He sipped his tea although it was now tepid. His admiral's disposition was no business of his and he could not understand Stanhope's disquiet. Now would be a good time for Renzi to contribute a sage comment on the strategic implications of their victory but, annoyingly, he sat still as a statue, staring into space with unfocused eyes.
"Er, I think it has somethin' to do with the admiral wanting t' rouse 'em up to face the French. An' with the Austrians our, er, friends t' help—not forgettin' that the Queen o' Naples is sister t' the emperor," he added weakly.
"The late emperor," Stanhope corrected automatically, but his frown had deepened and Kydd felt out of his depth.
"Sir, if ye'd be s' kind, can we know how th' news has been received aroun' the world?"
"Certainly." Stanhope's face cleared. "Yet, first, I could not forgive myself were I not at this point to express my deepest satisfaction in your change of fortune. Your conduct in the Caribbean will never be forgotten by me and it must be to the country's great benefit that your resolution and professional skill has been so justly recognised."
Cecilia clasped her hands in smothered glee and Kydd flushed.
"I do also remember your particular friend." He directed a meaningful look at Renzi, whose attention seemed to snap back to the present.
"Indeed, sir." Renzi's distracted look was replaced by urbanity. "I have the liveliest remembrance myself of past days, not all of which have been tranquil." Relieved, Kydd let Renzi continue. "It would seem, however, that we have been attended by a very welcome measure of success that should be a caution to all."
Stanhope smiled grimly. "There are nations who have sought to find common cause with the French. Now they are obliged to gaze upon their great Buonaparte stranded helpless."
"A prime spectacle!" chuckled Kydd. "Do ye think he'll last long?"
"He may flounder about, win a battle or two against the indolent Turks who inhabit that part of the world, but the great sand deserts that ring him about will end his ambitions before long, you can be sure."
Kydd turned to Renzi but his look of distraction had returned. It was not in character and Kydd felt unease, which deepened when Renzi did not appear to have noticed that the talking had stopped.
Cecilia leaned across. "Nicholas, is anything wrong? You're as quiet as a mouse."
Renzi looked at her unhappily. "Er, today I received a letter." He swallowed. "From my mother ..."
CHAPTER 10
RENZI STARED INTO THE FIRE as it crackled and spat, sending sparks spiralling up the inn's chimney. Winter in England was a sad trial after the Mediterranean; he snuggled deeper into his coat and sipped his toddy. His mother's letter, pleading that for her sake he return, had come as a shock. His father was in such a towering rage at his continued absence that he was now making her life unbearable.
In Halifax Renzi had received a letter from his brother Richard, advising him that his brother Henry was trying to have Renzi declared dead so that he could assume the place of eldest son. This had been easily dealt with: Renzi had immediately sent a letter to his father calmly setting out the reasons why he had chosen his term of exile and informing him of his elevation to the quarterdeck as a king's officer.
His father's contemptuous reply had dismissed any justification of conduct based on moral grounds and had demanded he return instantly to answer for his absence. Renzi had decided to face him when Tenacious returned to England but his mother's letter had forced the issue.
With the Mediterranean quiet and his ship in the dockyard for some time, there had been no difficulty in securing leave and he had taken passage in a dispatch cutter to Falmouth, then a coach to Exeter and the bleak overland trip to Wiltshire. He was staying overnight in the local inn and had sent ahead for a carriage, knowing that this would serve as warning of his arrival. Tomorrow he would return to Eskdale Hall, the seat of the Laughton family and the Earl of Farndon since King Henry's day.
It had been nearly seven years, and Renzi had changed. Gone was the careless, unthinking man who had dissipated so much of his youth and means on his Grand Tour. And he was no longer the naive young fellow who had been so shocked by what he had encountered on his return that he had taken the moral course of self-exile for a term of five years. His time on the lower deck of a man-o'-war had shaped him, hardened him. Now he looked at life with a detached, far-seeing regard. There would have to be a reckoning, however, for as eldest son his situation was circumscribed by custom and law. He felt the chill of foreboding.
The long night ended with a cold dawn, and after a frugal breakfast Renzi waited on the benches outside, trying to let the sights and smells of the country enter his soul once more, but the bleakness and mud were depressing.
Eventually the carriage came into view, its gleaming black sides spattered with winter grime. The coachman and footman wore careful, blank faces but the noble family crest on the door seemed accusing. Renzi settled into the cushions—despite everything he could feel himself assuming only too easily the mantle of the high-born, with its habits of hauteur and expectations of deference.
They reached the local village of Noakes Poyle where many of the estate labourers lived. As they clattered through the cramped high street, he caught sight of old shops, the busy market; besmocked agricultural workers respectfully touched their forelocks. All conspired to peel away the years and thrust him back to what he had been.
Out into the country again they turned into a road with an elegant gold-filigreed iron gate. Old Lawrie emerged from the gatehouse, grinning like a boy. "Oi see thee well, Master Nicholas, sir?" he asked. It was the first cheeriness Renzi had experienced since he arrived.
The carriage pulled grittily up the drive, which, flanked by trees, led to the splendour of Eskdale Hall. He could see figures assembling on the front lawn: the servants turning out to mark his homecoming. He forced a composure.
The carriage began its final wide curve towards the house and Renzi found himself searching for familiar faces, friendly looks, then saw his parents standing together at the top of the steps. The carriage swept past the servants and came to a halt. The footman got down and swung out the step. Renzi descended. Amid a deathly hush he went up to greet his mother and father.
His mother was set and pale, her hands clasped in front of her; the ninth Earl of Farndon's granite expression showed no emotion.
"Father," Renzi said formally, extending his hand. It was coldly ignored. Renzi felt the old anger and frustration build but clamped a fierce hold on himself. He bowed politely, then turned to his mother, who stood rigid, staring at him as if he were a ghost. Then he noticed the glitter of tears and went to her, holding her, feeling her fierce embrace, and hearing just one tearing sob before she pulled away and resumed her position next to his father.
For a long moment there was silence, then his father turned on his heel and went inside. His mother reached out and took his hands. "Go to him, Nicholas," she said, her face a mask.
Renzi followed his father into the dark wood-panelled main study. "Close the door, boy," the earl snapped, and took his seat behind the desk more usually employed for dealing with tenants behind in their rent. Renzi was very aware of how little provocation might set tempers ablaze.
His father barked, "An explanation, if you please, sir." Renzi took a deep breath. "I find I have nothing to add that I have not set out in my letter, Father."
"Don't feed me that flim-flam about moral duty again," his father roared, his face red, eyes glinting dangerously. "I want to hear why you've seen fit to disappear for years, absenting yourself from your rightful place of duty to—" "Sir, I've as lively a sense of duty as any—" "Sir, you're a damned poltroon if you think there's an answer in running away—"