Pasha

CHAPTER 2

CROSSING BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE and walking on to Fleet Street, Renzi brought to mind the outcome of his previous interview with the publisher John Murray: the summary destruction of his hopes of publication of his ethnical treatise. It had been done in the politest and most gentlemanly way, yet with finality, along with the offhand suggestion of an alternative course-a novel.

The office was further along, the polished brass plate still on the door.

This was now a matter of the gravest import. If the book had met with success … If, however, what he had seen was a scandalously copied version …

He hesitated, then knocked firmly.

The door was opened by the same old gentleman in half-spectacles who had wished him well before. “Why, sir! How kind of you to call again. Do come in. I’ll tell Mr Murray you’re here-I won’t be a moment.” He hurried up the stairs, leaving the lowly clerks glancing at Renzi with curiosity.

Shortly a call came from the next floor. “He bids you join him, sir, and you are welcome!”

Renzi entered the book-lined office.

“Come in, come in! Sit yourself down, man,” Mr John Murray said, showing every evidence of interest and politeness.

Renzi perched on a carved chair of another age.

The publisher leaned forward. “What’s your tipple?”

“Thank you, no.”

“Well. We’ve things to discuss, I believe, as bear on your future with us, sir.”

“My future?” Renzi responded carefully.

“Why, yes, as an author of the first rank, sir.”

Renzi held back a surge of hope. “Oh? Pray do enlighten me,” he said politely. “I’ve been out of the kingdom for some years now and am unaware of any … developments.”

He managed to remain cool.

“Of course! Mr Renzi, let me be the first to tell you, your excellent Il Giramondo tale has captured the hearts of the nation. We have booksellers crying for stock faster than we can print it.”

“That is gratifying, of course, Mr Murray. Might I be so indelicate as to enquire if there are proceeds from this that might, shall we say, accrue to myself?”

“Royalties? Why, of course, dear sir! Should you wish to sight a statement of account?” He rang a silver bell on his desk and the clerk appeared suspiciously quickly.

“Mr Renzi’s ledger, if you please.”

It was produced with equal promptness. “Let me see now,” Murray said, peering down the columns. “To the last quarter I find we have a most respectable sum in your name. I rather fancy you will not wish to maintain your present employment situation for very much longer.”

He passed across the ledger, pointing to a column total.

Renzi looked down-and it took his breath away. “May I be clear on this? The figure I see is in credit to myself?”

“Mr Renzi, you have earned this entirely on merit. It is yours, and should you desire it, I shall present you this very hour with a draft on our bank to that amount and you shall walk out of these offices a man of consequence.”

His mind reeled. “B-but it’s so …”

“On the other hand, you may understand public taste is fickle and the work may drop from fashion as rapidly. Nothing is sure in publishing, sir.”

Renzi slumped back, dazed. A vision of Cecilia, his cherished love, flooded in. His eyes pricked while the publisher prattled on.

“This is why we must settle matters at this point, the chief of which is agreeing a date for the delivery of the manuscript of your second piece.”

He would post back to Guildford and lay his heart before her and-

Murray continued, “It is of the first importance to keep your good self in the public eye to sustain sales of the first and at the same time establish your reputation as an author of worth.”

If she was reluctant he now had the means to dazzle her with prospects, even if she must never know their origin.

“Mr Renzi? Can you not see this, sir?” Murray said, looking at him with concern.

“Oh? Yes, of course.”

“Then you’ll be looking to something along the lines of a sequel, no doubt. The same characters the public have come to take to their hearts? Or is it to be a darker treatment, a cautionary tale, which-”

“I will think on it, Mr Murray.”

Then he suddenly recalled what he had come to secure. “But be aware, sir, that I value my privacy above all things. I would wish that you keep my true name in this entirely confidential. If it should find its way into public knowledge then I’m obliged to say, sir, that I would look upon it as a final breach in our relationship.”

“Oh, of course we will, be assured it will be done,” Murray hastened to say. “All your works will be published under what we call a ‘pen name’-Il Giramondo is an excellent device.”

He leaned back and smiled. “And it has its advantages. Who is the man of mystery behind the sobriquet? Just who was it around us who wrote these revealing tales-this beggar on the street brought low by his debauchery or that noble lord who is now anxious to conceal his sordid past? Or-”

“Mr Murray,” said Renzi, dangerously, “you may not sport with the world as to my origins. Merely refrain from releasing my name, if you will.”

“Yes, yes, it will be so, Mr Giramondo.”

“Thank you, sir. Now in a related matter, might I enquire this of you-is there a form of transaction whereby the proceeds may be remitted into an account anonymously?”

Outside, Renzi blinked in the wan sunlight. Every instinct screamed at him to fly to Guildford and seek Cecilia’s hand that very day.

For him everything had changed-his future was as a gentleman of comfortable circumstances, and if Cecilia accepted him, he was about to be made the happiest man alive. But what of Kydd? He remembered his friend’s drawn face, the piteous attempt at normality in the face of the worst. After Trafalgar the public had become accustomed to victory and nothing less. A humiliating defeat would demand scapegoats, whom an uneasy government would surely find.

Would his friend be cast into exile from the sea he so adored?

It was so unfair-but life had to go on and he had arrangements to make. As he hurried to his cheap lodgings, he tried to unscramble the racing thoughts.

So, if he was to be married the usual course was for the new wife to cleave to her husband and his establishment-but he had none.

Item: get one.

He had no decent attire, certainly none that could be considered seemly for a proposal of marriage.

Item: find a tailor, expeditiously.

His financial standing did not run to a bank account, let alone an amicable relationship with a bank manager for the establishing of standing and credit and so forth.

Item: use the cash draft nestling in his waistcoat to start one.

He was not a regular attender at any church-how could banns be called, a wedding arranged?

Item: er, ask Cecilia.

Then there would be whom to invite and …

But a dark pall slowly gathered, dominated by the image of his father. The Earl of Farndon.

For an eldest son a marriage contract in the aristocracy was the stuff of lawyers, of negotiation, of delicacy in the settlement with the bride’s noble family. But a moral confrontation with his father had resulted in a titanic rage and the threat of his disinheriting.

His brother in Jamaica had sorrowfully confirmed that his father had taken the legal steps necessary. Although he could not prevent the title passing to Renzi, Eskdale Hall and the large estate would now go to his younger brother, Henry.

His title would be therefore an empty mockery, and he would never put Cecilia to the humiliation of maintaining a sham. She would never know, and would be Mrs Renzi to the day she died.

Yet he owed it to his father to inform him of his intentions. There was no question of seeking his blessing, for had he not been disinherited? By his own act, therefore, his father no longer had power over him.

Any interview would be nasty, brutish and short.

But then it would be finished. He could turn his back for ever on Eskdale: he would never ask anything for himself of the smug and supercilious Henry. And the darkness would then lift and disappear.

Yes! He would get it over with, then let sunshine flood his life. A post-chaise to Wiltshire? It was not unheard of, but would cost a pretty penny. Would Sir prefer an open or closed carriage? Where was his baggage at all?

Impatiently, Renzi climbed in and settled back with a dark frown. It was going to be hardest on his mother, who had been helpless to prevent his vengeful father going through with the shameful deed. Now she would never meet the woman he was marrying and he knew she loved her first-born dearly.

A lump formed in his throat: Eskdale Hall had been, after all, his birthplace and the scene of his youth. To turn his back on it completely was a hard thing to contemplate.

It was some eight years since he had last been there, his visit culminating in the ferocious argument and ultimatum that had ended everything for him at Eskdale. His father had even gone so far as to forbid his eldest son’s name spoken in his presence.

The horses were being whipped unmercifully-he had promised a shilling for every hour they made up. The sooner the distasteful business was over the better.

They reached Noakes Poyle in the early afternoon of the next day.

Renzi directed the driver to the inn where he had stayed previously before sending word of his arrival, but this time it was different. He told the post-chaise to prepare to return-but the destination this time would be Guildford. Their astonishment turned to avarice when he handed over an earnest of his intention that would see them comfortably ensconced with an ale before the fire for the hour or two while they waited.

A local diligence was hired-he had no wish to answer questions as to why he had posted down instead of the more usual stagecoach. It smelt of horse-hair stuffing and dust, and had small, grubby windows, but as they swung into the long drive to Eskdale Hall it suited his mood.

The sweeping light-grey immensity of the building looked as stately as ever, but today it seemed to harbour an air of menace, of pent-up malevolence, that chilled him.

On either side gardeners tended the ornate hedges and lawns, or clipped rosebushes, and horses were being led to the stables as the business of a great estate went on.

The cab took the smaller roadway to the side that led to the tradesmen’s door. Renzi knocked sharply at the roof until an upside-down face appeared. “To the main entrance, if you please.”

With a look of resignation the man obeyed. He had to stop the vehicle and lead the horses around but soon it had come to a halt at the foot of the grand steps leading to the massive door.

Renzi got out, paid the driver and sent him on his way.

He was committed.

As he turned towards the house, he saw the head footman descending importantly to deal with the impertinence. But when he drew near, the man’s expression turned to surprise and then confusion.

“Master Nicholas! We thought …”

“Take me to my father,” Renzi snapped, and seeing him hesitate, added, “This instant, whatever his instructions to the contrary.”

“Lord Farndon is … not available, sir,” the man said awkwardly. “The countess will be at home, I believe.”

“Very well.” If his father was posturing he would send a message in and leave without seeing him.

He followed the man through the tall oak doors into the entrance hall. “I will inform her ladyship of your arrival, sir.”

Keyed up for a confrontation that had festered over the years, Renzi was taken aback by what he saw before him.

His mother stood in the far doorway. Her eyes glittered with tears as recognition came. Then, impulsively, she ran towards him.

She was wearing a black veil and shawl.

Clinging to him, she shook with paroxysms of sobs while he held her. Eventually she drew away, dabbing her eyes.

What did the black veil mean?

“Father?” Renzi asked quietly.

She nodded, looking into his face. “Two months hence. Of an apoplexy.”

“Mother, I’m so grieved for you.” The words came automatically as he tried to grapple with the fact that his demon father was no longer in existence.

“Nicholas. We must talk. Please!”

He crushed his raging thoughts and tried to focus.

If she was going to try to mediate between himself and his brother Henry, now master of Eskdale, in order to beg an allowance and quarters that would see him take up residence here with her, she was sadly mistaken.

“Very well, Mother.” He would hear her out.

They went to the blue drawing room. The footman closed the doors quietly and left.

“Please sit, Nicholas,” she said, with a brave smile, patting a place next to her on the chaise-longue. “We’ve tried to get word to you, but they had no idea where …”

“We were occupied in South America, Mother,” he said quietly. “And then the Caribbean.”

“You never received the letter,” she said.

“If I had to learn of it,” he murmured, “I’d rather it were from my own dear mother.”

She squeezed him tightly for a long time, then held him at arm’s length. “You’re not eating well, Nicholas. You should take more care of yourself!”

“Mama, I came here to see Father to-”

“He is no more, my dear. This is a new beginning.”

“It was to-”

“Nicholas. If you came here to contest your rightful inheritance, then rest easy. It is secured for you. I allowed him to be gulled of a hundred guineas by a scheming lawyer to produce a worthless bill of disinheriting. It seemed to answer.”

“Then …”

“Yes, my dear. I can tell you that the vile paper was quickly determined invalid and that you are now indisputably the Earl of Farndon and master of Eskdale Hall both. No one in the land may disinherit a noble lord.”

He went pale. All those years, those times of moral questioning, the vows of distancing, the bitter reflections … Where did this news leave him?

Getting to his feet he crossed to the window and looked out on the sculpted greenery, the formal gardens, the dark woods in the distance.

“My dear Nicholas, you must return home to take up your birthright. Do you understand me?”

He said nothing, the thoughts like a torrent too great to stop.

She got up and went to him, stroking his hair, as if he were still a child. “My dear boy, you’ve had such adventures on the sea as would put even Tobias Smollett to the blush. Isn’t it time to set it behind you at last?”

He couldn’t find the words in him to answer: the poverty but freedom, the scent of danger but the deepest satisfaction of true friendship won in hardship and peril. Could he ever … ?

“Should you decline,” she continued in a pleading tone, “it will undoubtedly provoke a scandal that will have the newspapers of all England in a frenzy. Do pity us, Nicholas. To be the subject of every careless wagging tongue, on penny broadsheets, in theatre dramas, it’s really not to be borne. And the estate. Without a sitting lord there will be none to sign the rolls, to-”

“Yes, Mama, I do understand. Pray grant me a space to consider it.”

Renzi felt confined, unable to think, to reason. It was stifling him-the past was bearing down on him, distorting his vision, his perceptions.

He threw open the French windows. “I-I need to be by myself,” he said hoarsely, and thrust out into the fresh air.

A gardener with a wheelbarrow stopped to gape at him but he was past appearances. He threw one glance back-his mother’s face was at the window, white and strained.

Determined, he stepped out strongly, passing beyond the tall, immaculate hedge and into the grounds. As far as the eye could see in every direction, this was the Farndon estate.

Tenants and farmers, gamekeepers and ostlers. The ancient village beyond the gates. In a timeless mutual reliance based on two things above all others-trust and stability.

It was their ancient feudal right, and in their conceiving he was the earl, the fount of all grace and bounty.

He had grown used to the freedoms he had enjoyed in the open fellowship of the sea, his snug place aboard Kydd’s ship wherever it had taken them both, on deeds of daring or desperation, to adventures inconceivable, of far places in the world where none might visit save they were borne there in a man-of-war.

Could he give this up for ever?

He had at last secured an income by his own endeavours and could deploy it in any way he chose. His studies of an ethnical nature could now proceed …

He strode to a field that had a single gnarled oak at its centre. Here he had faced his father in that fateful confrontation that had led to the break. A clash of wills that he had resolved by galloping away, leaving his enraged father to take his revenge.

It had failed. And with it the power to hurt him.

In that moment something passed on: he saw his father more to be pitied than hated, as the memory of what he had done began to fade. There was now nothing that he had to react against, to withstand … to justify his exile.

In that realisation his emotions ebbed. They were replaced by calm.

And he began to reason. If this was his present situation other moral imperatives must come to the fore. He knew he had a clear duty: to his family first and to society second. To turn on them both for selfish motives was not an act he could easily live with.

Therefore, whether he desired it or no, it had to be accepted that, with his inheritance secure, there was no conceivable reason to decline the honour.

And so, irrespective of every other consideration, the decision was out of his hands.

Turning slowly on his heel, he paced back, letting the logic work its healing on his soul.

A light-headed relief suffused him. It was all settled: there could be no more disputing with his conscience or any more vain reasonings.

He would do his duty.

His mother stood alone, tense and watchful.

He smiled softly at her. “You are right as always, Mother dear. Perhaps it is time. I will return and do my duty.”

She stared at him, then dissolved into tears, hugging him to her until they eased. Then she gently disengaged herself and returned to the chaise-longue, her eyes never leaving him.

“There’s much to do, my son. But first we will have a welcome banquet for my dear Nicholas, returned to his place of honour in the bosom of his family.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

“Henry will be much put out, for his father promised him Eskdale, but take no heed-he’s impetuous and yet to be fully acquainted with the world.”

“I will not take offence, Mama.”

“And then we will throw a ball for all the world to take sight of the new earl. A grand affair-I shall invite noble families from up and down the kingdom. You’ll go to London for the season, of course, and there-”

“Mother. There’s first a matter I must deal with, as we must say, in my former life. It should not take long.”

“Oh. Cannot it wait, Nicholas?”

“I rather think not, Mama. I desire to quit such an existence without detail to be dealt with later.”

“Then do go, my son. I can understand you wish to leave nothing that can cause awkwardness later. When do you think … ?”

Renzi twitched his neck-cloth and settled the sleeves of his plain brown coat: there hadn’t been time to get the tailor to work but he’d managed a pair of more formal breeches and stockings in place of his faded pantaloons. It would have to do: time pressed.

He stepped out of the Angel into the street. No one noticed him as he strode through the Tunsgate market up to School Lane, so named by the citizens of Guildford in honour of the successful establishment run on naval lines by the Kydd family.

It came into view but it was different now. This time he was controlled, calm and knew what he must do.

At the door he drew himself erect, took a breath-and knocked three times.

“Oh! Mr Renzi,” the maid said faintly. “Ma’am,” she called anxiously. “It’s Mr Renzi. Are you at home?”

There was movement and voices-then Kydd himself came to the door.

“Nicholas!” he spluttered. “Where in Hades have you been?”

“I am here, as you may observe. Am I to be allowed to come in at all?”

“Damn it, and you’ve some explaining to do.”

“Inside?”

They went to the drawing room. Cecilia rose guardedly. “Why, Nicholas! It’s been such a horribly long time …”

She tailed off at his stiff bow.

Kydd bristled and threw Renzi a dark look.

Cecilia looked at both men in turn: what was passing between them? They’d always been such true friends.

Renzi’s face was set as he turned to Kydd. “There is something that Cecilia should know. I would be obliged if you would allow us the privacy.”

Kydd hesitated. Then, throwing a warning glance at Renzi, he left the room.

Cecilia sat rigid, her eyes wide.

“I should tell you, Miss Kydd, that my business in London proceeded well.”

She went pale at the distancing. Had she been wrong to hope all these years?

“You will know that my situation and fortunes have until now not been favourable.”

“Yes, Mr Renzi,” she murmured, picking up on his formality. “But it does not-”

“Now they have improved to the point where I believe that decisions must be made.”

“I see …”

“That bear so on the future. Miss Kydd, I have to tell you that I’m now in a position some would describe as of consequence. I would therefore not wish you to be under any misapprehensions as to the reasons for what I have to say.”

“Nicholas … ?” she blurted pitiably.

“Miss Kydd. There has been before an … an understanding, a measure of assumption-of presumption, if I may. However, as I recall, I did write you a letter of release from any implied obligation in this tenor, I believe.”

Her eyes filled.

“Which obliges me to choose my words with care.”

“Nicholas-Mr Renzi-I beg, do know I’ve never felt bound by our …”

He dropped his gaze and when he looked up again there was resolution, and the serenity of a dilemma solved.

With the utmost dignity he fell to one knee. “Miss Kydd. If your situation does permit, then with the most unutterable feelings of tenderness and love I do this day propose marriage to you.”

Her hands flew to her mouth as she stared down at him for a long moment. Then she burst into tears and, with anguished sobs, ran from the room.

Almost immediately Kydd flung in. “Renzi-what the devil did you say to her? I demand to know!”

“I proposed to her, is all,” he said quietly. “It would seem, however, that there is another …”

Kydd took a ragged breath and hurried out after her.

She was in her room, lying on her bed weeping inconsolably.

“Cecilia-sis!” he said, with concern. “Is it that you’ve fallen for someone else? I can understand that, the beggar dithering on for so long.”

“No!” she sobbed. “A thousand times no!”

“I-sis, I don’t understand.”

“I do l-love o-only Nicholas!” she wept.

“Then why … ?”

“I’ve waited and waited for him and now …” She burst out anew with anguished sobbing.

“Ah. Well, if I were you I’d clap on all sail and go back to him before he changes his mind.”

He produced a handkerchief and waited while she composed herself. “Now then, sis, you go to him and say-well, say what you need to.”

They left the bedroom but Mrs Kydd and the maid were standing white-faced outside.

“Whatever is the matter, m’ dear?”

“Ma, Cecilia has something she wants to say to Mr Renzi.”

“If he’s been upsettin’ my darlin,’ then-”

“We wait outside, Ma.”

It was not long: the door opened and the pair stood before them, hand in hand.

“Mama, we’re to be wed!” Cecilia breathed, eyes sparkling.

“Oh! My dear, I never guessed-at all! We’re so happy for you an’ Mr Renzi, you’ve no idea. Why, I thought-”

In a formal tone Renzi addressed the mother of his intended. “Mrs Kydd. I’d be obliged to Mr Kydd for a few words in private, should he be at leisure.”

“Y-yes, o’ course. Um, Walter’s upstairs restin,’ but what with all this to-do, I’m sure he’ll be awake by now. I’ll call him down for ye.”

“No, no. I do not wish to inconvenience. I shall go up to him.”

In a short while there were voices, and Renzi came down, guiding the sightless Mr Kydd into the drawing room, the others eagerly following.

“My dear Fanny,” he said, his voice quavering. “I have given Mr Renzi my blessing on the union of himself and young Cecilia.”

This time it was Mrs Kydd who broke down in floods of tears and could only be consoled by much hugging from her daughter.

Kydd gazed at his friend with affection and respect. “I never thought I’d live to see the day, Nicholas, this I swear.”

Renzi gave Cecilia a look of such warmth and rapture it reduced the whole room to silence. “My love, we are now to be married. In token of this I would have you accept this gift, which comes from my heart.”

He drew out a small pouch of crimson velvet.

She took it reverently and opened it to find a shining gold ring.

“Nicholas! My darling!” She bravely held back the tears as she held it up to admire. “Oh, this is a posy ring! There’s something written inside … What does it say?”

“This is the noble Seneca, observing the human condition. ‘Quos amor verus tenuit, tenebit.’ By which he means ‘True love will ever abide in those whom it does seize.’ And this is to say I’m sanguine we could never have escaped our fate, my dearest Cecilia.”

She clutched him tightly, then kissed him with passion, oblivious to the audience.

He held her away, tears starting in his own eyes. “Need we delay in our wedding, my dearest?”

“Never a moment!” Cecilia whispered. “I shall have the banns called for this very Sunday.”

“Then there’s but one thing left to complete our betrothal. My love, I want to present you to my family, if you will.”

“Oh, Nicholas, in all the excitement, we haven’t told you Thomas’s news.”

“And Mrs Foster being so disagreeable about William, it was all I could do to hold my tongue, my dear.”

Cecilia smiled sweetly. “I do feel for you, Hetty. I vow, it’s more than a saint could endure, that odious woman.”

Her old school-friend adjusted her bonnet and looked at her affectionately. Not everyone was sympathetic to the lot of a governess in an aspiring household. “That’s kind in you to say so, Cecilia. Tell me, have you any news at all?”

“Why, yes, I suppose I have,” Cecilia said, hugging the moment to herself.

“I’m to be married, Hetty.”

“Married?” she squealed, so loudly that other customers in the tea-house looked over curiously at them. “Who-that is, may I know who the fortunate man is to win your heart?”

“No one you’ve met, Hetty dear. He’s from Wiltshire, an old country family. A gentleman of travels, we might say.”

She daintily removed her ring. “His name’s Nicholas-and, Hetty, look what he gave me at our betrothal.”

Her friend exclaimed in delight. “How lovely! All set about with acanthus leaves-this is a fine piece, Cecilia,” she said shrewdly. “And inside-there’s writing. It’s all in Latin.

“How romantic!” She sighed, trying the ring on and admiring it wistfully as Cecilia translated the inscription. Hetty had no immediate hopes; an intelligent and practical woman but of lowly family, she could not bring herself to consider advances by the callow youths in her social circle. In any case, next to beauties such as Cecilia, with her handsome strong, dark looks, she knew she could only be accounted a pleasant soul.

“You’d never credit it, Hetty. Nicholas had been away for so long in strange parts of the world and then he calls on me without warning, and I’m not in, and he goes away again!”

She giggled. “And all the time I had my hopes of him and never a word except to say he absolves me from any understandings. After years of … But then he returns from his business and in that very hour goes to his knees and makes his proposal.”

“Oh, Cecilia! How you must have stared! Did you make him wait?” she asked eagerly.

“Nicholas is not the man to be trifled with I’m persuaded, Hetty. I accepted him and we’re to be wed without delay.

“Now, Hetty, this is not why I asked you here. There’s a favour I’d beg that would gratify me extremely were you able to grant it.”

“Why, of course, my dear.”

“Well, it’s this. I know it’s scandalous short notice, but Nicholas wants me to meet his family. We’ll take the stage to Wiltshire where they live but naturally it would be improper to be seen alone together. Is it at all possible that you could take leave from Mrs Barlow for a day or two and come with us? I’d be so grateful for your company, Hetty.”

“How exciting! Yes! I was saving my days up for the summer, but this is much more fun.” She glowed with animation. “Oh, but-I’ve nothing to wear that will answer.”

“I’ll lend you something.” Cecilia squeezed her friend’s arm. “Oh, my dear! I’m so nervous-what if they don’t like me? I’m so glad you’ll be there.”

The three met at the Angel. Hetty curtsied shyly as she was introduced.

Renzi bowed elegantly. “A friend of Cecilia’s is my friend as well, Miss Panton.”

A four-horse post-chaise was led out to the little group with their baggage, the horses nodding and snorting impatiently.

“For us?” Cecilia cried, in consternation. “All the way to Wiltshire? Nicholas, it would be much more economical by coach, and with you travelling outside we could save-”

“My dear, allow that my means do in fact permit me this indulgence for my bride-to-be and her companion. Shall we now board?”

The chaise lurched into motion and clattered off over the cobblestones of High Street. Quite soon they were in the deep green Surrey countryside.

“I’m so excited, Nicholas. And very nervous to meet your family. You’ve never spoken about them much.”

“All in good time, my love.”

The carriage made its way through the country, the weather remaining merciful. At the stops the two friends chatted happily together. Cecilia was informed at length of Hetty’s considered opinion that her betrothed was a vastly superior catch, a man of manners and consideration, and with a pleasing air of romantic mystery.

In return Hetty was regaled with a detailed account of the ups and downs of their affair, which each time kept her agog until the next halt.

Renzi was annoyingly quiet, seemingly content to contemplate the passing country.

They stayed the night in Trowbridge but at the evening repast Renzi would say nothing of what the next day would bring.

Early the next morning they set out at a brisk clip, the soft chalk downlands passing agreeably by.

“How far now, Nicholas?”

“Above an hour, I believe.”

They went on in silence until they drew up at a modest inn. “We’ll rest here a space before the last stage,” Renzi announced.

The ladies took their leave to make themselves respectable while a discreet note was passed to the innkeeper, who hurried away.

They boarded once more, and in a short while, they swung into a long, curving drive.

“Oh, Nicholas!” Cecilia cried. “A noble’s mansion! Is this why you haven’t told me about your family? You silly billy-to be in service to one as high as this is a great honour indeed. You’ve no need to hide it from me.”

She watched breathlessly from the window of the coach, then suddenly spotted what was going on. “Nicholas-quick! They’re expecting someone. All the staff, they’re coming out and lining up. Oh, dear, we’re going to be in the way. Tell the coachman to go back!”

Renzi didn’t answer, gazing absently as they drew nearer until the carriage ground grittily to a halt at the foot of the steps before the grand entrance.

“Nicholas!” she hissed, in anguish. “We can’t … Please, we’ll be making a spectacle of ourselves.”

A bewigged footman in green and gold arrived to assist them down. Cecilia stood helpless, gazing anxiously at the long line of staff in front of the stately magnificence.

And in the centre a lone figure, waiting.

Renzi moved forward, and as one, the line curtsied and bowed. “Nicholas!” she gasped in consternation. “They think we’re someone else.”

He still said nothing, leading them on towards the figure at the top of the steps, watched in silence by a hundred or more.

Struck dumb with confusion, Cecilia followed until they reached the top.

Renzi bowed. “May I present Miss Cecilia Kydd and Miss Hetty Panton?”

Cecilia curtsied with as much grace as she could find, unable to face the keen glance of the great lady standing there.

“Miss Kydd,” Renzi said quietly, “this is the Dowager Countess Farndon of Eskdale Hall. My mother.”

She looked up suddenly, struck dumb. Then the significance of the black veil and shawl penetrated her numbed mind.

“If her ladyship is …”

“Yes,” Renzi said gently. “You see, I am now the Right Honourable Lord Farndon, and this is my seat.”

After the shocked ladies had been ushered away to rest after their journey, Renzi walked with his mother into the blue drawing room.

“Dear Nicholas, it is so good to see you. May we indeed believe you are now returned to us?”

“You may, Mama.”

“To take up your title and inheritance-to assume your duties and ancient obligations in line of succession?”

He straightened and faced her gravely. “This I will do, Mother-you have my solemn promise.”

She took his hands, and there was a glitter in her eyes as she murmured, “You have no idea how happy you have made me, my son.”

They stood for a long moment together until she let go his hands and said, with just a hint of curiosity in her voice as they took their chairs, “I do hope your guests enjoy their stay.”

There was no point in delaying the inevitable and Renzi braced himself. “Mother, Miss Cecilia Kydd has accepted my proposal of marriage. I bring her here for your blessing.”

At first he feared she hadn’t heard but then she spoke, calmly but with determination. “My child, I find this difficult to follow. Am I to understand you have given a form of betrothal to a-a commoner? With all the noble families of England more than happy to make a connection with ours? Others may well reckon it a rash and imprudent act-but fortunately it is not too late.”

“Mama, I pledged my troth.”

“Yes, dear. And now we have to do what we must to remedy the situation.”

“I’ve given her my word, Mama.”

“I’m sure you meant it, dear. Now, not to drag it on unnecessarily, what amount would you say would satisfy, that would see her departure in good grace?”

“Mama, I told you, we are engaged to be married.”

“You are saying she is in a certain condition that requires a hasty arrangement.” The countess sighed. “This brings complications, it’s true, but nothing that cannot be attended to with a favourable outcome to both parties. It is not unknown that-”

“Mama,” Renzi said, with increasing feeling. “Listen to me!”

He waited until he had her full attention, then spoke with a forcefulness and intensity that was unstoppable. “Know that my heart is entirely lost to the woman. There is no one-none-in this mortal existence that I would otherwise contemplate in a life’s union.

“I love her, Mama. I love Cecilia with all my heart and soul, and before God I say I will marry her!”

The dowager stood up with great dignity and moved to the mantelpiece, fingering its ornate marble carvings. “I see,” she replied, after some moments, clearly taken aback by the fervour and sincerity of his declaration. “Yet I cannot believe you have reflected fully on the consequences.”

Renzi stood, but said nothing, returning her gaze with defiance.

“A belted earl marrying beneath him to such a degree-it will be a scandal. All will ask why this must be, and will not fail to suggest good reasons to this end.”

“I care not for-”

“But you must in your position, my dear. What if-”

“Mother, it is done. I will not retract. It must be Cecilia or none. Do you not see this?”

A faint smile eventually came. “I believe that indeed you truly love her.”

The smile warmed. “And for that how can I not give my blessing? Marry your Cecilia and I will rejoice for you both.”

Renzi took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you, Mama-thank you.”

“Society will howl, but what is that against the joining of two lovers in blessed happiness?”

“You will love her, too, Mama. She has qualities of … gentility and politeness above her station, and her practicality in matters …”

They finally reached the woods at the edge of the estate. Walking together as in a dream, the two stopped and held hands, looking into each other’s eyes. “Cecilia, my darling love. There’s something I must know,” he said tenderly, but with an edge of seriousness.

“Nicholas?” she answered softly.

“It will affect our marriage, our life together, and I must have an answer.”

She hesitated. “What is it, my dearest?”

He looked at her with an odd expression. “You gave your heart to one Nicholas Renzi. Can you find it in you to love the Lord Farndon at all?”

She smiled playfully. “Nicholas, I fell in love with Mr Renzi and he it is who has secured my entire devotion. If Lord Farndon lays siege to my affections he will have to woo me with yet greater ardour.”

They kissed, long and tenderly.

“My darling, there is-”

“Sweetheart, I-”

“You first, my dear Cecilia.”

“You have precedence, my lord.”

“Then in the matter of our nuptials, dear love. At our station even St Paul’s Cathedral is available to us in a great affair of moment and ceremony. Yet I feel it … improper to indulge in pomp and display while the family is in mourning. Can you … ?”

“Nicholas, it is what I would wish. My father is old and frail and could not possibly endure the strain. And my mother would …”

Unspoken was the fact that the Kydds would be wildly out of their depth in such grandeur and would know it. Cecilia, after years as lady companion to a marchioness, was not unfamiliar with society-but there could be no question of exposing her family to ridicule.

“In Guildford, perhaps?” she asked doubtfully.

“So be it, my love.”

“I’ve asked that the banns be read beginning this Sunday.” She smiled impishly. “We shall be wed in a month. I hope you don’t think me forward, my lord.”

Renzi stopped. “Ah …”

Her smile faded. “Nicholas, what is it?”

“Peers of the realm have certain privileges, my dear.”

“Oh?”

“I rather thought for us-a special licence from Doctors Commons attested by the Archbishop of Canterbury. It will serve to have us married within this very week, setting aside the need for banns and similar.”

“Nicholas! You darling man! Yes-yes!”

“As I trust you will forgive my precipitate behaviour, occasioned, may I point out, only by my earnest wish to secure the presence, before he returns to the sea, of my particular friend at our happy event.”

She melted, and clung to him while their passions surged. Then they turned and walked slowly back.

“Mother?” Renzi said softly.

She was waiting on the steps for them, but she turned first to the woman on his arm. “Cecilia, my dear. Did you enjoy your walk?”

“I did, my lady, very much.”

“You will have some notion now of the duties that await my son as lord of Eskdale Hall.”

“Yes, indeed-and we saw only a part of the whole.”

It seemed to please, and the countess went on, “You have yet to make a tour of the house. At above a hundred rooms it is no easy task in the managing. And soon you will be chatelaine, my dear. Do you feel equal to it?”

Renzi intervened smoothly: “Miss Kydd has for some years been in an intimate situation in the household of the Marquess of Bloomsbury, Mama, and is no stranger to society. I have every expectation that she will be an ornament to our establishment.”

“Of course. Then shall we pass on to the wedding plans? In view of the … irregular nature of proceedings it were best, I feel, if the customary great ceremonials be exchanged for something a little less … formal, so to speak.”

“Quite so, Mama.”

“The gutter press will have their sport on this occasion, no doubt,” she said acidly. “There’s no reason to flaunt it in their faces.”

“As we both agree, Mama. We rather thought in Guildford, the Kydd family town?”

It was settled, and with a pronouncement that the evening would see a grand banquet in their honour, she left them.

They wandered on through fine rooms and cloisters, banqueting halls and drawing rooms until they came to the library.

“And here is where I will have my being, dear Cecilia.”

He looked fondly at the endless shelves, the familiar volumes showing no sign of use since his departure those long years before. And there was the broad desk that dated from the first George with its leather inlay and ink-stains, positioned to take the light from the tall French windows that looked out over the formal gardens.

The peace and tranquillity, the fragrance of books and learning, the centuries of time that the room had seen, all reached out to him. Here it would be that his ethnical studies would attain their fruition, a labour of pride and diligence.

He sighed in anticipation. But before he could resume it would be necessary to take up the reins as lord and master of Eskdale. And for that-

A slight cough sounded from the door. He looked up: it was Jago, the dark-jowled under-steward.

“Does m’ lord desire I should instruct the footmen?”

In the hierarchy of a noble estate, every bit as rigid as aboard ship, Jago ranked very near the top. The valets-de-chambre, butler, footmen, cook and gardeners, all were regulated and administered by himself and the steward. He was now asking if he should put into motion the delicate business of assigning attendants to wait upon the new earl wherever he might be at any hour, day or night.

“We’ll leave it until later, I think, Jago.”

Renzi was aware that his father had been up to all manner of sly tricks to further his interests and prejudices, and it was beyond belief that Jago, at his eminence, had not been party to the whole sordid process. Especially as the estate steward himself would make very certain he was not involved directly. Jago’s appearing now was, without doubt, an anxious testing of the waters; he stood to lose his place and prospects if Renzi decided to make a break with the past.

“Thank you, for now,” he added neutrally.

“Very good, m’ lord,” the man said, expressionless, and withdrew.

At the door there was a soft knock. “Ah, come in, Mr Fortescue.”

Renzi turned to Cecilia. “My dear, my confidential secretary.”

He had every trust and liking for the old man who had striven all he could to moderate between his father and the estate tenants.

“I shall endeavour to give satisfaction, my lord. And might I present Mr Edward Dillon, under-secretary and assistant to myself?”

An intense young man came forward and bowed. “My lord Farndon. Allow me to express how delighted I am at your arrival at Eskdale.”

“Thank you, Dillon. I can assure both you gentlemen of a lively employment to come.”

“My lord. Do forgive my presumption but it was spoken of that before your translation you have had travels and adventures about the world yet untold. Is it in your conceiving to make good record of the same?”

“We shall see. Do you yourself yearn for adventure, perchance?”

“Saving Mr Fortescue’s presence, I should say I am truly envious of your lordship’s peregrinations-a world to discover, to delight in.”

Renzi gave a half-smile. “Quite so, Dillon. However, do bear with your lot for now, there’s a good fellow.”

By evening the entire household was abuzz with conjecture and excitement. A banquet had been set and the kitchen and staff had striven hard. A superb occasion promised.

Renzi found dinner attire left by his brother Richard, who was back in the Caribbean, while Cecilia was arrayed in finery borrowed from his younger sister Beatrice, even if it clung overly snug in places. She wore a dazzling display of pearls and diamonds selected from the parure, a family heirloom set of jewellery presented to her by the countess.

The candles were lit, the guests arrived. An orchestra in the minstrels’ gallery played delicate airs, and scores of footmen stood poised.

Outside the closed doors Cecilia gulped, “Nicholas-I’m so nervous. What if-”

“If they laugh at you? Then I’ll tell the noble executioner to chop off their heads, in course!”

The dowager countess joined them. “How lovely you look, my dear.” She primped her cheeks, then prompted gently, “Shall we go in?”

“Mother?” Renzi said, trying to take position behind her.

“No, my son. You are the earl now and take precedence. I must follow.”

With Cecilia on his arm he nodded to the footmen.

The doors swung wide and instantly Cecilia’s senses were overwhelmed by the blaze of light in a vast hall glittering with jewels, men’s stars and decorations and great quantities of silver tableware, the light intensifying the crimson and gold of sashes, the fine silk dresses of the noble ladies and, all around, the handsome livery of the footmen of Eskdale.

The orchestra fell suddenly silent. There was a massed scraping of chairs as hundreds of the great and good of the county rose and stood respectfully, their faces turned to take sight of Lord Farndon and his bride-to-be.

They processed in with great dignity-and on that day Cecilia felt she could bear no greater happiness.

“Dear Nicholas-it will come as a great shock to them. You remain here at the Angel, and I’ll go and tell them.”

“Very well, my dearest.”

Alone, Cecilia set out for home. It was a strange, eerie sensation, almost like floating on nothingness in a world that was so familiar but now about to be lost for ever. Would she make a good Lady Farndon, mistress of Eskdale? For the sake of her future husband, she would give it her all …

She smiled at Mrs Simkins hurrying down the road and stepped hastily out of the way of the uncouth baker’s boy with his basket of bread. They’d barely noticed her in their bustling daily round-but most surely this was the very last time it would be so. When the news got out that a daughter of Guildford was marrying a peer of the realm there would be no more of the simple, unaffected life she knew.

Hetty had been shocked, dazed, and had sat like a frightened mouse all the way back; she was herself only now recovering from that earthquake revelation.

Shy Mr Partington, the Kydd school headmaster, saw her and fell into step. “Miss Cecilia? Do the gossips have it true, that you are to be-”

“I am to be married shortly, that is right in the particulars.”

She kept it at that and bade him a good day at her door.

“Well?” prompted her mother, before she had even taken off her bonnet. “Were they nice, a-tall? Did you-”

Cecilia bit her lip. This was not going to be easy.

“Mama, I’ve something to tell you-and Papa too. It’s very important: shall we go into the parlour?”

“Oh, dear, I hope this won’t take long. I’ve a rabbit pie as I’m …” She saw something in her daughter’s face and without another word hurried off to find her husband.

“Why, Cec-what’s to do?” Kydd wanted to know.

“Not now, Thomas. There’s … I have to speak to them both.”

“Oh, well-”

“Not with you, Tom. This is serious.”

Her mother returned, leading her father. Cecilia followed them in and, with an apologetic smile, left Kydd outside to wait.

Ten minutes later his parents came out-and they were as white as a sheet, passing him silently without noticing he was there.

“Cec-what’s this mean, for God’s sake?” he blurted.

“Thomas, I think we should take a walk in the garden.”

They returned slowly, Kydd shaking his head in disbelief.

“Dear Tom. If you’re surprised, think how I felt. In the morning I’m Cecilia Kydd and in the evening I’m … well, I’m to be a countess.”

“Where’s he now, sis?”

“At the Angel until we send for him.”

“Well, we’d better do that now. There’s a gallows lot to hoist in.”

The maid was told to fetch Mr Renzi while Kydd gazed in awe at his younger sister.

“Have you set a date yet?”

“Nicholas needs to have a consort by his side when he takes his place as an earl, he says. And so it will be an early wedding.”

“This year? Or six months only, you shameless devils?”

“Tom, we thought this week.”

“Whaaaat?” he gasped. “You can’t just-”

“He’s a noble lord now, Thomas. He will have leave from the Archbishop of Canterbury himself to wed by special licence.”

Kydd sat down suddenly, lost for words.

Emily bobbed at the door. “Miss, it’s Mr Renzi here.”

“Oh, do show him in, please.”

Scrambling to his feet, Kydd saw his friend of years come in, his countenance serious.

“You’ve heard the tidings.”

“I have, you wicked dog. Frightening the womenfolk like that, you villain!”

But Cecilia had noticed her brother’s tense watchfulness, his unease. “Thomas!” she scolded. “And that’s no way to speak to the Earl of Farndon.”

“Oh? Then how am I … What’s his tally now, can I ask?”

“This is the Right Honourable the Lord Farndon of Eskdale Hall in Wiltshire. He’s to be addressed as ‘my lord’ or ‘your lordship’ and never on your life ‘you villain,’ Tom.”

“Then it’s ‘your lordship,’ if it serves,” Kydd said, in an odd voice, and gave an exaggerated bow, but when he looked again Renzi’s grave expression had not altered.

“This is harder than ever you will know, dear friend,” he said, in a low voice. “I see before me the sea hero I respect and admire above all men, and society demands he bends the knee to me. I would be gratified beyond measure should you hold to ‘Nicholas,’ dear fellow-or even ‘wicked dog’ would answer.”

They clasped hands.

Kydd turned to his sister. “Now, how about you, Cec? What do I hail you as?”

“Why, I’m sure the Countess of Farndon would be content with ‘my lady’ or ‘your ladyship’ but never in this world ‘sis,’ good Sir Thomas.”

“As it shall be, Your Worship. Now if we’re to be squared away and all a-taunto for a right true wedding in this week, we’d better bend on more sail. Where do we start, Cec?”

It was quickly settled that the cosy familiarity of St Mary’s Church would be best suited for the Kydds, and Renzi hastened to make clear that it would suffice also on his side. Its small capacity dictated a family wedding only with a strict limit on guests. This brought a measure of relief in other arrangements, particularly when it was learned that the groom’s family would certainly be invited to Hatchlands, the county seat of Lord Onslow, a distant relative, who might be depended upon in the matter of carriages.

Kydd assumed charge, sending Cecilia off to fit for a bridal gown and reassuring his parents that they could remain indoors quietly while he took care of all the arrangements.

The delighted tailors of Guildford went to double tides, Kydd and Renzi both to be as resplendent as it was possible to be, and after judicious choices the needles flew.

Canon Chaddlewood of St Mary’s allowed he was more than happy to conduct a marriage: who were the blessed couple? When told of the quality of the celebrants and congregation he nearly swooned, and on learning of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s intercessionary licence, he shrank in fright. It took all of a threat to lose the honour to rival Holy Trinity to move him to accept, with the offer of an organist from Hatchlands and a choir from the school.

The wedding was therefore set for Friday next at ten.

Kydd had his own preparations to make. Orders under his name were sent on the Portsmouth stage to the officer-of-the-day of L’Aurore. It desired him to send a party of trusties by return for special service, their rig to be their best as for captain’s inspection.

He then instructed Boatswain Perrott of the school to transform his assembly hall into a temporary mess-deck, and left the gleeful peg-legged sailor teaching his eager boys how to rig header tricing knittles for hammocks.

It was all shaping up in a most satisfying way.

“So you’re not nervous at all, old horse?” Kydd said lightly, helping Renzi with his snowy cravat.

“Only that this may in fact all be a vain imagining to vanish at any moment with a loud pop. Thomas, days ago I was a lowly secretary-however honourable the post,” he hastened to add. “And now the world may see me as the espoused of the loveliest creature in existence.”

“Hold still, Nicholas. How can I get a decent tie if you move?”

“Dear fellow,” Renzi said softly. “You’ve said that before.”

“What? And I never did!”

“I’m desolated to contradict my best man, but do you not recall in Artemis frigate we were most certainly tie-mates?”

Kydd stopped. The memories flooded back of a young man with a cherished deep-sea mariner’s long pigtail being combed and plaited by his friend, the favour to be returned afterwards.

“Aye, I do, Nicholas.” A stab of feeling came as he realised that not only were those times so distant in the past, but the continued friendship, which saw them that morning performing exactly the same favours for each other, was now about to be concluded.

“I … I’m going to miss you in L’Aurore, m’ friend,” he said quietly. “It won’t be the same without I have a learned cove scratching away for me somewhere.”

“You may believe that I too shall miss … deeply … the freedoms and sights of the sea life.”

He paused, then brightened. “Yet there is perhaps a final service I can do my good captain. It crosses my mind that, should you continue to require a confidential secretary, may I recommend for your consideration a young man of shining qualities whose discretion I can vouch for personally?”

“Oh? Who then is this splendid fellow?”

“An under-secretary on the estate, Dillon the name. He has notions of one day travelling the world, as I have done, and it seems to me that were you to oblige him in this manner then his loyalty would be unbounded.”

“Life in a man-o’-war is not for the faint-hearted, Nicholas.”

“Is that so, dear chap? You might give him fair trial and see if he measures up to the profession.”

“Very well. Send him to L’Aurore and we’ll take a look at him.”

A fore-top bellow sounded outside. “Ah. That’s Toby Stirk rousing our carriage alongside. I fear it’s time to face your destiny, Nicholas.”

They were not prepared for the sight that greeted them at St Mary’s.

“Be damned! There’s half Guildford Town here!” spluttered Kydd, red-faced with pleasure.

Surrounding the church was an overflowing, joyous crowd of chattering, delighted men, women and children in their best dress, bedecked with flowers and ribbons. They were not going to miss the wedding of the age.

Harassed church functionaries managed to keep a lane to the entrance free but the people were impatient to catch a glimpse of the principals and pressed them sorely.

Kydd stepped down and bowed to them pleasantly. It brought a ripple of excitement and scattered awed applause. This was Sir Thomas Kydd, a son of the town and now a famous frigate captain; there in his gold and blue with a crimson sash and star, looking every inch the sea hero.

The tongues clucked. Look at that gold medal and riband! The tall cocked hat with all the gold lace! Was it true he once laboured in the wig-shop that used to be up High Street past the clock?