It had been nearly seven years, and Renzi had changed. Gone was the careless, unthinking man who had dissipated so much of his youth and means on his Grand Tour. And he was no longer the naïve young fellow who had been so shocked by what he had encountered on his return that he had taken the moral course of self-exile for a term of five years. His time on the lower deck of a man-o’-war had shaped him, hardened him. Now he looked at life with a detached, far-seeing regard. There would have to be a reckoning, however, for as eldest son his situation was circumscribed by custom and law. He felt the chill of foreboding.
The long night ended with a cold dawn, and after a frugal breakfast Renzi waited on the benches outside, trying to let the sights and smells of the country enter his soul once more, but the bleakness and mud were depressing.
Eventually the carriage came into view, its gleaming black sides spattered with winter grime. The coachman and footman wore careful, blank faces but the noble family crest on the door seemed accusing. Renzi settled into the cushions – despite everything he could feel himself assuming only too easily the mantle of the high-born, with its habits of hauteur and expectations of deference.
They reached the local village of Noakes Poyle where many of the estate labourers lived. As they clattered through the cramped high street, he caught sight of old shops, the busy market; besmocked agricultural workers respectfully touched their forelocks. All conspired to peel away the years and thrust him back to what he had been.
Out into the country again they turned into a road with an elegant gold-filigreed iron gate. Old Lawrie emerged from the gatehouse, grinning like a boy. ‘Oi see thee well, Master Nicholas, sir?’ he asked. It was the first cheeriness Renzi had experienced since he arrived.
The carriage pulled grittily up the drive, which, flanked by trees, led to the splendour of Eskdale Hall. He could see figures assembling on the front lawn: the servants turning out to mark his homecoming. He forced a composure.
The carriage began its final wide curve towards the house and Renzi found himself searching for familiar faces, friendly looks, then saw his parents standing together at the top of the steps. The carriage swept past the servants and came to a halt. The footman got down and swung out the step. Renzi descended. Amid a deathly hush he went up to greet his mother and father.
His mother was set and pale, her hands clasped in front of her; the ninth Earl of Farndon’s granite expression showed no emotion.
‘Father,’ Renzi said formally, extending his hand. It was coldly ignored. Renzi felt the old anger and frustration build but clamped a fierce hold on himself. He bowed politely, then turned to his mother, who stood rigid, staring at him as if he were a ghost. Then he noticed the glitter of tears and went to her, holding her, feeling her fierce embrace, and hearing just one tearing sob before she pulled away and resumed her position next to his father.
For a long moment there was silence, then his father turned on his heel and went inside. His mother reached out and took his hands. ‘Go to him, Nicholas,’ she said, her face a mask.
Renzi followed his father into the dark wood-panelled main study. ‘Close the door, boy,’ the earl snapped, and took his seat behind the desk more usually employed for dealing with tenants behind in their rent. Renzi was very aware of how little provocation might set tempers ablaze.
His father barked, ‘An explanation, if you please, sir.’
Renzi took a deep breath. ‘I find I have nothing to add that I have not set out in my letter, Father.’
‘Don’t feed me that flim-flam about moral duty again,’ his father roared, his face red, eyes glinting dangerously. ‘I want to hear why you’ve seen fit to disappear for years, absenting yourself from your rightful place of duty to—’
‘Sir, I’ve as lively a sense of duty as any—’
‘Sir, you’re a damned poltroon if you think there’s an answer in running away—’
Renzi felt his self-control slip. He had taken to logic and rationality as a means of establishing ascendancy over his own passions and it had served him well – but now he could feel building within him the selfsame passionate anger at his father’s obstinacy that had prompted him to leave. ‘Father, I made my decision by my own lights. Whether right or wrong it was done and cannot now be undone.’ He forced himself to appear calm. ‘It were in both our interests to recognise this and address the future instead.’
They locked eyes. Then, unexpectedly, his father grunted and said, ‘Very well. We’ll talk more on your future here later.’
Renzi got to his feet, but the earl did not. ‘Go and make your peace with your mother, Nicholas,’ he said bleakly.