Pasha (7 page)

“I proposed to her, is all,” he said quietly. “It would seem, however, that there is another …”

Kydd took a ragged breath and hurried out after her.

She was in her room, lying on her bed weeping inconsolably.

“Cecilia—sis!” he said, with concern. “Is it that you've fallen for someone else? I can understand that, the beggar dithering on for so long.”

“No!” she sobbed. “A thousand times no!”

“I—sis, I don't understand.”

“I do l-love o-only Nicholas!” she wept.

“Then why … ?”

“I've waited and waited for him and now …” She burst out anew with anguished sobbing.

“Ah. Well, if I were you I'd clap on all sail and go back to him before he changes his mind.”

He produced a handkerchief and waited while she composed herself. “Now then, sis, you go to him and say—well, say what you need to.”

They left the bedroom but Mrs Kydd and the maid were standing white-faced outside.

“Whatever is the matter, m' dear?”

“Ma, Cecilia has something she wants to say to Mr Renzi.”

“If he's been upsettin' my darlin,' then—”

“We wait outside, Ma.”

It was not long: the door opened and the pair stood before them, hand in hand.

“Mama, we're to be wed!” Cecilia breathed, eyes sparkling.

“Oh! My dear, I never guessed—at all! We're so happy for you an' Mr Renzi, you've no idea. Why, I thought—”

In a formal tone Renzi addressed the mother of his intended. “Mrs Kydd. I'd be obliged to Mr Kydd for a few words in private, should he be at leisure.”

“Y-yes, o' course. Um, Walter's upstairs restin,' but what with all this to-do, I'm sure he'll be awake by now. I'll call him down for ye.”

“No, no. I do not wish to inconvenience. I shall go up to him.”

In a short while there were voices, and Renzi came down, guiding the sightless Mr Kydd into the drawing room, the others eagerly following.

“My dear Fanny,” he said, his voice quavering. “I have given Mr Renzi my blessing on the union of himself and young Cecilia.”

This time it was Mrs Kydd who broke down in floods of tears and could only be consoled by much hugging from her daughter.

Kydd gazed at his friend with affection and respect. “I never thought I'd live to see the day, Nicholas, this I swear.”

Renzi gave Cecilia a look of such warmth and rapture it reduced the whole room to silence. “My love, we are now to be married.
In token of this I would have you accept this gift, which comes from my heart.”

He drew out a small pouch of crimson velvet.

She took it reverently and opened it to find a shining gold ring.

“Nicholas! My darling!” She bravely held back the tears as she held it up to admire. “Oh, this is a posy ring! There's something written inside … What does it say?”

“This is the noble Seneca, observing the human condition.
‘Quos amor verus tenuit, tenebit.'
By which he means ‘True love will ever abide in those whom it does seize.' And this is to say I'm sanguine we could never have escaped our fate, my dearest Cecilia.”

She clutched him tightly, then kissed him with passion, oblivious to the audience.

He held her away, tears starting in his own eyes. “Need we delay in our wedding, my dearest?”

“Never a moment!” Cecilia whispered. “I shall have the banns called for this very Sunday.”

“Then there's but one thing left to complete our betrothal. My love, I want to present you to my family, if you will.”

“Oh, Nicholas, in all the excitement, we haven't told you Thomas's news.”

“And Mrs Foster being so disagreeable about William, it was all I could do to hold my tongue, my dear.”

Cecilia smiled sweetly. “I do feel for you, Hetty. I vow, it's more than a saint could endure, that odious woman.”

Her old school-friend adjusted her bonnet and looked at her affectionately. Not everyone was sympathetic to the lot of a governess in an aspiring household. “That's kind in you to say so, Cecilia. Tell me, have you any news at all?”

“Why, yes, I suppose I have,” Cecilia said, hugging the moment to herself.

“I'm to be married, Hetty.”

“Married?” she squealed, so loudly that other customers in the tea-house looked over curiously at them. “Who—that is, may I know who the fortunate man is to win your heart?”

“No one you've met, Hetty dear. He's from Wiltshire, an old country family. A gentleman of travels, we might say.”

She daintily removed her ring. “His name's Nicholas—and, Hetty, look what he gave me at our betrothal.”

Her friend exclaimed in delight. “How lovely! All set about with acanthus leaves—this is a fine piece, Cecilia,” she said shrewdly. “And inside—there's writing. It's all in Latin.

“How romantic!” She sighed, trying the ring on and admiring it wistfully as Cecilia translated the inscription. Hetty had no immediate hopes; an intelligent and practical woman but of lowly family, she could not bring herself to consider advances by the callow youths in her social circle. In any case, next to beauties such as Cecilia, with her handsome strong, dark looks, she knew she could only be accounted a pleasant soul.

“You'd never credit it, Hetty. Nicholas had been away for so long in strange parts of the world and then he calls on me without warning, and I'm not in, and he goes away again!”

She giggled. “And all the time I had my hopes of him and never a word except to say he absolves me from any understandings. After years of … But then he returns from his business and in that very hour goes to his knees and makes his proposal.”

“Oh, Cecilia! How you must have stared! Did you make him wait?” she asked eagerly.

“Nicholas is not the man to be trifled with I'm persuaded, Hetty. I accepted him and we're to be wed without delay.

“Now, Hetty, this is not why I asked you here. There's a favour I'd beg that would gratify me extremely were you able to grant it.”

“Why, of course, my dear.”

“Well, it's this. I know it's scandalous short notice, but Nicholas wants me to meet his family. We'll take the stage to Wiltshire where they live but naturally it would be improper to be seen alone together. Is it at all possible that you could take leave from Mrs Barlow for a day or two and come with us? I'd be so grateful for your company, Hetty.”

“How exciting! Yes! I was saving my days up for the summer, but this is much more fun.” She glowed with animation. “Oh, but—I've nothing to wear that will answer.”

“I'll lend you something.” Cecilia squeezed her friend's arm. “Oh, my dear! I'm so nervous—what if they don't like me? I'm so glad you'll be there.”

The three met at the Angel. Hetty curtsied shyly as she was introduced.

Renzi bowed elegantly. “A friend of Cecilia's is my friend as well, Miss Panton.”

A four-horse post-chaise was led out to the little group with their baggage, the horses nodding and snorting impatiently.

“For us?” Cecilia cried, in consternation. “All the way to Wiltshire? Nicholas, it would be much more economical by coach, and with you travelling outside we could save—”

“My dear, allow that my means do in fact permit me this indulgence for my bride-to-be and her companion. Shall we now board?”

The chaise lurched into motion and clattered off over the cobblestones of High Street. Quite soon they were in the deep green Surrey countryside.

“I'm so excited, Nicholas. And very nervous to meet your family. You've never spoken about them much.”

“All in good time, my love.”

The carriage made its way through the country, the weather remaining merciful. At the stops the two friends chatted happily
together. Cecilia was informed at length of Hetty's considered opinion that her betrothed was a vastly superior catch, a man of manners and consideration, and with a pleasing air of romantic mystery.

In return Hetty was regaled with a detailed account of the ups and downs of their affair, which each time kept her agog until the next halt.

Renzi was annoyingly quiet, seemingly content to contemplate the passing country.

They stayed the night in Trowbridge but at the evening repast Renzi would say nothing of what the next day would bring.

Early the next morning they set out at a brisk clip, the soft chalk downlands passing agreeably by.

“How far now, Nicholas?”

“Above an hour, I believe.”

They went on in silence until they drew up at a modest inn. “We'll rest here a space before the last stage,” Renzi announced.

The ladies took their leave to make themselves respectable while a discreet note was passed to the innkeeper, who hurried away.

They boarded once more, and in a short while, they swung into a long, curving drive.

“Oh, Nicholas!” Cecilia cried. “A noble's mansion! Is this why you haven't told me about your family? You silly billy—to be in service to one as high as this is a great honour indeed. You've no need to hide it from me.”

She watched breathlessly from the window of the coach, then suddenly spotted what was going on. “Nicholas—quick! They're expecting someone. All the staff, they're coming out and lining up. Oh, dear, we're going to be in the way. Tell the coachman to go back!”

Renzi didn't answer, gazing absently as they drew nearer until the carriage ground grittily to a halt at the foot of the steps before the grand entrance.

“Nicholas!” she hissed, in anguish. “We can't …
Please,
we'll be making a spectacle of ourselves.”

A bewigged footman in green and gold arrived to assist them down. Cecilia stood helpless, gazing anxiously at the long line of staff in front of the stately magnificence.

And in the centre a lone figure, waiting.

Renzi moved forward, and as one, the line curtsied and bowed. “Nicholas!” she gasped in consternation. “They think we're someone else.”

He still said nothing, leading them on towards the figure at the top of the steps, watched in silence by a hundred or more.

Struck dumb with confusion, Cecilia followed until they reached the top.

Renzi bowed. “May I present Miss Cecilia Kydd and Miss Hetty Panton?”

Cecilia curtsied with as much grace as she could find, unable to face the keen glance of the great lady standing there.

“Miss Kydd,” Renzi said quietly, “this is the Dowager Countess Farndon of Eskdale Hall. My mother.”

She looked up suddenly, struck dumb. Then the significance of the black veil and shawl penetrated her numbed mind.

“If her ladyship is …”

“Yes,” Renzi said gently. “You see, I am now the Right Honourable Lord Farndon, and this is my seat.”

After the shocked ladies had been ushered away to rest after their journey, Renzi walked with his mother into the blue drawing room.

“Dear Nicholas, it is so good to see you. May we indeed believe you are now returned to us?”

“You may, Mama.”

“To take up your title and inheritance—to assume your duties and ancient obligations in line of succession?”

He straightened and faced her gravely. “This I will do, Mother—you have my solemn promise.”

She took his hands, and there was a glitter in her eyes as she murmured, “You have no idea how happy you have made me, my son.”

They stood for a long moment together until she let go his hands and said, with just a hint of curiosity in her voice as they took their chairs, “I do hope your guests enjoy their stay.”

There was no point in delaying the inevitable and Renzi braced himself. “Mother, Miss Cecilia Kydd has accepted my proposal of marriage. I bring her here for your blessing.”

At first he feared she hadn't heard but then she spoke, calmly but with determination. “My child, I find this difficult to follow. Am I to understand you have given a form of betrothal to a—a commoner? With all the noble families of England more than happy to make a connection with ours? Others may well reckon it a rash and imprudent act—but fortunately it is not too late.”

“Mama, I pledged my troth.”

“Yes, dear. And now we have to do what we must to remedy the situation.”

“I've given her my word, Mama.”

“I'm sure you meant it, dear. Now, not to drag it on unnecessarily, what amount would you say would satisfy, that would see her departure in good grace?”

“Mama, I told you, we are engaged to be married.”

“You are saying she is in a certain condition that requires a hasty arrangement.” The countess sighed. “This brings complications, it's true, but nothing that cannot be attended to with a favourable outcome to both parties. It is not unknown that—”

“Mama,” Renzi said, with increasing feeling. “Listen to me!”

He waited until he had her full attention, then spoke with a forcefulness and intensity that was unstoppable. “Know that my heart is entirely lost to the woman. There is no one—none—in this mortal
existence that I would otherwise contemplate in a life's union.

“I love her, Mama. I love Cecilia with all my heart and soul, and before God I say I will marry her!”

The dowager stood up with great dignity and moved to the mantelpiece, fingering its ornate marble carvings. “I see,” she replied, after some moments, clearly taken aback by the fervour and sincerity of his declaration. “Yet I cannot believe you have reflected fully on the consequences.”

Renzi stood, but said nothing, returning her gaze with defiance.

“A belted earl marrying beneath him to such a degree—it will be a scandal. All will ask why this must be, and will not fail to suggest good reasons to this end.”

“I care not for—”

“But you must in your position, my dear. What if—”

“Mother, it is done. I will not retract. It must be Cecilia or none. Do you not see this?”