Heart wrung with pity, Renzi saw him to the door then turned back to his work.
It was no good – he couldn’t concentrate. Too much had happened and what he had feared had come to pass. Could their friendship survive without the common thread of the sea? Each to his own retreat, seldom to meet?
Selfishly he must mourn the passing of the opportunity he had had to enrich and inform his studies of man in all his diversity from that most excellent of conveyances, the deck of a far-voyaging ship.
Now he would continue his study in some depressing room that would offer the same tedious prospect of the world every morning and—
It was much worse for Kydd. Where would he find a calling in life to equal the previous? What was there to occupy his talent for daring and quick-thinking in the world where he now found himself stranded? That he had come so far to this . . .
Kydd had left the note lying on the mantelpiece and he idly picked it up. It was quite clear what had driven the first lord to pen it and equally apparent that there would be no reprieve. But why had he been so peremptory with one of Kydd’s recent fame? Surely a civil communication of inability was more to be expected.
Uneasiness stole over him. Was this a political act of some kind, perhaps instigated by Admiral Lockwood, whose daughter Kydd had spurned for a country girl? Very unlikely – that was now a while ago, and in any case, there was little to be gained in drawing attention to the incident.
In Guernsey there had been one officer so envious of Kydd’s rise that he had contrived to bring about his dismissal from his ship but surely Kydd did not have any other enemy who would want to harm his career.
As he stared at the note one phrase stood out: For you this is not possible as well you should know.
The inability to find him a sloop-of-war was understandable but that it was necessary to deny Kydd a command if there was one was uncalled-for and did not fit, even in a burst of exasperation. It implied that there was in existence a real bar to an appointment – consistent, for example, with a scurrilous tale told against his reputation that was common currency and assumed to be true, and of which Kydd was aware.
But of all men Kydd’s character was blameless of anything whatsoever that could be construed as morally reprehensible. If there were any alleging turpitude it would soon be discovered as false.
But what else? Renzi’s brow furrowed. Then it dawned, a possible reason so fantastic he laughed out loud at its simplicity but nonetheless monumental implications. Admittedly it was a slim chance that he was correct but it was simple enough to test and he rang for Tysoe.
‘Do call a messenger if you would,’ he said, and scrawled a few lines, then sealed the paper firmly. ‘For Somerset House,’ he said to the man, when he appeared, ‘and pray do not return without a reply.’
He was back within two hours. Renzi snatched up his message – and there, in a single line, was all he needed to know.
He took a deep breath and sat down slowly to consider. What happened next was entirely up to him. His first instinct was to lay it all before his friend immediately, but without proof – of the kind that could be held in the hand – it would not be a mercy.
‘You, sir!’ he barked to the waiting messenger, who started at Renzi’s sudden energy. ‘I desire you should take post-chaise to Guildford. There you will present an instruction to the person whose name will appear on the outside. You will then be entrusted with a package that you will guard with your life before you deliver it to me.’
Renzi gave a half-smile: within a day or two all would be made manifest.
Kydd returned in the evening, set-faced and quiet. They took dinner together and Renzi nearly weakened in his resolve but, knowing its grave importance to his friend’s situation, he determined to follow it through to its end.
‘A strange feeling, I tell you,’ Kydd mused. ‘Neither fish nor fowl. Never t’ tread my quarterdeck again but not yet set m’ course on land. What shall it be, Nicholas? Industry or commerce? Farming will never do – I’m terrified o’ cows.’ He looked moodily into the middle distance.
‘Why, something will turn up, of that you can be sure,’ Renzi said positively.
‘How can you be certain?’ Kydd said, nettled. ‘I’m to find something soon or take rot in the headpiece.’
Renzi had a stab of conscience. Was delay until the proof arrived the right thing to do for his friend?
The next morning he presented his card at the stately mansion in Belgravia that was the London residence of the Marquess of Bloomsbury, diplomat and of the inner circle in Prime Minister Pitt’s administration.
‘Oh, Nicholas!’ Cecilia gasped in anticipation. ‘Tell me the news. You’ve been to the publisher and you have something to reveal.’
‘Not, er, at the moment. This rather concerns your brother’s unfortunate predicament for which I carry something of a – a bombshell, as it were, that exercises me as to its resolution.’
It took him a short time to convey the essence and even less for Cecilia to come to a solution. Despite Renzi’s misgivings, she was adamant that her brother be told nothing yet.
When Renzi returned, Kydd was sprawled in a chair, staring listlessly into space. ‘Tom, dear fellow – we’re discovered!’ he said urgently. This brought no more than a single raised eyebrow. ‘I tell you, there’s no escaping!’
Kydd turned his head idly towards him. ‘Oh?’
‘Your sister! She knows you’re here, old chap!’ It was lame enough but Renzi continued, ‘She’s asking that we do escort her tonight to the entertainments at Vauxhall, her friend having failed her. Clearly I cannot be permitted to do so on my own.’
None but the withered in heart could have failed to be swept away by the excitement and spectacle of Vauxhall Gardens in the early evening. Illuminations were beginning to appear around the exotic pavilions and temples and through the hubbub of the promenading came the elegant strains of Mr Handel’s Water Music.
‘Isn’t it thrilling?’ Cecilia exclaimed, squeezing Kydd’s arm.
Renzi strolled on the other side. ‘The nightingales sing in the groves of Elysium,’ he murmured, eyeing a picturesque Grecian bust nestling in the shrubbery.
A passing exquisite in skin-tight pantaloons deigned to notice Cecilia with his quizzing glass; she inclined her head graciously, then impulsively reached out to take possession of Renzi’s arm. ‘There now! As I have the two most handsome men in London, I declare the world shall know of it.’
The walks took them by caves and waterfalls, grottoes and quantities of wondrous blooms and shrubbery, with discreet arbours and dark passageways between. Past the Druid’s Walk they came to the Wilderness and from there to the Rural Downs, where a pleasing prospect of the river opened up. ‘Milton,’ said Renzi, admiring a glowering statue looking away to the south, ‘and cast entirely in lead, of course.’
In the dusk more lamps wavered and took hold, suffusing the evening with a mysterious glamour. Individual faces appeared touched with gold and hidden players beguiled with soft melodies from the Musical Bushes.
‘Shall we see your Hogarths in their original, do you think?’ Cecilia said sweetly to Renzi, the softness of her expression touching him to the heart. She turned to Kydd. ‘I’ve a fondness for the old rake, do let’s go!’
They were indeed Hogarths, but rather than cutting satire and acid commentary these were cheerful rustic murals and canvases displayed around the pillared walls of the elevated supper booths. ‘The Milkmaid’s Garland,’ Kydd grunted, peering at one. ‘Not as it—’