Quarterdeck(10)

‘Splendid,’ responded Renzi. It would indeed be a suitable occasion for Kydd, if he could overcome his timidity in august surroundings. He beamed approval at Cecilia.

‘Er, Nicholas,’ she said off-handedly, ‘something that I keep forgetting to ask. It’s just my ill-bred curiosity, but you’ve never mentioned your own people.’ She stopped to admire a singularly gnarled small tree.

‘My own? Well . . . shall I say they’re just an old country family of Wiltshire whom I haven’t attended as assiduously as I might?’

Kydd sat motionless at the bare table, listening while Cecilia explained and cautioned, his expression hard but in control.

‘No, Thomas, it just will not do. We do not enter like a herd of goats to feed. First to take their places are the ladies, and they will occupy one end of the table. When they are seated the gentlemen proceed – but, mark this, in strict order. They will be placed at the table in the same succession.’

Cecilia’s eyes flicked once to Renzi, then turned back to Kydd.

Kydd’s face tightened, but he kept his silence.

‘Now, Mrs Crawford always dines à la française, as you know, Thomas, and allows promiscuous seating so a man may sit next to a lady, though some find this too racy for the English taste, and in this . . .’

Renzi’s sympathy was all too transparent. ‘I do rather think that Tom is more a man of daring and action, dear sister. This posturing must be a disagreeable strain for such a one.’

‘Nevertheless, he shall require his manners wherever he may be,’ Cecilia said coldly. ‘A gentleman does not put aside his breeding simply for the perils of the moment. Now, please attend, Thomas.’

‘Miss Cecilia Kydd, Mr Thomas Kydd and Mr Nicholas Renzi!’ blared the footman.

The babble of conversations faded: it was common knowledge that the two guests now arrived had suffered in the legendary October clash off the Dutch coast, and it had been said that they had chosen tonight to resume their place in polite society. There were many curious rumours about these officers, but no doubt before the night was over the details would have been made clear.

A wave of determined females advanced, led by the hostess, and the groups dissolved in a flurry of introductions.

‘Enchanted,’ said Mr Kydd, making a creditable but somewhat individual leg to a gratified Mrs Crawford.

‘Do say if you become too fatigued, Mr Kydd,’ she said, eyeing his broad shoulders. ‘You’ll find us in the utmost sympathy with your time of trial.’

‘That is most kind in ye, dear Mrs Crawford,’ the handsome sailor-officer replied gravely.

She turned reluctantly to the other one, a sensitive-looking, rather more austere gentleman, and, reclaimed by her duty, murmured politely.

They sat down to dinner under the golden glitter of chandelier and crystal, to polite approbation at the first remove.

‘May I help you t’ a portion of this fine shott, Miss Tuffs?’ said Mr Kydd, politely. The young lady on his left, nearly overcome at being noticed by one of the principal guests, could only stutter her thanks, tinged with alarm at the resulting pile of roast piglet generously heaped to occupy the whole plate.

‘Sir, this toothsome venison demands your immediate attention. Might I . . .’ The red-faced gentleman to the right would not be denied, and placed a satisfying amount on Mr Kydd’s plate.

‘Your servant, sir,’ said Mr Kydd, inclining his head.

It was clear that the middle-aged woman across from him was set on securing his attention. ‘The weather seems uncommon blowy for the time of year,’ she said.

Mr Kydd thought for a moment, and replied politely, ‘It’s a saying ashore only, Mrs Wood, “When the wind is in the east, ’tis no good to man nor beast.” And by this is meant that in the winter season we often shiver in th’ winds o’ Tartary from the east. Now, at sea we bless this wind, Mrs Wood, for it is a fair wind for our ships down-channel and . . .’

Fully satisfied in the matter of explanations, Mrs Wood retired to contemplate, at which Mr Kydd turned his attention to the red-faced gentleman. ‘Gentleman’s Magazine’s interestin’ this week – says about your electric fluid invented by Mr Volta all comes from frog legs in the end,’ he remarked bravely.

The man shook his head slowly in amazement. ‘Now, that’s something I never knew,’ he said at length. A look of barely concealed satisfaction suffused Mr Kydd’s face as he looked up the table to where Mr Renzi sat quietly, nodding slowly.

A footman obliged with claret. ‘Wine with you, sir!’ Mr Kydd said happily, with all the joyous relief to be expected of one having passed through a personal trial and not been found wanting. ‘I give you Lady Fortune, an’ may she always be one!’