Quarterdeck(7)

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 flush 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 flashed 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 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 finger.

‘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 rakish angle.

It was the first 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 beadle 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 fierce-eyed man swept down in the most extravagant leg to Kydd, then straightened, fixing him with a challenging stare.

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

‘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 horsemaster 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 firm hand. He slapped the horse familiarly on the rump. ‘Look, here’s a tip. Make a fist, 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 finding 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.