‘A sufficient competence?’ he managed.
‘An acceptable term, I’d think, for an emolument some seven or eight times your own.’
Kydd smiled awkwardly. Renzi’s high moral principles had prevented his seeking Cecilia’s hand in marriage while unable to provide for her, and through sheer chance he had been given the means to do so and obviously had seized it with both hands – or . . .
‘Oh, er, Nicholas, by your talk of marriage, do you mean to say, um, to Cecilia, not some Dutch lady of your recent acquaintance?’
‘To your sister,’ Renzi said frostily. ‘In the event she is free and accepts my proposal, I mean to send for her to approve Cape Colony as an appropriate place of our domicile de mariage.’
‘Ah.’
‘To be wed in the Groote Kerk, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Cecilia – out here? Kydd had doubts, but if she still had the feelings for Renzi that he’d been witness to before, then all was possible. ‘I see. Then . . . then you’ll not be wanting your cabin aboard,’ he ventured, still dazed by the announcement.
‘It would seem not, Tom.’ Renzi’s voice was awkward. ‘I would take it kindly if you’ll—’
‘Your books ’n’ effects will be landed as soon as they may.’
‘Thank you.’
There was a long pause while Kydd tried to find something to say. ‘Er, you’re still looking a mort mumchance – can this be some delicate question of state that’s taxing the intellects?’
Renzi smiled ruefully. ‘No, dear fellow. It’s naught but the throwing of a grand ball for which I bear both the honour and responsibility. You’d never conceive the worry of spirits this is causing me – such quantities of vexing detail that would drive a saint to drink and ruin.’
‘Ha! That’s easily solved, I’m persuaded,’ Kydd said immediately.
‘Oh? How so?’
‘You may claim the services of Tysoe, who, as you know, has served a noble family – but, mind you, I shall have him back!’
Renzi’s face cleared. ‘A capital idea! My mind is quite eased, believe me. Er – shall we adjourn to another place? My apartments are commodious and overlook such a quaint and sublime fountain . . .’
The evening stole in, a thankful cool with a violet tinge to the light adding to the nervous elation in the group standing about the doors of Government House. Baird had fallen in with the idea of holding the reception there, in the palatial surroundings of the Dutch governor’s residence, then moving to the larger castle for the ball, involving as it would a jingling panoply of sumptuous carriages through the streets for all Cape Town to see.
‘I don’t spy any of ’em yet!’ Baird rumbled, twitching his military stock and peering past the goggling crowd pressed up to the railings. ‘If we dance alone they’ll hear about it for years to come in every club in London!’
‘Sir, the evening’s yet young,’ Renzi soothed, trying not to let the feathers of his ridiculous ceremonial helmet tickle his nose. ‘And I’d believe every matron will be concerned not to let a single hair go unfrizzed.’
The governor did not appear mollified and Renzi fell back briefly into the entrance to confront an immaculate Tysoe. ‘Is everything ready?’ he hissed. ‘Should this night be a disaster then . . . then—’
‘All is to satisfaction, sir,’ Tysoe replied serenely, ‘Being under my direct instructions.’ At any other time the distinct elevation of his tone would have brought amusement.
The impeccably dressed regimental band stoically continued playing their light airs and the members of the receiving line – himself after Baird, Ryneveld, two generals, Popham and three members of the Senate – hovered in readiness.
It wasn’t until an interminable forty minutes had passed that the first carriage arrived and one Overbeek, vice-president of the Orphans Chamber, wife and wide-eyed daughter arrived. A genial Baird granted a full five minutes to the bemused worthy, his wife and daughter the breathless centre of attention of the rest of the line.
Soon after, to Renzi’s surprise, the grim-faced Slotsboo, treasurer of the Burgher Senate and implacable enemy to the currency-exchange proclamation, stepped out of his carriage, himself handing down his extravagantly dressed wife and approaching the governor with an ingratiating smile.
Behind him carriages joggled for a place as more and more arrived, to the intense gratification of the onlookers. Both the collector and comptroller of Customs claimed noisy priority over the dignified Truter, secretary to the Court of Justice, and when the crowd caught sight of the young wife of the deputy fiscal in her beribboned gown, there was a long collective sigh.
The evening was made! Renzi looked around at the glittering splendour of the animated throng, the jealously hoarded finery of the ladies and the naked jostling for social position – there was no doubt that Baird had been right and that society was beginning to cohere as one around the person of the governor.
Renzi did his duty happily, passing among the great and good, graciously bestowing kind words upon those brought to be introduced by Ryneveld and allowing himself, the influential colonial secretary of Cape Colony, to be both seen and admired.
Then it was time to make the short journey to the castle and the ball. The governor rode alone first in an ornate carriage; Renzi with Ryneveld was next, the military behind.
Following Baird’s example, Renzi affably acknowledged with a wave the shouts of the crowd as they passed by and then on to the parade-ground where, by torchlight, a massed band and marching troops crashed into motion.
With a sense of unreality Renzi sat rigid as they drove through the ancient gate to the inner courtyard. Opposite, lined up outside the governor’s residence, were the lesser invitees – colonels, post-captains, heads of departments, ward masters, church ministers, others.
Baird descended from his carriage and began passing along the waiting guests, Renzi close behind, finding polite words for each. Then it was Kydd who was next in the line and they played their parts, the only concession to the situation being a solemn wink from Renzi and a wondering shake of Kydd’s head.
The long ballroom was splendidly lit with candelabra stands by the dozen and infinite tawny gold points reflected in the many mirrors. At one end a regimental band in evening dress played softly as the room filled and champagne flowed.
Kydd was sure that he was going to enjoy the heady evening, not unaware that in his full-dress post-captain’s uniform he cut a striking figure.
‘Mevrouw – the first dance?’ Baird led out a proud Mrs Ryneveld, and Kydd claimed a shy, light-featured Dutch maiden, whose English, he discovered, was not the equal of her charms. They stepped out prettily together, though, and after two dances he graciously allowed her to be taken by a red-faced young subaltern.
Then, in the next dance, dutifully bowing and rising to a dimpled matron, he caught sight across the room of a beautiful dark-haired woman, whose grace was drawing admiring glances from all parts. When the dance finished he determined to go in search of her.
She was surrounded by fawning men, fluttering her fan but giving her entire attention to Renzi, who was holding forth. Her ivory gown was cut low, revealing an alabaster bosom, and her lustrous black hair framed striking Gallic features. Kydd thrust through and gave a sweeping bow. ‘Shall this round be mine, Mam’selle?’
He had noticed what the others had not – that Dutch maidens did not mark cards for dancing partners and he was therefore free to ask. He was met with a cool gaze from her and a startled look from Renzi, but she consented, lifting a sequinned gloved hand, which he took with a wicked glance back at the group of envious men.
The first words of his small-talk in English were met with a cold expression in French of her inability to converse easily, but Kydd was equal to this – his painful lessons from Renzi during the blockade of Toulon had matured into a passable competence in the language.