Tenacious (34 page)

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
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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.

She was waiting in the Blue Room. “Shall we meet the rest of the family, Nicholas?” she said brightly. “They are so looking forward to seeing you.” They were assembled in the drawing room, and Renzi was gratified to see Richard, whom he had last seen in very different circumstances in Jamaica where Richard owned a sugar plantation—they exchanged a brotherly grin.

Fourteen-year-old Edward had no doubt about a welcome and

little Beatrice shyly dropped him a curtsy. A warning glance from his mother prepared him for his next younger brother. “Henry, are you keeping well?”

“Tolerably, tolerably,” was all the answer Renzi knew he was going to get from that sullen young man, and he turned back to the others.

“Nicholas, old fellow, we’ve missed you,” Richard said breez-ily. “Why don’t we take a turn round the estate before we dine and see what’s changed? You don’t mind, Mama?”

As soon as they were out of earshot Richard dropped the jolliness and looked at Renzi keenly. “I hope you don’t believe I broke confidences when I told Mother you were safe and well, and had taken to seafaring? She did so grieve after you, Nicholas.”

“No, Richard, it was kind in you. I should have considered her more.”

“Father was in such a fury when you left—he swore he would whip the hide from you when you returned. Then when you did not, he went into himself, if you understand me. Mama dared not tell him of—of where you were. The shame would have been too much.”

Renzi said nothing: his time before the mast had been hard and the experience was burned in his memory, but it was also the first time he had felt truly a man. He had won his place in this world by his own courage, skill and fortitude—and the depth of friendships forged in the teeth of gales and at the cannon’s mouth. It was wildly at odds with life ashore and he had lived life to the full. He would never forget it.

As they talked they passed so many things of his childhood remembrance: the high-walled garden, the winding path to the woodland park, the pond where once he had ducked Henry for impudence. So much of his life was rooted here.

• • •

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Renzi supposed that he would dress for dinner: his luggage did not cover more than travel clothing. To his wry amusement the odd things he had left here did not fit his now strong, spare figure—his father would have to take him as he was.

The meal began stiffly: no one could ignore the glowering presence of his father at the head of the table, Renzi once more at his right hand. Fortunately, Richard sat opposite and took a wicked delight in teasing out amiable platitudes to the point of absurdity, much to their mother’s bafflement and their father’s fury, but it eased Renzi’s feelings.

Henry sat further down, pale features set, eyes fixed balefully on his elder brother. “So, you conceived it a duty to go on a boat as a common sailor? Then praise be that you have regained your senses and are restored to us.”

Renzi half smiled. “It’s said that sea air is a sovereign remedy—

is this why the King takes the waters at Weymouth? I have found it the most salubrious of all in the world.”

Henry smiled thinly. “No doubt of it. Nicholas, do tip us some sea cant—I find excessively droll Jack Tar’s way with words. So plain-speaking, as we might say.”

“Boys!” Their mother reproved them in much the old way.

“Remember where you are. I will not have bickering at the table.”

Uncharacteristically, his father had made no contribution, although Renzi had felt his eyes on him. When the cloth was drawn and the brandy made its appearance, he spoke. “You others, get out! I want to speak to Nicholas.” Meekly, they followed their mother from the room, leaving the earl and Renzi alone in the candlelight.

Renzi’s father drew a candle to him and lit a cigar, puffing until it drew to his satisfaction. Renzi watched, not moving. His brandy remained untouched. “Help yourself, my son,” his father rumbled, and pushed the humidor across the table.

“Thank you, sir, but I’ve lost the habit of late,” Renzi said carefully. A cigar-smoking able seaman was such a bizarre concept that, despite the circumstances, he felt a smile tug at his lips.

“Suit yourself, then.” He inspected the end of the cigar closely, then opened with the first salvo. “I mean to hear your intentions, sir. You’ve come to your senses at last and have returned—

but I’ve heard no talk that you plan to take up your place here.

You’re the eldest and one day Eskdale Hall goes to you—but you’ve shown no interest in the estate management, tenant rolls, income. How do you expect to run the damned place without you know how?”

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.

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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 slum-bering 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 in-stalled 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 fret-ting, 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.”

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Julian Stockwin

• • •

“Sleep well?”

Renzi thought he detected a sly undertone and answered neutrally, “As may be expected, Father.”

“Attending the assizes today. Do you want to come? What’s-his-name—jumped-up magistrate—won’t do as he’s told, need to learn him some manners. Do you good to take in a piece of the real world.”

Renzi could not trust himself to say anything civil and remained silent.

“Come to any conclusions yet? I want to be able to say something in the House about the Rents Bill at the February sessions, if you take my meaning.”

“Sir. I’ve been plain with you—this is not something I can arrange immediately. It takes—”

“And I’ve been plain with you, sir! My patience is wearing thin. Your boat will float without you on it, damn it all. All it takes is a date I can work to, for God’s sake.”

Renzi stood up, boiling. “I find I must take some exercise,” he said thickly, then left the room, trembling. He stalked over the straw and mud of the stables forecourt, shouting for the groom.

Prince, the fine black gelding, was still in his stall and, miraculously, remembered him. The horse nuzzled his hand with a now grey-fringed muzzle. Renzi’s eyes smarted as he swung into the saddle, clopped noisily out of the yard, then broke into a gallop on the long stretch of grass to the front gate. He pulled up, panting, and wheeled about to take the long way round the boundary of the estate.

A coppice worker going to the woods looked up in astonishment. Mrs Rattray, fat and buxom, stood at her cottage door and

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waved shyly. Further along chickens scattered with loud squawks ahead of him; nearby lived the simple woodcutter Jarge who had been told time and again to keep them cooped . . . Renzi felt a lump forming in his throat. His canter dropped to a walk and his eyes took in the land—his land, his tenants, his people, if he wanted them.

Powerfully, startling him with its intensity, came the sudden knowledge that at that moment he did not: he was not yet ready to leave the sea life in all its terror and beauty for this, however comfortable and secure. He could not!

He whipped Prince to a gallop and screamed defiance into the wind. Then he became aware of the thud of hoofs out of rhythm behind him. He snatched a backward glance and saw his father low on his horse’s neck, striping his mount mercilessly. Renzi swerved aside and headed for a gnarled oak tree standing stark and alone in the middle of the field.