“It is! Mr Renzi, as I stand!” she blurted, with a broad smile. “Come t’ visit. Right welcome you are too, sir.”
“Do let me assist, my dear,” he said, taking the basket of vegetables she was carrying.
“Why, thank you, sir. They’ll be main pleased t’ see you, what with no news about Mr Thomas and such. Have you had tidings a-tall?”
There could be no retreating now and he let her prattle wash over him until they reached the door.
Unexpectedly, a calm settled. He would go through with it: he would formally propose to Miss Cecilia Kydd.
“Why, Mr Renzi!” Mrs Kydd cried. “Do come in out o’ that rain. I’m so pleased to see you-have you any word o’ young Thomas?” she added anxiously.
“He’s hale and hearty, Mrs Kydd, let me assure you. He’s important business in London but desires me to convey to you his filial devoirs and promises to visit at the earliest opportunity.”
“You’re so wet, Mr Renzi. Emily, run and get a towel for Mr Renzi-quickly now!”
“Who’s that, Fanny?” quavered a voice from within.
“Why, Mr Renzi, Walter, that’s who,” she replied.
“Come into the parlour, Mr Renzi. Sit y’self down while we find you something to warm the cockles.” She ushered him into the small front room, so well known from times before.
“You are in good health, Mrs Kydd?”
“So-so. I always gets chilblains in this blashy weather, but never you mind.”
“And Cecilia?” he asked carefully.
“Oh? Yes, she’s fine. Now do tell us where you’ve gone to these last-bless my soul, it must be coming on for two years now.”
“A long story, and I’d much rather it were Thomas in the telling.” He paused, “Might I enquire, what does Cecilia these days?”
“Poor lamb. She had a fine position, as y’ know, with the marquess an’ lady, but now they can’t travel so she’s been let go with an encomium. Spends her days about the house moping-she should get out and find herself a man, if y’ pardon my speaking so direct.”
“Is she here? I’d like to pay my respects.”
“She was. Gone out to see a friend-she’ll be back soon, I’ll not wonder.”
Renzi’s heart skipped a beat.
“Emily!” Mrs Kydd called in exasperation. “Where’s that posset? Mr Renzi here is a-dyin’ from the cold an’ wet. I’ll give you a hand.”
She bustled out, leaving Renzi alone.
He looked about: was there anything that spoke of Cecilia’s presence, that was hers? He was now about to face the one who had captured his heart, and a sudden wave of emotion engulfed him. He loved the woman: he adored her, was hopelessly lost to her. And he would propose, go on bended knee-but what if she turned him down?
Desolation clamped in. Refusal was a very real chance: this was a hard world where marriages were largely contracted on the basis of income expectations and a lady would be considered a fool to marry beneath her station. Even were Cecilia still to bear him an affection, she had her future to consider and …
A lump rose in his throat. It wouldn’t be long and he would know her answer-and if it was unfavourable, his heart would surely be broken.
In a frenzy of apprehension he looked again to see if there was anything of her in the room. She must spend hours here, sitting-needlework? Not Cecilia, her mind was too active. What did other young ladies do in her circumstances? Drawing? Piano? There was neither here. He knew so little of her at home …
What was that, peeping out from under the cushion? A book, shoved under in haste to conceal it, almost certainly what she’d been reading.
Guiltily Renzi pulled it out. It was a novel of sorts, the cover gold-embossed with a romantic manly figure standing atop a rock. He felt a tinge of disappointment that it was a work of fiction she was reading rather than an improving classical tome. He flicked the pages to see what had attracted her to it, some with dark Gothic pictures, the text closely spaced.
He picked a paragraph at random and began reading-he had seen those very words before. They were his own, damn it!
Nearly dropping the book, he flicked hastily to the title page. Portrait of an Adventurer by Il Giramondo. The peregrinations of a gentleman rogue who loses his soul to dissipation and finds it again in far wandering.
He feverishly searched for the publisher’s name: yes, it was John Murray.
The implications slammed in on him. He was a published author! And therefore he had an income!
He choked back a sob, undone by the sudden reversal of Fate.
Then a cooler voice intervened. To tell Cecilia that he had an income as an author would be to reveal that he must necessarily be this wastrel. How could he?
Thinking furiously, he realised he must go immediately to John Murray to ensure his identity was kept secret.
Yes! It was what he must do-but he knew nothing of authors and royalties. Supposing the amount was a pittance only?
Standing about would solve nothing. Only action!
“Oh, Mrs Kydd?”
She came in, hurriedly wiping her hands on a cloth. “Mr Renzi?”
“I’m devastated to find I forgot to attend to an urgent matter. I must deal with it-I pray you tell Cecilia that I called and that I will return. A day or two at the most.”
“Mr Renzi!” Mrs Kydd said, shocked. “You’re not going out in all that rain again? It’s cold and-”
“I must, dear lady. I’ll take my leave now, if I may.”
The rain continued relentlessly as the coach ground and clattered over the cobbles towards the London road at the top of the hill. Kydd hunkered down, glowering under the press of dark thoughts that crowded in. As each rose in his consciousness, he met it with a savage riposte: there was nothing he could do about it now so he must let events take their course. A logic that would undoubtedly have met with Renzi’s approval-if he had still been by his side.
Renzi, a friend of times past. Those long-ago years tugged at him with their elemental simplicity, their careless vitality. Now his bosom friend was to be wed, settle down, have his being on the land, no more to wander. They would meet again, of course: he would be married to Kydd’s sister and she would keep in touch. But at this point their lives had irrevocably diverged.
In a pall of depression and aching from the ride, Kydd morosely sat through the final miles into the capital, grey and bleak in rain-swept gloom. He directed the driver to his accustomed lodgings at the White Hart in Charles Street and answered the vacuous civilities of the innkeeper with monosyllables. Tomorrow he would learn his fate.
Kydd hadn’t slept well. He dressed slowly, defiantly hanging on to the fact that to the world he was still Captain Kydd, commander of His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore, and dared any to say otherwise.
His orders had been to present himself immediately at the Admiralty and it would only tell against him if he did not, so at nine precisely he was deposited outside the grim facade of the home of their lordships. He knew the way: the Captains’ Room was in its accustomed crowded squalor; the usual supplicants for a ship, petitioners and those summoned to explain themselves.
He handed his card to the clerk. “To see the first lord per orders,” he muttered, and found a seat among the others. Curious at a new face, several tried to start a conversation but were discouraged by Kydd’s expression.
The minutes turned to an hour. It was here in this very room that he’d found out he’d been made post. That was in the days of the granite-faced sailor Earl St Vincent. Now the office of first lord of the Admiralty was occupied by a civilian, Grenville, younger brother of the prime minister. It had been he who had summoned him so peremptorily.
Then why was he waiting? He hailed the clerk. “Captain Kydd. As I told you, I’ve orders from the first lord that demand my immediate presenting in person. Why have you not acted?”
He knew the reason: it was the custom to grease the palm of the man to ensure an early appointment. But this was different: he was not a supplicant. He had been ordered to attend, and woe betide a lowly clerk who thought to delay him.