Julian Stockwin - Tenacious

The long night ended with a cold dawn, and after a frugal breakfast Renzi waited on the benches outside, trying to let the sights and smells of the country enter his soul once more, but the bleakness and mud were depressing.

Eventually the carriage came into view, its gleaming black sides spattered with winter grime. The coachman and footman wore careful, blank faces but the noble family crest on the door seemed accusing. Renzi settled into the cushions—despite everything he could feel himself assuming only too easily the mantle of the high-born, with its habits of hauteur and expectations of deference.

They reached the local village of Noakes Poyle where many of the estate labourers lived. As they clattered through the cramped high street, he caught sight of old shops, the busy market; besmocked agricultural workers respectfully touched their forelocks. All conspired to peel away the years and thrust him back to what he had been.

Out into the country again they turned into a road with an elegant gold-filigreed iron gate. Old Lawrie emerged from the gatehouse, grinning like a boy. "Oi see thee well, Master Nicholas, sir?" he asked. It was the first cheeriness Renzi had experienced since he arrived.

The carriage pulled grittily up the drive, which, flanked by trees, led to the splendour of Eskdale Hall. He could see figures assembling on the front lawn: the servants turning out to mark his homecoming. He forced a composure.

The carriage began its final wide curve towards the house and Renzi found himself searching for familiar faces, friendly looks, then saw his parents standing together at the top of the steps. The carriage swept past the servants and came to a halt. The footman got down and swung out the step. Renzi descended. Amid a deathly hush he went up to greet his mother and father.

His mother was set and pale, her hands clasped in front of her; the ninth Earl of Farndon's granite expression showed no emotion.

"Father," Renzi said formally, extending his hand. It was coldly ignored. Renzi felt the old anger and frustration build but clamped a fierce hold on himself. He bowed politely, then turned to his mother, who stood rigid, staring at him as if he were a ghost. Then he noticed the glitter of tears and went to her, holding her, feeling her fierce embrace, and hearing just one tearing sob before she pulled away and resumed her position next to his father.

For a long moment there was silence, then his father turned on his heel and went inside. His mother reached out and took his hands. "Go to him, Nicholas," she said, her face a mask.

Renzi followed his father into the dark wood-panelled main study. "Close the door, boy," the earl snapped, and took his seat behind the desk more usually employed for dealing with tenants behind in their rent. Renzi was very aware of how little provocation might set tempers ablaze.

His father barked, "An explanation, if you please, sir." Renzi took a deep breath. "I find I have nothing to add that I have not set out in my letter, Father."

"Don't feed me that flim-flam about moral duty again," his father roared, his face red, eyes glinting dangerously. "I want to hear why you've seen fit to disappear for years, absenting yourself from your rightful place of duty to—" "Sir, I've as lively a sense of duty as any—" "Sir, you're a damned poltroon if you think there's an answer in running away—"

Renzi felt his self-control slip. He had taken to logic and rationality as a means of establishing ascendancy over his own passions and it had served him well—but now he could feel building within him the selfsame passionate anger at his father's obstinacy that had prompted him to leave. "Father, I made my decision by my own lights. Whether right or wrong it was done and cannot now be undone." He forced himself to appear calm. "It were in both our interests to recognise this and address the future instead."

They locked eyes. Then, unexpectedly, his father grunted and said, "Very well. We'll talk more on your future here later."

Renzi got to his feet, but the earl did not. "Go and make your peace with your mother, Nicholas," he said bleakly.

She was waiting in the Blue Room. "Shall we meet the rest of the family, Nicholas?" she said brightly. "They are so looking forward to seeing you." They were assembled in the drawing room, and Renzi was gratified to see Richard, whom he had last seen in very different circumstances in Jamaica where Richard owned a sugar plantation—they exchanged a brotherly grin. Fourteen-year-old Edward had no doubt about a welcome and little Beatrice shyly dropped him a curtsy. A warning glance from his mother prepared him for his next younger brother. "Henry, are you keeping well?"

"Tolerably, tolerably," was all the answer Renzi knew he was going to get from that sullen young man, and he turned back to the others.

"Nicholas, old fellow, we've missed you," Richard said breezily. "Why don't we take a turn round the estate before we dine and see what's changed? You don't mind, Mama?"

As soon as they were out of earshot Richard dropped the jolliness and looked at Renzi keenly. "I hope you don't believe I broke confidences when I told Mother you were safe and well, and had taken to seafaring? She did so grieve after you, Nicholas."

"No, Richard, it was kind in you. I should have considered her more."

"Father was in such a fury when you left—he swore he would whip the hide from you when you returned. Then when you did not, he went into himself, if you understand me. Mama dared not tell him of—of where you were. The shame would have been too much."

Renzi said nothing: his time before the mast had been hard and the experience was burned in his memory, but it was also the first time he had felt truly a man. He had won his place in this world by his own courage, skill and fortitude—and the depth of friendships forged in the teeth of gales and at the cannon's mouth. It was wildly at odds with life ashore and he had lived life to the full. He would never forget it.

As they talked they passed so many things of his childhood remembrance: the high-walled garden, the winding path to the woodland park, the pond where once he had ducked Henry for impudence. So much of his life was rooted here.

Renzi supposed that he would dress for dinner: his luggage did not cover more than travel clothing. To his wry amusement the odd things he had left here did not fit his now strong, spare figure—his father would have to take him as he was.

The meal began stiffly: no one could ignore the glowering presence of his father at the head of the table, Renzi once more at his right hand. Fortunately, Richard sat opposite and took a wicked delight in teasing out amiable platitudes to the point of absurdity, much to their mother's bafflement and their father's fury, but it eased Renzi's feelings.

Henry sat further down, pale features set, eyes fixed balefully on his elder brother. "So, you conceived it a duty to go on a boat as a common sailor? Then praise be that you have regained your senses and are restored to us."

Renzi half smiled. "It's said that sea air is a sovereign remedy— is this why the King takes the waters at Weymouth? I have found it the most salubrious of all in the world."

Henry smiled thinly. "No doubt of it. Nicholas, do tip us some sea cant—I find excessively droll Jack Tar's way with words. So plain-speaking, as we might say."

"Boys!" Their mother reproved them in much the old way. "Remember where you are. I will not have bickering at the table."

Uncharacteristically, his father had made no contribution, although Renzi had felt his eyes on him. When the cloth was drawn and the brandy made its appearance, he spoke. "You others, get out! I want to speak to Nicholas." Meekly, they followed their mother from the room, leaving the earl and Renzi alone in the candlelight.