Julian Stockwin - Conquest

Soon after, to Renzi’s surprise, the grim-faced Slotsboo, treasurer of the Burgher Senate and implacable enemy to the currency-exchange proclamation, stepped out of his carriage, himself handing down his extravagantly dressed wife and approaching the governor with an ingratiating smile.

Behind him carriages joggled for a place as more and more arrived, to the intense gratification of the onlookers. Both the collector and comptroller of Customs claimed noisy priority over the dignified Truter, secretary to the Court of Justice, and when the crowd caught sight of the young wife of the deputy fiscal in her beribboned gown, there was a long collective sigh.

The evening was made! Renzi looked around at the glittering splendour of the animated throng, the jealously hoarded finery of the ladies and the naked jostling for social position – there was no doubt that Baird had been right and that society was beginning to cohere as one around the person of the governor.

Renzi did his duty happily, passing among the great and good, graciously bestowing kind words upon those brought to be introduced by Ryneveld and allowing himself, the influential colonial secretary of Cape Colony, to be both seen and admired.

Then it was time to make the short journey to the castle and the ball. The governor rode alone first in an ornate carriage; Renzi with Ryneveld was next, the military behind.

Following Baird’s example, Renzi affably acknowledged with a wave the shouts of the crowd as they passed by and then on to the parade-ground where, by torchlight, a massed band and marching troops crashed into motion.

With a sense of unreality Renzi sat rigid as they drove through the ancient gate to the inner courtyard. Opposite, lined up outside the governor’s residence, were the lesser invitees – colonels, post-captains, heads of departments, ward masters, church ministers, others.

Baird descended from his carriage and began passing along the waiting guests, Renzi close behind, finding polite words for each. Then it was Kydd who was next in the line and they played their parts, the only concession to the situation being a solemn wink from Renzi and a wondering shake of Kydd’s head.

The long ballroom was splendidly lit with candelabra stands by the dozen and infinite tawny gold points reflected in the many mirrors. At one end a regimental band in evening dress played softly as the room filled and champagne flowed.

Kydd was sure that he was going to enjoy the heady evening, not unaware that in his full-dress post-captain’s uniform he cut a striking figure.

‘Mevrouw – the first dance?’ Baird led out a proud Mrs Ryneveld, and Kydd claimed a shy, light-featured Dutch maiden, whose English, he discovered, was not the equal of her charms. They stepped out prettily together, though, and after two dances he graciously allowed her to be taken by a red-faced young subaltern.

Then, in the next dance, dutifully bowing and rising to a dimpled matron, he caught sight across the room of a beautiful dark-haired woman, whose grace was drawing admiring glances from all parts. When the dance finished he determined to go in search of her.

She was surrounded by fawning men, fluttering her fan but giving her entire attention to Renzi, who was holding forth. Her ivory gown was cut low, revealing an alabaster bosom, and her lustrous black hair framed striking Gallic features. Kydd thrust through and gave a sweeping bow. ‘Shall this round be mine, Mam’selle?’

He had noticed what the others had not – that Dutch maidens did not mark cards for dancing partners and he was therefore free to ask. He was met with a cool gaze from her and a startled look from Renzi, but she consented, lifting a sequinned gloved hand, which he took with a wicked glance back at the group of envious men.

The first words of his small-talk in English were met with a cold expression in French of her inability to converse easily, but Kydd was equal to this – his painful lessons from Renzi during the blockade of Toulon had matured into a passable competence in the language.

She seemed not impressed, however, and he had to wait impatiently for the dance round to come back to him before he could continue. As he spoke, her eyes darted to where Renzi was the centre of a circle of admirers.

Did he know Colonial Secretary Renzi at all? Such a handsome and charming man! And so elegant a turn of phrase for an Englishman. Was he married? A lady friend?

Kydd admitted that indeed he knew the gentleman and with relish went on to point out that the colonial secretary’s intended was to be sent for shortly to join him at the Cape.

This got her attention and the coolness went as she observed respectfully that he himself must be a gentleman of importance to know the colonial secretary so well. Kydd explained that Mr Secretary’s bride was to be none other than his sister and that he was certainly well acquainted with the gentleman.

After the dance he led her back to the side of the room and was rewarded with a charming smile. He lingered, blasting with a glare the subaltern who had the effrontery to cut in. The young soldier retired, wounded.

Was the next dance promised, or should they stand up together once more? He whirled her into the cotillion, blood singing.

All too soon he had to surrender her and wandered back to the refreshments table, where Renzi was in earnest conversation with a grave Dutchman whose wife stood shyly back. Kydd helped himself to a plate, waited until Renzi was free, then said casually, ‘Rattling fine ball, Nicholas.’

‘Oh? I’m gratified to hear it, old fellow.’

‘Um, just curious, that French-rigged lady you were speaking to earlier?’

Renzi gave a slow smile. ‘Why, brother, the mysterious damsel that’s set all the men to talking?’

‘She says I’m to call her Thérèse,’ Kydd said.

‘That is much easier on the tongue than Marie Thérèse Adèle de Poitou.’

‘Er, who was that again?’

‘Who the Dutch call the French princess, although she is but the youngest daughter of the Baron de Caradeuc. Apparently royalists fled from France and settled here, keeping to themselves, with a modest vineyard past the Stellenbosch.’

‘You seem to know enough about her, Nicholas.’

‘As a moderately successful vintner, the baron is entitled to an invitation, I find. He expressed his regrets and trusts that his daughter’s presence might suffice.

‘Quite a coup,’ Renzi added, with satisfaction. ‘The baron lost his wife to the guillotine and lives alone on the estate with his daughter. They were seldom seen in town before now.’

The ball continued joyously – but Kydd had eyes for only one.

Chapter 9

This had been an edgy voyage. Kydd had been tasked to search out any lurking French squadrons so L’Aurore had ranged along the track of the Indiamen as being the most likely hunting ground, meeting each dawn with the utmost vigilance, as the starry night faded to first light, extending out until the wave-tossed horizon could be meticulously searched.

Nothing had been seen of the enemy, but there had been some moments of heart-pumping tension: as one night lifted, it had shown a fleet of ships bearing down on them. These, however, had proved to be an outward-bound John Company convoy, who were glad to hear of the capture of Cape Town but had no news of the French.

For Kydd it was always something akin to magic, the diligent application of tables and the wielding of sextant and chronometer, then land conjured from the immensity of ocean. He stood on the quarterdeck, gazing at the jagged blue-grey that was St Helena; unspeakably remote, a speck in the watery vastness of the South Atlantic but a valued rendezvous point for the rich India convoys.