Quarterdeck

by Julian Stockwin

  The tailor, gratified at patronage by those so recently in the public eye, promised that he would bend his best efforts to have them delivered soon. Kydd was then escorted to the bootmaker and, finally, to the premises of Henry Tidmarsh, hosier, hatter and glover, where he found for himself a dashing light-grey brimmed hat with a silver buckle.

  As Kydd tried on hats, Renzi came up beside Cecilia. ‘Quite a transformation,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes, Nicholas,’ agreed Cecilia, keeping her voice low, ‘but I fear he will be thought a coxcomb if his dress is not matched by his manners.’

  She turned to him, her hand on his arm. ‘Dear Nicholas, I know you are trying your best, but Thomas can be very stubborn if he chooses. Do bear him with patience, I pray.’

  ‘Of course. But the hardest for him will undoubtedly be his articulations – his speech damns him at once.’

  Cecilia touched his arm. ‘Is there anything, perhaps, that I can do?’

  Renzi’s thoughts had taken quite another course. She was no longer the ingenuous girl-child he had known from before. Cecilia was a desirable, self-possessed woman, who would be an ornament to any social gathering. ‘Er, this is possibly something we could discuss together, should you be at leisure.’ He felt a flush rising at the implication of the words.

  ‘Why, Nicholas!’ Cecilia said gaily. ‘If I didn’t know you more, I’d be obliged to consider you importunate.’ She flashed him a smile, and turned her attention to her brother’s fancy in hats.

  Although he was now entitled to do so, Kydd could not indulge in the wigs that he had learned to make in his apprenticeship: the comet, the royal bird, the long bob – even the striking Cadogan puff – were now no longer fashionable. He would wear nothing, simply a neat black ribbon to hold back his hair at the nape of the neck. Hair-powder was taxed, so it would be quite understood if he left his hair as nature intended.

  True to his word, the tailor delivered his work in only three days, and Kydd stood before the full-length bedroom mirror, regarding himself doubtfully. A generous cut on the waistcoat avoided any tense wrinkling resulting from muscle-play beneath, but the buff breeches seemed to cling indecently close. However, if he had to appear in public, this was not a bad beginning, he thought. He gazed down approvingly at the white stockings and buckled shoes, then whirled once about.

  ‘Glad to see you in spirits, brother,’ came from behind him.

  ‘Aye, what must be . . .’ said Kydd, adjusting a cuff. ‘Are ye ready, Nicholas?’

  ‘Ah!’ Renzi waved a finger.

  ‘What? Oh! I meant t’ say, are you prepared, Mr Renzi?’

  ‘Then let us sally forth on the world.’

  Renzi was in brown, a complete dark brown, with breeches, coat and even waistcoat in the colour, relieved only by the cream gush of his cravat and the stockings. In the manner of a Romantic he sported a broad-brimmed dark hat worn at a rakish angle.

  It was the first time Kydd had used an ebony cane. As they passed along Chapel Street it felt awkward to the hand, whether he swung it at each pace to click on the ground or twirled it about. He fought down a sense of fakery, but after the second time a passer-by made way respectfully for him he felt happier.

  They passed under the big clock in the high street – the beadle outside the town hall touched his hat to them – turned down a side-street and entered a dingy doorway.

  ‘Might I present M’sieur Jupon? He is engaged to be your dancing master.’ A short but fierce-eyed man swept down in the most extravagant leg to Kydd, then straightened, fixing him with a challenging stare.

  ‘Er, pleased t’ meet ye,’ Kydd stuttered, and essayed a jerky bow. Jupon and Renzi exchanged glances.

  ‘M’sieur Jupon will instruct you in the graces of movement and courtesy, and you will attend here for one hour daily until you have mastered the elements.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Kydd, you’re not boardin’ your ship now, sir. Do try a little grace in y’r movements.’ The voice of the lady horsemaster carried effortlessly across the ring. She could well be relied on to hail the foreyard from the quarterdeck in a blow, Kydd thought.

  The horse, however, had sensed his innocence, swishing its tail and playing with its bit. Its eyes rolled in anticipation while Kydd struggled to heave himself up, staggering one-footed in a circle.

  Renzi dismounted and came across. He checked the girth and yanked on the stirrup. ‘Ah, the stablehand is having his amusement. You’d have your knees round your ears with this! We’ll ease away – so.’ The stirrups descended, the horse quieter under Renzi’s firm hand. He slapped the horse familiarly on the rump. ‘Look, here’s a tip. Make a fist, and touch the stirrup bar up here. Now swing the iron up under your arm, and the right length for you will be when it just touches the body.’

  Kydd swung up nervously into the saddle, suddenly finding himself at a great height. The horse snorted and tossed its head. He felt that it was biding its time before wreaking some terrible revenge.

  ‘So we seem t’ have made up our mind to go ridin’ at last.’ A sarcastic bellow came across the ring to him. ‘We start wi’ the walk.’

  The horse plodded in a circle, and Kydd’s confidence grew.

  ‘Back straight, Mr Kydd.’ He forced his spine to rigidity and completed another circle. ‘Jehosaphat Moses! Keep y’r back supple, Mr Kydd. Let y’r hips rock with the horse, sir!’

  The trot was more to his liking with its brisk motion, but the horse whinnied with frustration at the tight rein and Kydd eased it a little.

  A gate was opened into a larger field, and Renzi began to canter. Kydd followed behind, feeling the thud of hoofs through the animal’s frame and hearing snorts of effort coming from the great beast beneath him. It was exhilarating, and he relaxed into it. The horse seemed to sense this and responded with a more fluid, faster motion.

  ‘Well done, Mr Kydd!’ he heard. ‘“Collected an’ light in hand”, we say.’

  As he turned he saw the woman pull out a large fob watch. ‘To me!’ she demanded impatiently.

  Kydd felt the horse respond to his signals with knee and reins and suddenly was reluctant to finish for the morning. Impulsively, he clapped his knees to the beast’s barrel-like sides. After a brief hesitation the horse responded and broke into a gallop. Instinctively Kydd acted as he would aloft, his standing crouch that of a topman leaning forward to hand a billowing sail. The horse stretched out down the length of the field. Now wildly excited, Kydd caught a glimpse of figures staring at him as he thundered past. The wind tore through his hair, the din of hoofs and the animal’s rhythmic movements beat on his senses.

  A gnarled wooden fence spread across his vision. As they hurtled towards it, Kydd considered an emergency turn to larboard. Far behind him a faint bellow sounded: ‘Bridge y’r reins! Bridge your reins!’ but he was too far gone. The horse threw itself at the rails. There was a momentary muscular tensing, a lunge into space, then all was quiet for a heartbeat before the beast landed with a mighty thud and a jerk.

  Kydd stayed aboard as the horse raced away through nondescript winter-brown bracken and into the woods beyond. It hesitated in mid-stride, then swerved on to a woodland path, Kydd ducking to avoid whip-like branches.

  He became aware of hoofbeats out of synchrony with his own, and indistinct shouting. He guessed it would be Renzi following, but dared not look behind. He shot past a gaping greenwood forager, then reached a more substantial lane across their path.

  The horse skidded as it negotiated a random turn, but the mud slowed it, and the gallop became less frantic. It panted heavily as it slowed to a trot. Renzi caught up and grasped the reins. ‘How are you, brother?’

  Kydd flashed a wide grin. ‘Spankin’ fine time, Nicholas, s’ help me,’ he said breathlessly, his face red with exertion.

  Renzi hid a grin. ‘And what has happened to your decorum, sir?’

  ‘Oh? Aye, yes. Er, a capital experience, sir.’

  They rode together for a space. The lane widened and a small cott
age came into view ahead. ‘Do dismount, old fellow, and ask directions back,’ Renzi suggested. Gingerly, Kydd leaned forward to bring his leg across the saddle, but in a flash he had toppled backwards into the black winter mud, still with one foot in a stirrup.

  The horse stamped and rolled its eyes as Kydd got ruefully to his feet and trudged down the garden path to the door.

  It was answered by a stooped old man with alert bright eyes. Before Kydd could speak, he smiled. ‘Ah, Master Kydd, I do believe? Thomas Kydd?’

  ‘Aye, y’r in the right of it,’ Kydd said. ‘That is t’ say, you have th’ advantage of me, sir.’

  The man feigned disappointment. Kydd’s face cleared. ‘O’ course! Parson Deane!’ It seemed so long ago that, as a boy, he had taken delight in going to the lakeside with the old man and his dog after duck. ‘I hope I find you in health, sir,’ he said. The parson glanced up at Renzi, who was still mounted. ‘Oh, sir, this is Mr Renzi, my particular friend. Mr Renzi, this is the Rev’nd Deane.’

  Renzi inclined his head. ‘My honour, sir. Our apologies at this intrusion, we merely seek a more expedient way back to our manège.’

  Deane’s face creased in pleasure. ‘I shall tell you, should you come inside and accept a dish of tea while Thomas tells me where he’s been spending his days.’

  They left the horses to crop grass outside the garden fence and went into the parson’s house. Deane looked at Kydd keenly, clearly enjoying his sparse recital of his impressment and subsequent adventures. ‘So now you’re an officer?’

  Kydd grinned boyishly. ‘L’tenant Kydd!’ he said, with swelling pride.

  ‘Then you are now, in the eyes of the whole world, a gentleman. Is this not so?’

  It seemed appropriate to bow wordlessly.

  Deane contemplated Kydd for a long moment. ‘Do you stop me if I appear impertinent,’ he said, ‘yet I would later remember this moment with shame were I not to share with you now my thoughts concerning your station.’

  ‘It would be f’r my advantage, Mr Deane.’ He couldn’t resist a quick glance of triumph at Renzi – after all, he had remembered the polite words – but Renzi responded with a frown. Obediently Kydd turned all his attention to the old man.

  ‘It seems to me that the essence of a gentleman is to be found in his good breeding, his impeccable civility to all, including his servants. “Manners maketh man,” as the Good Book teaches us. Outer manners reflect inner virtue.’

  Renzi nodded slowly. ‘The worthy Locke is insistent on this point,’ he murmured.

  ‘It is never quite easy for the young to acquire the civil virtues,’ the parson continued. ‘“Quo semel est imbuta recens, servabit oderem testa diu,” was Horace’s view, and by this you should understand . . .’

  Kydd stirred restlessly in his armchair. ‘Gettin’ to be a gallows’ sight more’n a man c’n take, Cec, all this’n.’

  Cecilia affected not to hear. Kydd glanced at her irritably. ‘I mean, how much o’ this is going to stand by me at sea?’

  ‘That’s better,’ Cecilia said demurely, but laid down her book. ‘Now I’m sure the other officers will be polite and well bred, so you must be the same.’

  Kydd snorted.

  Renzi sighed. ‘You have still three issues of the Gentleman’s Magazine to digest, to my certain knowledge,’ he said accusingly.

  ‘And a Spectator,’ Cecilia chimed in. ‘How can you keep a lady entertained at table without you have small-talk to share?’

  She looked at Renzi in mock despair, then brightened. ‘Mr Renzi, have you seen our castle? The merest ruin, I’ll grant, but of an age indeed. Mama will be persuaded to come – she knows all the history.’

  ‘I’m wore out,’ said Mrs Kydd, finding a wooden bench overlooking what remained of the castle keep. ‘You two have a good look roun’ by y’rselves.’

  Cecilia was agreeable, and Renzi took her on his arm for the stony path winding about the castle mound. The winter sun had a fragile brilliance, contrasting colour bright with grey and brown tints.

  ‘It grieves me to say it, but Thomas did not shine at the tea-party in any wise,’ he opened. He was uncomfortably aware of her touch – it had been long years since last he had enjoyed polite female company, and Cecilia was now a beauty.

  ‘Yes – the silly boy, sitting there like a stuffed goose while the ladies made sport of him. I despair, Nicholas, I really do.’

  Renzi assisted Cecilia past a perilous rock. She flashed him a look of gratitude, then dropped her eyes, but her hold on his arm tightened.

  ‘Miss Kydd . . .’ began Renzi thickly, then stopped. With his own feelings about her far from clear was it fair – was it honourable? – to engage her affections?

  ‘Yes, Nicholas?’ she said, smiling up at him.

  He pulled himself up. ‘I was . . . Your mother confides that you have secured the liveliest trust in your position with Lady Stanhope.’

  ‘I have been very fortunate,’ she said gravely. Then a smile broke through. ‘You’ve no idea how many of the highest in the land I’ve seen. Lady Stanhope requires I attend her at all her routs and I’m sure it’s only to find me a husband.’

  ‘And—’

  ‘Don’t be a silly, Nicholas. I’m sensible of my fortune in this and, I do declare, I’m not ready to forsake it all now for the tedium of domestic life.’ She tossed her head, eyes sparkling.

  After another few paces she turned to him with a troubled expression. ‘Thomas – he . . .’

  He knew what concerned her: her brother would find himself first ridiculed and later shunned if he could not hold his own in company. ‘Time is short, I agree. Do you not think that we are obligated to press him to enter in upon society in a more formal degree?’

  Cecilia bit her lip, then decided. ‘A dinner party! Now, let me see . . . We have the pick of Guildford, of course, a hostess would die to entertain a brace of heroes from Camperdown, but I rather feel that at this stage Thomas would not welcome the public eye too warmly.’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘I know – I’ll speak with Mrs Crawford, advise her that after such a dreadful battle Thomas relishes nothing better than a small, intimate gathering. I’ll be seeing her on Thursday and shall speak to her then.’

  ‘Splendid,’ responded Renzi. It would indeed be a suitable occasion for Kydd, if he could overcome his timidity in august surroundings. He beamed approval at Cecilia.

  ‘Er, Nicholas,’ she said off-handedly, ‘something that I keep forgetting to ask. It’s just my ill-bred curiosity, but you’ve never mentioned your own people.’ She stopped to admire a singularly gnarled small tree.

  ‘My own? Well . . . shall I say they’re just an old country family of Wiltshire whom I haven’t attended as assiduously as I might?’

  Kydd sat motionless at the bare table, listening while Cecilia explained and cautioned, his expression hard but in control.

  ‘No, Thomas, it just will not do. We do not enter like a herd of goats to feed. First to take their places are the ladies, and they will occupy one end of the table. When they are seated the gentlemen proceed – but, mark this, in strict order. They will be placed at the table in the same succession.’

  Cecilia’s eyes flicked once to Renzi, then turned back to Kydd.

  Kydd’s face tightened, but he kept his silence.

  ‘Now, Mrs Crawford always dines à la française, as you know, Thomas, and allows promiscuous seating so a man may sit next to a lady, though some find this too racy for the English taste, and in this . . .’

  Renzi’s sympathy was all too transparent. ‘I do rather think that Tom is more a man of daring and action, dear sister. This posturing must be a disagreeable strain for such a one.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he shall require his manners wherever he may be,’ Cecilia said coldly. ‘A gentleman does not put aside his breeding simply for the perils of the moment. Now, please attend, Thomas.’

  ‘Miss Cecilia Kydd, Mr Thomas Kydd and Mr Nicholas Renzi!’ blared the footman.


  The babble of conversations faded: it was common knowledge that the two guests now arrived had suffered in the legendary October clash off the Dutch coast, and it had been said that they had chosen tonight to resume their place in polite society. There were many curious rumours about these officers, but no doubt before the night was over the details would have been made clear.

  A wave of determined females advanced, led by the hostess, and the groups dissolved in a flurry of introductions.

  ‘Enchanted,’ said Mr Kydd, making a creditable but somewhat individual leg to a gratified Mrs Crawford.

  ‘Do say if you become too fatigued, Mr Kydd,’ she said, eyeing his broad shoulders. ‘You’ll find us in the utmost sympathy with your time of trial.’

  ‘That is most kind in ye, dear Mrs Crawford,’ the handsome sailor-officer replied gravely.

  She turned reluctantly to the other one, a sensitive-looking, rather more austere gentleman, and, reclaimed by her duty, murmured politely.

  They sat down to dinner under the golden glitter of chandelier and crystal, to polite approbation at the first remove.

  ‘May I help you t’ a portion of this fine shott, Miss Tuffs?’ said Mr Kydd, politely. The young lady on his left, nearly overcome at being noticed by one of the principal guests, could only stutter her thanks, tinged with alarm at the resulting pile of roast piglet generously heaped to occupy the whole plate.

  ‘Sir, this toothsome venison demands your immediate attention. Might I . . .’ The red-faced gentleman to the right would not be denied, and placed a satisfying amount on Mr Kydd’s plate.

  ‘Your servant, sir,’ said Mr Kydd, inclining his head.

  It was clear that the middle-aged woman across from him was set on securing his attention. ‘The weather seems uncommon blowy for the time of year,’ she said.

  Mr Kydd thought for a moment, and replied politely, ‘It’s a saying ashore only, Mrs Wood, “When the wind is in the east, ’tis no good to man nor beast.” And by this is meant that in the winter season we often shiver in th’ winds o’ Tartary from the east. Now, at sea we bless this wind, Mrs Wood, for it is a fair wind for our ships down-channel and . . .’