Kydd returned to number eighteen, sending Mrs Bargus and Becky into a fluster, but found it the worst of places to be. He sat alone in the drawing room, staring into the fire with nothing to divert him from his brooding thoughts.
It was unfair: Rosalynd had invaded his consciousness and threatened his ordered life, but now her image seldom left him. The wide innocence of those dreamy blue eyes, her beauty, her direct, even intimate, way of talking—he was tormented by her. And he had to do something about it.
Time was not the answer: after several days, her presence was as real as ever. Why could he not put her from his mind?
It was not his way to shy from a difficulty: the only way to deal with the situation was to confront it. He would ride out to Polperro and dispose of it once and for all by the simple device of seeing her again; then he would surely realise she was a pretty slip of a country girl, whom he had found it agreeable to pass the time on a leisure visit, nothing more. That would finally lay to rest his unreal images of a girl who never was.
His knock at the door was answered by the pleasant maid-servant. No, the squire was out; at this time every day he visited his tenants. Mr Renzi? He was chasing his ethnicals again.
"I'll wait f'r the squire," Kydd said, and was ushered into the snug drawing room where he had first set eyes on Rosalynd. He pulled himself together and settled in a chair to await the squire's return as in all politeness he was bound to do.
The door squeaked and Rosalynd hurried in, incredulous. "Mr Kydd!" she cried, her face lighting with joy. "You came back! You came back for me!"
She flew across the room and embraced him. "My dear man, my dearest sweet man . . ."
Kydd looked into her brimming eyes and his arms went round her to hold her close, his hands caressing, cherishing. His eyes pricked and a lump formed in his throat, for now it was plain that he was facing the greatest trial of his life.
"So you've done well by y'r particulars in Polperro, I see," said Kydd, eyeing Renzi's careful piles of notes.
"Indeed—and enough to keep me in thought for a long time to come. Such variance! I would never have conceived it that—"
"Nicholas—um, might we talk for a spell?"
"Talk? Oh, yes, fire away, old fellow." He left his notes reluctantly and came to sit with Kydd.
"Nicholas. There is—er, that is to say, I have a problem an' I was hoping you'd give me a course t' steer."
"Oh? Please tell."
"Well, it's all shoal-water navigation f'r me, but y' see, Nicholas, um . . ."
"Dear fellow, do clap on more sail or we'll not make port by dinner."
"Er, you see, Nicholas, I—I find my affections have, er, been engaged by Miss Rosalynd."
Renzi sat bolt upright as though his hearing was in question. "Do I understand you correctly? You have formed some species of taking after Squire Morthwen's daughter? A—a lusting for her?"
Kydd reddened. "I can't keep her out of m' mind, no matter what I do."
"Then you had better find a way, my good friend."
"This is my problem, Nicholas. Is it right t' wed a lady while thinking of another?"
"Are you telling me in all seriousness that you are allowing a casual obsession of the moment to interfere with your marriage to one of the most eligible scions of society? This is nothing but rank idiocy!"
"And if it's more than—a passing fancy, what then?"
"Good God, man!" Renzi spluttered. "I do believe you've taken leave of your wits!" He quietened with an effort. "Be advised, my friend, that if you still hanker after the woman, in higher society these matters can be arranged discreetly enough. Your Prince of Wales enjoys the attentions of his paramour where he will and—"
Kydd's face tightened. "Damn it, Nicholas! You're so high on morality an' conduct, where's your advice t' me now?"
Renzi's expression hardened. "You're forgetting yourself. A gentleman by definition is concerned with graces and appearances—politeness and urbanity above all. If it's the case that you're unable to control your coarser spirits then the least you can do is conduct yourself with discretion."
Kydd fought back anger. "An' I'll remind you we're talkin' of a fine lady here—what of her?"
"She will accept it, in course—as one of breeding she will be first concerned with the respectability of her family and heirs. You will not find a difficulty there, I believe."
"You—for th' sake of appearances you'd take a wife an' lie with another?" Kydd choked. "Then I pity my poor sister."
Renzi went white. "Let me remind you, sir," he said dangerously, "it is you who are discontented with your lot. I do strongly advise you consider your position carefully and put an end to this ridiculous posturing."
"Thomas, my dear, so good to see you again. How are you?" Cecilia poured the tea and regarded her brother with undisguised affection. "The talk in town is all about your brave deeds in the storm. You really should take more care—it's so very dangerous in a gale."
"Yes, sis," Kydd said, accepting his cup.
"And how's Nicholas? You've both been gone for so long on your expeditions."
"He's well, Cec, but why I'm here is, er, I need y'r advice."
"Oh, don't worry about it! A wedding is really the concern of the womenfolk. They'll see everything is right on the day."
"No! It's—it's not that. Y' see, um, something's happened."
Cecilia saw his set face and sat up. "Then you'd better tell me about it, Thomas," she said quietly.
In the bare telling it sounded so thin and illogical. When he had finished Cecilia said nothing, staring at him, troubled.
"Now, let me be clear about this, Thomas. In just a week or so you have discovered deep feelings for this Rosalynd that cannot be denied."
"Aye," Kydd said miserably. "It happened so quick, Cec, an' it's knocked m' feelings askew."
"This is very serious, Thomas."
"I know," he whispered. "Can I ask it, sis—is it right to marry one while thinkin' on another?"
Cecilia looked at him sharply, then melted, leaning to clasp his hands in hers. "You dear sweet boy, you know the answer to that."
She drew out her handkerchief and wiped a tear, then continued in a practical tone: "So, now there are decisions to be made. And these are, it seems to me, one of three: cast Rosalynd out of your mind and marry Persephone; continue with the wedding to Persephone and make other arrangements for Rosalynd; and the last is to cast out Persephone and be wed to Rosalynd."
Kydd said nothing, gazing at her as if mesmerised.
"You might consider delaying in the hope that your feelings change?"
"I—I feel it worse every day."
"I see. Then we must find a resolution, and for this, I believe, I must ask you some hard questions."
Kydd nodded and braced himself.
"Do you love Miss Lockwood?"
"She's the most handsome and intelligent woman I've ever met, an' that's the truth."
"Do you love her?"
Wretchedly, Kydd tried to escape Cecilia's accusing eyes. "Look, Cec, it's not that, it's—it's that when I see Rosalynd she's such a tender innocent an' I want to love her an' protect her, but Persephone, she—she doesn't need me t' protect her. She's strong an' knows things and . . ." The lump in his throat made it difficult to carry on. "And Rosalynd is carefree an' loves simple things—I don't feel I have t' be polite an' play a part all th' time." Tears pricked. "She talks t' me and I c'n feel her words inside me . . ." Sobs choked him.
"Thomas! Listen to me! There's a terrible flood coming and you must save one and lose the other. Only one—who is it to be?"
Kydd shook his head in anguish.
"You must answer!" she demanded forcefully. "Soon one will vanish from your life for ever—for ever! Which one will you miss the most?"
The tears were blinding but Cecilia spared him nothing.
"Which one?"