“Nicholas?” she answered softly.
“It will affect our marriage, our life together, and I must have an answer.”
She hesitated. “What is it, my dearest?”
He looked at her with an odd expression. “You gave your heart to one Nicholas Renzi. Can you find it in you to love the Lord Farndon at all?”
She smiled playfully. “Nicholas, I fell in love with Mr Renzi and he it is who has secured my entire devotion. If Lord Farndon lays siege to my affections he will have to woo me with yet greater ardour.”
They kissed, long and tenderly.
“My darling, there is—”
“Sweetheart, I—”
“You first, my dear Cecilia.”
“You have precedence, my lord.”
“Then in the matter of our nuptials, dear love. At our station even St Paul’s Cathedral is available to us in a great affair of moment and ceremony. Yet I feel it … improper to indulge in pomp and display while the family is in mourning. Can you … ?”
“Nicholas, it is what I would wish. My father is old and frail and could not possibly endure the strain. And my mother would …”
Unspoken was the fact that the Kydds would be wildly out of their depth in such grandeur and would know it. Cecilia, after years as lady companion to a marchioness, was not unfamiliar with society—but there could be no question of exposing her family to ridicule.
“In Guildford, perhaps?” she asked doubtfully.
“So be it, my love.”
“I’ve asked that the banns be read beginning this Sunday.” She smiled impishly. “We shall be wed in a month. I hope you don’t think me forward, my lord.”
Renzi stopped. “Ah …”
Her smile faded. “Nicholas, what is it?”
“Peers of the realm have certain privileges, my dear.”
“Oh?”
“I rather thought for us—a special licence from Doctors Commons attested by the Archbishop of Canterbury. It will serve to have us married within this very week, setting aside the need for banns and similar.”
“Nicholas! You darling man! Yes—yes!”
“As I trust you will forgive my precipitate behaviour, occasioned, may I point out, only by my earnest wish to secure the presence, before he returns to the sea, of my particular friend at our happy event.”
She melted, and clung to him while their passions surged. Then they turned and walked slowly back.
“Mother?” Renzi said softly.
She was waiting on the steps for them, but she turned first to the woman on his arm. “Cecilia, my dear. Did you enjoy your walk?”
“I did, my lady, very much.”
“You will have some notion now of the duties that await my son as lord of Eskdale Hall.”
“Yes, indeed—and we saw only a part of the whole.”
It seemed to please, and the countess went on, “You have yet to make a tour of the house. At above a hundred rooms it is no easy task in the managing. And soon you will be chatelaine, my dear. Do you feel equal to it?”
Renzi intervened smoothly: “Miss Kydd has for some years been in an intimate situation in the household of the Marquess of Bloomsbury, Mama, and is no stranger to society. I have every expectation that she will be an ornament to our establishment.”
“Of course. Then shall we pass on to the wedding plans? In view of the … irregular nature of proceedings it were best, I feel, if the customary great ceremonials be exchanged for something a little less … formal, so to speak.”
“Quite so, Mama.”
“The gutter press will have their sport on this occasion, no doubt,” she said acidly. “There’s no reason to flaunt it in their faces.”
“As we both agree, Mama. We rather thought in Guildford, the Kydd family town?”
It was settled, and with a pronouncement that the evening would see a grand banquet in their honour, she left them.
They wandered on through fine rooms and cloisters, banqueting halls and drawing rooms until they came to the library.
“And here is where I will have my being, dear Cecilia.”
He looked fondly at the endless shelves, the familiar volumes showing no sign of use since his departure those long years before. And there was the broad desk that dated from the first George with its leather inlay and ink-stains, positioned to take the light from the tall French windows that looked out over the formal gardens.
The peace and tranquillity, the fragrance of books and learning, the centuries of time that the room had seen, all reached out to him. Here it would be that his ethnical studies would attain their fruition, a labour of pride and diligence.
He sighed in anticipation. But before he could resume it would be necessary to take up the reins as lord and master of Eskdale. And for that—
A slight cough sounded from the door. He looked up: it was Jago, the dark-jowled under-steward.
“Does m’ lord desire I should instruct the footmen?”
In the hierarchy of a noble estate, every bit as rigid as aboard ship, Jago ranked very near the top. The valets-de-chambre, butler, footmen, cook and gardeners, all were regulated and administered by himself and the steward. He was now asking if he should put into motion the delicate business of assigning attendants to wait upon the new earl wherever he might be at any hour, day or night.
“We’ll leave it until later, I think, Jago.”
Renzi was aware that his father had been up to all manner of sly tricks to further his interests and prejudices, and it was beyond belief that Jago, at his eminence, had not been party to the whole sordid process. Especially as the estate steward himself would make very certain he was not involved directly. Jago’s appearing now was, without doubt, an anxious testing of the waters; he stood to lose his place and prospects if Renzi decided to make a break with the past.
“Thank you, for now,” he added neutrally.
“Very good, m’ lord,” the man said, expressionless, and withdrew.
At the door there was a soft knock. “Ah, come in, Mr Fortescue.”
Renzi turned to Cecilia. “My dear, my confidential secretary.”
He had every trust and liking for the old man who had striven all he could to moderate between his father and the estate tenants.
“I shall endeavour to give satisfaction, my lord. And might I present Mr Edward Dillon, under-secretary and assistant to myself?”
An intense young man came forward and bowed. “My lord Farndon. Allow me to express how delighted I am at your arrival at Eskdale.”
“Thank you, Dillon. I can assure both you gentlemen of a lively employment to come.”
“My lord. Do forgive my presumption but it was spoken of that before your translation you have had travels and adventures about the world yet untold. Is it in your conceiving to make good record of the same?”
“We shall see. Do you yourself yearn for adventure, perchance?”
“Saving Mr Fortescue’s presence, I should say I am truly envious of your lordship’s peregrinations—a world to discover, to delight in.”
Renzi gave a half-smile. “Quite so, Dillon. However, do bear with your lot for now, there’s a good fellow.”
By evening the entire household was abuzz with conjecture and excitement. A banquet had been set and the kitchen and staff had striven hard. A superb occasion promised.
Renzi found dinner attire left by his brother Richard, who was back in the Caribbean, while Cecilia was arrayed in finery borrowed from his younger sister Beatrice, even if it clung overly snug in places. She wore a dazzling display of pearls and diamonds selected from the parure, a family heirloom set of jewellery presented to her by the countess.
The candles were lit, the guests arrived. An orchestra in the minstrels’ gallery played delicate airs, and scores of footmen stood poised.
Outside the closed doors Cecilia gulped, “Nicholas—I’m so nervous. What if—”
“If they laugh at you? Then I’ll tell the noble executioner to chop off their heads, in
course!”
The dowager countess joined them. “How lovely you look, my dear.” She primped her cheeks, then prompted gently, “Shall we go in?”
“Mother?” Renzi said, trying to take position behind her.
“No, my son. You are the earl now and take precedence. I must follow.”
With Cecilia on his arm he nodded to the footmen.
The doors swung wide and instantly Cecilia’s senses were overwhelmed by the blaze of light in a vast hall glittering with jewels, men’s stars and decorations and great quantities of silver tableware, the light intensifying the crimson and gold of sashes, the fine silk dresses of the noble ladies and, all around, the handsome livery of the footmen of Eskdale.
The orchestra fell suddenly silent. There was a massed scraping of chairs as hundreds of the great and good of the county rose and stood respectfully, their faces turned to take sight of Lord Farndon and his bride-to-be.
They processed in with great dignity—and on that day Cecilia felt she could bear no greater happiness.
“Dear Nicholas—it will come as a great shock to them. You remain here at the Angel, and I’ll go and tell them.”
“Very well, my dearest.”
Alone, Cecilia set out for home. It was a strange, eerie sensation, almost like floating on nothingness in a world that was so familiar but now about to be lost for ever. Would she make a good Lady Farndon, mistress of Eskdale? For the sake of her future husband, she would give it her all …
She smiled at Mrs Simkins hurrying down the road and stepped hastily out of the way of the uncouth baker’s boy with his basket of bread. They’d barely noticed her in their bustling daily round—but most surely this was the very last time it would be so. When the news got out that a daughter of Guildford was marrying a peer of the realm there would be no more of the simple, unaffected life she knew.
Hetty had been shocked, dazed, and had sat like a frightened mouse all the way back; she was herself only now recovering from that earthquake revelation.
Shy Mr Partington, the Kydd school headmaster, saw her and fell into step. “Miss Cecilia? Do the gossips have it true, that you are to be—”
“I am to be married shortly, that is right in the particulars.”
She kept it at that and bade him a good day at her door.
“Well?” prompted her mother, before she had even taken off her bonnet. “Were they nice, a-tall? Did you—”
Cecilia bit her lip. This was not going to be easy.
“Mama, I’ve something to tell you—and Papa too. It’s very important: shall we go into the parlour?”
“Oh, dear, I hope this won’t take long. I’ve a rabbit pie as I’m …” She saw something in her daughter’s face and without another word hurried off to find her husband.
“Why, Cec—what’s to do?” Kydd wanted to know.
“Not now, Thomas. There’s … I have to speak to them both.”
“Oh, well—”
“Not with you, Tom. This is serious.”
Her mother returned, leading her father. Cecilia followed them in and, with an apologetic smile, left Kydd outside to wait.
Ten minutes later his parents came out—and they were as white as a sheet, passing him silently without noticing he was there.
“Cec—what’s this mean, for God’s sake?” he blurted.
“Thomas, I think we should take a walk in the garden.”
They returned slowly, Kydd shaking his head in disbelief.
“Dear Tom. If you’re surprised, think how I felt. In the morning I’m Cecilia Kydd and in the evening I’m … well, I’m to be a countess.”
“Where’s he now, sis?”
“At the Angel until we send for him.”
“Well, we’d better do that now. There’s a gallows lot to hoist in.”
The maid was told to fetch Mr Renzi while Kydd gazed in awe at his younger sister.
“Have you set a date yet?”
“Nicholas needs to have a consort by his side when he takes his place as an earl, he says. And so it will be an early wedding.”
“This year? Or six months only, you shameless devils?”
“Tom, we thought this week.”
“Whaaaat?” he gasped. “You can’t just—”
“He’s a noble lord now, Thomas. He will have leave from the Archbishop of Canterbury himself to wed by special licence.”
Kydd sat down suddenly, lost for words.
Emily bobbed at the door. “Miss, it’s Mr Renzi here.”
“Oh, do show him in, please.”
Scrambling to his feet, Kydd saw his friend of years come in, his countenance serious.
“You’ve heard the tidings.”
“I have, you wicked dog. Frightening the womenfolk like that, you villain!”
But Cecilia had noticed her brother’s tense watchfulness, his unease. “Thomas!” she scolded. “And that’s no way to speak to the Earl of Farndon.”
“Oh? Then how am I … What’s his tally now, can I ask?”
“This is the Right Honourable the Lord Farndon of Eskdale Hall in Wiltshire. He’s to be addressed as ‘my lord’ or ‘your lordship’ and never on your life ‘you villain,’ Tom.”
“Then it’s ‘your lordship,’ if it serves,” Kydd said, in an odd voice, and gave an exaggerated bow, but when he looked again Renzi’s grave expression had not altered.
“This is harder than ever you will know, dear friend,” he said, in a low voice. “I see before me the sea hero I respect and admire above all men, and society demands he bends the knee to me. I would be gratified beyond measure should you hold to ‘Nicholas,’ dear fellow—or even ‘wicked dog’ would answer.”
They clasped hands.
Kydd turned to his sister. “Now, how about you, Cec? What do I hail you as?”
“Why, I’m sure the Countess of Farndon would be content with ‘my lady’ or ‘your ladyship’ but never in this world ‘sis,’ good Sir Thomas.”
“As it shall be, Your Worship. Now if we’re to be squared away and all a-taunto for a right true wedding in this week, we’d better bend on more sail. Where do we start, Cec?”
It was quickly settled that the cosy familiarity of St Mary’s Church would be best suited for the Kydds, and Renzi hastened to make clear that it would suffice also on his side. Its small capacity dictated a family wedding only with a strict limit on guests. This brought a measure of relief in other arrangements, particularly when it was learned that the groom’s family would certainly be invited to Hatchlands, the county seat of Lord Onslow, a distant relative, who might be depended upon in the matter of carriages.
Kydd assumed charge, sending Cecilia off to fit for a bridal gown and reassuring his parents that they could remain indoors quietly while he took care of all the arrangements.
The delighted tailors of Guildford went to double tides, Kydd and Renzi both to be as resplendent as it was possible to be, and after judicious choices the needles flew.
Canon Chaddlewood of St Mary’s allowed he was more than happy to conduct a marriage: who were the blessed couple? When told of the quality of the celebrants and congregation he nearly swooned, and on learning of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s intercessionary licence, he shrank in fright. It took all of a threat to lose the honour to rival Holy Trinity to move him to accept, with the offer of an organist from Hatchlands and a choir from the school.
The wedding was therefore set for Friday next at ten.
Kydd had his own preparations to make. Orders under his name were sent on the Portsmouth stage to the officer-of-the-day of L’Aurore. It desired him to send a party of trusties by return for special service, their rig to be their best as for captain’s inspection.
He then instructed Boatswain Perrott of the school to transform his assembly hall into a temporary mess-deck, and left the gleeful peg-legged sailor teaching his eager boys how to rig header tricing knittles for hammocks.
It was all shaping up in a most satisfying way.
“S
o you’re not nervous at all, old horse?” Kydd said lightly, helping Renzi with his snowy cravat.
“Only that this may in fact all be a vain imagining to vanish at any moment with a loud pop. Thomas, days ago I was a lowly secretary—however honourable the post,” he hastened to add. “And now the world may see me as the espoused of the loveliest creature in existence.”
“Hold still, Nicholas. How can I get a decent tie if you move?”
“Dear fellow,” Renzi said softly. “You’ve said that before.”
“What? And I never did!”
“I’m desolated to contradict my best man, but do you not recall in Artemis frigate we were most certainly tie-mates?”
Kydd stopped. The memories flooded back of a young man with a cherished deep-sea mariner’s long pigtail being combed and plaited by his friend, the favour to be returned afterwards.
“Aye, I do, Nicholas.” A stab of feeling came as he realised that not only were those times so distant in the past, but the continued friendship, which saw them that morning performing exactly the same favours for each other, was now about to be concluded.
“I … I’m going to miss you in L’Aurore, m’ friend,” he said quietly. “It won’t be the same without I have a learned cove scratching away for me somewhere.”
“You may believe that I too shall miss … deeply … the freedoms and sights of the sea life.”
He paused, then brightened. “Yet there is perhaps a final service I can do my good captain. It crosses my mind that, should you continue to require a confidential secretary, may I recommend for your consideration a young man of shining qualities whose discretion I can vouch for personally?”
“Oh? Who then is this splendid fellow?”
“An under-secretary on the estate, Dillon the name. He has notions of one day travelling the world, as I have done, and it seems to me that were you to oblige him in this manner then his loyalty would be unbounded.”
“Life in a man-o’-war is not for the faint-hearted, Nicholas.”
“Is that so, dear chap? You might give him fair trial and see if he measures up to the profession.”
“Very well. Send him to L’Aurore and we’ll take a look at him.”
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