Stockwin Julian - Pasha

It set the seal on his happiness. All he wanted to do now was to fly to his family and lay his triumph before them … and sink into blessed rest until it had all been digested.

It seemed to Kydd that it had not stopped raining since he had left Guildford in a very different mood. Now there was no possible danger to his continued sea career: the Admiralty would never risk the wrath of the public by failing to employ a frigate captain of such fame. Where could it all end?

At the Angel, he’d had to hire a pony and trap for his baggage was so great, but his heart was full as he tapped on the door.

“Son! Welcome back, m’ dear. Let’s get you out o’ them wet clothes. Emily-here, girl!”

He allowed himself to be fussed over, hugging his news to him.

“How long will ye be staying this time, a-tall?” Mrs Kydd asked casually.

“Until the Admiralty sees fit to send me orders. There is a war on, Ma.”

“Goodness gracious-is this all your baggage arriving, Thomas?” she said, with a frown at the carter’s knock.

“I need to keep a few things safe. My room is still … ?”

“O’ course it is, son! As long as y’ want it, you bein’ unmarried an’ all.”

“Is that you, Thomas?” Cecilia said in delight, coming into the room. “My, you are wet.”

“Cec,” Kydd demanded immediately. “Has Renzi talked to you at all?”

“Nicholas? Well, no, he called a few days ago but I was out, and then he found he had business to do and I haven’t seen him since.”

“That black-hearted scoundrel!” Kydd spluttered. “I knew he’d skulk off if I left him.”

“Thomas, what do you mean? He said he’d return shortly,” she said frowning.

“Never mind! Just keep a weather eye open for the shyster.”

But nothing could spoil the swelling happiness he felt. Should he tell them now or save it for when he’d changed? He knew he couldn’t keep it to himself indefinitely so he compromised. “I’m just going off to shift out o’ these wet togs-don’t go away, anybody. I’ve a surprise for you all …”

In his room he opened the big leather trunk-and there it was, not a crazed fantasy but a reality, and his by right. The glittering splendour of the accoutrements of a knight of the realm.

He stripped, towelling vigorously, then began to dress. There was an aged full-length mirror in the corner with a crack across its middle. He inspected himself in all his finery. The crimson mantle with its gold tassels, the star and riband, white leather shoes, spurs of gold and, of course, his sword. The cap with its flare of feathers he couldn’t wear in the low-ceilinged room so he carried it carefully as he stepped out.

He paused outside the little drawing room and settled the cap firmly on, then flung the doors wide.

“Lawks a-mercy!” squealed Mrs Kydd. “Whatever are you doin’ in them clothes, Thomas? Take ’em off afore someone sees you!”

Cecilia’s eyes widened in dawning comprehension. “T-Tom, is it that you’re … you’re a … ?”

“Ma, Cecilia,” he said proudly, “meet … Sir Thomas Kydd, Knight o’ the Most Honourable Order of the Bath.”

“You are!” his sister breathed, her eyes shining. “You really are!”

“Aye, sis. Just these two days. By the hand of His Majesty himself, as I’m a hero of Curacao.” He chuckled. “And this is my gold medal-he gave it me when we had tea together. That’s with Queen Charlotte as well, o’ course.”

“Tea! With the King!”

“Oh, Tom dear, I wish ye wouldn’t scare us so,” Mrs Kydd said faintly, having had to sit suddenly. “Now, you’re not flamming us, are you?”

“No, Ma. If you don’t believe me, you can read about it in the London Gazette, like all the world does.”

Cecilia took in his full court dress in awe. “Then you’ve been to the investiture?” she whispered. “At Westminster Abbey, and all? I nearly went to one with the marquess but he wanted us to remain outside for the procession. Did you … ?”

“I did, Cec! In the abbey among all that tackle from long ago. It’s where Nelson himself got his knighting and you can still see his stall plate with the common sailor on his crest.”

This time it was she who had to sit, looking up at him with a hero-worship that was agreeably gratifying for an older brother.

“You’re famous, then,” she said, in hushed tones. “Mama, Thomas is a hero. He’s going to be talked about and-and …”

She stopped, at a loss to put into words that now there was a Kydd who would tread an inconceivably larger stage.

CROSSING BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE and walking on to Fleet Street, Renzi brought to mind the outcome of his previous interview with the publisher John Murray: the summary destruction of his hopes of publication of his ethnical treatise. It had been done in the politest and most gentlemanly way, yet with finality, along with the offhand suggestion of an alternative course-a novel.

The office was further along, the polished brass plate still on the door.

This was now a matter of the gravest import. If the book had met with success … If, however, what he had seen was a scandalously copied version …

He hesitated, then knocked firmly.

The door was opened by the same old gentleman in half-spectacles who had wished him well before. “Why, sir! How kind of you to call again. Do come in. I’ll tell Mr Murray you’re here-I won’t be a moment.” He hurried up the stairs, leaving the lowly clerks glancing at Renzi with curiosity.

Shortly a call came from the next floor. “He bids you join him, sir, and you are welcome!”

Renzi entered the book-lined office.

“Come in, come in! Sit yourself down, man,” Mr John Murray said, showing every evidence of interest and politeness.

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.”