Tenacious (33 page)
“There were rumours for weeks before, it’s true, but you must know we were all in a horrid funk about the French! All we heard was that Admiral Nelson had missed the French fleet and it was taking that dreadful General Buonaparte to land an army on us somewhere—you cannot imagine what a panic!
“Then Captain Capel arrived at the Admiralty with dispatches and the town went mad. Every house in masses of illuminations, bells ringing, cannon going off, Lady Spencer capering in Admiralty House, the volunteers drilling in Horseguards firing off their muskets—I can’t tell you how exciting it was.”
Under the soft touch of the candlelight her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes hushed the room and had many an officer looking thoughtful.
“Lord Stanhope would not be denied and we left England immediately for Gibraltar, for he had instructions to establish in the Mediterranean as soon as it was practical. It wasn’t long before we heard that Minorca was taken—and so here we are!”
“And right welcome y’ are, Cec—ain’t that so, Nicholas?”
His friend sat back, but his eyes were fixed on Cecilia’s as he murmured an elegant politeness. She smiled sweetly and continued gaily, “Thomas, really, it was quite incredible—in every village
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we passed they had an ox roast and such quantities of people supping ale and dancing on the green. In the towns they had special illuminations like a big ‘HN’ or an anchor in lights and several times we were stopped until we’d sung ‘Rule Britannia’
twice!”
It was strangely moving to hear of the effect of their victory in his far-distant home country. “So, Jack Tar is well esteemed now, sis,” Kydd said lightly.
Cecilia looked at him proudly. “You’re our heroes now,”
she said. “Our heroes of the Nile! You’re famous—all of you!
They’re rising and singing in your honour in all the theatres.
There’s poetry, ballads, broadsheets, prints—there’s talk that Admiral Nelson will be made a duke and that every man will get a medal. There’s been nothing like it this age, I swear.”
Kydd hurried into their drawing room. “Nicholas! We’ve been noticed, m’ friend. This card is fr’m the Lord Stanhope, expressin’ his earnest desire t’ hear of the famous victory at th’ first hand—that’s us, I believe—at afternoon tea at the Residency on Friday.”
“So, if this is a species of invitation, dear chap, then it follows that it should contain details of our expected attire, the—”
“An’ here’s a note from Cecilia. She says Lady Stanhope will be much gratified should we attend in full dress uniform . . .”
It was odd, on the appointed day, to leave their front door and simply by crossing the road and walking to the end of the street to be able to present themselves at the door of Lord Stanhope’s discreet mansion, such was the consequence of the English pro-pensity to stay together.
“Lieutenants Kydd and Renzi,” Kydd told the footman. It seemed that the noble lord could afford English domestic staff—
but then he remembered that Stanhope was in the diplomatic line and probably needed to ensure discretion in his affairs.
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They entered a wide hallway where another servant took their cocked hats. Kydd was awed by the gold filigree on the furniture, the huge vases, the rich hangings—all spoke of an ease with wealth that seemed so natural to the high-born. He glanced at Renzi, who came of these orders, but saw that his friend had a withdrawn, preoccupied look.
They moved on down the passage. “My dear sea-heroes both!” Cecilia was in an ivory dress, in the new high-waisted fashion—which gave startling prominence to her bosom, Kydd saw with alarm.
They entered a drawing room and Kydd met, for the first time since very different circumstances in the Caribbean, the Lord Stanhope and his wife. He made a leg as elegantly as he could, aware of Renzi beside him.
“Dear Mr Kydd, how enchanting to meet you again.” The last time Lady Stanhope had seen him was in the Caribbean—as a young seaman in charge of a ship’s boat in a desperate bid to get vital intelligence to the British government.
Seaflower
cutter, in which the Stanhopes had been travelling, was beached ashore after a storm. Lord Stanhope, although injured, could not wait for rescue and Kydd had volunteered to take to sea in the tiny vessel.
“Your servant,” Kydd said, with growing confidence, matching his bow to the occasion.
“And Mr Renzi. Pray do take some tea. Cecilia?”
The formalities complete, they sat down. Kydd manoeuvred his delicate porcelain cup manfully, privately reflecting on the tyranny of politeness that was obliging him to drink from a re-ceptacle of such ridiculous size.
“Now, you must know we are beside ourselves with anticipation to hear of Nelson and his glorious triumph. Do please tell us—did you meet Sir Horatio himself?”
Suddenly shy, Kydd looked to Renzi, but his friend gave no
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sign of wishing to lead the conversation. He remained reserved and watchful.
“Aye, I did—twice! He spoke t’ us of our duty and . . .” It was easy to go from there to the storm, the long-drawn-out chase, the final sighting and the great battle itself. At that point he saw Cecilia’s intense interest and felt awkward, but again Renzi seemed oddly introspective and offered no help. He therefore sketched the main events of the contest and concluded his account with the awesome sight that had met their eyes on the dawn, and their rapturous welcome at Naples.
“Well, I do declare! This will all be talked about for ages to come, there can be no doubt about it. Pray, where is Sir Horatio at the moment? Is he not with the fleet here?”
“No, y’r ladyship. He’s still in Naples—y’ understand, the King o’ Naples has been uncommon kind t’ us in the matter of fettlin’ the ships an’ entertaining us after our battle, and . . .” he tailed off as he noticed Stanhope’s eyes narrowing suspiciously
“. . . he’ll probably be with us directly.”
He sipped his tea although it was now tepid. His admiral’s disposition was no business of his and he could not understand Stanhope’s disquiet. Now would be a good time for Renzi to contribute a sage comment on the strategic implications of their victory but, annoyingly, he sat still as a statue, staring into space with unfocused eyes.
“Er, I think it has somethin’ to do with the admiral wanting t’
rouse ’em up to face the French. An’ with the Austrians our, er, friends t’ help—not forgettin’ that the Queen o’ Naples is sister t’
the emperor,” he added weakly.
“The late emperor,” Stanhope corrected automatically, but his frown had deepened and Kydd felt out of his depth.
“Sir, if ye’d be s’ kind, can we know how th’ news has been received aroun’ the world?”
“Certainly.” Stanhope’s face cleared. “Yet, first, I could not
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forgive myself were I not at this point to express my deepest satisfaction in your change of fortune. Your conduct in the Caribbean will never be forgotten by me and it must be to the country’s great benefit that your resolution and professional skill has been so justly recognised.”
Cecilia clasped her hands in smothered glee and Kydd flushed.
“I do also remember your particular friend.” He directed a meaningful look at Renzi, whose attention seemed to snap back to the present.
“Indeed, sir.” Renzi’s distracted look was replaced by urbanity. “I have the liveliest remembrance myself of past days, not all of which have been tranquil.” Relieved, Kydd let Renzi continue.
“It would seem, however, that we have been attended by a very welcome measure of success that should be a caution to all.”
Stanhope smiled grimly. “There are nations who have sought to find common cause with the French. Now they are obliged to gaze upon their great Buonaparte stranded helpless.”
“A prime spectacle!” chuckled Kydd. “Do ye think he’ll last long?”
“He may flounder about, win a battle or two against the indolent Turks who inhabit that part of the world, but the great sand deserts that ring him about will end his ambitions before long, you can be sure.”
Kydd turned to Renzi but his look of distraction had returned.
It was not in character and Kydd felt unease, which deepened when Renzi did not appear to have noticed that the talking had stopped.
Cecilia leaned across. “Nicholas, is anything wrong? You’re as quiet as a mouse.”
Renzi looked at her unhappily. “Er, today I received a letter.”
He swallowed. “From my mother . . .”
Renzi stared into the fire as it crackled and spat, sending sparks spiralling up the inn’s chimney. Winter in England was a sad trial after the Mediterranean; he snuggled deeper into his coat and sipped his toddy. His mother’s letter, pleading that for her sake he return, had come as a shock. His father was in such a towering rage at his continued absence that he was now making her life unbearable.
In Halifax Renzi had received a letter from his brother Richard, advising him that his brother Henry was trying to have Renzi declared dead so that he could assume the place of eldest son. This had been easily dealt with: Renzi had immediately sent a letter to his father calmly setting out the reasons why he had chosen his term of exile and informing him of his elevation to the quarterdeck as a king’s officer.
His father’s contemptuous reply had dismissed any justification of conduct based on moral grounds and had demanded he return instantly to answer for his absence. Renzi had decided to face him when
Tenacious
returned to England but his mother’s letter had forced the issue.
With the Mediterranean quiet and his ship in the dockyard for some time, there had been no difficulty in securing leave and he
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had taken passage in a dispatch cutter to Falmouth, then a coach to Exeter and the bleak overland trip to Wiltshire. He was staying overnight in the local inn and had sent ahead for a carriage, knowing that this would serve as warning of his arrival. Tomorrow he would return to Eskdale Hall, the seat of the Laughton family and the Earl of Farndon since King Henry’s day.
It had been nearly seven years, and Renzi had changed. Gone was the careless, unthinking man who had dissipated so much of his youth and means on his Grand Tour. And he was no longer the naïve young fellow who had been so shocked by what he had encountered on his return that he had taken the moral course of self-exile for a term of five years. His time on the lower deck of a man-o’-war had shaped him, hardened him. Now he looked at life with a detached, far-seeing regard. There would have to be a reckoning, however, for as eldest son his situation was circum-scribed by custom and law. He felt the chill of foreboding.
The long night ended with a cold dawn, and after a frugal breakfast Renzi waited on the benches outside, trying to let the sights and smells of the country enter his soul once more, but the bleakness and mud were depressing.
Eventually the carriage came into view, its gleaming black sides spattered with winter grime. The coachman and footman wore careful, blank faces but the noble family crest on the door seemed accusing. Renzi settled into the cushions—despite everything he could feel himself assuming only too easily the mantle of the high-born, with its habits of hauteur and expectations of deference.
They reached the local village of Noakes Poyle where many of the estate labourers lived. As they clattered through the cramped high street, he caught sight of old shops, the busy market; besmocked agricultural workers respectfully touched their
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forelocks. All conspired to peel away the years and thrust him back to what he had been.
Out into the country again they turned into a road with an elegant gold-filigreed iron gate. Old Lawrie emerged from the gate-house, grinning like a boy. “Oi see thee well, Master Nicholas, sir?” he asked. It was the first cheeriness Renzi had experienced since he arrived.
The carriage pulled grittily up the drive, which, flanked by trees, led to the splendour of Eskdale Hall. He could see figures assembling on the front lawn: the servants turning out to mark his homecoming. He forced a composure.
The carriage began its final wide curve towards the house and Renzi found himself searching for familiar faces, friendly looks, then saw his parents standing together at the top of the steps.
The carriage swept past the servants and came to a halt. The footman got down and swung out the step. Renzi descended.
Amid a deathly hush he went up to greet his mother and father.
His mother was set and pale, her hands clasped in front of her; the ninth Earl of Farndon’s granite expression showed no emotion.
“Father,” Renzi said formally, extending his hand. It was coldly ignored. Renzi felt the old anger and frustration build but clamped a fierce hold on himself. He bowed politely, then turned to his mother, who stood rigid, staring at him as if he were a ghost. Then he noticed the glitter of tears and went to her, holding her, feeling her fierce embrace, and hearing just one tearing sob before she pulled away and resumed her position next to his father.