Pasha (5 page)

Now, at this august levee, he tried not to be too obvious as he snatched another glimpse of the resplendence of his knightly
honours as he bowed and greeted in a haze of unreality.

“Well, Sir Thomas, pray tell, how does it move you, your illustrious translation?”

It was the first lord of the Admiralty, Grenville, smiling broadly.

“Why, sir, it is the most wonderful thing,” Kydd said sincerely. “As I do hold to my heart.”

The smile slipped a little. “As you should, of course. You deserve well of your country and may rejoice in your honouring.”

Was that a tinge of envy?

Yes! There was no sash and star, no collar and badge—even the first lord of the Admiralty had not attained the heights of chivalry that Kydd had.

It set the seal on his happiness. All he wanted to do now was to fly to his family and lay his triumph before them … and sink into blessed rest until it had all been digested.

It seemed to Kydd that it had not stopped raining since he had left Guildford in a very different mood. Now there was no possible danger to his continued sea career: the Admiralty would never risk the wrath of the public by failing to employ a frigate captain of such fame. Where could it all end?

At the Angel, he'd had to hire a pony and trap for his baggage was so great, but his heart was full as he tapped on the door.

“Son! Welcome back, m' dear. Let's get you out o' them wet clothes. Emily—here, girl!”

He allowed himself to be fussed over, hugging his news to him.

“How long will ye be staying this time, a-tall?” Mrs Kydd asked casually.

“Until the Admiralty sees fit to send me orders. There is a war on, Ma.”

“Goodness gracious—is this all your baggage arriving, Thomas?” she said, with a frown at the carter's knock.

“I need to keep a few things safe. My room is still … ?”

“O' course it is, son! As long as y' want it, you bein' unmarried an' all.”

“Is that you, Thomas?” Cecilia said in delight, coming into the room. “My, you
are
wet.”

“Cec,” Kydd demanded immediately. “Has Renzi talked to you at all?”

“Nicholas? Well, no, he called a few days ago but I was out, and then he found he had business to do and I haven't seen him since.”

“That black-hearted scoundrel!” Kydd spluttered. “I knew he'd skulk off if I left him.”

“Thomas, what do you mean? He said he'd return shortly,” she said frowning.

“Never mind! Just keep a weather eye open for the shyster.”

But nothing could spoil the swelling happiness he felt. Should he tell them now or save it for when he'd changed? He knew he couldn't keep it to himself indefinitely so he compromised. “I'm just going off to shift out o' these wet togs—don't go away, anybody. I've a surprise for you all …”

In his room he opened the big leather trunk—and there it was, not a crazed fantasy but a reality, and his by right. The glittering splendour of the accoutrements of a knight of the realm.

He stripped, towelling vigorously, then began to dress. There was an aged full-length mirror in the corner with a crack across its middle. He inspected himself in all his finery. The crimson mantle with its gold tassels, the star and riband, white leather shoes, spurs of gold and, of course, his sword. The cap with its flare of feathers he couldn't wear in the low-ceilinged room so he carried it carefully as he stepped out.

He paused outside the little drawing room and settled the cap firmly on, then flung the doors wide.

“Lawks a-mercy!” squealed Mrs Kydd. “Whatever are you doin'
in them clothes, Thomas? Take 'em off afore someone sees you!”

Cecilia's eyes widened in dawning comprehension. “T-Tom, is it that you're … you're a … ?”

“Ma, Cecilia,” he said proudly, “meet … Sir Thomas Kydd, Knight o' the Most Honourable Order of the Bath.”

“You are!” his sister breathed, her eyes shining. “You really are!”

“Aye, sis. Just these two days. By the hand of His Majesty himself, as I'm a hero of Curaçao.” He chuckled. “And this is my gold medal—he gave it me when we had tea together. That's with Queen Charlotte as well, o' course.”

“Tea! With the King!”

“Oh, Tom dear, I wish ye wouldn't scare us so,” Mrs Kydd said faintly, having had to sit suddenly. “Now, you're not flamming us, are you?”

“No, Ma. If you don't believe me, you can read about it in the
London Gazette,
like all the world does.”

Cecilia took in his full court dress in awe. “Then you've been to the investiture?” she whispered. “At Westminster Abbey, and all? I nearly went to one with the marquess but he wanted us to remain outside for the procession. Did you … ?”

“I did, Cec! In the abbey among all that tackle from long ago. It's where Nelson himself got his knighting and you can still see his stall plate with the common sailor on his crest.”

This time it was she who had to sit, looking up at him with a hero-worship that was agreeably gratifying for an older brother.

“You're famous, then,” she said, in hushed tones. “Mama, Thomas is a hero. He's going to be talked about and—and …”

She stopped, at a loss to put into words that now there was a Kydd who would tread an inconceivably larger stage.

C
ROSSING
B
LACKFRIARS
B
RIDGE
and walking on to Fleet Street, Renzi brought to mind the outcome of his previous interview with the publisher John Murray: the summary destruction of his hopes of publication of his ethnical treatise. It had been done in the politest and most gentlemanly way, yet with finality, along with the offhand suggestion of an alternative course—a novel.

The office was further along, the polished brass plate still on the door.

This was now a matter of the gravest import. If the book had met with success … If, however, what he had seen was a scandalously copied version …

He hesitated, then knocked firmly.

The door was opened by the same old gentleman in half-spectacles who had wished him well before. “Why, sir! How kind of you to call again. Do come in. I'll tell Mr Murray you're here—I won't be a moment.” He hurried up the stairs, leaving the lowly clerks glancing at Renzi with curiosity.

Shortly a call came from the next floor. “He bids you join him, sir, and you are welcome!”

Renzi entered the book-lined office.

“Come in, come in! Sit yourself down, man,” Mr John Murray
said, showing every evidence of interest and politeness.

Renzi perched on a carved chair of another age.

The publisher leaned forward. “What's your tipple?”

“Thank you, no.”

“Well. We've things to discuss, I believe, as bear on your future with us, sir.”

“My future?” Renzi responded carefully.

“Why, yes, as an author of the first rank, sir.”

Renzi held back a surge of hope. “Oh? Pray do enlighten me,” he said politely. “I've been out of the kingdom for some years now and am unaware of any … developments.”

He managed to remain cool.

“Of course! Mr Renzi, let me be the first to tell you, your excellent Il Giramondo tale has captured the hearts of the nation. We have booksellers crying for stock faster than we can print it.”

“That is gratifying, of course, Mr Murray. Might I be so indelicate as to enquire if there are proceeds from this that might, shall we say, accrue to myself?”

“Royalties? Why, of course, dear sir! Should you wish to sight a statement of account?” He rang a silver bell on his desk and the clerk appeared suspiciously quickly.

“Mr Renzi's ledger, if you please.”

It was produced with equal promptness. “Let me see now,” Murray said, peering down the columns. “To the last quarter I find we have a most respectable sum in your name. I rather fancy you will not wish to maintain your present employment situation for very much longer.”

He passed across the ledger, pointing to a column total.

Renzi looked down—and it took his breath away. “May I be clear on this? The figure I see is in credit to myself?”

“Mr Renzi, you have earned this entirely on merit. It is yours, and should you desire it, I shall present you this very hour with a
draft on our bank to that amount and you shall walk out of these offices a man of consequence.”

His mind reeled. “B-but it's so …”

“On the other hand, you may understand public taste is fickle and the work may drop from fashion as rapidly. Nothing is sure in publishing, sir.”

Renzi slumped back, dazed. A vision of Cecilia, his cherished love, flooded in. His eyes pricked while the publisher prattled on.

“This is why we must settle matters at this point, the chief of which is agreeing a date for the delivery of the manuscript of your second piece.”

He would post back to Guildford and lay his heart before her and—

Murray continued, “It is of the first importance to keep your good self in the public eye to sustain sales of the first and at the same time establish your reputation as an author of worth.”

If she was reluctant he now had the means to dazzle her with prospects, even if she must never know their origin.

“Mr Renzi? Can you not see this, sir?” Murray said, looking at him with concern.

“Oh? Yes, of course.”

“Then you'll be looking to something along the lines of a sequel, no doubt. The same characters the public have come to take to their hearts? Or is it to be a darker treatment, a cautionary tale, which—”

“I will think on it, Mr Murray.”

Then he suddenly recalled what he had come to secure. “But be aware, sir, that I value my privacy above all things. I would wish that you keep my true name in this entirely confidential. If it should find its way into public knowledge then I'm obliged to say, sir, that I would look upon it as a final breach in our relationship.”

“Oh, of course we will, be assured it will be done,” Murray hastened to say. “All your works will be published under what we
call a ‘pen name'—Il Giramondo is an excellent device.”

He leaned back and smiled. “And it has its advantages. Who is the man of mystery behind the sobriquet? Just who was it around us who wrote these revealing tales—this beggar on the street brought low by his debauchery or that noble lord who is now anxious to conceal his sordid past? Or—”

“Mr Murray,” said Renzi, dangerously, “you may not sport with the world as to my origins. Merely refrain from releasing my name, if you will.”

“Yes, yes, it will be so, Mr Giramondo.”

“Thank you, sir. Now in a related matter, might I enquire this of you—is there a form of transaction whereby the proceeds may be remitted into an account anonymously?”

Outside, Renzi blinked in the wan sunlight. Every instinct screamed at him to fly to Guildford and seek Cecilia's hand that very day.

For him everything had changed—his future was as a gentleman of comfortable circumstances, and if Cecilia accepted him, he was about to be made the happiest man alive. But what of Kydd? He remembered his friend's drawn face, the piteous attempt at normality in the face of the worst. After Trafalgar the public had become accustomed to victory and nothing less. A humiliating defeat would demand scapegoats, whom an uneasy government would surely find.

Would his friend be cast into exile from the sea he so adored?

It was so unfair—but life had to go on and he had arrangements to make. As he hurried to his cheap lodgings, he tried to unscramble the racing thoughts.

So, if he was to be married the usual course was for the new wife to cleave to her husband and his establishment—but he had none.

Item: get one.

He had no decent attire, certainly none that could be considered
seemly for a proposal of marriage.

Item: find a tailor, expeditiously.

His financial standing did not run to a bank account, let alone an amicable relationship with a bank manager for the establishing of standing and credit and so forth.

Item: use the cash draft nestling in his waistcoat to start one.

He was not a regular attender at any church—how could banns be called, a wedding arranged?

Item: er, ask Cecilia.

Then there would be whom to invite and …

But a dark pall slowly gathered, dominated by the image of his father. The Earl of Farndon.

For an eldest son a marriage contract in the aristocracy was the stuff of lawyers, of negotiation, of delicacy in the settlement with the bride's noble family. But a moral confrontation with his father had resulted in a titanic rage and the threat of his disinheriting.

His brother in Jamaica had sorrowfully confirmed that his father had taken the legal steps necessary. Although he could not prevent the title passing to Renzi, Eskdale Hall and the large estate would now go to his younger brother, Henry.

His title would be therefore an empty mockery, and he would never put Cecilia to the humiliation of maintaining a sham. She would never know, and would be Mrs Renzi to the day she died.

Yet he owed it to his father to inform him of his intentions. There was no question of seeking his blessing, for had he not been disinherited? By his own act, therefore, his father no longer had power over him.

Any interview would be nasty, brutish and short.

But then it would be finished. He could turn his back for ever on Eskdale: he would never ask anything for himself of the smug and supercilious Henry. And the darkness would then lift and disappear.

Yes! He would get it over with, then let sunshine flood his life.
A post-chaise to Wiltshire? It was not unheard of, but would cost a pretty penny. Would Sir prefer an open or closed carriage? Where was his baggage at all?

Impatiently, Renzi climbed in and settled back with a dark frown. It was going to be hardest on his mother, who had been helpless to prevent his vengeful father going through with the shameful deed. Now she would never meet the woman he was marrying and he knew she loved her first-born dearly.