Quarterdeck(6)

Kydd flushed. ‘I won’t shame ye to y’ friends, if that is y’r meaning.’

‘That was not my meaning, but let us make a start.’ He reached for the cognac and filled Kydd’s glass. ‘There is a beginning to everything, and in this it is the understanding that for a gentleman it is appearances that define. 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 flagging.

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.

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 sufficient – 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.’

‘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, gratified 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, finally, to the premises of Henry Tidmarsh, hosier, hatter and glover, where he found for himself a dashing light-grey brimmed hat with a silver buckle.