6-Tenacious

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘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 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…’

  Chapter 10

  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 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 circumscribed 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 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 gatehouse, 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.

  For a long moment there was silence, then his father turned on his heel and went inside. His mother reached out and took his hands. ‘Go to him, Nicholas,’ she said, her face a mask.

  Renzi followed his father into the dark wood-panelled main study. ‘Close the door, boy,’ the earl snapped, and took his seat behind the desk more usually employed for dealing with tenants behind in their rent. Renzi was very aware of how little provocation might set tempers ablaze.

  His father barked, ‘An explanation, if you please, sir.’

  Renzi took a deep breath. ‘I find I have nothing to add that I have not set out in my letter, Father.’

  ‘Don’t feed me that flim-flam about moral duty again,’ his father roared, his face red, eyes glinting dangerously. ‘I want to hear why you’ve seen fit to disappear for years, absenting yourself from your rightful place of duty to—’

  ‘Sir, I’ve as lively a sense of duty as any—’

  ‘Sir, you’re a damned poltroon if you think there’s an answer in running away—’

  Renzi felt his self-control slip. He had taken to logic and rationality as a means of establishing ascendancy over his own passions and it had served him well – but now he could feel building within him the selfsame passionate anger at his father’s obstinacy that had prompted him to leave. ‘Father, I made my decision by my own lights. Whether right or wrong it was done and cannot now be undone.’ He forced himself to appear calm. ‘It were in both our interests to recognise this and address the future instead.’

  They locked eyes. Then, unexpectedly, his father grunted and said, ‘Very well. We’ll talk more on your future here later.’

  Renzi got to his feet, but the earl did not. ‘Go and make your peace with your mother, Nicholas,’ he said bleakly.

 
She was waiting in the Blue Room. ‘Shall we meet the rest of the family, Nicholas?’ she said brightly. ‘They are so looking forward to seeing you.’ They were assembled in the drawing room, and Renzi was gratified to see Richard, whom he had last seen in very different circumstances in Jamaica where Richard owned a sugar plantation – they exchanged a brotherly grin. Fourteen-year-old Edward had no doubt about a welcome and little Beatrice shyly dropped him a curtsy. A warning glance from his mother prepared him for his next younger brother. ‘Henry, are you keeping well?’

  ‘Tolerably, tolerably,’ was all the answer Renzi knew he was going to get from that sullen young man, and he turned back to the others.

  ‘Nicholas, old fellow, we’ve missed you,’ Richard said breezily. ‘Why don’t we take a turn round the estate before we dine and see what’s changed? You don’t mind, Mama?’

  As soon as they were out of earshot Richard dropped the jolliness and looked at Renzi keenly. ‘I hope you don’t believe I broke confidences when I told Mother you were safe and well, and had taken to seafaring? She did so grieve after you, Nicholas.’

  ‘No, Richard, it was kind in you. I should have considered her more.’

  ‘Father was in such a fury when you left – he swore he would whip the hide from you when you returned. Then when you did not, he went into himself, if you understand me. Mama dared not tell him of – of where you were. The shame would have been too much.’

  Renzi said nothing: his time before the mast had been hard and the experience was burned in his memory, but it was also the first time he had felt truly a man. He had won his place in this world by his own courage, skill and fortitude – and the depth of friendships forged in the teeth of gales and at the cannon’s mouth. It was wildly at odds with life ashore and he had lived life to the full. He would never forget it.

  As they talked they passed so many things of his childhood remembrance: the high-walled garden, the winding path to the woodland park, the pond where once he had ducked Henry for impudence. So much of his life was rooted here.

  Renzi supposed that he would dress for dinner: his luggage did not cover more than travel clothing. To his wry amusement the odd things he had left here did not fit his now strong, spare figure – his father would have to take him as he was.

  The meal began stiffly: no one could ignore the glowering presence of his father at the head of the table, Renzi once more at his right hand. Fortunately, Richard sat opposite and took a wicked delight in teasing out amiable platitudes to the point of absurdity, much to their mother’s bafflement and their father’s fury, but it eased Renzi’s feelings.

  Henry sat further down, pale features set, eyes fixed balefully on his elder brother. ‘So, you conceived it a duty to go on a boat as a common sailor? Then praise be that you have regained your senses and are restored to us.’

  Renzi half smiled. ‘It’s said that sea air is a sovereign remedy – is this why the King takes the waters at Weymouth? I have found it the most salubrious of all in the world.’

  Henry smiled thinly. ‘No doubt of it. Nicholas, do tip us some sea cant – I find excessively droll Jack Tar’s way with words. So plain-speaking, as we might say.’

  ‘Boys!’ Their mother reproved them in much the old way. ‘Remember where you are. I will not have bickering at the table.’

  Uncharacteristically, his father had made no contribution, although Renzi had felt his eyes on him. When the cloth was drawn and the brandy made its appearance, he spoke. ‘You others, get out! I want to speak to Nicholas.’ Meekly, they followed their mother from the room, leaving the earl and Renzi alone in the candlelight.

  Renzi’s father drew a candle to him and lit a cigar, puffing until it drew to his satisfaction. Renzi watched, not moving. His brandy remained untouched. ‘Help yourself, my son,’ his father rumbled, and pushed the humidor across the table.

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I’ve lost the habit of late,’ Renzi said carefully. A cigar-smoking able seaman was such a bizarre concept that, despite the circumstances, he felt a smile tug at his lips.

  ‘Suit yourself, then.’ He inspected the end of the cigar closely, then opened with the first salvo. ‘I mean to hear your intentions, sir. You’ve come to your senses at last and have returned – but I’ve heard no talk that you plan to take up your place here. You’re the eldest and one day Eskdale Hall goes to you – but you’ve shown no interest in the estate management, tenant rolls, income. How do you expect to run the damned place without you know how?’

  The blue cigar smoke spiralled up into the blackness while his father fixed him with a glare of unsettling intensity. ‘Sir, as a sea officer,’ Renzi began, ‘it is not acceptable that I leave the ship without so much as a by-your-leave. There are forms, customs of—’

  ‘Humbug! You’re no jack-me-hearty sailor – you’re heir to an earldom of England, which you seem to have forgotten. I want you here – now! When is it to be?’

  ‘I – I need time,’ Renzi said defensively, ‘to settle my affairs…’

  ‘You’ll give me a date when you’ll present yourself now, sir, not when you see fit.’

  ‘Father, I said I needed time. Impatience will add nothing to—’

  ‘Then, dammit, get on with it!’

  Their talk did not stop until past midnight.

  Renzi knew that he was only delaying the inevitable. Of course he had been aware from childhood that, in the fullness of time, under the rules of primogeniture, he was destined to be an earl and the master of Eskdale Hall. It was natural, it was expected, and he had never devoted much thought to it.

  His father had accepted his Grand Tour without a word – the sowing of wild oats was almost expected of him. Then, the swaying body in the barn and the burning shame of witnessing his father’s summary dismissal of the broken family’s claims had changed him.

  His high-minded exile at sea, however, had had unforeseen results. Apart from the insights into human nature that the fo’c’sle of a man-o’-war had provided, he had found that much of his book-learning had come to life: it had so much more meaning in the context of the sea and exotic shores. How easily could he turn his back on it?

  On the staircase, candle in hand, he knew there had to be a resolution. He blew out the candle, turned and tiptoed down again until he came to a small window. The catch was still the same, the window stiffly protesting, but then his childhood escape route was open to him. It was the work of moments to swing out into the night and down the matted ivy to the flower-bed.

  A cold winter’s moon rode high and serene, bathing the slumbering countryside in brightness. He strode forward, following the near invisible but well-remembered little path to the woodland, letting the air clear his head. He entered the woods; a curious owl gave a low hoot and he heard scurrying in the bracken, nocturnal animals surprised at finding him suddenly among them.

  There was no avoiding the fact that his father wanted him installed at Eskdale Hall with no further waste of time – probably because he wished to devolve management of the estate on Renzi so that he could spend more of the Season in London, where he kept up the pretence of attendance at the House of Lords.

  Nevertheless, whatever the reason, he must consider his retirement from the sea. But his heart rebelled: he had found himself on the ocean, much as his friend Kydd had done, albeit in a different way. He relished the paradoxical freedoms it gave: there could be no care for the morrow when his actions were preordained – he could not alter the course of the ship or wish it elsewhere, so his horizon must shrink to the compass of that snug little world. All else was in vain. Relieved of worldly fretting, his mind could expand and soar in a way that was impossible with the distractions of land. And now, with the intelligent and worldly company of a whole wardroom of officers, he could find an agreeable conversation at any time of the day or night.

  And there was Thomas Kydd, a friend like no other, who had seen him through grave and wild situations in a voyage round the world. Now they must part. Kydd was growing conf
ident and ambitious in his profession, and would no doubt go on to achieve wondrous things, while he… His father was in robust good health and might haunt him for many more years to come. Renzi would be confined to the endless social round of the country where a major excitement was the arraigning of a horse-thief.

  It was galling – but there was no middle way. And it was becoming more than plain that perhaps his father was right: Renzi had used exile as a means to escape his situation. The realisation stopped him cold. Was he indeed running away? Did he not know his own mind?

  Suddenly a shadow loomed dark against the moonlight and a blow thumped off his ribs as a heavy man brought him to the ground. Renzi twisted away and pulled himself upright. Seeing the silhouette of a raised cudgel, he drove inside it, cannoning into the man’s stomach. The man staggered back, but when Renzi stepped into a patch of moonlight he stopped. ‘Is ut you, sir? Master Nicholas?’

  Renzi took a breath to steady himself. ‘It is, Mr Varney. This will teach me not to creep about at night like a poacher. You did right, and I apologise if you were winded.’

  He came down early for breakfast; the years of watch-keeping at sea had made late rising distasteful to him, and he was surprised to see his father.

  ‘Sleep well?’

  Renzi thought he detected a sly undertone and answered neutrally, ‘As may be expected, Father.’

  ‘Attending the assizes today. Do you want to come? What’s-his-name – jumped-up magistrate – won’t do as he’s told, need to learn him some manners. Do you good to take in a piece of the real world.’

  Renzi could not trust himself to say anything civil and remained silent.

  ‘Come to any conclusions yet? I want to be able to say something in the House about the Rents Bill at the February sessions, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘Sir. I’ve been plain with you – this is not something I can arrange immediately. It takes—’

  ‘And I’ve been plain with you, sir! My patience is wearing thin. Your boat will float without you on it, damn it all. All it takes is a date I can work to, for God’s sake.’