Pasha (6 page)

A lump formed in his throat: Eskdale Hall had been, after all, his birthplace and the scene of his youth. To turn his back on it completely was a hard thing to contemplate.

It was some eight years since he had last been there, his visit culminating in the ferocious argument and ultimatum that had ended everything for him at Eskdale. His father had even gone so far as to forbid his eldest son's name spoken in his presence.

The horses were being whipped unmercifully—he had promised a shilling for every hour they made up. The sooner the distasteful business was over the better.

They reached Noakes Poyle in the early afternoon of the next day.

Renzi directed the driver to the inn where he had stayed previously before sending word of his arrival, but this time it was different. He told the post-chaise to prepare to return—but the destination this time would be Guildford. Their astonishment turned to avarice when he handed over an earnest of his intention that would see them comfortably ensconced with an ale before the fire for the hour or two while they waited.

A local diligence was hired—he had no wish to answer questions as to why he had posted down instead of the more usual stagecoach. It smelt of horse-hair stuffing and dust, and had small, grubby windows, but as they swung into the long drive to Eskdale Hall it suited his mood.

The sweeping light-grey immensity of the building looked as
stately as ever, but today it seemed to harbour an air of menace, of pent-up malevolence, that chilled him.

On either side gardeners tended the ornate hedges and lawns, or clipped rosebushes, and horses were being led to the stables as the business of a great estate went on.

The cab took the smaller roadway to the side that led to the tradesmen's door. Renzi knocked sharply at the roof until an upside-down face appeared. “To the main entrance, if you please.”

With a look of resignation the man obeyed. He had to stop the vehicle and lead the horses around but soon it had come to a halt at the foot of the grand steps leading to the massive door.

Renzi got out, paid the driver and sent him on his way.

He was committed.

As he turned towards the house, he saw the head footman descending importantly to deal with the impertinence. But when he drew near, the man's expression turned to surprise and then confusion.

“Master Nicholas! We thought …”

“Take me to my father,” Renzi snapped, and seeing him hesitate, added, “This instant, whatever his instructions to the contrary.”

“Lord Farndon is … not available, sir,” the man said awkwardly. “The countess will be at home, I believe.”

“Very well.” If his father was posturing he would send a message in and leave without seeing him.

He followed the man through the tall oak doors into the entrance hall. “I will inform her ladyship of your arrival, sir.”

Keyed up for a confrontation that had festered over the years, Renzi was taken aback by what he saw before him.

His mother stood in the far doorway. Her eyes glittered with tears as recognition came. Then, impulsively, she ran towards him.

She was wearing a black veil and shawl.

Clinging to him, she shook with paroxysms of sobs while he
held her. Eventually she drew away, dabbing her eyes.

What did the black veil mean?

“Father?” Renzi asked quietly.

She nodded, looking into his face. “Two months hence. Of an apoplexy.”

“Mother, I'm so grieved for you.” The words came automatically as he tried to grapple with the fact that his demon father was no longer in existence.

“Nicholas. We must talk. Please!”

He crushed his raging thoughts and tried to focus.

If she was going to try to mediate between himself and his brother Henry, now master of Eskdale, in order to beg an allowance and quarters that would see him take up residence here with her, she was sadly mistaken.

“Very well, Mother.” He would hear her out.

They went to the blue drawing room. The footman closed the doors quietly and left.

“Please sit, Nicholas,” she said, with a brave smile, patting a place next to her on the chaise-longue. “We've tried to get word to you, but they had no idea where …”

“We were occupied in South America, Mother,” he said quietly. “And then the Caribbean.”

“You never received the letter,” she said.

“If I had to learn of it,” he murmured, “I'd rather it were from my own dear mother.”

She squeezed him tightly for a long time, then held him at arm's length. “You're not eating well, Nicholas. You should take more care of yourself!”

“Mama, I came here to see Father to—”

“He is no more, my dear. This is a new beginning.”

“It was to—”

“Nicholas. If you came here to contest your rightful inheritance,
then rest easy. It is secured for you. I allowed him to be gulled of a hundred guineas by a scheming lawyer to produce a worthless bill of disinheriting. It seemed to answer.”

“Then …”

“Yes, my dear. I can tell you that the vile paper was quickly determined invalid and that you are now indisputably the Earl of Farndon and master of Eskdale Hall both. No one in the land may disinherit a noble lord.”

He went pale. All those years, those times of moral questioning, the vows of distancing, the bitter reflections … Where did this news leave him?

Getting to his feet he crossed to the window and looked out on the sculpted greenery, the formal gardens, the dark woods in the distance.

“My dear Nicholas, you must return home to take up your birthright. Do you understand me?”

He said nothing, the thoughts like a torrent too great to stop.

She got up and went to him, stroking his hair, as if he were still a child. “My dear boy, you've had such adventures on the sea as would put even Tobias Smollett to the blush. Isn't it time to set it behind you at last?”

He couldn't find the words in him to answer: the poverty but freedom, the scent of danger but the deepest satisfaction of true friendship won in hardship and peril. Could he ever … ?

“Should you decline,” she continued in a pleading tone, “it will undoubtedly provoke a scandal that will have the newspapers of all England in a frenzy. Do pity us, Nicholas. To be the subject of every careless wagging tongue, on penny broadsheets, in theatre dramas, it's really not to be borne. And the estate. Without a sitting lord there will be none to sign the rolls, to—”

“Yes, Mama, I do understand. Pray grant me a space to consider it.”

Renzi felt confined, unable to think, to reason. It was stifling him—the past was bearing down on him, distorting his vision, his perceptions.

He threw open the French windows. “I—I need to be by myself,” he said hoarsely, and thrust out into the fresh air.

A gardener with a wheelbarrow stopped to gape at him but he was past appearances. He threw one glance back—his mother's face was at the window, white and strained.

Determined, he stepped out strongly, passing beyond the tall, immaculate hedge and into the grounds. As far as the eye could see in every direction, this was the Farndon estate.

Tenants and farmers, gamekeepers and ostlers. The ancient village beyond the gates. In a timeless mutual reliance based on two things above all others—trust and stability.

It was their ancient feudal right, and in their conceiving he was the earl, the fount of all grace and bounty.

He had grown used to the freedoms he had enjoyed in the open fellowship of the sea, his snug place aboard Kydd's ship wherever it had taken them both, on deeds of daring or desperation, to adventures inconceivable, of far places in the world where none might visit save they were borne there in a man-of-war.

Could he give this up for ever?

He had at last secured an income by his own endeavours and could deploy it in any way he chose. His studies of an ethnical nature could now proceed …

He strode to a field that had a single gnarled oak at its centre. Here he had faced his father in that fateful confrontation that had led to the break. A clash of wills that he had resolved by galloping away, leaving his enraged father to take his revenge.

It had failed. And with it the power to hurt him.

In that moment something passed on: he saw his father more to be pitied than hated, as the memory of what he had done began
to fade. There was now nothing that he had to react against, to withstand … to justify his exile.

In that realisation his emotions ebbed. They were replaced by calm.

And he began to reason. If this was his present situation other moral imperatives must come to the fore. He knew he had a clear duty: to his family first and to society second. To turn on them both for selfish motives was not an act he could easily live with.

Therefore, whether he desired it or no, it had to be accepted that, with his inheritance secure, there was no conceivable reason to decline the honour.

And so, irrespective of every other consideration, the decision was out of his hands.

Turning slowly on his heel, he paced back, letting the logic work its healing on his soul.

A light-headed relief suffused him. It was all settled: there could be no more disputing with his conscience or any more vain reasonings.

He would do his duty.

His mother stood alone, tense and watchful.

He smiled softly at her. “You are right as always, Mother dear. Perhaps it is time. I will return and do my duty.”

She stared at him, then dissolved into tears, hugging him to her until they eased. Then she gently disengaged herself and returned to the chaise-longue, her eyes never leaving him.

“There's much to do, my son. But first we will have a welcome banquet for my dear Nicholas, returned to his place of honour in the bosom of his family.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

“Henry will be much put out, for his father promised him Eskdale, but take no heed—he's impetuous and yet to be fully acquainted with the world.”

“I will not take offence, Mama.”

“And then we will throw a ball for all the world to take sight of the new earl. A grand affair—I shall invite noble families from up and down the kingdom. You'll go to London for the season, of course, and there—”

“Mother. There's first a matter I must deal with, as we must say, in my former life. It should not take long.”

“Oh. Cannot it wait, Nicholas?”

“I rather think not, Mama. I desire to quit such an existence without detail to be dealt with later.”

“Then do go, my son. I can understand you wish to leave nothing that can cause awkwardness later. When do you think … ?”

Renzi twitched his neck-cloth and settled the sleeves of his plain brown coat: there hadn't been time to get the tailor to work but he'd managed a pair of more formal breeches and stockings in place of his faded pantaloons. It would have to do: time pressed.

He stepped out of the Angel into the street. No one noticed him as he strode through the Tunsgate market up to School Lane, so named by the citizens of Guildford in honour of the successful establishment run on naval lines by the Kydd family.

It came into view but it was different now. This time he was controlled, calm and knew what he must do.

At the door he drew himself erect, took a breath—and knocked three times.

“Oh! Mr Renzi,” the maid said faintly. “Ma'am,” she called anxiously. “It's Mr Renzi. Are you at home?”

There was movement and voices—then Kydd himself came to the door.

“Nicholas!” he spluttered. “Where in Hades have you been?”

“I am here, as you may observe. Am I to be allowed to come in at all?”

“Damn it, and you've some explaining to do.”

“Inside?”

They went to the drawing room. Cecilia rose guardedly. “Why, Nicholas! It's been such a horribly long time …”

She tailed off at his stiff bow.

Kydd bristled and threw Renzi a dark look.

Cecilia looked at both men in turn: what was passing between them? They'd always been such true friends.

Renzi's face was set as he turned to Kydd. “There is something that Cecilia should know. I would be obliged if you would allow us the privacy.”

Kydd hesitated. Then, throwing a warning glance at Renzi, he left the room.

Cecilia sat rigid, her eyes wide.

“I should tell you, Miss Kydd, that my business in London proceeded well.”

She went pale at the distancing. Had she been wrong to hope all these years?

“You will know that my situation and fortunes have until now not been favourable.”

“Yes, Mr Renzi,” she murmured, picking up on his formality. “But it does not—”

“Now they have improved to the point where I believe that decisions must be made.”

“I see …”

“That bear so on the future. Miss Kydd, I have to tell you that I'm now in a position some would describe as of consequence. I would therefore not wish you to be under any misapprehensions as to the reasons for what I have to say.”

“Nicholas … ?” she blurted pitiably.

“Miss Kydd. There has been before an … an understanding, a measure of assumption—of presumption, if I may. However, as
I recall, I did write you a letter of release from any implied obligation in this tenor, I believe.”

Her eyes filled.

“Which obliges me to choose my words with care.”

“Nicholas—Mr Renzi—I beg, do know I've never felt bound by our …”

He dropped his gaze and when he looked up again there was resolution, and the serenity of a dilemma solved.

With the utmost dignity he fell to one knee. “Miss Kydd. If your situation does permit, then with the most unutterable feelings of tenderness and love I do this day propose marriage to you.”

Her hands flew to her mouth as she stared down at him for a long moment. Then she burst into tears and, with anguished sobs, ran from the room.

Almost immediately Kydd flung in. “Renzi—what the devil did you say to her? I demand to know!”