Julian Stockwin - Conquest

It was L’Aurore .

Kydd left Diadem ’s great cabin not greatly put out by the surly manner of Commodore Popham for he knew L’Aurore had done well. Lourenço Marques had turned out to be little more than a forlorn outpost, perpetually in conflict with the savages, that was hanging on to the last sad vestiges of Portuguese rule and could offer nothing in the way of dockyard facilities or similar of interest to the British.

The two Indiamen were still there, undergoing repair with materials L’Aurore had sent over and had every hope of a successful resumption of their voyage. He’d brought reliable news of the size and capability of the French squadron, even though Popham had dismissed the threat, assuming after the blow that they would fall back on their Indian Ocean bases.

In light-hearted mood he boarded his barge and directed it ashore to pay his respects to the governor. The boat came smartly alongside the jetty and Kydd mounted the rickety side-steps, surprised to find his confidential secretary there to meet him.

‘My word, but this sea life is suiting you, dear fellow,’ Renzi said genially.

Kydd laughed, and they walked companionably towards the castle. It was good to see his friend after so much had happened. ‘Shall we sup together after I’ve seen Sir David, or must his secretary keep close station on him always?’ he asked.

‘Er, I’m not, as who should say, his secretary, old chap. He has his own,’ Renzi said, a little uncomfortably.

‘Then you didn’t get the position? The dog! I’ll wager even so he’s working you half to death, Nicholas.’ Renzi did look more than a little harassed.

At Kydd’s full dress uniform, the castle sentries presented arms with an enthusiastic crash of musket and gaitered boot, and they passed into the inner courtyard and across to the governor’s suite. Seeing Renzi, the aide-de-camp rose respectfully. ‘Sir David is with General Ferguson, sir. I’ll let him know you’re here.’

‘Never mind, Lieutenant,’ Kydd said crisply. ‘We’ll return later.’

The aide ignored Kydd with a pained expression and knocked gently on the connecting door. ‘Mr Renzi and a naval gentleman, Sir David.’

Moments later a disgruntled general emerged, looking sharply at Renzi before being ushered away. Baird appeared beaming. ‘You’ve brought me Captain Kydd, then, Renzi, old chap.’

‘As he’s bringing report of the French, sir,’ Renzi said smoothly, standing aside for Kydd. ‘Do go in, Captain, I shall wait outside.’

Later, a much-chastened Kydd was settled into a chair in Renzi’s inner sanctum by a protective Stoll. ‘ Your secretary?’ he asked wryly, when the man had left.

‘Well, one of them,’ Renzi admitted.

Kydd looked around the well-appointed office. ‘And I had my concerns that he’d been working you like a slavey. Shall I be told what you do with your day at all?’

Lightly covering the detail, Renzi explained what it was to be a colonial secretary while Kydd listened first in astonishment and then in good-natured envy. ‘In the first rank of Cape Town society no less – I must take off my hat to you in the street, I find!’

‘It has its compensations, the position,’ Renzi agreed.

‘As will make it a sad trial for you to return to L’Aurore .’ Kydd chuckled.

Renzi’s face shadowed. ‘Er, there’s every reason to suppose that will now not happen, Tom.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sir David has done me the honour of asking me to consider this a permanent situation,’ he said gently, ‘and is communicating with Whitehall to have me confirmed in post, my friend.’

‘Nicholas – is this what you desire, or is some villain—’

‘It is my wish. You see . . . I shall now have a situation in life that is both honourable and secure, that yields a competence that is quite sufficient, you see, to . . . marry.’

Kydd was dumbfounded.

‘A sufficient competence ?’ he managed.

‘An acceptable term, I’d think, for an emolument some seven or eight times your own.’

Kydd smiled awkwardly. Renzi’s high moral principles had prevented his seeking Cecilia’s hand in marriage while unable to provide for her, and through sheer chance he had been given the means to do so and obviously had seized it with both hands – or . . .

‘Oh, er, Nicholas, by your talk of marriage, do you mean to say, um, to Cecilia, not some Dutch lady of your recent acquaintance?’

‘To your sister,’ Renzi said frostily. ‘In the event she is free and accepts my proposal, I mean to send for her to approve Cape Colony as an appropriate place of our domicile de mariage .’

‘Ah.’

‘To be wed in the Groote Kerk, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Cecilia – out here? Kydd had doubts, but if she still had the feelings for Renzi that he’d been witness to before, then all was possible. ‘I see. Then . . . then you’ll not be wanting your cabin aboard,’ he ventured, still dazed by the announcement.

‘It would seem not, Tom.’ Renzi’s voice was awkward. ‘I would take it kindly if you’ll—’

‘Your books ’n’ effects will be landed as soon as they may.’

‘Thank you.’

There was a long pause while Kydd tried to find something to say. ‘Er, you’re still looking a mort mumchance – can this be some delicate question of state that’s taxing the intellects?’

Renzi smiled ruefully. ‘No, dear fellow. It’s naught but the throwing of a grand ball for which I bear both the honour and responsibility. You’d never conceive the worry of spirits this is causing me – such quantities of vexing detail that would drive a saint to drink and ruin.’

‘Ha! That’s easily solved, I’m persuaded,’ Kydd said immediately.

‘Oh? How so?’

‘You may claim the services of Tysoe, who, as you know, has served a noble family – but, mind you, I shall have him back!’

Renzi’s face cleared. ‘A capital idea! My mind is quite eased, believe me. Er – shall we adjourn to another place? My apartments are commodious and overlook such a quaint and sublime fountain . . .’

The evening stole in, a thankful cool with a violet tinge to the light adding to the nervous elation in the group standing about the doors of Government House. Baird had fallen in with the idea of holding the reception there, in the palatial surroundings of the Dutch governor’s residence, then moving to the larger castle for the ball, involving as it would a jingling panoply of sumptuous carriages through the streets for all Cape Town to see.

‘I don’t spy any of ’em yet!’ Baird rumbled, twitching his military stock and peering past the goggling crowd pressed up to the railings. ‘If we dance alone they’ll hear about it for years to come in every club in London!’

‘Sir, the evening’s yet young,’ Renzi soothed, trying not to let the feathers of his ridiculous ceremonial helmet tickle his nose. ‘And I’d believe every matron will be concerned not to let a single hair go unfrizzed.’

The governor did not appear mollified and Renzi fell back briefly into the entrance to confront an immaculate Tysoe. ‘Is everything ready?’ he hissed. ‘Should this night be a disaster then . . . then—’

‘All is to satisfaction, sir,’ Tysoe replied serenely, ‘Being under my direct instructions.’ At any other time the distinct elevation of his tone would have brought amusement.

The impeccably dressed regimental band stoically continued playing their light airs and the members of the receiving line – himself after Baird, Ryneveld, two generals, Popham and three members of the Senate – hovered in readiness.

It wasn’t until an interminable forty minutes had passed that the first carriage arrived and one Overbeek, vice-president of the Orphans Chamber, wife and wide-eyed daughter arrived. A genial Baird granted a full five minutes to the bemused worthy, his wife and daughter the breathless centre of attention of the rest of the line.