Stockwin Julian - Pasha

There was little conversation in the swaying, rattling coach. A cold winter rain beat at the windows and the countryside blurred into anonymity.

Past the little town of Petersfield, Renzi said stiffly, “There’s nothing I can bring to mind that makes my matter the easier to say.”

“Fire away nevertheless, Nicholas.”

“It’s that … should Cecilia accept me … then, to be brutally frank, I have very little means to support her as a wife, as I keep telling you. Is it morally right then to-”

“If she agrees to marry you, I shall settle something on you both-tell her it’s your prize-money portion, if you like.”

“That’s very hard to accept, Tom, but nobly offered.”

“You’ll take it for her sake, Nicholas.”

“Very well.”

“And none of your tricks o’ logic. No telling me you’ll marry her right enough, but the wedding day’s only to be when you find the time.”

They continued on in companionable silence. Some time later Hindhead appeared out of the driving rain. Renzi turned to Kydd and said, in a low voice, “Whatever is ahead for us both I know not-but the friendship in my heart I will value for all of time.”

The whip cracked over the tired horses as they toiled up the steep hill in Guildford Town. The Angel posting-house was halfway up and the coach swung through the arch. The driver cursed as he descended, tearing off his dripping cloak and keeping out of the way of the ostlers.

Renzi turned to his friend. “You’ll … ?”

“No, Nicholas. I have to get to the Admiralty without a moment lost. I don’t want to disturb my folks only to be off again. After they change horses I’ll be away. Now, you’re going through with-”

“You have my solemn word on it.”

“Then …”

“I wish you well, dear friend. It’s my prayer you’ll still be in possession of a ship at the end of it.”

“I never took you for the praying sort, Nicholas, but thank you. And I do wish you every happiness, you and Cecilia both.”

They clasped hands, then parted.

Renzi turned and left the Angel, crossing the road and taking the short cut through the Tunsgate to the Kydd naval school.

His mind raced-even now it was not too late to slink away, avoid the issue entirely, for there was every chance that Cecilia had given up on him, had married another. Or perhaps she was out somewhere in the far reaches of the world with her employer, that diplomat of mysterious assignments, the Marquess of Bloomsbury.

Or she might be at home.

Hammering at him was one overriding question: was it right to propose marriage dependent on a settlement from his friend? A delicate ethical dilemma: on the one hand there was every moral imperative to decline to pursue his suit but on the other he had given his word to Kydd.

He looked up from the rain that drove in his face and found that he was close to the school. He must make up his mind quickly. So much hung on-

A hand touched his arm. Startled, he swung around to see the rosy face of Emily, the Kydds’ maid.

“It is! Mr Renzi, as I stand!” she blurted, with a broad smile. “Come t’ visit. Right welcome you are too, sir.”

“Do let me assist, my dear,” he said, taking the basket of vegetables she was carrying.

“Why, thank you, sir. They’ll be main pleased t’ see you, what with no news about Mr Thomas and such. Have you had tidings a-tall?”

There could be no retreating now and he let her prattle wash over him until they reached the door.

Unexpectedly, a calm settled. He would go through with it: he would formally propose to Miss Cecilia Kydd.

“Why, Mr Renzi!” Mrs Kydd cried. “Do come in out o’ that rain. I’m so pleased to see you-have you any word o’ young Thomas?” she added anxiously.

“He’s hale and hearty, Mrs Kydd, let me assure you. He’s important business in London but desires me to convey to you his filial devoirs and promises to visit at the earliest opportunity.”

“You’re so wet, Mr Renzi. Emily, run and get a towel for Mr Renzi-quickly now!”

“Who’s that, Fanny?” quavered a voice from within.

“Why, Mr Renzi, Walter, that’s who,” she replied.

“Come into the parlour, Mr Renzi. Sit y’self down while we find you something to warm the cockles.” She ushered him into the small front room, so well known from times before.

“You are in good health, Mrs Kydd?”

“So-so. I always gets chilblains in this blashy weather, but never you mind.”

“And Cecilia?” he asked carefully.

“Oh? Yes, she’s fine. Now do tell us where you’ve gone to these last-bless my soul, it must be coming on for two years now.”

“A long story, and I’d much rather it were Thomas in the telling.” He paused, “Might I enquire, what does Cecilia these days?”

“Poor lamb. She had a fine position, as y’ know, with the marquess an’ lady, but now they can’t travel so she’s been let go with an encomium. Spends her days about the house moping-she should get out and find herself a man, if y’ pardon my speaking so direct.”

“Is she here? I’d like to pay my respects.”

“She was. Gone out to see a friend-she’ll be back soon, I’ll not wonder.”

Renzi’s heart skipped a beat.

“Emily!” Mrs Kydd called in exasperation. “Where’s that posset? Mr Renzi here is a-dyin’ from the cold an’ wet. I’ll give you a hand.”

She bustled out, leaving Renzi alone.

He looked about: was there anything that spoke of Cecilia’s presence, that was hers? He was now about to face the one who had captured his heart, and a sudden wave of emotion engulfed him. He loved the woman: he adored her, was hopelessly lost to her. And he would propose, go on bended knee-but what if she turned him down?

Desolation clamped in. Refusal was a very real chance: this was a hard world where marriages were largely contracted on the basis of income expectations and a lady would be considered a fool to marry beneath her station. Even were Cecilia still to bear him an affection, she had her future to consider and …

A lump rose in his throat. It wouldn’t be long and he would know her answer-and if it was unfavourable, his heart would surely be broken.

In a frenzy of apprehension he looked again to see if there was anything of her in the room. She must spend hours here, sitting-needlework? Not Cecilia, her mind was too active. What did other young ladies do in her circumstances? Drawing? Piano? There was neither here. He knew so little of her at home …

What was that, peeping out from under the cushion? A book, shoved under in haste to conceal it, almost certainly what she’d been reading.

Guiltily Renzi pulled it out. It was a novel of sorts, the cover gold-embossed with a romantic manly figure standing atop a rock. He felt a tinge of disappointment that it was a work of fiction she was reading rather than an improving classical tome. He flicked the pages to see what had attracted her to it, some with dark Gothic pictures, the text closely spaced.

He picked a paragraph at random and began reading-he had seen those very words before. They were his own, damn it!

Nearly dropping the book, he flicked hastily to the title page. Portrait of an Adventurer by Il Giramondo. The peregrinations of a gentleman rogue who loses his soul to dissipation and finds it again in far wandering.

He feverishly searched for the publisher’s name: yes, it was John Murray.

The implications slammed in on him. He was a published author! And therefore he had an income!

He choked back a sob, undone by the sudden reversal of Fate.

Then a cooler voice intervened. To tell Cecilia that he had an income as an author would be to reveal that he must necessarily be this wastrel. How could he?