Kydd boiled over. 'Be damn'd to you!' He thrust towards the door. Outside, he took several deep breaths and set off for the waterfront.
The gloomy berth-deck of Artemis was almost deserted, its clear sweep fore-and-aft interrupted only by a few hammocks. Kydd sat under one of the few lanthorns hung this late in the evening.
He had gone to the Solmar, which was packed with Artemis sailors, but they were all far gone in drink and no proper solace for wounded pride and unslaked lust. Briefly he had toyed with the idea of finding a woman to spend the night with among the throng, but something in his Methodist upbringing and a personal aversion to giving his body to a harlot stopped him.
Thus, in the way of sailors, he had returned to the bosom of his ship. For some reason he had pulled out the sea-chest he and Renzi shared. Here it was, mellowing with age and sea-use and carved with a mermaid cartouche that Renzi had contrived in the long days in the Indian Ocean before Calcutta.
With an unformed wish for repudiation of their friendship Kydd rummaged through its contents, each piece evoking lengthening memories. Neatly stacked along a good quarter of the chest were Renzi's books.
At random he picked one up. These were the real source of Renzi's success, his readiness with words, his effortless authority on all things. Kydd felt a stab of fury at the ease with which he had charmed Sarah. It was now past evening and well into the night — what was he doing to her now? Rage made him choke but with a force of will he crushed the thoughts. If Renzi had succeeded with Sarah, then that was his good luck. He would have done the same. The matter at hand was to get himself to the same level if it were possible — and he would damned well make it so.
Here in his hands was the key. He opened the book. The type was tiny and difficult to read in the guttering lanthorn light; the tide page was flowery and embellished with intertwined pictures of animals. 'D. Diderot - On the Interpretation of Nature it read, together with a flurry of cursive French. Kydd leafed slowly through it: it seemed to deal in unbelievable wordiness with reason and observation, but if this was what gave Renzi the ability to speak, he would ingest it too.
He settled down at the beginning, and read haltingly, disturbed neither by the noisy arrival back on board of drunken and querulous seamen nor the raucous teasing of his shipmates. His eyes grew heavy, the words more difficult, and when Renzi finally returned on board all he could do was remove the book gently from Kydd's slumped figure and shake his head wonderingly.
Almost alone at their breakfast burgoo, Kydd and Renzi ate silently, avoiding each other's eyes. When they finished, neither rose from the mess table.
'Wish y' joy of—'
'I'm to tell you—'
Breaking off in embarrassment, their eyes met. A tentative smile spread over Kydd's features, which was quickly returned by Renzi. 'The Portugee priest wishes to see me again,' said Renzi, with a sigh. 'A disputatious wretch, yet I will indulge him a little further, I believe.' 'And does Miss Bullivant . . .'
'The young lady unaccountably wishes to be remembered to you,' Renzi replied neutrally.
Kydd's voice thickened. 'Last night—'
'Last night I had the felicity of debating the nature of the Chinee, the solemn imperatives of their beliefs and the impervious nature of their society with as erudite a colleague as ever I could wish.'
'But . . .'
'Miss Bullivant was obliging enough to conduct me to the casa garden of Camoens, where I looked on the rocks of his inspiration.'
'She . . .'
'On conclusion, she bade me farewell, and returned with her maid, who accompanied us throughout,' Renzi said flady.
Kydd fiddled with a piece of bread, but refused to give Renzi further satisfaction.
A twisted grin surfaced on Renzi's face. 'I am desired to inform you that she has been able to procure some suitable long clothes. She hopes you will find these satisfactory enough to be able to accompany us this afternoon on a visit to Sao Tiago.'
A leaping exultation transformed Kydd's spirits. So he had not been mistaken about those glances!
Something of his feelings must have been visible, for Renzi continued, in a lazy, teasing voice, 'Of course, I did inform her that you were desolated, that your watch on deck in this instance takes precedence—' He broke off at the dangerous flare in Kydd's eyes, then continued, 'Of course, they are the clothes of a dead man.'
For all Kydd cared he would strip the body himself, but he waited.
'Who died of the bloody flux - before he could accept them from the tailor's,' Renzi finished lamely.
Eight bells at noon could not come fast enough. Liberty was granted from then until daybreak the next day in this relaxed 'river discipline'. Kydd and Renzi hurried off and soon were welcomed into the old residence.
The feel of silk stockings against his legs after the freedom of a sailor's trousers was odd. The nankeen breeches and the soft royal-blue coat added to the strangeness, and to Kydd it was a reminder of the flabbiness of shore life. Nevertheless, he rotated proudly before the mirror. The strong muscular definition of his body did peculiar things to the hang of the garments, but with his black hair in a neat club he made a striking figure.