Quarterdeck (41 page)

HMS
Tenacious.
” He bowed as low as he could.

“Lieutenant, tell me true, have you been in Halifax long?”

The Prince had an aristocratically hard face; Kydd had heard stories of his unbending attitude to military discipline, his early-morning parades and merciless justice.

“Not long, Y’r Royal Highness, an’ much o’ that in the United States.”

“Oh. I see. Well, I wish you a pleasant evening, Mr Kydd.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kydd mumbled, remembering to back away.

He had survived, and he turned to grin at Thérèse.

A fanfare of trumpets sounded from the other room, announcing the banquet. An immediate move was made towards the connecting door, but Kydd remembered to keep clear: as a junior offi cer he would certainly be bringing up the rear. He stayed to one side, nodding pleasantly to those whose eyes strayed towards him and Thérèse until eventually he judged it time to enter.

The room was huge. In the distance a long table was raised on a dais, the centre occupied by the Prince and honoured guests.

Behind them two servants gently fanned the principal guests with enormous ostrich feathers, tastefully coloured in red, white and blue.

Lesser mortals occupied the long tables in rows from the front and, as he had suspected, he was shown to one near the rear. To his delight he saw Renzi seated there. Next to him was a voluble

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woman with pasty skin and a profusion of cheap jewellery who tugged incessantly at his sleeve. Renzi looked up at Kydd, and stared, stricken, at him as if the world had been turned upside-down.

Gleefully Kydd made his introduction, indicating to Thérèse that this was his particular friend, but when he made to seat his lady, he was interrupted by a courtier. “Sir, His Royal Highness commands you and Madame to join him,” he murmured, discreetly indicating the Prince, who was beckoning.

Heart thudding, Kydd turned to Renzi and muttered his excuses. He wended his way with Thérèse through the tightly packed tables, feeling all eyes upon him, hearing animated murmuring following in their wake.

They mounted the dais and approached Prince Edward, who leaned back to speak. “Ah, so kind of you to join us.” His eyes did not move from Thérèse as he continued, “I don’t think you’ve met
Hoheit Herzog
Schweigerei, his wife the
Herzogin
Adelheid. Sir, Lieutenant Kydd and Madame Thérèse Bernardine-Mongenet.”

The evening proceeded. Over the wild duck Kydd found himself explaining sea service to the Prince; the saddle of mutton saw him recounting his American sojourn to the sharp- featured Duke.

While he was helping Thérèse to another pompadour cream he looked out over the massed tables below them. Somewhere in the hazy distance Renzi, Captain Houghton and the rest were looking enviously to the dais at Prince Edward, Thérèse Bernardine-Mongenet—and Thomas Kydd.

At last the banquet drew to a close. The Prince rose, conversation stilled, and there was a sudden scraping of chairs as every one stood up. One by one the members of the high table descended, following the Prince as he processed out affably, nodding to the bobs and curtsies as he passed. Looks of admiration and envy shot at Kydd, who smiled back lazily.

In the foyer the Prince turned to Kydd. “Lieutenant, you will
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no doubt be returning to your ship. Pray do not stand on ceremony for Madame—I will personally see she returns home safely.” With a wry smile, Kydd bowed. “And, Lieutenant, I will not forget your service to me this night!”

Thérèse looked at Kydd. She crossed to him and kissed him fi rmly on both cheeks. “
I
will not forget this evening.
Bonne
chance, mon ami.
”

They left. Kydd watched the Prince’s carriage depart, Thérèse’s last glance back and fond wave. The rest of the guests issued out noisily, and it seemed the whole of Halifax wanted to meet him, make his acquaintance, be seen with him. Captain Houghton appeared, staring wordlessly at Kydd and shaking his head slowly before he moved on; Adams came up and insisted on taking his hand. “Damme if that wasn’t the fi nest stroke of the age!” he said sincerely.

Finally Renzi emerged. Full of the deepest delight Kydd said casually, “Then was she not a suitable lady?”

“Brother, we must walk for a spell.” Renzi did not bother to introduce the lady with him, who pouted at the slight. “Into your coach, m’dear,” he said fi rmly. “I shall follow.” When they were alone on the street Renzi turned to him. “My dear fellow,” he began, then stopped. “My dear chap. Where can I
begin?
” He paced about in frustration, ignoring the admiring glances passers- by were throwing at Kydd. “In polite society—in the highest society—damn it all, what you did was either inspired deviltry or the purest ignorance! And all Halifax believes it the fi rst.”

“Nicholas, you talk in riddles. If you’re just envious—”

“Tom—if you must know, this is what you did. You invited the Prince’s mistress to a banquet hosted by the Prince himself.”

“Thérèse—Julie?” Kydd fell back in dismay. The fl ush drained from his face. At the very least it was the ruin of his career, a spectacular end to his promising beginnings. After the exaltation of earlier it was agonising.

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“Not at all.” Renzi struggled for the words. “The world believes you knew that Julie appears at lesser occasions, the Prince having a particular taking for her, but at affairs of state—foreign potentates—she must not be seen. To the Prince’s great pleasure you produced her for him at this occasion under the unimpeach-able courtly pretence of not knowing her situation.”

He gave a low laugh. “There must be many haughty ma-trons of Halifax who have been put sadly out of countenance tonight—but many more gentlemen whose admiration for you is unbounded. Just consider—you now have the ear and attention of a prince of the Blood Royal. You are made in society, you—

you have but to claim the fruits of your cunning.”

“Where’s Renzi?” It was late morning in the wardroom and he had still not appeared. Kydd had put it down to over-indulgence, but his friend’s cabin was empty.

“Renzi? I do believe he must still be at Manning’s tavern—he was well away when I saw him,” Pringle drawled.

A tavern? Kydd threw on his coat and clapped on his hat. In all the time he had known Renzi he had never once seen him in liquor. Surely he was not a spurned lover. The woman whom he had seen at the banquet? Impossible!

Manning’s was often frequented by offi cers but Kydd could not fi nd Renzi in the high-backed chairs of the taphouse or in any of the more secluded public rooms. Discreet enquiry yielded that he was still in his room and furthermore had sent for two bottles since midnight, and was unaccountably alone.

Disturbed, Kydd went up the stairs. Knocking at the door several times did not produce a result. “Nicholas!” he called softly.

“I know you’re there. Let me in, brother.”

About to knock again he heard Renzi’s muffl ed voice, “Thank you for your visit, but I’m indisposed. I shall return aboard—

later.”

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“If bein’ tosticated is what ails ye, then it’s a poor shab as won’t see his friend.”

There was a silence, then a rattling, and the door opened.

Kydd nearly laughed at the frowsy bleariness of his friend but kept a grave expression and entered. He sat in a chair next to the bed. “Can I be of service to ye?” he asked neutrally.

Renzi glared balefully at him. Then he groaned and lolled back in the other chair. “I’m all undone, I see. You shall have the truth of it—but fi rst a drink.”

Kydd sat up, alarmed, but Renzi reached for the water pitcher on the dresser and up-ended it, gulping the water noisily. He wiped his mouth and tried to grin. “Ah, let us say I have been the unwitting sport of Venus, the plaything of Cupid. In fi ne, I have to admit to being gulled in full measure.”

“Aye?” said Kydd, trying not to show his considerable interest.

“A charming nymph, a young sprig of society, whose name will be known in the highest reaches of Haligonian gentility, she it was who—who has refused me.”

“That—that woman at the banquet?” Kydd said, appalled.

“Not her,” said Renzi testily. “A mere
quicumque vult,
a Cyprian taken up for the occasion. No—I speak of a young woman of grace and talents, a perfect specimen of spirited maidenhood. I met her at the admiral’s rout and since then have been seen in her company at many a polite occasion, a sparkling companion. Then, the sap unwonted rising high, I pressed my attentions on her, would not be denied . . .” He trailed off, staring disconsolately at the wall.

“And then?”

“It grieves me to say it, but she—she . . .”

“Yes?”

“It seems that the young lady is—how shall we phrase it? Of

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the Sapphic persuasion.” At Kydd’s blank look he added wearily,

“This is to mean that she prefers the company of women to that of men, in all its forms.”

“Then—”

“Quite so. For her I have been but a toy, a necessary social ornament. It has been a—salutary experience.”

“Nicholas, I—”

“And is now most fi rmly a thing of the past,” Renzi concluded bleakly.

Kydd subsided. It explained Renzi’s distraction, his absences.

And it was certain he would appreciate neither sympathy nor pity.

Renzi drew a deep breath and leaning forward said, “Therefore we shall speak of your transmogrifi cation.”

“My . . . ?” said Kydd carefully.

“You’re clearly not fully aware of what has happened, and by that I do not mean simply your appearance with Madame Thérèse.” He held his head and closed his eyes for a space.

“Consider this: your action in bringing Julie to the banquet is seen as a very clever piece of theatre to bring yourself to the attention not only of society but of Prince Edward himself, a coup that has all Halifax abuzz.

“Now what that is telling the world is that you must be accounted a superior player in the arts of society, and it would go well with any who can boast your acquaintance. This is my wager with you—you’ll have more invitations in the next week than you can possibly accept in a year.”

“But I don’t—”

“Let me continue. This is a triviality, a vaporous nonsense compared to its true signifi cance.” He took another pull at the water pitcher and, looking directly at Kydd, continued, “Tom, dear chap, what is signifi ed is that the forms of politeness, so
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well expressed by John Locke, however requisite in the salons and courts, must always yield to that of true character in polite company.

“
In vino veritas,
then. I was wrong. I freely admit it. You are your own man now, with a character and reputation that will only grow. You don’t need airs and my clever words—and neither do you need to bandy empty talk about fox-hunting or the Season, for you’ve established a manly character of your own, which, dare I say it, is above such nonsense.

“My dear fellow—go forth and conquer. Know that you can match any gentleman for wit and reputation and at last take your place in society.”

Renzi closed his eyes. “And leave me to die in peace.”

Kydd rose noiselessly and tiptoed away.

Renzi was right. Invitations arrived by the dozen for Lieutenant Kydd in the days that followed. At one point Captain Houghton came to him personally with a mumbled request that he grace an evening with him at the attorney general Uniacke’s, known like Cunard for his four daughters, and a power in the land.

Fortunately Kydd found his diary free for that night.

And Renzi was right about the other thing: the wardroom continued to talk country estates and Vauxhall Gardens, but when Kydd came in with an appreciation of the new United States Navy or a light observation on signals he was listened to respectfully, getting laughs in all the right places.

It was a heady discovery that he was free at last. Free of the demons of inferiority, the fear of being seen as socially gauche, the oaken-headed tarpaulin, an embarrassment. Now he could hold his own in any society.

“Nicholas, are you at liberty tonight? It would give me th’ greatest pleasure to sup with you—at Pontac’s at seven?”

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Kydd was determined to do his friend proud. “Do have more o’ the roast lark, they’re so particular in the cooking here,” he said. “And I hope the Lafi te is up to your expectations,” he added anxiously. He piled Renzi’s plate high and insisted on pouring the wine.

Renzi was unusually silent, which Kydd put down to his recent experience. It needed all of an hour before he fi nally spoke his mind. “There is an observation I feel obliged to make, Thomas, bearing as it does on our long friendship.” He weighed his words carefully. “An unkind observer might remark that in our lower-deck existence we had a peculiar need, one for the other. I—that in my term of exile there was one of intelligence, uncommon good sense and enquiring nature to lighten my durance. You—my trifl es of philosophy and intellectual penetrations could enable you to rise above the limitations of your surroundings. That same observer could then say, in perfect truth, that those needs are now concluded. You have succeeded in all the accomplishments of gentility and the sea profession, so I am no longer needed.”

Kydd slammed down his glass. “Stuff ’n’ nonsense, Nicholas!”

He saw Renzi’s eyes glitter—it seemed it was costing him much to speak as he had.

“And I,” Renzi continued, with some diffi culty, “I have had my choice of wranglers in reason, the company of my peers in breeding, the sweets of society, but in cleaving to these it grieves me to recall how I have so shamelessly neglected our friendship—all for the sake of the evanescent. Is this then an end to our association? Logic is a stern mistress and pronounces that, with the extinction of need, we must necessarily part, go our own ways—”