"A big house'd be a worry, dear."
"No, Ma! There's servants as'll take charge of it for ye. An' then, o' course—"
"Not now, Thomas, love."
"Ma! Tomorrow I can talk to the—"
"Listen, dear. We're happy here. It's all we need an' don't f' get, y'r father's eyes might ha' failed him but he knows his way about here. A great big place, why, we'd all get lost. Not only that, but what would I put in all them rooms?"
Taken aback, Kydd could only say, "Ye'll soon be used to it, Ma. Then ye'll—"
"No, son," his father said firmly. "Pay heed t' what your mother just said. We stays."
"Yes, Pa."
"But thank 'ee most kindly for thinkin' of us in that way, son."
"Yes, Pa."
His mother brightly changed the subject. "I've jus' remembered. Mrs. Bawkins always has us t' tea on Thursdays. Would ye like t' come an' say hello?"
It was the best room in the Angel but Kydd did not sleep well. He took his breakfast early and, as he watched High Street come alive through the quaint windows of the dining room, tried to shake off a lowering dissatisfaction.
He started to walk to his parents' home, then realised it would be too early for them and turned back down the hill. The previous evening had not been what he had looked forward to and his parents' refusal of his offer had given him pause to think.
Guildford was just the same—or was it? The tradesmen were out in the old ways, their cries echoing in the streets as shops were opened and the town woke to another day. But it seemed subtly different.
He reached the bottom of the street and the bridge over the river Wey where the road led to the south and Portsmouth. He wanted time to reflect so he wandered down to the towpath, its curving placidity stretching away under the willow trees.
He had just turned thirty. Was it now time to take stock of his life? By any measure he was a success. He had left Guildford a perruquier and returned a well-to-do sea captain, with experiences of the wider world that any man would . . . But he had returned to Guildford expecting it to be as it always had been . . . He now saw that it had not changed, he had. Those very experiences had given him perspectives on the world that were very different. They had not only broadened his horizons but made it impossible to go back.
He stopped still. Guildford was of the past, not the future. It was no longer his home . . . but what, then, did he call home? Many men and most women of his age had settled in their ways and begun to raise a family. Was it now time for him to cease adventuring and put down roots somewhere? Guildford? The country? He had a not inconsiderable fortune and must be a most eligible bachelor. A stab of pain came at the thought of the death of his fiancée Rosalynd—but he had a duty now to his future.
The thoughts flowed on. Put down roots? Where? And as what? A gentleman of leisure whose glory days were past? No! Quite apart from the peril under which his country lay at the hands of the French, he knew that he was a man of the sea and belonged there. So was that what he must call home? He would not be at sea for ever and it was the expected and natural thing for any officer to acquire a property for the time when he swallowed the anchor and returned to the bosom of his family.
Since he had left Guildford, sea adventures had followed each other in exciting succession and his attention had been largely on the present. Perhaps now was the right time to consider where he was going with his life—and who he was.
There was no point in denying that he was a natural-born sailor who had the gift of sea-sense and tactics, and from long ago he had not been troubled by fear in battle: his end was just as near by land as sea, and duty was a clear path in war. No, there was no doubt that the probability was, given a reasonable run of luck, that he was destined for yet greater honours. Even to the dignity of post-captain? It was not impossible now, for with Napoleon Bonaparte declaring himself Emperor of the French there was no prospect in the near future of peace and unemployment.
His heart beat faster. To be made post—the captain of a frigate and later even ship-of-the-line, and firmly set on the path that led to . . . admiral!
It was not impossible, but there were many commanders and few post-captains. It would take much luck and, of course, interest at the highest level, which he did not have: he did not mix in the right circles. He must re-enter the society he had turned his back on when he had chosen Rosalynd, a country lass, over an admiral's daughter. That much was clear. A chill of apprehension stole over him at the thought of facing patrician gazes again, the practised swift appraisal and rapid dismissal.
But it had to be acknowledged that he was now a man of substance. He had no need to be intimidated by those grander than he. His situation was quite as fortunate as theirs, probably more so than that of some, and he could validly expect to step forward and claim his place among them.
The thought swelled. He could afford the trappings, need not fear lacking the resources to keep up with them in whatever pursuit the occasion demanded. He would be treated with politeness and deference, would be allowed and accepted into their company. He would make friends. He would be noticed.
It was a heady vision but to become a figure in society it was not enough to dress modishly. To be accepted he must comport himself as they did, assume the graces and accomplishments of gentility that Renzi had been so at pains to instil in him when he had first become an officer. He had no desire to be thought quaint, which meant he should quickly acquire the requisite elements of polish such as an acquaintance with the classics, musical accomplishments and, remembering Cecilia's exasperated comments, gentlemanly speech.
Was that so hard? If he was to achieve a credible finish then, with his other advantages, he could pass for one of them. Of course, there was the difficulty of his origins, his family, but was this not the way the great families of the day must have started? Northern iron-masters, Liverpool shipping lords, rising merchants of the City of London were all now laying down estates and being honoured in a modern world that was making way for men who were reaching the heights by their own efforts.
Damn it! He would be one of them and take his place among them by right. And if it took the hoisting in of a few ancient tomes and working on his conversation, so be it. He would meet his future squarely and seize any opportunity with both hands.
Suddenly impatient, he began to walk back quickly, letting his thoughts race. Above all, he had the means to see it through: if he was right about his prospects, then the sooner he was equipping himself for his destiny the better. It was going to happen. There would be a new Thomas Kydd.
Feeling surged. But did that mean he was turning his back on Guildford, the place of his birth, that until now he had called home? No. He would put this world gently but firmly to one side. It was just that it was no longer the centre of his universe.
He hurried along the last few yards to the school-house gate, lightness of spirit urging him onward. "Good mornin', Ma," he said happily. "Y' say Mrs. Bawkins is entertainin' this afternoon?"
Teazer was delayed in her refit. A humble brig-sloop had no claim to priority in a dockyard that was at full stretch keeping the vital blockading ships-of-the-line at sea and she was left for long periods in forlorn disarray, her crew in receiving hulks and her officers bored.
Kydd lost no time in taking rooms ashore. Not for him the noisy intimacy of the Blue Posts at Portsmouth Point, he could now afford to stay where officers of rank were to be found, at the George in Penny Street. And there he began the process of refinement.
It was vexing that Renzi was in London, out of reach for advice, but on the other hand this was Kydd's own initiative and he would see it through. He went first to the largest bookshop; the assistant had been studiously blank-faced as he asked for suggestions as to what primers gentlemen found most answered in a classical education.