“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.”