Pasha (9 page)

“This is harder than ever you will know, dear friend,” he said, in a low voice. “I see before me the sea hero I respect and admire above all men, and society demands he bends the knee to me. I would be gratified beyond measure should you hold to ‘Nicholas,' dear fellow—or even ‘wicked dog' would answer.”

They clasped hands.

Kydd turned to his sister. “Now, how about you, Cec? What do I hail you as?”

“Why, I'm sure the Countess of Farndon would be content with ‘my lady' or ‘your ladyship' but never in this world ‘sis,' good Sir Thomas.”

“As it shall be, Your Worship. Now if we're to be squared away and all a-taunto for a right true wedding in this week, we'd better bend on more sail. Where do we start, Cec?”

It was quickly settled that the cosy familiarity of St Mary's Church would be best suited for the Kydds, and Renzi hastened to make clear that it would suffice also on his side. Its small capacity dictated a family wedding only with a strict limit on guests. This brought a measure of relief in other arrangements, particularly when it was learned that the groom's family would certainly be invited to Hatchlands, the county seat of Lord Onslow, a distant relative, who might be depended upon in the matter of carriages.

Kydd assumed charge, sending Cecilia off to fit for a bridal gown and reassuring his parents that they could remain indoors quietly while he took care of all the arrangements.

The delighted tailors of Guildford went to double tides, Kydd and Renzi both to be as resplendent as it was possible to be, and after judicious choices the needles flew.

Canon Chaddlewood of St Mary's allowed he was more than happy to conduct a marriage: who were the blessed couple? When told of the quality of the celebrants and congregation he nearly swooned, and on learning of the Archbishop of Canterbury's intercessionary licence, he shrank in fright. It took all of a threat to lose the honour to rival Holy Trinity to move him to accept, with the offer of an organist from Hatchlands and a choir from the school.

The wedding was therefore set for Friday next at ten.

Kydd had his own preparations to make. Orders under his name were sent on the Portsmouth stage to the officer-of-the-day of
L'Aurore.
It desired him to send a party of trusties by return for special service, their rig to be their best as for captain's inspection.

He then instructed Boatswain Perrott of the school to transform his assembly hall into a temporary mess-deck, and left the
gleeful peg-legged sailor teaching his eager boys how to rig header tricing knittles for hammocks.

It was all shaping up in a most satisfying way.

“So you're not nervous at all, old horse?” Kydd said lightly, helping Renzi with his snowy cravat.

“Only that this may in fact all be a vain imagining to vanish at any moment with a loud pop. Thomas, days ago I was a lowly secretary—however honourable the post,” he hastened to add. “And now the world may see me as the espoused of the loveliest creature in existence.”

“Hold still, Nicholas. How can I get a decent tie if you move?”

“Dear fellow,” Renzi said softly. “You've said that before.”

“What? And I never did!”

“I'm desolated to contradict my best man, but do you not recall in
Artemis
frigate we were most certainly tie-mates?”

Kydd stopped. The memories flooded back of a young man with a cherished deep-sea mariner's long pigtail being combed and plaited by his friend, the favour to be returned afterwards.

“Aye, I do, Nicholas.” A stab of feeling came as he realised that not only were those times so distant in the past, but the continued friendship, which saw them that morning performing exactly the same favours for each other, was now about to be concluded.

“I … I'm going to miss you in
L'Aurore,
m' friend,” he said quietly. “It won't be the same without I have a learned cove scratching away for me somewhere.”

“You may believe that I too shall miss … deeply … the freedoms and sights of the sea life.”

He paused, then brightened. “Yet there is perhaps a final service I can do my good captain. It crosses my mind that, should you continue to require a confidential secretary, may I recommend for your consideration a young man of shining qualities whose
discretion I can vouch for personally?”

“Oh? Who then is this splendid fellow?”

“An under-secretary on the estate, Dillon the name. He has notions of one day travelling the world, as I have done, and it seems to me that were you to oblige him in this manner then his loyalty would be unbounded.”

“Life in a man-o'-war is not for the faint-hearted, Nicholas.”

“Is that so, dear chap? You might give him fair trial and see if he measures up to the profession.”

“Very well. Send him to
L'Aurore
and we'll take a look at him.”

A fore-top bellow sounded outside. “Ah. That's Toby Stirk rousing our carriage alongside. I fear it's time to face your destiny, Nicholas.”

They were not prepared for the sight that greeted them at St Mary's.

“Be damned! There's half Guildford Town here!” spluttered Kydd, red-faced with pleasure.

Surrounding the church was an overflowing, joyous crowd of chattering, delighted men, women and children in their best dress, bedecked with flowers and ribbons. They were not going to miss the wedding of the age.

Harassed church functionaries managed to keep a lane to the entrance free but the people were impatient to catch a glimpse of the principals and pressed them sorely.

Kydd stepped down and bowed to them pleasantly. It brought a ripple of excitement and scattered awed applause. This was Sir Thomas Kydd, a son of the town and now a famous frigate captain; there in his gold and blue with a crimson sash and star, looking every inch the sea hero.

The tongues clucked. Look at that gold medal and riband! The tall cocked hat with all the gold lace! Was it true he once laboured in the wig-shop that used to be up High Street past the clock?

No! Never! It couldn't be!

Then the Earl of Farndon descended. There was a respectful hush and a spreading sigh as he formally greeted an awestruck Canon Chaddlewood.

Such a vision had not been seen at St Mary's within living memory: a white waistcoat and silk stockings with knee breeches and discreetly jewelled shoes—this was your genuine article, an earl of an ancient family of England, come to do the greatest honour to their little town.

Once more Kydd felt unreality creep in. This couldn't be happening to him, young Tom Kydd as was. It must be a dream. Here in this church, which had stood on this spot for a thousand years and had seen christenings, weddings and funerals of the good people of Guildford in an endless succession. And on this day …

As they entered the packed church a sea of faces turned to watch them take their place at the altar. There was his mother, blubbing into a handkerchief, his father struck dumb with the occasion—and Lord Onslow, whom he'd been summoned to see in
Monarch's
great cabin after the great battle of Camperdown when he'd been set on the quarterdeck and his path to glory.

And the dowager countess, cool and aloof, others he could only guess were members of Nicholas's family, with nobles, gentry and notables beyond counting. His vision swam with colour and circumstance.

The organ stopped suddenly, then began a grander air. He twisted round: it was his sister entering in an exquisite white gown, supported by a tremulous Hetty Panton.

She reached the altar and gave Kydd a look for him alone, of the utmost softness and love.

A lump formed. He had always hoped it would happen—but this was the reality.

The organ stopped and time-hallowed words fell into the silence.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God …”

The wan sunlight of winter streamed through the stained-glass windows, bright motes of dust held in motionless thrall to the words.

“… to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony …”

That was the Cecilia who, as barely more than a child, had travelled alone to Portsmouth to plead with him to return to the wig-shop and leave the sea. The practical good sense, but then the tears of understanding as she saw the desolation of Fate closing in on his carefree existence.

“… signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and His Church …”

And the man now in the glittering pomp of a peer of the realm: he had seen him stand with bloodied sword at the gates of Acre, denying Napoleon Bonaparte himself his victory. The one who, in only months past, had, single-handed, brought down the devilish plot to destroy England's precious Caribbean trade—and who could ironically never claim the credit, while he himself was proclaimed glorious victor of a lesser triumph.

“The ring!” hissed his mother from her pew.

He had been oblivious and scrabbled for it in his pocket. Pink-faced, he handed it to his one true friend, who slipped the ring on to his bride's finger.

The rector joined their hands and solemnly pronounced to all the world, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

It was done.

Bells pealed out overhead in a glorious, joyful din as the newly married couple went to the sacristy for their formal signing.

Then they reappeared, joined in blissful, self-conscious union.

The congregation rose and waited as they processed along the
aisle to emerge at the arched entrance, to a muffled roar of ecstasy from the crowd outside.

Kydd followed them out and stood blinking as wheat grains were showered on the couple. Traditional wedding gifts were pressed on the guests and coins thrown high into the crowd.

Joining with others in expressing their wishes to the couple for a long and fruitful marriage, he was taken aback when Cecilia leaned forward and whispered fiercely, “The carriage! Thomas, you forgot to send for it!”

He hid a smile and shook his head in sorrow. “Sorry, Cec—no carriage, I'm afraid.”

She looked at him, speechless.

Then he clapped on his cocked hat with a flourish. It was the signal.

From around the corner came a frightening bellow. “Billy Roarers—forward!”

The crowd fell into a stunned silence—and into view came a boat.

It ran on wheels and was pulled by a dozen Jack Tars as large as life, tailing on to ropes, driven by a roaring Stirk.

“Handsomely, y' lubbers,” he bawled. “Star'b'd a touch forrard, there.”

It was gaily ornamented from stem to stern and had huge imitation anchors and mermaids, ribbons streaming everywhere and on its stumpy mast it flew an enormous Union flag. On the centre thwart, a pair of dainty cushions.

The people were delighted. It was very seldom that the Navy, so popular after its recent victories, could show itself so far inland and they immediately gave a raucous appreciation.

Stirk, in an exaggerated sea roll, went to Renzi and snatched off his cap. “An' yer boat's alongside, y' lordship.”

“Thank you, Mr Stirk. You and your Billy Roarers all. My dear?”

They sat in state, waving regally as the boat set off to the sudden
skirl of fife and drums of the Surrey Militia, which had magically appeared and was now marching behind.

Grinding up the steep High Street, the din and revelry were deafening. They brought shopkeepers and customers on to the street and children screaming and running by the incredible sight.

Under the projecting clock of the town hall, past the Tunsgate, and followed in procession by the lords, nobles and honest townsfolk of Guildford in an unstoppable show of happiness and pride.

Then, at the top of the hill where the old Elizabethan grammar school stood, and the road out of town ran, they stopped.

There, with liveried footmen attending, was Lord Farndon's four-horse open landau. Its gleaming black with the scarlet, gold and green swirl of its crest spoke of another world, unattainable to the mortals who looked on.

The merriment ebbed while the newly married earl and his bride disembarked.

And then, in the short distance between the boat and the carriage, Kydd saw Cecilia transmogrified from his young sister into a countess—from a laughing girl into a noble lady.

The landau glided away. Cecilia turned to wave, blowing him a kiss, and then they were off into their future together.

He watched them disappear and his eyes misted.

In that moment he had lost both his sister and his best friend.

P
ORTSMOUTH WAS THE SAME:
somewhat grubby and showing not a little wartime drab—but there was magic, too, and as he peered from the window of the stagecoach Kydd could just make out the distant sight of slender masts and yards soaring above the mean roofs. Among them would be
L'Aurore,
his command and his love—his true home.

The orders that had come so soon after the wedding had been blunt about the need for dispatch. Kydd wasted no time in calling upon the port admiral and received his pack for the coming voyage, as well as yet more letters and messages imploring a place on his quarterdeck as midshipman for a son, a nephew, others—all begging for a chance to ship with the now famous frigate captain.

It wasn't so very long ago, in dear old
Teazer,
that he'd been snubbed by those who believed a captain who'd come aft the hard way not really the thing but now, it seemed, it was quite another situation.

Kydd had his views about a lean and hungry frigate being overrun with youngsters, and although he could ship up to six midshipmen, he'd settled for just another two.

One was William Clinch. Kydd had received a dignified letter from a Mr Jarman, sailing master of
Ramillies
7
4
of the North
Sea Squadron. Even before he had begun to read he remembered the lowly merchant-service sailing master of
Seaflower
cutter who had taken Able Seaman Tom Kydd and taught him his figuring, as well as how to use a sextant and work up a position. It had been his first step to the glory of the quarterdeck and he still had the man's worn octant, presented to him in admiration after a difficult open-boat voyage.