunderstand. I mean to say that he wins the affections of those ladies he flatters rather quickly. He is known as a ladies' man... perhaps even before he is the King's man. For better or worse."

 

The composer shrugged; he seemed vaguely amused. "How rapid any other aspect of his, ah, performance might be, naturally, I have no notion." He lifted his cup, taking a swallow from it and making a brief, amused sound. "If you are curious, perhaps you should interview his conquests...?"

 

He had still not made any sort of introduction. Nor did he seem in the least bit eager to do so.

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Ambrose had noticed the other man had not supplied his name in return, but he did not think anything of it. Two men in London that happen chance had share an Inn's fire, might likely never cross paths again. It had been the other mans's knowledge of Langdon that prompted Ambrose to supply 'Turnbull'. When in uniform, as he currently was, one was in effect still on duty, and a certain amount of transparency and accountability was expected of His Majesties Troops. Besides, Ambrose was anything but ashamed of his new position.

 

"Aha, a ladies man. Well, that is apt for his rank, and surely a model the rest of the regiment must follow!" he continued to laugh, though the angle of topic had shifted.

 

Settling back into his seat, he took another sip of his ale, raised and lowered his eyebrows upon a puzzling thought and then expressed it, "You would think that the Ladies would be warned from him, with such a nickname broadcasting his ability. But then, prowess may have it's own allure? Ha, then I shall wish upon us both..." to Lucas he lifted his mug to toast, ".. the most Racy of nicknames by the seasons end."

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Lucas merely studied Ambrose for a moment, his expression ambiguous. And then he smiled that thin, lukewarm smile of his, and raised his glass. "To your great success in that endeavour, Lieutenant. May it bring you joy."

 

Strangely enough, for such a ringing endorsement, it sounded almost like a curse when delivered in that cool, laconic tone. Or... no, perhaps not so much curse, but rather a sort of indifferent resignation, as one might use when watching a stranger set out to do something extraordinarily stupid, and finding oneself unable to muster the least sympathy.

 

Still, Lucas continued to smile: his courtier's remained mask firmly in place. There was nothing tangible there at which anyone might take the least offense. He was very careful to ensure that.

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The other's conviviality seemed then to falter, the soup drinker was somehow offended? Or at least, wanted no part in the sport of acquiring new nicknames. Still, Lucas had voiced a well wish (of a sort) to Ambrose 'toast', and while the lifeguard was in doubt to it's genuinity, on face value he laughed, "Pray only that I'm not 'Thunderclap', or something worse!" he laughed further of his counterpoint to Langdon's 'Lightening'.

 

"But for yourself, your own nickname is already established?" Dampening finger with tongue, Ambrose dabbed plate, collecting up the pastry crumbs. Waste not want not.

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"If anyone ever thought to give me one, they've been wise enough to never use it to my face," Lucas replied evenly, effectively shutting down that entire line of conversation. His gaze lingered on the fire, on the mesmerizing dance of the flames; his skin was flushed by its warmth. He held his cup of wine in an open-handed grip across the rim, as though he'd half forgotten about it.

 

Nicknames were for lovers, cherished family members, or pets; and Lucas was manifestly none of these things. Had never been... and no longer wished to be. Court had burned all the naive optimism right out of him. He confidently expected it would do the selfsame thing to Ambrose, in time.

 

But there was no use telling the man that. There were some things a person had to learn for themselves. Lucas smiled to himself, a smile that wasn't entirely kind... and lifted his cup to his lips once more, emptying it and placing it upon the table beside him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe my boots are dry..."

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  • 2 weeks later...

"Hah ha ha!" Ambrose laughed of the remark, though perhaps his companion had not been trying to make a a joke? Yet the military man was still chuckling as Lucas then got to his feet to make his exit. "God speed." he bade the man safe journey, none the wiser to who he'd been talking to. Yet in some few hours time at Dorset theatre he might recognize the figure to put a name to the face.

 

Flagging a barmaid, the Lieutenant ordered himself another mug of ale, and a second slice of pie.

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After pulling on his boots and greatcoat, Lucas offered the lieutenant a brief, measured bow; perhaps the most sparing one could make, and still not be deemed impolite. His wry, enigmatic smile did not falter for a moment.

 

Lord, but martial men are always so bloody artless. Not a jot of wit between the lot of 'em.

 

"Good day," he murmured, and moments later, he was gone.

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