The blue cigar smoke spiralled up into the blackness while his father fixed him with a glare of unsettling intensity. ‘Sir, as a sea officer,’ Renzi began, ‘it is not acceptable that I leave the ship without so much as a by-your-leave. There are forms, customs of—’
‘Humbug! You’re no jack-me-hearty sailor – you’re heir to an earldom of England, which you seem to have forgotten. I want you here – now! When is it to be?’
‘I – I need time,’ Renzi said defensively, ‘to settle my affairs…’
‘You’ll give me a date when you’ll present yourself now, sir, not when you see fit.’
‘Father, I said I needed time. Impatience will add nothing to—’
‘Then, dammit, get on with it!’
Their talk did not stop until past midnight.
Renzi knew that he was only delaying the inevitable. Of course he had been aware from childhood that, in the fullness of time, under the rules of primogeniture, he was destined to be an earl and the master of Eskdale Hall. It was natural, it was expected, and he had never devoted much thought to it.
His father had accepted his Grand Tour without a word – the sowing of wild oats was almost expected of him. Then, the swaying body in the barn and the burning shame of witnessing his father’s summary dismissal of the broken family’s claims had changed him.
His high-minded exile at sea, however, had had unforeseen results. Apart from the insights into human nature that the fo’c’sle of a man-o’-war had provided, he had found that much of his book-learning had come to life: it had so much more meaning in the context of the sea and exotic shores. How easily could he turn his back on it?
On the staircase, candle in hand, he knew there had to be a resolution. He blew out the candle, turned and tiptoed down again until he came to a small window. The catch was still the same, the window stiffly protesting, but then his childhood escape route was open to him. It was the work of moments to swing out into the night and down the matted ivy to the flower-bed.
A cold winter’s moon rode high and serene, bathing the slumbering countryside in brightness. He strode forward, following the near invisible but well-remembered little path to the woodland, letting the air clear his head. He entered the woods; a curious owl gave a low hoot and he heard scurrying in the bracken, nocturnal animals surprised at finding him suddenly among them.
There was no avoiding the fact that his father wanted him installed at Eskdale Hall with no further waste of time – probably because he wished to devolve management of the estate on Renzi so that he could spend more of the Season in London, where he kept up the pretence of attendance at the House of Lords.
Nevertheless, whatever the reason, he must consider his retirement from the sea. But his heart rebelled: he had found himself on the ocean, much as his friend Kydd had done, albeit in a different way. He relished the paradoxical freedoms it gave: there could be no care for the morrow when his actions were preordained – he could not alter the course of the ship or wish it elsewhere, so his horizon must shrink to the compass of that snug little world. All else was in vain. Relieved of worldly fretting, his mind could expand and soar in a way that was impossible with the distractions of land. And now, with the intelligent and worldly company of a whole wardroom of officers, he could find an agreeable conversation at any time of the day or night.
And there was Thomas Kydd, a friend like no other, who had seen him through grave and wild situations in a voyage round the world. Now they must part. Kydd was growing confident and ambitious in his profession, and would no doubt go on to achieve wondrous things, while he… His father was in robust good health and might haunt him for many more years to come. Renzi would be confined to the endless social round of the country where a major excitement was the arraigning of a horse-thief.
It was galling – but there was no middle way. And it was becoming more than plain that perhaps his father was right: Renzi had used exile as a means to escape his situation. The realisation stopped him cold. Was he indeed running away? Did he not know his own mind?
Suddenly a shadow loomed dark against the moonlight and a blow thumped off his ribs as a heavy man brought him to the ground. Renzi twisted away and pulled himself upright. Seeing the silhouette of a raised cudgel, he drove inside it, cannoning into the man’s stomach. The man staggered back, but when Renzi stepped into a patch of moonlight he stopped. ‘Is ut you, sir? Master Nicholas?’
Renzi took a breath to steady himself. ‘It is, Mr Varney. This will teach me not to creep about at night like a poacher. You did right, and I apologise if you were winded.’