The Wardroom - 23. Chapter 23

February 8, 1794

They rode northeast from London, sheltering themselves from the miserably cold weather as best they could. It was a small party, just Granger, Travers, and Winkler, but they were all equally frigid. Travers had approached their journey with some skepticism, but Granger was adamant, determined to finally see this estate that his father-in-law had deeded over to them.

Granger glanced over at Travers and grinned. Travers most definitely did not grin back. He didn't like riding horses, he didn't like the cold, and he didn't like getting up early after drinking all night. There was no greater pledge of his love than having him trotting out here on this wintry day, this day that threatened snow in addition to the cold. They stopped at an inn to warm up and have a pint of ale, and then continued their journey. They made good time, but it still took them three hours to get there, so cold was it, and so miserable were the roads. They arrived at a dilapidated gate, held up by stone walls that were still standing there, strong and defiant.

Granger stopped at the entry to the estate and gazed at the land, bleak in this weather, but with a gentle, rolling nature that would be beautiful in the spring. “How many acres do you have here?” Travers asked.

“Somewhere around 2000, I believe,” Granger said. “Let's go.” They spurred their horses on down the long lane, until they rounded a bend and the manor house came into view. They rode up the tree lined drive to the front entry. Granger dismounted silently and handed his horse off to Winkler. “Find them a warm spot in the stables.”

“Yes sir,” Winkler said, and led the horses off.

“It's massive,” Travers said, staring at it, and indeed he was right. A huge stone edifice, which gave away its roots, for this was one of those massive country houses originally crafted during the Tudor period. It was shaped like a “u”, having originally been designed as an Abbey, with two buildings facing each other. Somewhere along the way, the two buildings were connected by a massive great hall, which was the first room they encountered when they entered. Granger allowed his eyes to move up the stone walls, well equipped with windows to allow ample light. And cold; it wasn't much warmer in the hall than it was outside.

A well-dressed man approached them. “This is a private home gentlemen,” he said officiously.

“I am George Granger,” Granger said formally.

The man took that news without changing his facial expression. “It is a pleasure to meet you sir. We weren't expecting you. I'm Hudson.”

“Well Hudson, it is nice to meet you too. This is Commander Travers, and my personal servant Winkler is with us as well, leading our horses off to the stables.” Hudson nodded. “Perhaps you can give us a tour? Are you familiar with the changes Mrs. Granger is making?”

“Yes sir. Will you be staying the night?” he asked as he led them to one of the wings.

“We will be here tonight.”

“There is only one room that is fit for sleeping sir,” Hudson said nervously.

“Commander Travers and I can share,” Granger said. “One gets used to such things in the navy.”

“Of course sir,” Hudson said. He led them through the house, and as impressive as it was, Caroline's plans were even more impressive. It was an old Tudor home, with some public rooms on the ground floor, but with many of them, like the drawing room, on the first floor. She was transforming it into a Georgian country house, with the public rooms, like the parlor, sitting room, library, and dining room on the ground floor, and the bedrooms on the first. She'd actually allocated a separate bedroom for him, and he smiled when he saw that she'd had them create a bathing room adjacent to it, humoring his daily bathing habit. All of it was magnificent, or it would be when it was done. As the home stood now, it was mostly scaffolding and plaster dust.

Hudson led them to a drawing room at the end of one wing, where a servant had already created a blazing fire. Next to the drawing room was the one, usable bedroom. “I fear these two rooms are the only ones fit for you sir.”

“They are heavenly, or at least the heat is,” Travers grumbled. The rest of the house had been frigid, and Granger realized that he himself had trouble not shivering.

Hudson handed him a thick sheaf of papers. “These are the household accounts sir. I promised Mrs. Granger I'd do my best to put them together. And this parcel,” he said, handing Granger another parcel, “are records from the estate.”

“Thank you Hudson. Would you arrange for something to eat for us in approximately one hour?”

“Certainly sir,” he said, and then left them alone.

“Come on John. Let me warm you up properly,” Granger said, and dragged Travers off to the bedroom.

“Hudson,” Granger said as they dined. “Is there a way to contact our estate manager?”

“Yes sir. I'll send one of the boys to fetch him promptly,” Hudson said with his level cadence.

“I would appreciate that,” Granger said, and continued to rummage through the reports the estate manager had sent to Lord Heathford, and the letters the manager had received back. They were truly horrid. Granger knew that his father-in-law was a skinflint, but he had no idea how tight he really was. The manager, a man named Broadfield, had sent him letter after letter, repeatedly asking permission to divert funds to help his tenants or improve the estate. Some of the letters were heart-wrenching, stories of families that lost children, wives, husbands, and had trouble with rent. Families whose cottages had walls that were so thin they might as well not even be there. And one, where the husband had died, and now the wife and her family were starving. And what had his lordship done? Denied every request. Squeezed every penny out of the property that he could.

He handed letter after letter to Travers, and watched his reaction mirror Granger's own. Granger had seen these types of things before, had seen these kind of pleas, but at Bridgemont, they were rare. And at Bridgemont, the Earl considered each one, trying to be as fair as he could. Granger was suddenly aware that what he was seeing here at Brentwood, this picture of a mercenary aristocrat, was exactly what Freddie would do to Bridgemont when he inherited it. And that was just as saddening as this situation.

“Well, we've ridden out to Brentwood, had amazing sex, and eaten lunch,” Granger teased. “Now all we have to do is meet the manager and see the tenants.”

“It's 2:00 in the afternoon. It will be dark in three hours George. We may have to go visit the tenants in the morning,” Travers said.

“Tomorrow is Sunday. They may not be as godless as we are,” Granger teased.

“Well, Jesus hasn't saved them, maybe if they stay home St. George will.” They laughed irreverently then, feeling guilty pleasure in such heresy. Their laughs were only cut short when a tall man came in, carrying his hat respectfully in his hand.

“Good afternoon,” Granger said, and shook the man's hand. “I'm George Granger, and this is my friend, John Travers.”

“Augustus Broadfield sir,” he said nervously. For an estate manager he was awfully young. He was probably in his early thirties, at least 6'4" tall, with plain features and mousy brown hair. In fact, if it weren't for his height, he would be remarkable only in that he was so ordinary.

“Please have a seat,” Granger said, and handed him a glass of wine. “I have to tell you Mr. Broadfield, that I'm very unhappy with the way Brentwood has been managed.”

The man swallowed hard. “I'm sorry sir. I've tried to do the best that I could with the resources that were available.”

“Well that's just the problem,” Granger said. “You haven't been given any resources. That is going to change as of this moment.”

“Sir?” Broadfield asked, surprised.

“I read through all of your letters to Lord Heathford, and your pleas for funds, and although I haven't seen the property yet, my instincts are to judge his actions as incorrect. Of course, that may be just because he is my father-in-law.” Travers laughed with Granger, but it took Broadfield a bit to catch on. Even then, he just sat there, stunned. “I'd like to hear your philosophy,” Granger concluded.

“Sir, I think this is the most superb estate in the realm. If we encourage the tenants, reinvest some money to make their lives better, or in some instances bearable, we'll end up reaping much better rewards over the long term,” he said confidently. “I'd like the tenants to know that our estate is the best in the country, and that they're lucky to be here. And I'd also like them to know that it is a privilege to be here, one they lose if they don't work hard, if they don't deliver their part.”

“That is very refreshing Mr. Broadfield. I am so glad to find that we are on the same page, especially since my duties will take me out of the country for extended periods of time,” Granger said. He watched the poor man as a tear actually fell down his cheek, something absolutely unheard of in his line of work.

“I'm sorry sir. It's been a rough few years, and I'd actually written up my notice for Lord Heathford a few times. It's been sad and frustrating: sad to see the personal suffering and frustrating because I know what this land could yield if managed properly.”

“Do not apologize. I could feel your pain in your letter. Did you speak of these matters with Mrs. Granger?” Granger wanted to know if he was stepping on her toes or not.

“No sir. I actually haven't met Mrs. Granger yet. I think she was focused on this house, on having it ready for you when you came home and for the birth of your child. We're all excited for you,” he added at the end.

“Very good. Well then, tomorrow afternoon I'd like you to take me around this estate and introduce me to the tenants, and along the way we'll see what we can do to alleviate their immediate suffering,” Granger said. “Will you meet me here at 11:00am?”

“It would be my pleasure sir,” Broadfield said smiling now, and then he was gone.

“You are to the manor born, George,” Travers said as the man left. “You handled that so well.”

“Bah. It was nothing. It's just common sense. It's amazing that Caroline ended up with any. We'll see how much she appreciates my management style when I get back to London and tell her of my actions.”

“All of your actions?” Travers asked, lifting his eyebrow suggestively.

“Let's make it an early night and rest up for tomorrow,” Granger said, grinning.

“An early night, to be sure, but I have no intention of resting,” Travers said, as he put his arm around Granger and guided him back to the bedroom.

February 9, 1794

They trotted along while Granger sat in his saddle seething. The emotions raged within him, and it was all he could do to avoid breaking into a full canter and leaving Travers and Winkler behind. What a day of contrasts, he thought. He'd spent a night alone with Travers, a night making love until he was too sore and spent to go on, but he did anyway. He grinned briefly until his ass hit the saddle and the soreness brought him back to reality.

This morning they'd gone to see the tenants, the people. Their living conditions, the hovels Heathford called “cottages” in his letters, were deplorable. Granger was a realist, and he knew that life was an uncertain thing. Diseases and accidents were more likely than not to take a man's life before he was 40, and a woman was even more unlikely to survive, what with the risks of childbirth. And he knew that there was no such thing as utopia, where everyone was blissfully happy and well off. But conditions at Brentwood were horrible. The tenants were like serfs, and that was a good analogy, since it was just what he envisioned a Russian village to look like.

He tried not to think about the little girl, barely four years old, with cheeks sunken from starvation. Or the family whose hovel had holes in the walls big enough to climb through, and had to huddle around the stove just to keep from freezing. Or the woman whose husband had died, yet she toiled the fields herself to try and provide for her seven children, the oldest of whom was ten. He pushed those thoughts from his mind, thinking instead of the changes he and Broadfield were going to make. He thought about the look of amazement when he'd told Broadfield to arrange hunts to share the game in the woods with these poor people. As if he'd rather have them starve than allow them to poach. Or the look on the widow's face when he'd given her a guinea so she could feed her children. Or the way that whole family had cheered feebly when he'd promised to build them a new cottage. Things would change at Brentwood, and if Caroline didn't like it, that was too fucking bad.

They rode on in silence until they reached London, where Granger was finally able to overcome his foul mood and chat amiably with Travers again. “So when are you to report to the Admiralty?”

“I'm supposed to be there in the morning. I wonder what they'll give me?” Travers asked, unbending, showing his insecurities.

“Well they'll give you something, and it will be bigger than Vesuvius, so there you go,” Granger said.

“Probably a sloop,” he said happily. “Although what if it was a frigate?”

“It's good to dream. Maybe you'll get lucky. You certainly deserve it,” Granger said.

“Maybe if my friends have been calling in favors,” Travers said, but not in an irritated way. It was as if he finally grasped how the influence system worked.

“I'm using all my connections for myself,” Granger teased. “I'm a selfish bastard.”

“I just witnessed you being anything but selfish,” Travers said, admiration and respect in his eyes.

“And you would have done the same thing,” Granger observed as they rode up to the mews and handed their horses off to the waiting grooms. They headed up to the second floor using the backstairs. Granger was in no mood to see his parents. Still, he'd been gone for a few days, so going in to see Caroline was obligatory. “We need to go see Caroline.”

“You need to go see Caroline. She's your wife. I'm going to go sit by the fire, and try to thaw,” Travers said. Granger rolled his eyes and knocked gently on the door, then entered.

“George! You're back! How did you like Brentwood?” She was so pretty, so enthusiastic, and so fat.

He put his hand on her stomach lovingly. “How many babies are in here?” She smacked him playfully. “I liked the house.”

“You did? Tell me all about it? Have they reconfigured the dining room yet? Are the bedrooms ready?”

He laughed at her. “Caroline, they are working hard, but they aren't magicians. It will take some time, but it will be a stunning creation when they are done. The estate was not in such good order.”

“Father said Brentwood was yielding good rents,” she said defensively.

“But at what cost?” he asked rhetorically. “There has been no reinvestment into the land, no improvements, not even any maintenance.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, concerned.

“It was like walking into Russia. The tenants live like serfs, Caroline. Our people live like bloody serfs.” He pulled out a few of the letters Broadfield sent and the replies from her father and read them to her.

“I'm so sorry, George. I'm so sorry. I was supposed to be watching over things while you were gone, and all I did was remodeling. I've let you down so badly,” she sobbed.

“You did nothing of the sort. We're young and clueless, you and I, but we'll figure it out. I've given Broadfield instructions to work on setting things right. This will cut into our income for a while,” Granger told her.

“I guess I can make do with one or two fewer gowns this season,” she teased. “Although with all the prize money you keep bringing home, I won't need to.”

“You forget my gambling winnings. When your father grouses about how liberal we're being at Brentwood, remind him that I've lightened the purses of the Whigs by about 10,000 pounds.”

She laughed. “You always make me laugh George. I love having you around. I hope you're here when our child is born.”

“So do I dear, so do I.”

February 10, 1794

“You're going to hate me,” Travers said, grinning from ear to ear. He'd just gotten back from the Admiralty.

“Who did you fuck?” Granger teased back.

“They're posting me to your ship.”

“To my ship?” Granger asked. “They're already giving you a First Rate?”

“Not the Commerce de Marseilles, the Aurore,” Travers said. He was giddy now, positively giddy.

“A frigate, now that's a Post Captain's command,” Granger observed, picking up on his mood.

“Yes it is. I can't believe I made Post. I can't believe it!” Now all control escaped Travers and he hugged Granger and twirled him around.

“I can,” Granger said, the pride obvious in his eyes. “It is the smartest move the Admiralty's made.”

“How'd you like to fuck a Post Captain?” Travers asked. Granger laughed at him then led him upstairs and completely undressed him. “What about your clothes?”

“I'm keeping them on,” Granger told him. Then he began to work Travers' body with his tongue, his skin still retained its salty taste from the sea, his body odor was strong but pleasant, the smells just urging Granger on. Granger moved down Travers' flat stomach to his cock and absorbed it in his mouth with one gulp, being rewarded by a moan from Travers, and a thrust as he instinctively pushed in, begging for more.

Granger looked up at him and their eyes met, pure love, pure ecstasy flowing between them. Granger grabbed the lube urgently and rubbed some on his fingers. He pushed one, then two fingers into Travers' ass, making sure to keep working Travers' cock with his mouth. Travers didn't get fucked very often; his tight ass bore testimony to that, so Granger used his mouth to keep him keyed up, and his fingers to loosen him.

They knew each other so well that Granger instinctively sensed when Travers was ready for him and moved his fingers out. He pulled his hard cock out of his trousers and slathered it with lube, then pushed Travers' legs back, exposing his hole. Then Granger entered him, ever so slowly, savoring every inch. Their eyes met, locked, while Granger pushed in, and Travers urged him on with his expression.

Granger began to pump in and out of Travers, both of them relishing this new experience, the contrast between Travers, lying there naked and supine, readily accepting Granger's cock in his ass. Granger thrusting in and out of this man that he loved more than life itself, enjoying the feeling of power and control that came from not only penetrating him, but from wearing his full dress uniform while he did it. Travers reached up and grabbed his lapel, fondling the gold lace, as he pulled Granger in for a kiss.

Then the niceties were done and the hormones took over. Now they were fucking with a single mission, a mission to have monumental orgasms, and to do it as closely together as possible. Granger felt his own load boiling up in his loins and reached down to stroke Travers' cock, sliding his still lubed hand up and down on it quickly, urgently, until he felt it expand at the same time his own did, and felt it throb as it exploded, spewing semen all over Travers' chest just as Granger's own dick blasted his own load up Travers' ass.

“You are a magnificent lover,” Travers said to Granger, as Granger leaned over to lick the cum off Travers' body.

“I have a good partner,” Granger said, smiling. “Being with you these past few days has been sheer heaven. I never thought London in February could be paradise.”

Travers' face drooped a little at that, and he looked nervously up at Granger. “I have to leave to join my ship.”

“When?” Granger asked, his emotions crashing into reality.

“Tomorrow morning. I have to catch the Portsmouth coach and meet up with a packet so I can catch a passage to Port Mahon,” Travers said. Granger looked at him and felt the sadness overwhelming him, threatening to tear through his walls, but he wasn't his father's son for nothing.

“I will miss you,” he said morosely.

“I will miss you too. But you are always with me,” Travers said, tapping his heart. Granger leaned in and kissed him, then stopped.

“Not even time to get new uniforms?” Granger teased.

“Apparently not, unless there are delays in Portsmouth and I have time to visit the tailor there,” Travers said.

“There is a good tailor in Minorca,” Granger said, giving Travers the name of the shop where he'd shopped for clothes all those months ago when he'd first brought Aurore into Port Mahon. His mind was whirling, his emotions were frayed, but he kept his cool, kept his composure. But just barely.

They walked down to dinner and found that Freddie had come back into town. He'd been up at Bridgemont, presumably plotting to impoverish the yeomanry, Granger thought playfully.

“Georgie!” Freddie said, and gave him an affectionate hug. “So good to see you!”

“It's good to see you too, Freddie. You remember Captain Travers?”

“I most certainly do,” Freddie said, with his smooth, bloodless charm. “It's nice to see you again, Captain. Congratulations on your promotion.”

“I'll second that,” said the Earl as he walked into the room.

“Thank you,my lords,” Travers said.

“Well earned, if you asked me. About time Chatham pulled his head out of his ass and posted you,” the Earl said. Granger laughed at his father's candid comment.

“Yes, but I heard it took Teasdale to kick him in the ass,” Freddie said. Granger perked up at that, wondering exactly what Arthur had to do with Travers' promotion.

“Teasdale, my lord?” Travers asked.

“Yes, that MP friend of Georgie's,” Freddie said. “A friend of mine in the Lords said that Teasdale told Chatham to post you or forget his vote on the naval estimates. You must have impressed him.”

“I only met him once, at Carlton House, last week,” Travers said to himself and to Granger, whom he eyed carefully. “And you didn't seem to be on the best of terms with him either.”

“Did you and Teasdale have a falling out?” the Earl asked. Granger felt cornered and confused, neither one of which was good right now.

“We're fine father,” Granger said.

“Perhaps you should bugger him George. That will get you back into his good graces,” Freddie joked. Granger pretended to laugh, but the Earl did not.

“You will remember to not be so crude when your mother joins us,” he said to his oldest son severely. But Granger wasn't worried about them; he was worried about Travers, who was glaring at him.

“Father, I'm going to go check on Caroline before dinner.” He turned to address Travers. “Would you like to join me?” Travers was so pissed off he could only nod. They walked up the stairs, Travers furious, Granger nervous, but both of them appearing calm and unruffled on the outside.

Until they got into Granger's room. “So that's how I earned my promotion? You stick your dick up Teasdale's ass? You going to fuck me into a Commodore next?” Travers said loudly.

“That's not fair, and I don't appreciate being yelled at,” Granger said, glaring back. “I'm not sure why Arthur’s doing that, but if I had to guess, I'd say it was his way of apologizing to me. And I also doubt that it mattered much.”

“Explain that,” Travers ordered, but in a civil tone.

“I fucked him once, last time I was in London. Then, when I was on Agamemnon, I met his lover, a Lieutenant Blackwell. They were supposed to be faithful to each other, but Arthur wasn't,” Granger said, summing things up.

“So he cheated on his lover by having you fuck him?” Travers asked. Granger could tell that he was as confused about this as Granger'd been.

“Yes. It wouldn't be my problem, except Blackwell had become my friend, had confided in me, and I had been a pawn in his lover cheating on him.”

Travers relented and wrapped his arms around Granger, kissing him gently. “Why don't you tell me these things?”

“I was embarrassed about it, about getting involved in such a stupid situation in the first place, especially since I'm trying to behave myself,” Granger said, smiling.

“So why wasn't it all that important anyway?” Travers asked.

“Chatham had to know he was posting you to Aurore. He just made Arthur think that he had an impact to make him feel important,” Granger told him. “Postings aren't done that quickly, and they take a lot more work than just an MP walking in and saying 'make this happen'.”

“Sorry I lost my temper with you,” Travers said, kissing him.

“Sometimes lovers fight,” Granger said, smiling. “As long as they make up when it's all over.”

“We'll make up later. Right now I'm hungry,” he teased. Granger followed him downstairs haunted by another thought. Maybe Arthur was sending Travers away so Granger would be alone, unattached. Had Arthur guessed at their love? Would he be so bold as to get rid of Travers so he could try and seduce Granger again? And what of Blackwell? All these thoughts, this miniature drama in his life, absorbed his mind and made him less charming than normal at dinner.

Travers said goodbye to Granger's family after dinner and retired to bed early, but not to sleep. He and Granger spent the whole night embracing, bonding, and making love. It was wonderful, it was beautiful, and then it was over. Travers was up and dressed, and with one last goodbye kiss, he was off, and Granger had no idea when they'd see each other again. He went back to bed and collapsed into it, wallowing in the residual smell of Travers' body odor, and allowed himself to cry softly into his pillow.