Cecilia examined it quietly.
"It's fr'm the very furthest part o' the world. Any further an' there's jus' empty sea to th' South Pole—th' very end of every-thin'." He had pocketed the cool blue-grey shard when Renzi and he had gone ashore for a final time in the unspeakably remote Van Diemen's Land.
"It's—it's very nice," Cecilia said, in a small voice, her eyes averted. "You did promise me something of your strange land in the letter, Thomas," she said. "I do hope the voyage wasn't too . . . vexing for you."
Kydd knew she was referring to his captaincy of a convict ship and murmured an appropriate reply, but he was alarmed by her manner. This was not the spirited sister he had known and loved since childhood: there was a subdued grief in her taut, pale face that disturbed him. "Cec—"
"Thomas, do come and see the school. It's doing so well now," she said, sounding brittle, and retrieved the key from behind the door. Without another word they left the room and crossed the tiny quadrangle to enter a classroom.
For a space she faced away from him, and Kydd's stomach tightened.
"T-Thomas," she began, then lifted her head and held his eyes. "Dear Thomas . . . I—I want you to know that I—I'm so very sorry that I failed you . . ." Her hands worked nervously. Her head drooped. "You—you trusted me, with your d-dearest friend. And I let him wander out and be lost . . ."
"Wha—? Cec, you mean Nicholas?"
"Dear brother, whatever you say, I—failed you. It's no use." She buried her face in her hands and struggled for control. "I—I was so tired . . ."
Kydd reeled. He had sworn secrecy about Renzi's feelings for his sister and the logic that had impelled his friend to sever connection with her. They had prepared a story together to cover Renzi's disappearance: it had better be believable. He took his sister's hands and looked into her stricken face. "Cecilia, I have t' tell ye—Nicholas lives."
She froze, searching his eyes, her fingers digging painfully into his own.
"He's not lost, he—he straggled away, intellect all ahoo, y' see." It seemed such a paltry tale and he cursed yet again the foolish logic that had denied her the solace of just one letter from Renzi.
"He was, er, taken in an' attended f'r a long time, an' is now much recovered," he ended awkwardly.
"You know this?"
Kydd swallowed. "I heard about Nicholas in Deptford an' hurried to him. Cec, you'll be seein' him soon. He's on his way!"
"May I know who took him in?" she continued, in the same level voice.
This was not going to plan. "Oh, er, a parcel o' nuns or such," he said uncomfortably. "They said as how they didn't want thanks. Th' savin' o' souls was reward enough."
"So he's now recovered, yet was never, in all that time, able to pen a letter to me?"
Kydd mumbled something, but she cut in, "He tells you—he confides in his friend—but not me?" A shadow passed across her features. She stiffened and drew back. "Pray don't hold my feelings to account, Thomas. If you are sworn to discretion then who am I to strain your loyalties?"
"Cec, it's not as ye're sayin'—"
"Do you think me a fool?" she said icily. "If he's taken up with some doxy the least he can do is to oblige me with a polite note."
"Cec!"
"No! I'm strong enough! I can bear it! It's just that—I'm disappointed in Nicholas. Such base behaviour, only to be expected of—of—"
Her composure was crumbling and Kydd was in a turmoil.
Where did his loyalties lie? The words fell out of him. "Th' truth, then, sis, an' ye may not like it."
Now there was no going back. She waited, rigid.
"Ye have t' understand, Cec, that Nicholas is not like y' common sort o' cove. He has a rare enough headpiece."
"Go on."
"An' at times it leads him into strange notions." She did not stir. "Er, very strange." There was no help for it: she would have to know everything. "He—he cares f'r you, sis," Kydd said. "He told me so himself, 'I own before ye this day that Cecilia is dearer t' me than I c'n say.' This he said t' me in Van Diemen's Land."
She stared at him, eyes wide, hands at her mouth. "He was there with you? Then what . . . ?"
"Y' see, Cec, while he was abed wi' the fever he was thinkin'. Of you, sis. An' he feels as it would be improper for him t' make it known t' ye without he has achieved somethin' in th' world, somethin' he c'n lay before ye an' be worthy of y'r attention. So he ships out f'r New South Wales as a settler, thinkin' t' set up an estate in th' bush by his own hands. But I reckon he's no taut hand at y'r diggin' an' ploughin', an' he lost his fortune and reason toilin' away at his turnips."
Kydd took a deep breath. "I offered him passage home. Now he'll come t' sea wi' me an' work on an ethnical book. It's all a mort too deep f'r me, but when it's published, I'll wager ye'll hear from him then."
Cecilia swayed, only a slight tremor betraying her feelings.
Kydd went on anxiously, "He made me swear not t' tell a soul— an' it would go ill wi' me, y' understand, Cec, should he feel I'd betrayed his trust."
"Nicholas—the dear, dear man!" she breathed.
"We conjured up th' story, sis, as would see ye satisfied in th' particulars, but . . ." He tailed off uncertainly.
"Thomas! I do understand! It's more than I could ever . . ." A shuddering sigh escaped her and she threw her arms round him.
"Dear brother, you were so right to tell me. He shall keep his secret, and only when he's ready . . ."
"Why, it's Mr Renzi. Just as y' said, Thomas!" Mrs Kydd was clearly much pleased by Renzi's reappearance and ushered him into the room. His eyes found Cecilia's, then dropped.
"Why, Nicholas, you are so thin," Cecilia said teasingly. "And your complexion—anyone might think you one of Thomas's island savages." She crossed to him and kissed him quickly on both cheeks.
Renzi stood rigid, then pecked her in return, his face set. She drew away but held his eyes, asking sweetly, "I'm so grateful to the nuns who ministered to you. What was their order? I believe we should thank them properly for their mercies to our dear brother restored to us."
"Oh, er, that won't be necessary," Renzi said stiffly. "You may be assured that every expression of gratitude has been extended, dear sister."
"Then a small gift, a token—I will sew it myself," she insisted.
Kydd coughed meaningfully, then grunted, "Leave him be, Cec. Tell us your news, if y' please."
She tossed her head. "Why, nothing that might stand with your exciting adventures." She sighed. "Only last week—"
"Oh dear!"
"What is it, Mama?"
"I've jus' this minute remembered." Mrs Kydd rose and went to the sewing cupboard. "I have it here somewhere—now, where did I put it?"
"Put what, pray?"
"Oh, a letter f'r Thomas. From London, th' navy, I think." She rummaged away, oblivious to Kydd's keen attention. "I thought I'd better put it away safely until—ah, yes, here it is."
Kydd took it quickly. From the fouled anchor cipher on its face it was from the Admiralty. He flashed a look of triumph at Renzi and hastened to open it, his eyes devouring the words.
"The King . . . orders-in-council . . . you are required and directed . . ." Too excited to take in details, he raced to the end where, sure enough, he saw the hurried but unmistakable signature of the First Lord of the Admiralty—but no mention of a ship, a command.
Renzi stood by the mantelpiece, watching Kydd with a half-smile. "Nicholas, what do ye make o' this?" Kydd handed him the letter. "I should go t' Plymouth, not London?"