Julian Stockwin - Tenacious

It was odd, on the appointed day, to leave their front door and simply by crossing the road and walking to the end of the street to be able to present themselves at the door of Lord Stanhope's discreet mansion, such was the consequence of the English propensity to stay together.

"Lieutenants Kydd and Renzi," Kydd told the footman. It seemed that the noble lord could afford English domestic staff— but then he remembered that Stanhope was in the diplomatic line and probably needed to ensure discretion in his affairs.

They entered a wide hallway where another servant took their cocked hats. Kydd was awed by the gold filigree on the furniture, the huge vases, the rich hangings—all spoke of an ease with wealth that seemed so natural to the high-born. He glanced at Renzi, who came of these orders, but saw that his friend had a withdrawn, preoccupied look.

They moved on down the passage. "My dear sea-heroes both!" Cecilia was in an ivory dress, in the new high-waisted fashion—which gave startling prominence to her bosom, Kydd saw with alarm.

They entered a drawing room and Kydd met, for the first time since very different circumstances in the Caribbean, the Lord Stanhope and his wife. He made a leg as elegantly as he could, aware of Renzi beside him.

"Dear Mr Kydd, how enchanting to meet you again." The last time Lady Stanhope had seen him was in the Caribbean—as a young seaman in charge of a ship's boat in a desperate bid to get vital intelligence to the British government. Seaflower cutter, in which the Stanhopes had been travelling, was beached ashore after a storm. Lord Stanhope, although injured, could not wait for rescue and Kydd had volunteered to take to sea in the tiny vessel.

"Your servant," Kydd said, with growing confidence, matching his bow to the occasion.

"And Mr Renzi. Pray do take some tea. Cecilia?"

The formalities complete, they sat down. Kydd manoeuvred his delicate porcelain cup manfully, privately reflecting on the tyranny of politeness that was obliging him to drink from a receptacle of such ridiculous size.

"Now, you must know we are beside ourselves with anticipation to hear of Nelson and his glorious triumph. Do please tell us—did you meet Sir Horatio himself?"

Suddenly shy, Kydd looked to Renzi, but his friend gave no sign of wishing to lead the conversation. He remained reserved and watchful.

"Aye, I did—twice! He spoke t' us of our duty and ..." It was easy to go from there to the storm, the long-drawn-out chase, the final sighting and the great battle itself. At that point he saw Cecilia's intense interest and felt awkward, but again Renzi seemed oddly introspective and offered no help. He therefore sketched the main events of the contest and concluded his account with the awesome sight that had met their eyes on the dawn, and their rapturous welcome at Naples.

"Well, I do declare! This will all be talked about for ages to come, there can be no doubt about it. Pray, where is Sir Horatio at the moment? Is he not with the fleet here?"

"No, y'r ladyship. He's still in Naples—y' understand, the King o' Naples has been uncommon kind t' us in the matter of fettlin' the ships an' entertaining us after our battle, and ..." he tailed off as he noticed Stanhope's eyes narrowing suspiciously "... he'll probably be with us directly."

He sipped his tea although it was now tepid. His admiral's disposition was no business of his and he could not understand Stanhope's disquiet. Now would be a good time for Renzi to contribute a sage comment on the strategic implications of their victory but, annoyingly, he sat still as a statue, staring into space with unfocused eyes.

"Er, I think it has somethin' to do with the admiral wanting t' rouse 'em up to face the French. An' with the Austrians our, er, friends t' help—not forgettin' that the Queen o' Naples is sister t' the emperor," he added weakly.

"The late emperor," Stanhope corrected automatically, but his frown had deepened and Kydd felt out of his depth.

"Sir, if ye'd be s' kind, can we know how th' news has been received aroun' the world?"

"Certainly." Stanhope's face cleared. "Yet, first, I could not forgive myself were I not at this point to express my deepest satisfaction in your change of fortune. Your conduct in the Caribbean will never be forgotten by me and it must be to the country's great benefit that your resolution and professional skill has been so justly recognised."

Cecilia clasped her hands in smothered glee and Kydd flushed.

"I do also remember your particular friend." He directed a meaningful look at Renzi, whose attention seemed to snap back to the present.

"Indeed, sir." Renzi's distracted look was replaced by urbanity. "I have the liveliest remembrance myself of past days, not all of which have been tranquil." Relieved, Kydd let Renzi continue. "It would seem, however, that we have been attended by a very welcome measure of success that should be a caution to all."

Stanhope smiled grimly. "There are nations who have sought to find common cause with the French. Now they are obliged to gaze upon their great Buonaparte stranded helpless."

"A prime spectacle!" chuckled Kydd. "Do ye think he'll last long?"

"He may flounder about, win a battle or two against the indolent Turks who inhabit that part of the world, but the great sand deserts that ring him about will end his ambitions before long, you can be sure."

Kydd turned to Renzi but his look of distraction had returned. It was not in character and Kydd felt unease, which deepened when Renzi did not appear to have noticed that the talking had stopped.

Cecilia leaned across. "Nicholas, is anything wrong? You're as quiet as a mouse."

Renzi looked at her unhappily. "Er, today I received a letter." He swallowed. "From my mother ..."

CHAPTER 10

RENZI STARED INTO THE FIRE as it crackled and spat, sending sparks spiralling up the inn's chimney. Winter in England was a sad trial after the Mediterranean; he snuggled deeper into his coat and sipped his toddy. His mother's letter, pleading that for her sake he return, had come as a shock. His father was in such a towering rage at his continued absence that he was now making her life unbearable.

In Halifax Renzi had received a letter from his brother Richard, advising him that his brother Henry was trying to have Renzi declared dead so that he could assume the place of eldest son. This had been easily dealt with: Renzi had immediately sent a letter to his father calmly setting out the reasons why he had chosen his term of exile and informing him of his elevation to the quarterdeck as a king's officer.

His father's contemptuous reply had dismissed any justification of conduct based on moral grounds and had demanded he return instantly to answer for his absence. Renzi had decided to face him when Tenacious returned to England but his mother's letter had forced the issue.

With the Mediterranean quiet and his ship in the dockyard for some time, there had been no difficulty in securing leave and he had taken passage in a dispatch cutter to Falmouth, then a coach to Exeter and the bleak overland trip to Wiltshire. He was staying overnight in the local inn and had sent ahead for a carriage, knowing that this would serve as warning of his arrival. Tomorrow he would return to Eskdale Hall, the seat of the Laughton family and the Earl of Farndon since King Henry's day.

It had been nearly seven years, and Renzi had changed. Gone was the careless, unthinking man who had dissipated so much of his youth and means on his Grand Tour. And he was no longer the naive young fellow who had been so shocked by what he had encountered on his return that he had taken the moral course of self-exile for a term of five years. His time on the lower deck of a man-o'-war had shaped him, hardened him. Now he looked at life with a detached, far-seeing regard. There would have to be a reckoning, however, for as eldest son his situation was circumscribed by custom and law. He felt the chill of foreboding.