Quarterdeck (5 page)

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.

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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 for-ager, 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 fl ashed a wide grin. “Spankin’ fi ne 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 cottage 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 fl ash 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 fi nd 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.”

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Julian Stockwin

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 offi cer?”

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 remem bered 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 refl ect 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 . . .”

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33

• • •

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 offi cers 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, fi nding 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 fl ashed him
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Julian Stockwin

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 confi des 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 fi nd 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 te-dium 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 fi nd himself fi rst 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.”

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35

“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 fl icked 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 fi nd 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.”

• • •

36

Julian Stockwin

“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 offi cers, 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 fl urry of introductions.

“Enchanted,” said Mr Kydd, making a creditable but somewhat individual leg to a gratifi ed Mrs Crawford.

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

“That is most kind in ye, dear Mrs Crawford,” the handsome sailor-offi cer 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 fi rst remove.

“May I help you t’ a portion of this fi ne 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

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37

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 . . .”

Fully satisfi ed in the matter of explanations, Mrs Wood retired to contemplate, at which Mr Kydd turned his attention to the red-faced gentleman. “
Gentleman’s Magazine
’s interestin’

this week—says about your electric fl uid invented by Mr Volta all comes from frog legs in the end,” he remarked bravely.

The man shook his head slowly in amazement. “Now, that’s something I never knew,” he said at length. A look of barely concealed satisfaction suffused Mr Kydd’s face as he looked up the table to where Mr Renzi sat quietly, nodding slowly.

A footman obliged with claret. “Wine with you, sir!” Mr Kydd said happily, with all the joyous relief to be expected of one having passed through a personal trial and not been found wanting. “I give you Lady Fortune, an’ may she always be one!”

Chapter 2

“Aye, ’ere she comes, Capting,” the inn porter said, indicating the gig under sail coming around Garrison Point. He held out his hand for a promised sixpence and left them to it, their chests and other impedimenta in a pile on Sheerness public jetty while they waited for the boat from
Tenacious.

Kydd’s heart bumped. This was the day he had been looking forward to these several months while
Tenacious
was under repair, the most important day of his life, the day he joined his ship confi rmed in his rank, a King’s offi cer. The day or so aboard after Camperdown didn’t really count—he could hardly remember anything of the brute chaos and towering weariness in the wounded ship limping back to Sheerness.

The coxswain, a midshipman, cautiously rounded into the wind twenty yards off. Two seamen brailed up and secured the sail for a pull under oars the fi nal distance to the jetty steps. It was not what Kydd would have done: the breeze, although fl uky, was reliable enough for an approach under sail alone.