Quarterdeck (4 page)

Renzi nodded. “Of course, brother.”

“So this is what I have t’ do.” Kydd took a determined pull on his brandy. “I’ve seen y’r tarpaulin offi cer come aft through the hawse, a right taut son o’ Neptune. Ye sees him on watch on th’ quarterdeck an’ it puts y’r heart at ease. But, Nicholas, I

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don’t want t’ be a tarpaulin offi cer. They’re stayin’ l’tenants all their days, fi ne messmates I’m sure, but who should say—plain in their habits. The other offi cers step ashore t’gether while they stays aboard ’n’ makes friends wi’ a bottle.”

He glanced down at the glass in his hands. “I want t’ be a reg’lar-built King’s offi cer and gentleman, Nicholas, an’ I asks you what I c’n do to be one o’ them.”

Renzi’s half-smile appeared. “If this is your wish, Tom—yet I’ll have you know there is no shame in being one of nature’s gentlemen . . .”

“If y’ will—”

“Ah. All in good time, dear fellow. This does require a mort of refl ection . . .”

It was all very well for Kydd to ask this of him, even if what he said was perfectly reasonable—but in truth the job was nigh impossible. Renzi’s eye covertly took in Kydd’s fi gure: instead of a fi ne-drawn, willowy courtliness there were strong shoulders and slim hips standing four-square; rather than a distinguished slen-der curve to the leg, his knee-breeches betrayed sculpted mus-culature. And in place of a fashionably cool, pale countenance there was a hearty oaken one, whose open good humour was not designed for societal discretion. And yet he was undoubtedly intelligent: Renzi had seen his quick wits at work. But Kydd would have to learn to value politeness and convention—not his strongest suit. Then there was his speech—Renzi squirmed to think of the sport others would make of him behind his back. The probable course of events, then, would be for Kydd to retreat into the comfort of bluff sea-doggery, and thereby exclude himself from gentle-born society. But this was his particular friend: he could not refuse him.

“Mr Kydd, as now I must call you, this is what I propose.”

He fi xed him with a stare. “Should you choose this path then I
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must warn you that the way is arduous. There’s many a chance to stumble. Are you prepared for a hard beat to wind’d?”

“I am.”

“And there are, er, matters you must accept without question, which are not, on the face of it, either reasonable or explicable.

Do you undertake that you will accept from me their necessity without question?”

Kydd paused. “Aye.”

“Very well. I will give you my full assistance in your worthy endeavour, and if you stay the course, for you may indeed wish to yield the race at any point—”

“Never!”

“—then I in turn agree to assist in your elevation into society.”

Kydd fl ushed. “I won’t shame ye to y’r friends, if that is y’r meaning.”

“That was not my meaning, but let us make a start.” He reached for the cognac and fi lled Kydd’s glass. “There is a beginning to everything, and in this it is the understanding that for a gentle man it is appearances that defi ne. Politeness, the courtesies due to a lady, these are held at a value far above that of courage out on a yard, true saltwater seamanship. It is unfair, but it is the world. Now, in the matter of the courtesies, we have . . .”

Kydd persevered. He was aware that Renzi’s precepts were introductory only and that there lay ahead a challenge of insight and understanding far different from anything he had encountered before. The morning lengthened, and by the time Renzi had reached the proper use of euphemisms Kydd was fl agging.

They heard the rap of the front-door knocker. “I’ll go,” Kydd said, rising.

“You shall not!” Renzi’s words stopped him, and he subsided into his chair.

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The manservant entered with a small silver tray in his gloved hands and went pointedly to Renzi. “Are you at home, sir?”

Renzi picked up a card. “I am to this young lady, thank you.”

“Very well, sir.”

As the servant left, Renzi shot to his feet. “Square away, Tom—it’s your sister!”

Cecilia entered the sitting room, eyes darting around. “Er, you’re welcome, Cec,” Kydd said, trying vainly to remember his morning exercises in civilities.

She acknowledged Renzi with a shy bob. “Mother said—such a silly—that men are not to be trusted on their own in a domestic situation. How insulting to you!”

“I do apologise, Miss Kydd, that we are not dressed to receive. I hope you understand.”

“Nicholas?” Cecilia said, puzzled, but then her expression cleared. “But of course—you’re standing on ceremony for Thomas’s sake.” She looked at her brother fondly.

Kydd smouldered.

Cecilia, ignoring him, crossed to a candlestand and delicately sniffed the nearest. “Well, it’s none of my business, but I can’t help observing that unless you have means beyond the ordinary, beeswax candles must, sadly, be accounted an extravagance.

Tallow will be suffi cient—unless, of course, you have visitors.”

She crossed to the windows and made play of freeing the shutters. “You will be aware how vital it is to preserve furniture from the sun.”

“We c’n manage,” Kydd growled. “An’ I’ll thank ye to keep y’r household suggestions to y’rself.”

“Thomas! I came only out of concern for your—”

“Cec, Nicholas is tellin’ me the right lay t’ be a gentleman.

Please t’ leave us to it.”

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“Indeed!”

“Dear Miss Kydd, your kindness in enquiring after our situation is handsomely done,” said Renzi, “yet I feel it is probably a man’s place to impart to another the graces of a gentleman.”

Cecilia hesitated. “That’s as maybe, Mr Renzi, but there is another purpose to my visit. You appear to have forgotten that a naval uniform will not answer in all appearances in polite society.

I came merely to offer my services in a visit to the tailor.”

At the tailor’s Cecilia was not to be dissuaded. She quickly disposed of Kydd’s initial preferences. A yellow waistcoat, while undoubtedly fetching, was apparently irredeemably vulgar: dark green, double-breasted was more the thing; she conceded on the gold piping at the pockets. Buff breeches, a rust-coloured coat, and for half-dress, a
bon de Paris
with discreet gold frogging would be of the highest
ton—
she was not sure about the lace.

“An’ what’s the reckonin’ so far?” Kydd had done well in prize money in the Caribbean, and after Camperdown there would be more, but this must be costing a shocking sum.

Cecilia pressed on relentlessly. A dark blue frock coat was essential, in the new style with cut-away skirts that ended in split tails for an elegant fall while horse-riding—it seemed frivolous to Kydd, who was more used to a sensible full-skirted warmth. A quantity of linen shirts was put in train, and material for a cravat was purchased that Cecilia insisted only she might be trusted to make.

Kydd rebelled at pantaloons, long breeches that could be tucked into boots. Knee breeches were what he would be seen in—no one would mistake him for a damned macaroni.

The tailor, gratifi ed at patronage by those so recently in the public eye, promised that he would bend his best efforts to have them delivered soon. Kydd was then escorted to the bootmaker and, fi nally, to the premises of Henry Tidmarsh, hosier, hatter and

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glover, where he found for himself a dashing light-grey brimmed hat with a silver buckle.

As Kydd tried on hats, Renzi came up beside Cecilia. “Quite a transformation,” he murmured.

“Yes, Nicholas,” agreed Cecilia, keeping her voice low, “but I fear he will be thought a coxcomb if his dress is not matched by his manners.”

She turned to him, her hand on his arm. “Dear Nicholas, I know you are trying your best, but Thomas can be very stubborn if he chooses. Do bear him with patience, I pray.”

“Of course. But the hardest for him will undoubtedly be his articulations—his speech damns him at once.”

Cecilia touched his arm. “Is there anything, perhaps, that I can do?”

Renzi’s thoughts had taken quite another course. She was no longer the ingenuous girl-child he had known from before.

Cecilia was a desirable, self-possessed woman, who would be an ornament to any social gathering. “Er, this is possibly something we could discuss together, should you be at leisure.” He felt a fl ush rising at the implication of the words.

“Why, Nicholas!” Cecilia said gaily. “If I didn’t know you more, I’d be obliged to consider you importunate.” She fl ashed him a smile, and turned her attention to her brother’s fancy in hats.

Although he was now entitled to do so, Kydd could not indulge in the wigs that he had learned to make in his apprenticeship: the comet, the royal bird, the long bob—even the striking Cadogan puff—were now no longer fashionable. He would wear nothing, simply a neat black ribbon to hold back his hair at the nape of the neck. Hair-powder was taxed, so it would be quite understood if he left his hair as nature intended.

True to his word, the tailor delivered his work in only three
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days, and Kydd stood before the full-length bedroom mirror, regarding himself doubtfully. A generous cut on the waistcoat avoided any tense wrinkling resulting from muscle-play beneath, but the buff breeches seemed to cling indecently close. However, if he had to appear in public, this was not a bad beginning, he thought. He gazed down approvingly at the white stockings and buckled shoes, then whirled once about.

“Glad to see you in spirits, brother,” came from behind him.

“Aye, what must be . . .” said Kydd, adjusting a cuff. “Are ye ready, Nicholas?”

“Ah!” Renzi waved a fi nger.

“What? Oh! I meant t’ say, are you prepared, Mr Renzi?”

“Then let us sally forth on the world.”

Renzi was in brown, a complete dark brown, with breeches, coat and even waistcoat in the colour, relieved only by the cream gush of his cravat and the stockings. In the manner of a Romantic he sported a broad-brimmed dark hat worn at a rak-ish angle.

It was the fi rst time Kydd had used an ebony cane. As they passed along Chapel Street it felt awkward to the hand, whether he swung it at each pace to click on the ground or twirled it about. He fought down a sense of fakery, but after the second time a passer-by made way respectfully for him he felt happier.

They passed under the big clock in the high street—the bea-dle outside the town hall touched his hat to them—turned down a side-street and entered a dingy doorway.

“Might I present M’sieur Jupon? He is engaged to be your dancing master.” A short but fi erce-eyed man swept down in the most extravagant leg to Kydd, then straightened, fi xing him with a challenging stare.

“Er, pleased t’ meet ye,” Kydd stuttered, and essayed a jerky bow. Jupon and Renzi exchanged glances.

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“M’sieur Jupon will instruct you in the graces of movement and courtesy, and you will attend here for one hour daily until you have mastered the elements.”

“Ah, Mr Kydd, you’re not boardin’ your ship now, sir. Do try a little
grace
in y’r movements.” The voice of the lady horse-master carried effortlessly across the ring. She could well be relied on to hail the foreyard from the quarterdeck in a blow, Kydd thought.

The horse, however, had sensed his innocence, swishing its tail and playing with its bit. Its eyes rolled in anticipation while Kydd struggled to heave himself up, staggering one-footed in a circle.

Renzi dismounted and came across. He checked the girth and yanked on the stirrup. “Ah, the stablehand is having his amusement. You’d have your knees round your ears with this!

We’ll ease away—so.” The stirrups descended, the horse quieter under Renzi’s fi rm hand. He slapped the horse familiarly on the rump. “Look, here’s a tip. Make a fi st, and touch the stirrup bar up here. Now swing the iron up under your arm, and the right length for you will be when it just touches the body.”

Kydd swung up nervously into the saddle, suddenly fi nding himself at a great height. The horse snorted and tossed its head.

He felt that it was biding its time before wreaking some terrible revenge.

“So we seem t’ have made up our mind to go ridin’ at last.”

A sarcastic bellow came across the ring to him. “We start wi’

the walk.”

The horse plodded in a circle, and Kydd’s confi dence grew.

“Back straight, Mr Kydd.” He forced his spine to rigidity and completed another circle. “Jehosaphat Moses! Keep y’r back supple, Mr Kydd. Let y’r hips rock
with
the horse, sir!”

The trot was more to his liking with its brisk motion, but the
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horse whinnied with frustration at the tight rein and Kydd eased it a little.

A gate was opened into a larger fi eld, and Renzi began to canter. Kydd followed behind, feeling the thud of hoofs through the animal’s frame and hearing snorts of effort coming from the great beast beneath him. It was exhilarating, and he relaxed into it. The horse seemed to sense this and responded with a more fl uid, faster motion.

“Well done, Mr Kydd!” he heard. “ ‘Collected an’ light in hand,’ we say.”

As he turned he saw the woman pull out a large fob watch.

“To me!” she demanded impatiently.

Kydd felt the horse respond to his signals with knee and reins and suddenly was reluctant to fi nish for the morning.

Impulsively, he clapped his knees to the beast’s barrel-like sides.

After a brief hesitation the horse responded and broke into a gallop. Instinctively Kydd acted as he would aloft, his standing crouch that of a topman leaning forward to hand a billowing sail. The horse stretched out down the length of the fi eld. Now wildly excited, Kydd caught a glimpse of fi gures staring at him as he thundered past. The wind tore through his hair, the din of hoofs and the animal’s rhythmic movements beat on his senses.