Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  “You’ll take it for her sake, Nicholas.”

  “Very well.”

  “And none of your tricks o’ logic. No telling me you’ll marry her right enough, but the wedding day’s only to be when you find the time.”

  They continued on in companionable silence. Some time later Hindhead appeared out of the driving rain. Renzi turned to Kydd and said, in a low voice, “Whatever is ahead for us both I know not—but the friendship in my heart I will value for all of time.”

  The whip cracked over the tired horses as they toiled up the steep hill in Guildford Town. The Angel posting-house was halfway up and the coach swung through the arch. The driver cursed as he descended, tearing off his dripping cloak and keeping out of the way of the ostlers.

  Renzi turned to his friend. “You’ll … ?”

  “No, Nicholas. I have to get to the Admiralty without a moment lost. I don’t want to disturb my folks only to be off again. After they change horses I’ll be away. Now, you’re going through with—”

  “You have my solemn word on it.”

  “Then …”

  “I wish you well, dear friend. It’s my prayer you’ll still be in possession of a ship at the end of it.”

  “I never took you for the praying sort, Nicholas, but thank you. And I do wish you every happiness, you and Cecilia both.”

  They clasped hands, then parted.

  Renzi turned and left the Angel, crossing the road and taking the short cut through the Tunsgate to the Kydd naval school.

  His mind raced—even now it was not too late to slink away, avoid the issue entirely, for there was every chance that Cecilia had given up on him, had married another. Or perhaps she was out somewhere in the far reaches of the world with her employer, that diplomat of mysterious assignments, the Marquess of Bloomsbury.

  Or she might be at home.

  Hammering at him was one overriding question: was it right to propose marriage dependent on a settlement from his friend? A delicate ethical dilemma: on the one hand there was every moral imperative to decline to pursue his suit but on the other he had given his word to Kydd.

  He looked up from the rain that drove in his face and found that he was close to the school. He must make up his mind quickly. So much hung on—

  A hand touched his arm. Startled, he swung around to see the rosy face of Emily, the Kydds’ maid.

  “It is! Mr Renzi, as I stand!” she blurted, with a broad smile. “Come t’ visit. Right welcome you are too, sir.”

  “Do let me assist, my dear,” he said, taking the basket of vegetables she was carrying.

  “Why, thank you, sir. They’ll be main pleased t’ see you, what with no news about Mr Thomas and such. Have you had tidings a-tall?”

  There could be no retreating now and he let her prattle wash over him until they reached the door.

  Unexpectedly, a calm settled. He would go through with it: he would formally propose to Miss Cecilia Kydd.

  “Why, Mr Renzi!” Mrs Kydd cried. “Do come in out o’ that rain. I’m so pleased to see you—have you any word o’ young Thomas?” she added anxiously.

  “He’s hale and hearty, Mrs Kydd, let me assure you. He’s important business in London but desires me to convey to you his filial devoirs and promises to visit at the earliest opportunity.”

  “You’re so wet, Mr Renzi. Emily, run and get a towel for Mr Renzi—quickly now!”

  “Who’s that, Fanny?” quavered a voice from within.

  “Why, Mr Renzi, Walter, that’s who,” she replied.

  “Come into the parlour, Mr Renzi. Sit y’self down while we find you something to warm the cockles.” She ushered him into the small front room, so well known from times before.

  “You are in good health, Mrs Kydd?”

  “So-so. I always gets chilblains in this blashy weather, but never you mind.”

  “And Cecilia?” he asked carefully.

  “Oh? Yes, she’s fine. Now do tell us where you’ve gone to these last—bless my soul, it must be coming on for two years now.”

  “A long story, and I’d much rather it were Thomas in the telling.” He paused, “Might I enquire, what does Cecilia these days?”

  “Poor lamb. She had a fine position, as y’ know, with the marquess an’ lady, but now they can’t travel so she’s been let go with an encomium. Spends her days about the house moping—she should get out and find herself a man, if y’ pardon my speaking so direct.”

  “Is she here? I’d like to pay my respects.”

  “She was. Gone out to see a friend—she’ll be back soon, I’ll not wonder.”

  Renzi’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Emily!” Mrs Kydd called in exasperation. “Where’s that posset? Mr Renzi here is a-dyin’ from the cold an’ wet. I’ll give you a hand.”

  She bustled out, leaving Renzi alone.

  He looked about: was there anything that spoke of Cecilia’s presence, that was hers? He was now about to face the one who had captured his heart, and a sudden wave of emotion engulfed him. He loved the woman: he adored her, was hopelessly lost to her. And he would propose, go on bended knee—but what if she turned him down?

  Desolation clamped in. Refusal was a very real chance: this was a hard world where marriages were largely contracted on the basis of income expectations and a lady would be considered a fool to marry beneath her station. Even were Cecilia still to bear him an affection, she had her future to consider and …

  A lump rose in his throat. It wouldn’t be long and he would know her answer—and if it was unfavourable, his heart would surely be broken.

  In a frenzy of apprehension he looked again to see if there was anything of her in the room. She must spend hours here, sitting—needlework? Not Cecilia, her mind was too active. What did other young ladies do in her circumstances? Drawing? Piano? There was neither here. He knew so little of her at home …

  What was that, peeping out from under the cushion? A book, shoved under in haste to conceal it, almost certainly what she’d been reading.

  Guiltily Renzi pulled it out. It was a novel of sorts, the cover gold-embossed with a romantic manly figure standing atop a rock. He felt a tinge of disappointment that it was a work of fiction she was reading rather than an improving classical tome. He flicked the pages to see what had attracted her to it, some with dark Gothic pictures, the text closely spaced.

  He picked a paragraph at random and began reading—he had seen those very words before. They were his own, damn it!

  Nearly dropping the book, he flicked hastily to the title page. Portrait of an Adventurer by Il Giramondo. The peregrinations of a gentleman rogue who loses his soul to dissipation and finds it again in far wandering.

  He feverishly searched for the publisher’s name: yes, it was John Murray.

  The implications slammed in on him. He was a published author! And therefore he had an income!

  He choked back a sob, undone by the sudden reversal of Fate.

  Then a cooler voice intervened. To tell Cecilia that he had an income as an author would be to reveal that he must necessarily be this wastrel. How could he?

  Thinking furiously, he realised he must go immediately to John Murray to ensure his identity was kept secret.

  Yes! It was what he must do—but he knew nothing of authors and royalties. Supposing the amount was a pittance only?

  Standing about would solve nothing. Only action!

  “Oh, Mrs Kydd?”

  She came in, hurriedly wiping her hands on a cloth. “Mr Renzi?”

  “I’m devastated to find I forgot to attend to an urgent matter. I must deal with it—I pray you tell Cecilia that I called and that I will return. A day or two at the most.”

  “Mr Renzi!” Mrs Kydd said, shocked. “You’re not going out in all that rain again? It’s cold and—”

  “I must, dear lady. I’ll take my leave now, if I may.”

  The rain continued relentlessly as the coach ground and clattered over the cobbles towards the London road
at the top of the hill. Kydd hunkered down, glowering under the press of dark thoughts that crowded in. As each rose in his consciousness, he met it with a savage riposte: there was nothing he could do about it now so he must let events take their course. A logic that would undoubtedly have met with Renzi’s approval—if he had still been by his side.

  Renzi, a friend of times past. Those long-ago years tugged at him with their elemental simplicity, their careless vitality. Now his bosom friend was to be wed, settle down, have his being on the land, no more to wander. They would meet again, of course: he would be married to Kydd’s sister and she would keep in touch. But at this point their lives had irrevocably diverged.

  In a pall of depression and aching from the ride, Kydd morosely sat through the final miles into the capital, grey and bleak in rain-swept gloom. He directed the driver to his accustomed lodgings at the White Hart in Charles Street and answered the vacuous civilities of the innkeeper with monosyllables. Tomorrow he would learn his fate.

  Kydd hadn’t slept well. He dressed slowly, defiantly hanging on to the fact that to the world he was still Captain Kydd, commander of His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore, and dared any to say otherwise.

  His orders had been to present himself immediately at the Admiralty and it would only tell against him if he did not, so at nine precisely he was deposited outside the grim façade of the home of their lordships. He knew the way: the Captains’ Room was in its accustomed crowded squalor; the usual supplicants for a ship, petitioners and those summoned to explain themselves.

  He handed his card to the clerk. “To see the first lord per orders,” he muttered, and found a seat among the others. Curious at a new face, several tried to start a conversation but were discouraged by Kydd’s expression.

  The minutes turned to an hour. It was here in this very room that he’d found out he’d been made post. That was in the days of the granite-faced sailor Earl St Vincent. Now the office of first lord of the Admiralty was occupied by a civilian, Grenville, younger brother of the prime minister. It had been he who had summoned him so peremptorily.

  Then why was he waiting? He hailed the clerk. “Captain Kydd. As I told you, I’ve orders from the first lord that demand my immediate presenting in person. Why have you not acted?”

  He knew the reason: it was the custom to grease the palm of the man to ensure an early appointment. But this was different: he was not a supplicant. He had been ordered to attend, and woe betide a lowly clerk who thought to delay him.

  “Orders? From Mr Grenville?”

  “Yes,” Kydd said heavily.

  “Very well,” he responded, with a sniff. “I’ll inform him of your presence.”

  “Thank you,” Kydd replied, trying to keep back the sarcasm.

  He settled in his chair in a black mood. If he was not ushered into the presence within the hour he’d make damn sure that—

  At the top of the steps a genial aristocratic-faced man burst into view. “Ah! Captain Kydd! So pleased you could come.” It was the first lord himself.

  Naval officers shot to their feet, confused and deferential. Several bowed low.

  He hurried down the steps and came to greet Kydd with outstretched hand. “We’ve been expecting you this age. So good of you to, ahem, ‘clap on all canvas’ to be with us.”

  Shaking Kydd’s hand vigorously, he ushered him up the steps in the shocked silence.

  In the hallowed office Grenville threw at his assistant, “Not to be disturbed,” and sat Kydd down.

  “Now, what can I offer in refreshment? Sherry? No, too early, of course. So sorry to keep you waiting—that villainous clerk will hear from me, you can be assured of it.”

  “Sir—you wished me here at the earliest … ?” Kydd began.

  If this was the preamble to disciplinary proceedings he was at a loss to know where it was leading.

  “Yes, yes! You’re the last of the Curaçao captains come to town. And now we’re all complete. My, I’ve never known the public to be in such a taking! Raving about your gallantry and so forth. It’s done the government no end of good, coming as it does in these dog days after Trafalgar.”

  Kydd smiled tightly. So the whims of popular opinion had decided they were heroes not of the ordinary sort. If they only knew it had been an attempt to uncover a deeper plot against British interests in the Caribbean that had, in fact, failed in its object.

  “Pardon me, sir. Am I to understand that this is why I’ve been recalled?”

  Grenville blinked. “Why, if I had not, the people would have howled for my head.”

  “Ah. Sir, I had thought it was possibly in connection with the forthcoming court-martial of Commodore Popham,” he said carefully, shifting in his seat.

  “Oh, that. Not at all, dear fellow. I can’t see it happening for a good while yet. In any case, as I read it, the merchantry love him because he opened up the river Plate trade to our goods as can’t find a market after Boney’s decree, and would never stand to see him pilloried. And it’s nothing to do with you, a Curaçao idol.”

  As it sank in, the tension slowly drained from Kydd.

  “The Curaçao captains—there’s to be a public procession or some such?” If there was, this was an odd reason to recall a valuable frigate and her crew from across the ocean.

  “Naturally. And—well, you’re going to have to move speedily, I’m persuaded. The occasion is set for very soon—we didn’t know when you’d arrive.”

  “Move speedily, sir?”

  “Yes. Know that your recall was never my doing. My dear Kydd, it came from the palace—His Majesty wishes in person cordially to felicitate the principals in the affair. By his royal command I’m to direct you to attend on him the instant you land.”

  “The King!” Kydd stuttered.

  “Indeed. In view of the imminence of arrangements I would have thought it not too precipitate to seek an audience this very afternoon. Does this suit?”

  He gulped. “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Very well, I’ll set it in train. His Nibs’s business will be concluded by three, so shall we say four? I’ll send my carriage—to Windsor is tiresome in this weather.”

  “That’s very kind in you, sir.”

  “Oh, and you’ll find it more convenient should you choose to return here afterwards, you still in full fig and such. There’s a reception to be hosted by the prime minister for the heroes of the hour but it shouldn’t go on too long, he having pressing business in the Commons.”

  It had happened! It was every naval officer’s ardent desire to gain distinction, to rise above the common herd—to gain notice from on high. And there was no greater such in the land than the King of England. He had arrived—it was breathtaking! It was marvellous!

  Kydd took extreme care with his full dress uniform, the snowy neck-cloth and fine linen shirt that he had thought would last be worn before a hostile Board of Admiralty. His sword was in impeccable order, the scabbard rubbed with horn and blacking to a lustrous gleam by his loyal valet, Tysoe, his gold lace glittering after careful application of potato juice, and his court shoes in a discreet shimmer of polish and gold buckle.

  In a fever of tension and exhilaration, it seemed for ever before there was an excited knock at the door. It was a near-swooning innkeeper who wrung his hands in emotion.

  “Y-your carriage is—is here, Captain,” he stammered.

  When he reached the door he saw the reason for the man’s excitement—it was the first lord of the Admiralty’s personal carriage: spacious, gleaming black with scarlet and gold trim, his cipher blazoned on the side, built for the express purpose of public display of the occupant. Four white horses and two footmen in blue and gold—and in front matching black steeds of an escort of four of the King’s Troop, with sabre and cuirass, looking stolidly to the front with a further two bringing up the rear.

  A liveried footman was standing at attention by the coach steps, the other perched aloof behind.

  A crowd quickly gathered, thrilled to be so close
to what must be a very important personage, and as Kydd appeared, there was a ripple of excitement and muffled cheers. He doffed his cocked hat to them and couldn’t resist calling loudly to the innkeeper, “I’m off to attend on His Majesty, my man—I shall not be dining tonight.”

  It brought gratifying gasps and chatter as he allowed himself to be handed up, to sit in lonely splendour as the resplendent sergeant on the lead horse barked orders to set them smartly on their way.

  Fortunately, although the sky was dull and grey, the rain was holding off. The cavalcade had no difficulty with the notorious London traffic and they bowled along westwards at a steady clip, the massed clatter of hoofs drawing admiring attention as people stopped to gape. Kydd kept a stony expression, looking only to the front, ignoring cheers and catcalls from urchins but deigning to lift his hat to gentlemen who troubled to remove theirs as he passed.

  The King’s residence, Windsor Castle, hove into view, all stern battlements and round towers, and Kydd’s heart thumped. In a twist of irony he remembered it was not the first time he had been directly addressed by his sovereign. That had been long ago when he was a young seaman in Artemis, a man-of-war the same size as L’Aurore in which he had fought in the first big frigate action of the Revolutionary War. He recalled a kindly face, bemused blue eyes and a comment about Surrey Cross sheep. Would he … ?

  In a practised show they swung about to clatter in through the ancient archways, proceeding to the solemn entrance the other side of the vast courtyard. Kydd glimpsed the mast above the great round tower. It did not fly the Union flag of Great Britain: instead the lions and leopards of the Royal Standard of King George III floated there imperiously. The sovereign was at home.

  As Kydd rose to alight, he looked around. It was so unreal, so impossible, that this day Tom Kydd of Guildford was about to be received by the monarch that his vision dissolved into a series of dazed impressions.

  Here he was, standing in a castle first occupied by William the Conqueror after 1066, and witness to the stately panoply of the centuries since that was England’s past—and which he had first learned about in dame school. If crabby Miss Bowling could only see him now …