Stockwin Julian - Pasha

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 unmercifully-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.