Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  Renzi perched on a carved chair of another age.

  The publisher leaned forward. “What’s your tipple?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Well. We’ve things to discuss, I believe, as bear on your future with us, sir.”

  “My future?” Renzi responded carefully.

  “Why, yes, as an author of the first rank, sir.”

  Renzi held back a surge of hope. “Oh? Pray do enlighten me,” he said politely. “I’ve been out of the kingdom for some years now and am unaware of any … developments.”

  He managed to remain cool.

  “Of course! Mr Renzi, let me be the first to tell you, your excellent Il Giramondo tale has captured the hearts of the nation. We have booksellers crying for stock faster than we can print it.”

  “That is gratifying, of course, Mr Murray. Might I be so indelicate as to enquire if there are proceeds from this that might, shall we say, accrue to myself?”

  “Royalties? Why, of course, dear sir! Should you wish to sight a statement of account?” He rang a silver bell on his desk and the clerk appeared suspiciously quickly.

  “Mr Renzi’s ledger, if you please.”

  It was produced with equal promptness. “Let me see now,” Murray said, peering down the columns. “To the last quarter I find we have a most respectable sum in your name. I rather fancy you will not wish to maintain your present employment situation for very much longer.”

  He passed across the ledger, pointing to a column total.

  Renzi looked down—and it took his breath away. “May I be clear on this? The figure I see is in credit to myself?”

  “Mr Renzi, you have earned this entirely on merit. It is yours, and should you desire it, I shall present you this very hour with a draft on our bank to that amount and you shall walk out of these offices a man of consequence.”

  His mind reeled. “B-but it’s so …”

  “On the other hand, you may understand public taste is fickle and the work may drop from fashion as rapidly. Nothing is sure in publishing, sir.”

  Renzi slumped back, dazed. A vision of Cecilia, his cherished love, flooded in. His eyes pricked while the publisher prattled on.

  “This is why we must settle matters at this point, the chief of which is agreeing a date for the delivery of the manuscript of your second piece.”

  He would post back to Guildford and lay his heart before her and—

  Murray continued, “It is of the first importance to keep your good self in the public eye to sustain sales of the first and at the same time establish your reputation as an author of worth.”

  If she was reluctant he now had the means to dazzle her with prospects, even if she must never know their origin.

  “Mr Renzi? Can you not see this, sir?” Murray said, looking at him with concern.

  “Oh? Yes, of course.”

  “Then you’ll be looking to something along the lines of a sequel, no doubt. The same characters the public have come to take to their hearts? Or is it to be a darker treatment, a cautionary tale, which—”

  “I will think on it, Mr Murray.”

  Then he suddenly recalled what he had come to secure. “But be aware, sir, that I value my privacy above all things. I would wish that you keep my true name in this entirely confidential. If it should find its way into public knowledge then I’m obliged to say, sir, that I would look upon it as a final breach in our relationship.”

  “Oh, of course we will, be assured it will be done,” Murray hastened to say. “All your works will be published under what we call a ‘pen name’—Il Giramondo is an excellent device.”

  He leaned back and smiled. “And it has its advantages. Who is the man of mystery behind the sobriquet? Just who was it around us who wrote these revealing tales—this beggar on the street brought low by his debauchery or that noble lord who is now anxious to conceal his sordid past? Or—”

  “Mr Murray,” said Renzi, dangerously, “you may not sport with the world as to my origins. Merely refrain from releasing my name, if you will.”

  “Yes, yes, it will be so, Mr Giramondo.”

  “Thank you, sir. Now in a related matter, might I enquire this of you—is there a form of transaction whereby the proceeds may be remitted into an account anonymously?”

  Outside, Renzi blinked in the wan sunlight. Every instinct screamed at him to fly to Guildford and seek Cecilia’s hand that very day.

  For him everything had changed—his future was as a gentleman of comfortable circumstances, and if Cecilia accepted him, he was about to be made the happiest man alive. But what of Kydd? He remembered his friend’s drawn face, the piteous attempt at normality in the face of the worst. After Trafalgar the public had become accustomed to victory and nothing less. A humiliating defeat would demand scapegoats, whom an uneasy government would surely find.

  Would his friend be cast into exile from the sea he so adored?

  It was so unfair—but life had to go on and he had arrangements to make. As he hurried to his cheap lodgings, he tried to unscramble the racing thoughts.

  So, if he was to be married the usual course was for the new wife to cleave to her husband and his establishment—but he had none.

  Item: get one.

  He had no decent attire, certainly none that could be considered seemly for a proposal of marriage.

  Item: find a tailor, expeditiously.

  His financial standing did not run to a bank account, let alone an amicable relationship with a bank manager for the establishing of standing and credit and so forth.

  Item: use the cash draft nestling in his waistcoat to start one.

  He was not a regular attender at any church—how could banns be called, a wedding arranged?

  Item: er, ask Cecilia.

  Then there would be whom to invite and …

  But a dark pall slowly gathered, dominated by the image of his father. The Earl of Farndon.

  For an eldest son a marriage contract in the aristocracy was the stuff of lawyers, of negotiation, of delicacy in the settlement with the bride’s noble family. But a moral confrontation with his father had resulted in a titanic rage and the threat of his disinheriting.

  His brother in Jamaica had sorrowfully confirmed that his father had taken the legal steps necessary. Although he could not prevent the title passing to Renzi, Eskdale Hall and the large estate would now go to his younger brother, Henry.

  His title would be therefore an empty mockery, and he would never put Cecilia to the humiliation of maintaining a sham. She would never know, and would be Mrs Renzi to the day she died.

  Yet he owed it to his father to inform him of his intentions. There was no question of seeking his blessing, for had he not been disinherited? By his own act, therefore, his father no longer had power over him.

  Any interview would be nasty, brutish and short.

  But then it would be finished. He could turn his back for ever on Eskdale: he would never ask anything for himself of the smug and supercilious Henry. And the darkness would then lift and disappear.

  Yes! He would get it over with, then let sunshine flood his life. A post-chaise to Wiltshire? It was not unheard of, but would cost a pretty penny. Would Sir prefer an open or closed carriage? Where was his baggage at all?

  Impatiently, Renzi climbed in and settled back with a dark frown. It was going to be hardest on his mother, who had been helpless to prevent his vengeful father going through with the shameful deed. Now she would never meet the woman he was marrying and he knew she loved her first-born dearly.

  A lump formed in his throat: Eskdale Hall had been, after all, his birthplace and the scene of his youth. To turn his back on it completely was a hard thing to contemplate.

  It was some eight years since he had last been there, his visit culminating in the ferocious argument and ultimatum that had ended everything for him at Eskdale. His father had even gone so far as to forbid his eldest son’s name spoken in his presence.

  The horses were being whipped u
nmercifully—he had promised a shilling for every hour they made up. The sooner the distasteful business was over the better.

  They reached Noakes Poyle in the early afternoon of the next day.

  Renzi directed the driver to the inn where he had stayed previously before sending word of his arrival, but this time it was different. He told the post-chaise to prepare to return—but the destination this time would be Guildford. Their astonishment turned to avarice when he handed over an earnest of his intention that would see them comfortably ensconced with an ale before the fire for the hour or two while they waited.

  A local diligence was hired—he had no wish to answer questions as to why he had posted down instead of the more usual stagecoach. It smelt of horse-hair stuffing and dust, and had small, grubby windows, but as they swung into the long drive to Eskdale Hall it suited his mood.

  The sweeping light-grey immensity of the building looked as stately as ever, but today it seemed to harbour an air of menace, of pent-up malevolence, that chilled him.

  On either side gardeners tended the ornate hedges and lawns, or clipped rosebushes, and horses were being led to the stables as the business of a great estate went on.

  The cab took the smaller roadway to the side that led to the tradesmen’s door. Renzi knocked sharply at the roof until an upside-down face appeared. “To the main entrance, if you please.”

  With a look of resignation the man obeyed. He had to stop the vehicle and lead the horses around but soon it had come to a halt at the foot of the grand steps leading to the massive door.

  Renzi got out, paid the driver and sent him on his way.

  He was committed.

  As he turned towards the house, he saw the head footman descending importantly to deal with the impertinence. But when he drew near, the man’s expression turned to surprise and then confusion.

  “Master Nicholas! We thought …”

  “Take me to my father,” Renzi snapped, and seeing him hesitate, added, “This instant, whatever his instructions to the contrary.”

  “Lord Farndon is … not available, sir,” the man said awkwardly. “The countess will be at home, I believe.”

  “Very well.” If his father was posturing he would send a message in and leave without seeing him.

  He followed the man through the tall oak doors into the entrance hall. “I will inform her ladyship of your arrival, sir.”

  Keyed up for a confrontation that had festered over the years, Renzi was taken aback by what he saw before him.

  His mother stood in the far doorway. Her eyes glittered with tears as recognition came. Then, impulsively, she ran towards him.

  She was wearing a black veil and shawl.

  Clinging to him, she shook with paroxysms of sobs while he held her. Eventually she drew away, dabbing her eyes.

  What did the black veil mean?

  “Father?” Renzi asked quietly.

  She nodded, looking into his face. “Two months hence. Of an apoplexy.”

  “Mother, I’m so grieved for you.” The words came automatically as he tried to grapple with the fact that his demon father was no longer in existence.

  “Nicholas. We must talk. Please!”

  He crushed his raging thoughts and tried to focus.

  If she was going to try to mediate between himself and his brother Henry, now master of Eskdale, in order to beg an allowance and quarters that would see him take up residence here with her, she was sadly mistaken.

  “Very well, Mother.” He would hear her out.

  They went to the blue drawing room. The footman closed the doors quietly and left.

  “Please sit, Nicholas,” she said, with a brave smile, patting a place next to her on the chaise-longue. “We’ve tried to get word to you, but they had no idea where …”

  “We were occupied in South America, Mother,” he said quietly. “And then the Caribbean.”

  “You never received the letter,” she said.

  “If I had to learn of it,” he murmured, “I’d rather it were from my own dear mother.”

  She squeezed him tightly for a long time, then held him at arm’s length. “You’re not eating well, Nicholas. You should take more care of yourself!”

  “Mama, I came here to see Father to—”

  “He is no more, my dear. This is a new beginning.”

  “It was to—”

  “Nicholas. If you came here to contest your rightful inheritance, then rest easy. It is secured for you. I allowed him to be gulled of a hundred guineas by a scheming lawyer to produce a worthless bill of disinheriting. It seemed to answer.”

  “Then …”

  “Yes, my dear. I can tell you that the vile paper was quickly determined invalid and that you are now indisputably the Earl of Farndon and master of Eskdale Hall both. No one in the land may disinherit a noble lord.”

  He went pale. All those years, those times of moral questioning, the vows of distancing, the bitter reflections … Where did this news leave him?

  Getting to his feet he crossed to the window and looked out on the sculpted greenery, the formal gardens, the dark woods in the distance.

  “My dear Nicholas, you must return home to take up your birthright. Do you understand me?”

  He said nothing, the thoughts like a torrent too great to stop.

  She got up and went to him, stroking his hair, as if he were still a child. “My dear boy, you’ve had such adventures on the sea as would put even Tobias Smollett to the blush. Isn’t it time to set it behind you at last?”

  He couldn’t find the words in him to answer: the poverty but freedom, the scent of danger but the deepest satisfaction of true friendship won in hardship and peril. Could he ever … ?

  “Should you decline,” she continued in a pleading tone, “it will undoubtedly provoke a scandal that will have the newspapers of all England in a frenzy. Do pity us, Nicholas. To be the subject of every careless wagging tongue, on penny broadsheets, in theatre dramas, it’s really not to be borne. And the estate. Without a sitting lord there will be none to sign the rolls, to—”

  “Yes, Mama, I do understand. Pray grant me a space to consider it.”

  Renzi felt confined, unable to think, to reason. It was stifling him—the past was bearing down on him, distorting his vision, his perceptions.

  He threw open the French windows. “I—I need to be by myself,” he said hoarsely, and thrust out into the fresh air.

  A gardener with a wheelbarrow stopped to gape at him but he was past appearances. He threw one glance back—his mother’s face was at the window, white and strained.

  Determined, he stepped out strongly, passing beyond the tall, immaculate hedge and into the grounds. As far as the eye could see in every direction, this was the Farndon estate.

  Tenants and farmers, gamekeepers and ostlers. The ancient village beyond the gates. In a timeless mutual reliance based on two things above all others—trust and stability.

  It was their ancient feudal right, and in their conceiving he was the earl, the fount of all grace and bounty.

  He had grown used to the freedoms he had enjoyed in the open fellowship of the sea, his snug place aboard Kydd’s ship wherever it had taken them both, on deeds of daring or desperation, to adventures inconceivable, of far places in the world where none might visit save they were borne there in a man-of-war.

  Could he give this up for ever?

  He had at last secured an income by his own endeavours and could deploy it in any way he chose. His studies of an ethnical nature could now proceed …

  He strode to a field that had a single gnarled oak at its centre. Here he had faced his father in that fateful confrontation that had led to the break. A clash of wills that he had resolved by galloping away, leaving his enraged father to take his revenge.

  It had failed. And with it the power to hurt him.

  In that moment something passed on: he saw his father more to be pitied than hated, as the memory of what he had done began to fade. There was now nothi
ng that he had to react against, to withstand … to justify his exile.

  In that realisation his emotions ebbed. They were replaced by calm.

  And he began to reason. If this was his present situation other moral imperatives must come to the fore. He knew he had a clear duty: to his family first and to society second. To turn on them both for selfish motives was not an act he could easily live with.

  Therefore, whether he desired it or no, it had to be accepted that, with his inheritance secure, there was no conceivable reason to decline the honour.

  And so, irrespective of every other consideration, the decision was out of his hands.

  Turning slowly on his heel, he paced back, letting the logic work its healing on his soul.

  A light-headed relief suffused him. It was all settled: there could be no more disputing with his conscience or any more vain reasonings.

  He would do his duty.

  His mother stood alone, tense and watchful.

  He smiled softly at her. “You are right as always, Mother dear. Perhaps it is time. I will return and do my duty.”

  She stared at him, then dissolved into tears, hugging him to her until they eased. Then she gently disengaged herself and returned to the chaise-longue, her eyes never leaving him.

  “There’s much to do, my son. But first we will have a welcome banquet for my dear Nicholas, returned to his place of honour in the bosom of his family.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  “Henry will be much put out, for his father promised him Eskdale, but take no heed—he’s impetuous and yet to be fully acquainted with the world.”

  “I will not take offence, Mama.”

  “And then we will throw a ball for all the world to take sight of the new earl. A grand affair—I shall invite noble families from up and down the kingdom. You’ll go to London for the season, of course, and there—”

  “Mother. There’s first a matter I must deal with, as we must say, in my former life. It should not take long.”

  “Oh. Cannot it wait, Nicholas?”

  “I rather think not, Mama. I desire to quit such an existence without detail to be dealt with later.”

  “Then do go, my son. I can understand you wish to leave nothing that can cause awkwardness later. When do you think … ?”