Acting Lieutenant Thomas Kydd had every reason to feel the terror that froze his bowels: failure at this examination would see him stripped of his temporary rank and returned ingloriously to his old shipmates.

‘Er, well, I would—’

‘Come, come, sir! An easy enough question – your certificate of service claims sea‑time in Artemis, a crack frigate as ever I’ve seen. You must have seen a flying moor above a dozen times.’

It was unfair: here in this august Navy Office board‑room he was being asked to describe one of the most risky manoeuvres, dropping anchor at speed and sailing on to the full scope of the cable, then letting go another before falling back on the two anchors.

Black Jack Powlett of the Artemis would never have chanced his vessel so, Kydd thought indignantly, then took a deep breath. ‘Coming boldly up t’ the anchorage, I, er, would range both cables out on the gundeck – veering parties double‑banked, o’ course – an’ at m’ furthest on, let go th’ best bower. Then—’

 ‘You do not feel it prudent to double bitt your cable first, sir? the first commissioner interjected.

Then the second came in, ‘And we have heard nothing of setting this bower a‑cockbill in readiness.’

‘That is, if your ship has not yet a trick stopper or similar,’ the first added smugly.

Kydd forced his mind to an icy resolve. ‘Aye, sir – I may have omitted t’ say that in getting the anchor off the bows it is first necessary…’

It seemed to satisfy. He dared a glance at the third member of the board, who sat hard‑faced and silent, Captain Essington, the captain of Triumph in which he had served at the bloody battle of Camperdown.

‘Passing to navigation,’ the first commissioner said flatly.

Kydd’s anxieties returned: he had learned his skills at the hands of a merchant-service sailing master who had taught him a plain but solid understanding of his craft, but Kydd knew that the Navy liked arcane descriptions and definitions.

‘We’ll begin with basic understanding, Mr Kydd. What is your conceiving of a great circle?’

‘Er, the plane o’ the equator when projected fr’m the centre on to a tangent plane becomes a straight line—’

‘Thank you. The workings of an azimuth altitude will be familiar enough to you, no doubt – then clarify for me the correction of the right ascension of the mean sun, if you please…’

Kydd struggled, but could see frowns settling, glances exchanged. Failure was now more than a possibility and a cold dread stole over him. If only they would ask—

‘Mr Kydd, you are aboard a two‑decker.’ It was Essington, leaning forward. Kydd shifted position to face him directly. There was no trace of compassion in the man’s eyes. ‘Shall we say in the Caribbean? You are scudding before a regular‑going hurricane and you sight land – dead to loo’ard. You throw out both bowers.’ The other commissioners looked at Essington with curiosity. ‘They carry away, one after the other. Only a sheet anchor is left to you to prevent the ship being cast ashore. Detail your actions, if you will, sir, to forestall a wreck and grievous loss of life.’ He leaned back, unnerving Kydd with his stare. His fellow captains held back in surprise as Essington finished acidly, ‘And shall we have a coral bottom?’

Kydd cast about for something to say, the right action to take in such an extreme situation – but then it dawned on him: he had been in exactly this plight in the old Trajan, and himself had been the one to pass keckling to preserve their last anchor, called as lee helmsman by the master himself…

‘Aye, sir,’ he said crisply. ‘First we need t’ ride out the blow.  A coral bottom means we’ll have to pass a deal of keckling aroun’ the first two or three fathom of cable above the anchor clinch, and then…’ Those desperate hours off the unknown island were burned into his consciousness: that endless night, the screaming hurricane, the cold dawn and the fearful danger of their action in clawing off.

It steadied him, the simple recounting of fine seamanship. ‘But to make an offing will be hard, an’ we must wait f’r the wind to shift a point or two, but then we must take our chance, and only one chance it is. Show small canvas, and at th’ right time – cut the cable an’ run f’r the open sea…’

The commissioners nodded, expressionless. ‘I think that’s enough, gentlemen, do you not?’ Essington said.

Kydd held his breath. There was mumbled conferring, more frowns. Was it possibly more than coincidence that Essington had brought forward that particular circumstance? As if he had particular knowledge of his past and…

‘Where are your certificates?’

They were asking for attestations to his ‘Sobriety, Obedience, Diligence and Skill in the Profession of a Seaman’. Kydd handed over the journals and documents in a floodtide of hope: if he had failed, why would they be wasting time on the formalities?

The journals were leafed through, but they had been meticulously kept for years and it seemed the certificates of age and rated service appeared acceptable. His heart leaped: the last hurdle was being overcome.

‘If my reckoning is correct, we have a difficulty.’ One of the commissioners held his original, if somewhat crumpled, certificate of service from Kydd’s first ship, Duke William. ‘From this, it does seem that Mr Kydd is, according to regulations, one year short of the requirement for sea‑time.’

Kydd had known of this deficiency, but had prayed that the regulations would not be applied rigorously. Horatio Nelson himself had been promoted to lieutenant before time, but if a commissioner of the board wished to make it an issue of it little could be done.

Essington took the paper, then looked up with a tigerish smile. ‘Yes – but this is worthless! It is in error! I distinctly recollect when Captain Caldwell was removed from Royal Billy to Culloden. I rather fancy we would get a different date were we to ask him directly. As it is, Captain Caldwell is now in the West Indies, Admiral of the Leeward squadron if my memory serves. I doubt if he is to be troubled on this trivial matter.’

His manner quelled all discussion.  The other commissioners gathered up the papers and returned them to Kydd. ‘Well, it seems we are of one mind. Our recommendation will go forward to the Navy Office that for the good of the service you shall be confirmed in rank to lieutenant. Good day to you, sir.’

---

CHAPTER 1

The Portsmouth Mail made good speed on the highway south from London. Inside, it smelt pungently of leather and old dust, but Thomas Kydd did not care: it would take a great deal more than this to subdue his growing excitement.

After the examination, Kydd had spent some days in Yarmouth, where Tenacious had been taken out of commission for battle repairs, and had prevailed upon the naval outfitter in the matter of a splendid lieutenant’s uniform, determined to go home on leave in a handsome manner.

He stared out at the tranquil winter country scene of soft meadows and gnarled oak trees. This was England at last, his hearth and home after so many years away. The postillion’s long horn blared, and he leaned out of the window. It was Cobham – Guildford was not far away. He glanced at his friend sitting next to him, ‘An hour, Nicholas – an hour only, an’ I’ll be seein’ m’ folks again!’

Renzi had been quiet since London, his withdrawn, ascetic expression discouraging talk. He nodded politely and smiled, then looked away.

Heaven only knew what he was thinking about. Their years together had been full of perils and adventure, but Renzi’s friendship had brought Kydd an insight into learning, and respect for the riches of the mind. And now they were returning to where their long adventure had started.

Yet again Kydd brought to memory how he had last left home, when he and Renzi had stolen away back to sea, to Artemis, the famous frigate, after founding a school to secure his family’s livelihood. There had been a world voyage that had ended in shipwreck, rousing times in the Caribbean, adventures in the Mediterranean. It seemed half a lifetime, but it was only four years or so. Here he was, just twenty-five, and…

The coach jerked to a stop, and the horses were changed for the last stage to Guildford. The door swung open, and a young lady was handed up, her tall bonnet catching on the roof sill. She settled opposite in a rustle of pale‑blue silk, her eyes downcast.

An older gentleman followed, acknowledged Kydd and Renzi, then sat beside her. The ostler offered a hot brick in worn serge which the man manoeuvred under the young lady’s feet.

‘Thank you, dear Papa,’ she said demurely, snuggling her hands into a muff.

The man favoured a belly warmer, which he settled inside his long coat. ‘Uncommon cold for this time o’ year!’ he grunted.

Long inured to conditions far worse, Kydd caught Renzi’s amused but discreet sideways glance. ‘Er, I’m sure y’r right.’

The girl looked up, and noticed their uniforms. ‘Oh!’ she said prettily, her hand at her mouth, ‘You’re sailors!’

The man coughed irritably. ‘They’re officers, m’dear, naval officers, not sailors, d’ye see?’

‘It is what I meant to say, Papa. Pray, sirs, were you in that dreadful battle of Camperdown at all? I have heard that it was quite the most shocking fight this age!’

The man clicked his tongue in exasperation, but Kydd’s heart swelled with pride. Their coach still bore laurel branches from the helter‑skelter celebrations of only a week or so ago.

‘Indeed, this is so, Miss, and you will understand how truly weary we are, that we yearn for the blessings of peace and solitude for a period…’ Renzi said quietly.

‘Of course, sir, please do forgive me.’ Her eyes rested briefly on Kydd, then she turned determinedly to stare out of the window.

Kydd felt a pang of irritation, but understood that Renzi was sparing him idle chat so that he could enjoy the anticipation of his homecoming.

The mention of Camperdown, his first big fleet action, brought back emotions that were still too raw and recent, images of the nightmare of the great mutiny at the Nore and its sequel; his mind shied away from them and instead concentrated on the incredible fact that he had been promoted on the field of battle and officially confirmed. He was now Lieutenant Kydd! It was still too heady a thought, so he let his mind return to the excitement of his homecoming.

The coach jolted over the infamous potholes at Abbotswood; Guildford Town was now minutes away. Almost too quickly, the square grey‑stone Elizabethan grammar school passed on the left, and the town proper began, familiar buildings at the top of the high street. The post‑horn’s baying echoed off the alms house opposite Holy Trinity, drawing mildly curious glances from the townsfolk.

Clattering over the old cobbled road, they passed under the big clock, the driver tooling the mail‑coach through the narrow black and white half‑timbered entrance of the Angel posting house.

Kydd and Renzi left their bags with the obsequious landlord, then emerged onto the high street and turned left, past shops and alleys well known to Kydd. The reek and colour of the town, the bustle and shouts, the passing tide of people all seemed to advance like a dream.

Some glanced curiously at the two men, others with admiration. Self‑conscious, Kydd waited for someone to recognise him, but perhaps the dark blue, white and gold of his handsome uniform put paid to that. He saw Betty, the fishmonger’s attractive daughter who stopped and stared in shock at the sight of him. Kydd doffed his brand‑new cocked hat.

They reached the red‑brick church of Holy Trinity, and turned off past the glebe cottages to Schoolhouse Lane, as it was now known. There was no mistaking the little naval school ahead: a huge blue ensign floated above for all the world to see – the flag under which Kydd had fought at Camperdown. And as they drew near they could hear a muffled chanting on the air: ‘…three sevens are twenty‑one, four sevens are twenty‑eight, five sevens…’

They stepped into the tiny quadrangle, two King’s officers returned from the sea. A youngster emerged at the run from a classroom and teetered to a halt. He whipped off his cap and shrilled, ‘I’ll fetch th’ bo’sun, if y’ please, sir!’

Jabez Perrott emerged out of the building and stumped importantly towards them. His eyes widened, and he gasped, ‘Be buggered! It’s Master Kydd, be gob!’

Kydd opened his mouth, but Perrott, reddening with pleasure, grabbed for his silver call and emitted a piercing blast. Then, in a lower‑deck bellow that had not softened with the years, he roared, ‘Aaaaall the hands! Haaaands to muster – clear lower deck, ye swabs! Haaaands to muster…’

Children boiled out of the classrooms, screeching in delight at the antics of their strict boatswain.

‘Mr Perrott! Mr Perrott! What are you doing!’

Kydd recognised the voice and, holding back tears, advanced to meet his mother.

‘Oh! Tom! It’s you! M’ darling boy, it’s you! And you’ve…’ The rest was lost in a fierce embrace that went on and on, knocking his hat askew.

‘Mother! So long…’

Kydd’s father had aged: his form was stooped and his eyes sightless. Nevertheless, he bore himself nobly in the black breeches of a headmaster. ‘Er, is that you, son?’

‘It is, Walter!’ his mother said, as the old man moved uncertainly towards him, holding out his hand. Kydd took it, then hugged him.

‘Walter, Tom is an officer!’

She looked anxiously to Kydd for confirmation – the idea was so enormous. ‘Aye, Mother, it’s “Lieutenant Kydd, Royal Navy” you must call me now, or I’ll clap ye all in irons!’ He spoke loudly so his father would make no mistake about what he was hearing.

‘Carry on, sir?’ Perrott said to Kydd, touching his hat.

‘Er, please do,’ said Kydd.

‘Ship’s comp’ny ahoy! I’ll have yez in two lines afore the mast – let’s be havin’ ye!’ he bawled at the children. They shuffled eagerly into line. ‘Now, we dips our colours t’ a pair o’ ’eroes ’oo has jus’ come back ’ome fr’m such a battle as never was, an’ we’re going t’ show how much we admires ’em!’

Lieutenants Kydd and Renzi stood solemnly to attention as ‘God Save The King’ and ‘Rule Britannia’ were sung enthusiastically by the wide‑eyed youngsters.

A piercing squeal on the boatswain’s call brought quiet, and the colours were dipped reverently to half staff. With great dignity Perrott turned to face Kydd, removing his hat. Taken by surprise, Kydd raised his own cocked hat, at which the colours rose again.

‘Silence!’ Perrott thundered at the awed children. ‘Now, Lootenant Kydd will talk t’ you about y’ dooty.’

Kydd managed to splutter a few words. ‘Y’r duty is…steadfast in all weathers…courage at the cannon’s mouth…King and country.’

It seemed to be enough.  An eager child broke ranks and held up his hand. ‘Please, sir, I want t’ be a sailor – how do I be a sailor?’

Soon a pink‑faced Kydd was mobbed by shouting boys.

‘Pipe down, y’ scurvy crew, ’n’ listen to the L’tenant!’ growled Perrott happily.

Kydd glanced across at his mother who was bursting with pride, and knew there was only one thing to do. He turned to this father and touched his hat. ‘Cap’n, sir, permission f’r liberty ashore t’ both watches!’

‘Oh, er, liberty?’ his father stuttered. ‘Yes, yes, er, Lieutenant Kydd. A half‑holiday to, er, all hands!’ The children screamed with delight and poured out of the school, leaving a dazed, happy Kydd family standing in the quadrangle.

‘I shall withdraw at this point, if I may,’ Renzi said quietly.

‘No, no, Mr Renzi,’ Mrs Kydd insisted. ‘You must stay an’ tell us where you have been on the sea – you’ll both have such tales, I do declare!’ She turned to Kydd. ‘Now, I’ll ask Mr Partington to spare us his room for you, he can stay with his friend Jonathan. For Mr Renzi…’ Her voice trailed off. Then she resumed stiffly, ‘But, then, now Thomas has a reputation, he’ll want t’ have his own establishment.’

His mother’s words could not hide the essence of the matter, the brutal truth, and Kydd felt a chill at the passing of his simple life. He saw her colouring; she had understood that her son was no longer hers. From now on, society events and invitations would firmly distinguish between the Kydds.

‘We shall stay at the Angel,’ Renzi said softly, ‘Then we will take modest lodgings in Town.’

Kydd mumbled agreement.

‘Well then, that’s settled,’ his mother said bravely. ‘It’s for the best, o’ course. Come inside an’ take a posset – you must be frozen after y’r journey.’

 

As he cradled a mug of hot curdled milk at the kitchen table Kydd listened to the flow of prattle from his mother, felt the quiet presence of his father and caught the curious flash of the maid's eyes. His own kept straying down to his uniform, the blue and gold so striking. Who could guess what the future might hold now? A deep sigh escaped him.

He heard the approaching tap, tap of footsteps. His mother smiled. ‘Ah, that must be Cecilia – she’ll be so surprised to see you!’

The last time he had seen his sister was in a wrecked boat in the Caribbean. He recalled her mortal terror as they had fought for their lives against the sharks. What would she think of him now?

‘She’s done very well with Lord an’ Lady Stanhope, Thomas; quite the lady companion she is now,’ Mrs Kydd said proudly. ‘And don’t go quarrellin’ with her, if y’ please, you know how it upsets your father.’

The outside door rattled, and Cecilia’s voice echoed down the passageway. ‘Father – what is going on? I saw quantities of your boys on the street, and…’ Her voice died away as the two men rose to their feet. She looked from face to face, incredulous. ‘Thomas? You…you…’

Kydd awkwardly held out his hands. ‘Ye’re doin’ well, Mother says—’

Suddenly her expression softened to a deep tenderness, and she seized her brother in a fierce hug. ‘Oh, Thomas! I’ve so missed you!’

He felt her body heaving, and when she looked at him again he saw the sparkle of tears. His own voice was gruff with emotion as he said, ‘Sis – y’ remember in th’ boat—’

She stopped him with a finger on his lips and whispered, ‘Mother!’ Then she let him go, crossed to Renzi and placed a generous kiss on both his cheeks. ‘Dear Nicholas! How are you? You’re still so thin, you know!’

Renzi replied politely, and Cecilia turned back to her brother. ‘Thomas and Nicholas are going to take chocolate with me at Murchison’s and tell me all their adventures, while you, Mother, prepare such a welcome for this wandering pair!’ she announced. Her eyes widened. ‘Gracious me – and if I’m not mistaken in the particulars – Thomas, you’re a…’

‘L’tenant Kydd it is now, Cec,’ he said happily.

 

The evening meal was a roaring success. Kydd became hoarse with talking and Renzi was quite undone by the warmth of his welcome. Cecilia could not get enough of Kydd’s descriptions of the Venice of Casanova, even above his protestations that the danger of their mission meant he was hardly in a position to discourse on the republic’s attractions.

Distant thumps and a sudden crackle sounded outside. Cecilia clapped her hands. ‘The fireworks – I nearly forgot! Tonight we’ll see your Admiral Onslow – he is to be a baronet, and is now resting at Clandon with his brother the Earl. It’s said he’ll make an address from the balcony of the town hall!

‘Gentlemen – I wish to attend! I shall be with you presently.’ She swept away imperiously to appear shortly afterwards in a pelisse at the height of fashion: green silk, lined and faced with blue. She looked at them both with the suspicion of a pout. ‘And who will be my gentleman escort?’

Kydd hesitated, but instantly Renzi bowed deeply and offered his arm. ‘May I observe that I find Madame is in looks tonight?’ he said with the utmost courtly grace.

Cecilia inclined her head and accepted his arm. They went outside and, without a backward glance at him, moved off down the lane, Cecilia's laughter tinkling at Renzi’s sallies.

Kydd watched them helplessly.  His sister had changed. There was not a trace of childhood chubbiness left:  her strong features had developed into strikingly dark good looks and a languorous elegance. Her position with Lady Stanhope had allowed her to find an easy confidence and elegance of speech that he could only envy; he followed them, trying to look unconcerned.

Crowds pressed everywhere, while excited chatter and the smell of fireworks hung on the air. People held back respectfully. Kydd was not sure whether it was in recognition of them as gentlefolk or because of the Navy uniform. Closer to the torch‑lit balcony the throng was tightly packed and they had to remain some distance back.

Cecilia kept Renzi’s arm, but pulled Kydd forward, attracting envious looks from other ladies. ‘Oh, I’m so proud of you!’ she exclaimed, her voice raised above the excited babble of the crowd. She smiled at them both, and Kydd felt better.

‘It was th’ Admiral gave me m’ step, Cec – there in th’ great cabin o’ Monarch.’ Kydd paused, remembering the scene. ‘But it were Cap’n Essington put me forward.’

A deep thumping came from the other side, further down the high street: the Royal Surreys called out to do duty on this naval occasion. Thin sounds of fife and trumpet rose above the hubbub, strengthening as they approached. Then, with a pair of loud double thumps on the bass drum, it ceased.

The crowd surged below the balcony and settled into a tense expectation. Torchlight illuminated upturned faces, caught the sparkle of eyes, the glitter of gold lace. At the signs of indistinct movement within, a rustle of anticipation arose and the mayor emerged on to the balcony in his best scarlet gown and tricorne, resplendent with his chain of office.

‘M’ lords, ladies an’ gennelmen!’ He paused. ‘Pray silence for the mighty victor o’ the great battle o’ Camperdown; our own – Adm’ral Onslow!’

The genial sea officer Kydd remembered stepped out on to the balcony. A furious storm of cheering met him, a roar of wholehearted and patriotic acclaim. Onslow, in his full dress admiral’s uniform, sword and decorations, bared his head and bowed this way and that, manifestly affected by the welcome.

Kydd watched him turn again and again to face all parts of the crowd. At one point he thought he had caught the Admiral’s eye, and wondered if he should wave back, but there was no sign of recognition.

The noise subsided, and Onslow moved to the front of the balcony. He fumbled in his coat, and withdrew a paper. He hesitated, then put the paper back, straightening to a quarterdeck brace. ‘M’ lord mayor an’ lady – citizens of Guildford!’ he began. ‘I thank ye for your fine and loyal address followin’ the action off Camperdown. But I must make something very clear to ye. An admiral doesn’t win battles, the seamen do! An’ I cannot stand here tonight without I acknowledge this before you all! Over there t’ larb’d! Yes, those two men, ahoy! Be s’ good as to join me and show y’selves! These are two of your true victors o’ Camperdown!’

‘Thomas – go!’ Cecilia squealed, when it became obvious whom the Admiral had singled out. The crowd shuffled and fell back.

Onslow was waiting for them and shook their hands warmly. ‘A fine thing t’ see ye both,’ he rumbled, his keen eyes taking in their new uniforms. ‘Let’s out an’ give ’em a sight, then you’ll honour me with y’ presence at the presentation.’

They emerged together on to the balcony to a roar, Kydd waving awkwardly, Renzi bowing. Kydd’s eyes searched out Cecilia. She was shouting something to him, waving furiously, and his heart swelled.

 

‘A capital choice,’ Renzi said, removing his coat and standing in just waistcoat and breeches. ‘It seems we shall be waiting out Tenacious’s repair in a tolerable degree of comfort.’ He settled into a substantial high‑backed chair.

Kydd rubbed his hands before the fire. The agent had left, and they had taken on this half‑mansion below the castle for a very reasonable sum. The owner had apparently instructed that officers in His Majesty’s service could rely on his patriotic duty in the matter of a lease. Not only that but, agreeably, they could share the services of domestic staff with the adjoining residence, which, as it was inhabited by an old lady, should be no trial.

Kydd looked around him with growing satisfaction, albeit tinged with trepidation. The rooms were not large, but were bigger than anything he had lived in before. He’d always known that the heart of the home was the kitchen, but here it seemed that this elegant front room had taken its place.

The walls were a soft sage colour, the broad, generous sash windows were hung with muslin and festoon curtains and stout druggets lay beneath his feet instead of oiled floor‑cloths. The furniture was reassuringly old‑fashioned and sturdy. He turned again to the fire with its plain but well‑proportioned marble surround and mantelpiece, and felt an unstoppable surge of happiness. ‘Two or three months, d’ye suppose?’ he mused, recalling the savage wounds Tenacious had suffered.

‘I would think so.’ Renzi sat sprawled, his eyes closed.

‘Nicholas, th’ sun is not yet above th’ foreyard, but I have a yen t’ toast our fortune!’

Renzi half opened his eyes. ‘Please do. You will not find me shy of acknowledging that it is these same fates that determine whether one should die of a loathsome disease or—’

‘Clap a stopper on it, brother!’ Kydd laughed. ‘I’ll go ’n’ rouse out somethin’ we c’n’—’

‘I think not.’

‘Why—’

‘Pray touch the bell for the servant.’

‘Aye, Nicholas,’ Kydd said humbly. He found the well‑worn but highly polished silver bell and rang it self‑consciously.

‘Sir?’ A manservant in blue, and with a plain bob wig, appeared.

Renzi pulled himself upright. ‘Should you unlock my grey valise you will find a brace of Cognac. Pray be so good as to open one for us.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ the man said, with a short bow, withdrawing.

Kydd tried to look unconcerned and toasted his rear until the servant returned bearing a gilt tray.

‘À votre santé,’ Renzi said.

‘A votter sonday,’ Kydd echoed awkwardly. The brandy burned a passage to his empty stomach.

Renzi stood up, raising his glass to Kydd. ‘Our present fortune. May this indeed be a true augury of our future.’

‘Aye, an’ may we never find th’ need t’ deny our past ever!’ Kydd said. ‘Nicholas. M’ true friend.’ He looked sideways at Renzi, and seeing he was attending politely pressed on. ‘I’ve been a‑thinkin’ – you don’t care if I say my mind?’

‘My dear fellow! If it were any other I would feel betrayed.’

‘Well, Nicholas, this is all more’n I could ever hope for,  somethin’ that can only happen if – if y’r destiny is written somewhere, I reckon. So I’m taking this chance wi’ both hands! I’ll give it m’ rousin’ best copper‑bottomed, double‑barrelled, bevel‑edged try, I will!’

Renzi nodded. ‘Of course, brother.’

‘So this is what I have t’ do.’ Kydd took a determined pull on his brandy. ‘I’ve seen y’r tarpaulin officer come aft through the hawse, a right taut son o’ Neptune. Ye sees him on watch on th’ quarterdeck an’ it puts y’ heart at ease. But Nicholas, I don’t want t’ be a tarpaulin officer! They’re stayin’ l’tenants all their days, fine messmates I’m sure, but who should say – plain in their habits. The other officers step ashore t’gether, while they stays aboard ’n’ makes friends wi’ a bottle.’

He glanced down at the glass in his hands. ‘I want t’ be a reg’lar built King’s officer and gentleman, Nicholas, an’ I asks you what I c’n’ do to be one o’ them.’

Renzi’s half‑smile appeared. ‘If this is your wish, Tom – yet I’ll have you know there is no shame in being one of nature’s gentlemen…’

‘If y’ will—’

‘Ah. All in good time, dear fellow. This does require a mort of reflection…’

 

It was all very well for Kydd to ask this of him, even if what he said was perfectly reasonable – but in truth the job was all but impossible. Renzi’s eye covertly took in Kydd’s figure: instead of a fine‑drawn, willowy courtliness there were strong shoulders and slim hips standing four‑square; rather than a distinguished slender curve to the leg, his knee‑breeches betrayed sculpted musculature. And in place of a fashionably cool, pale countenance there was a hearty oaken one whose open good humour was not designed for societal discretion. And yet he was undoubtedly intelligent: Renzi had seen his quick wits at work. But Kydd would have to learn to value politeness and convention – not his strongest suit. Then there was his speech – Renzi squirmed to think of the sport others would make of him behind his back. The probable course of events, then, would be for Kydd to retreat into the comfort of bluff sea‑doggery, and thereby exclude himself from gentle‑born society. But this was his particular friend – he could not refuse him.

‘Mr Kydd – as now I must call you – this is what I propose.’ He fixed him with a stare. ‘Should you choose this path then I must warn you that the way is arduous. There’s many a chance to stumble – are you prepared for a hard beat to wind’d?’

‘I am!’

‘And there are, er, matters you must accept without question, which are not, on the face of it, either reasonable or explicable. Do you undertake that you will accept from me their necessity without question?’

Kydd paused. ‘Aye.’

‘Very well. I will give you my full assistance in your worthy endeavour, and if you stay the course, for you may indeed wish to yield the race at any point—’

‘Never!’

‘—then I in turn agree to assist in your elevation into society.’

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 which 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 done 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, sis,’ 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, of course, 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 merely came 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.

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 – and turned down a side‑street, entering 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. The woman 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.

‘So we seem t’ have made up our mind to go ridin’ at last!’ A sarcastic bellow came across the ring to him. ‘And so we start wi’ the walk.’

The horse plodded in a circle, and Kydd’s confidence grew.

‘Back straight, Mr Kydd!’ He forced his spine to rigidity and completed another circle. ‘Jehosaphat Moses – keep y’r back supple, Mr Kydd. Let y’r hips rock with the horse, sir!’

The trot was more to his liking with its brisk motion, but the horse whinnied with frustration at the tight rein and Kydd eased it a little.

A gate was opened into a larger field, and Renzi began to canter. Kydd followed behind, feeling the thud of the hoofs through the animal’s frame and hearing snorts of effort coming from the great beast beneath him. It was exhilarating, and he relaxed into it. The horse seemed to sense this and responded with a more fluid, faster motion.

‘Well done, Mr Kydd!’ he heard, ‘ “Collected an’ light in hand”, we say!’

As he turned he saw the woman pull out a large fob watch. ‘To me!’ she demanded impatiently.

Kydd felt the horse respond to his signals with knee and reins and suddenly was reluctant to finish for the morning. Impulsively, he clapped his knees to the beast’s barrel‑like sides. After a brief hesitation the horse responded and broke into a gallop. Instinctively Kydd acted as he would aloft, his standing crouch that of a topman leaning forward to hand a billowing sail. The horse stretched out down the length of the field. Now wildly excited, Kydd caught a glimpse of figures staring at him as he thundered past. The wind tore through his hair, the din of hoofs and the animal’s rhythmic movements beat on his senses.

A gnarled wooden fence spread across his vision. As they hurtled towards it, Kydd considered an emergency turn to larboard. Far behind him a faint bellow sounded: ‘Bridge y’r reins – bridge your r‑e‑i‑n-s!’ but he was too far gone. The horse threw itself at the rails. There was a momentary muscular tensing, a lunge into space, and then all was quiet for a heartbeat before the beast landed with a mighty thud and a jerk.

Kydd stayed aboard as the horse raced away through nondescript winter‑brown bracken and into the woods beyond. It hesitated in mid‑stride, then swerved on to a woodland path, Kydd ducking to avoid whip‑like branches.

He became aware of hoofbeats out of synchrony with his own, and indistinct shouting. He guessed it would be Renzi following, but dared not look behind. He shot past a gaping greenwood forager, then reached a more substantial lane across their path.

The horse skidded as it negotiated a random turn, but the mud slowed it, and the gallop became less frantic. It panted heavily as it slowed to a trot. Renzi caught up and grasped the reins. ‘How are you, brother?’

Kydd flashed a wide grin. ‘Spankin’ fine time, Nicholas, s’ help me!’ he said breathlessly, his face red with exertion.

Renzi hid a grin. ‘And what has happened to your decorum, sir?’

‘Oh? Aye, yes. Er, a capital experience, sir!’

They rode together for a space. The lane widened and a small cottage came into view ahead. ‘Do dismount, old fellow, and ask directions back,’ Renzi suggested. Gingerly, Kydd leaned forward to bring his leg across the saddle, but in a flash he had toppled backwards into the black winter mud, still with one foot in a stirrup.

The horse stamped and rolled its eyes as Kydd got ruefully to his feet and trudged down the garden path to the door.

It was answered by a stooped old man with alert bright eyes. Before Kydd could speak, he smiled. ‘Ah – Master Kydd, I do believe? Thomas Kydd?’

‘Aye, y’r in the right of it,’ Kydd said. ‘That is t’ say, you have th’ advantage of me, sir.’

The man feigned disappointment. Kydd’s face cleared. ‘O’ course! Parson Deane!’ It seemed so long ago that, as a boy, he had taken delight in going to the lakeside with the old man and his dog after duck. ‘I hope I find you in health, sir,’ he said. The parson glanced up at Renzi, who was still mounted. ‘Oh, sir, this is Mr Renzi, my particular friend. Mr Renzi, this is the Rev’nd  Deane.’

Renzi inclined his head. ‘My honour, sir. Our apologies at this intrusion, we merely seek a more expedient way back to our manège.’

Deane’s face creased in pleasure. ‘I shall tell you, should you come inside and accept a dish of tea while Thomas tells me where he’s been spending his days.’

They left the horses to crop grass outside the garden fence and went into the parson’s house. Deane looked at Kydd keenly, clearly enjoying Kydd’s sparse recital of his impressment and subsequent adventures. ‘So now you are an officer?’

Kydd grinned boyishly. ‘L’tenant Kydd!’ he said, with swelling pride.

‘Then you are now, in the eyes of the whole world, a gentleman. Is this not so?’

It seemed appropriate to bow wordlessly.

Deane contemplated Kydd for a long moment. ‘Do you stop me if I appear impertinent,’ he said, ‘yet I would later remember this moment with shame were I not to share with you now my thoughts concerning your station…’

‘It would be f’r my advantage, Mr Deane.’ He couldn’t resist a quick glance of triumph at Renzi – after all, he had remembered the polite words – but Renzi responded with a frown. Obediently Kydd turned all his attention to the old man.

‘It seems to me that the essence of a gentleman is to be found in his good breeding, his impeccable civility to all, including his servants. “Manners maketh man,” as the Good Book teaches us. Outer manners reflect inner virtue!’

Renzi nodded slowly. ‘The worthy Locke is insistent on this point,’ he murmured.

‘It is never quite easy for the young to acquire the civil virtues,’ the parson continued. ‘“Quo semel est imbuta recens, servabit oderem testa diu” was Horace’s view, and by this you should understand…’

 

Kydd stirred restlessly in his armchair. ‘Gettin’ to be a gallows’ sight more’n a man c’n take, Cec, all this’n.’

Cecilia affected not to hear. Kydd glanced at her irritably, ‘I mean, how much o’ this is going to stand by me at sea?’

‘That’s better,’ Cecilia said demurely, but laid down her book. ‘Now I’m sure the other officers will be polite and well bred – you must be the same.’

Kydd snorted.

Renzi sighed. ‘You have still three issues of the Gentleman’s Magazine to digest, to my certain knowledge,’ he said accusingly.

‘And a Spectator,’ Cecilia chimed in. ‘How can you keep a lady entertained at table without you have small talk to share?’

She looked at Renzi in mock despair, then brightened. ‘Mr Renzi, have you seen our castle? The merest ruin, I’ll grant, but of an age indeed. Mama will be persuaded to come – she knows all the history.’

 

‘I’m tuckered out,’ said Mrs Kydd, finding a wooden bench overlooking what remained of the castle keep, ‘You two have a good look roun’ by y’rselves.’

Cecilia was agreeable, and Renzi took her on his arm for the stony path winding about the castle mound. The winter sun had a fragile brilliance, contrasting colour bright with grey and brown tints.

‘It grieves me to say it, but Thomas did not shine at the tea‑party in any wise,’ he opened. He was uncomfortably aware of her touch – it had been long years since last he had enjoyed polite female company, and Cecilia was now a beauty.

‘Yes – the silly boy, sitting there like a stuffed goose while the ladies made sport of him. I despair, Nicholas, I really do.’

Renzi assisted Cecilia past a perilous rock. She flashed him a look of gratitude, then dropped her eyes, but her hold on his arm tightened.

‘Miss Kydd…’ began Renzi thickly – then stopped. With his own feelings about her far from clear was it fair – was it honourable? –  to engage her affections?

‘Yes, Nicholas?’ she said, smiling up at him.

He pulled himself up. ‘I was – your mother confides that you have secured the liveliest trust in your position with Lady Stanhope.’

‘I have been very fortunate,’ she said gravely; then a smile broke through. ‘You’ve no idea how many of the highest in the land I’ve seen! Lady Stanhope requires I attend her at all her routs and I’m sure it’s only to find me a husband!’

‘And—’

‘Don’t be a silly, Nicholas – I’m sensible of my fortune in this and, I do declare, I’m not ready to forsake it all now for the tedium of a domestic life!’ She tossed her head, eyes sparkling.

After another few paces she turned to him with a troubled expression. ‘Thomas – he…’

He knew what concerned her: her brother would find himself first ridiculed and later shunned if he could not hold his own in company. ‘Time is short, I agree. Do you not think that we are obligated to press him to enter in upon society in a more formal degree?’

Cecilia bit her lip, then decided. ‘A dinner party! Now, let me see…We have the pick of Guildford, of course, a hostess would die to entertain a brace of heroes from Camperdown, but I rather feel that at this stage Thomas would not welcome the public eye too warmly.’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘I know – I’ll speak with Mrs Crawford, advise her that after such a dreadful battle Thomas relishes nothing better than a small, intimate gathering. I’ll be seeing her on Thursday, I shall speak to her then.’

‘Splendid!’ responded Renzi. It would indeed be a suitable occasion for Kydd, if he could overcome his timidity in august surroundings. He beamed approval at Cecilia.

‘Er, Nicholas,’ she said off‑handedly, ‘something that I keep forgetting to ask, it’s just my ill-bred curiosity, but – you’ve never mentioned your own people.’ She stopped to admire a singularly gnarled small tree.

‘My own? Well … shall I say they’re just an old country family of Wiltshire whom I haven’t attended as assiduously as I might…?’

 

Kydd sat motionless at the bare table, listening while Cecilia explained and cautioned, his expression hard but in control.

‘No, Thomas, it just will not do. We do not enter like a herd of goats to feed! First to take their places are the ladies, and they will occupy one end of the table. When they are seated the gentlemen proceed – but, mark this, in strict order! They will be placed at the table in the same succession.’

Cecilia’s eyes flicked once to Renzi, then turned back to Kydd.

Kydd’s face tightened, but he kept his silence.

‘Now, Mrs Crawford always dines à la française  – as you know, Thomas – and allows promiscuous seating so a man may sit next to a lady, though some find this too racy for the English taste, and in this…’

Renzi’s sympathy was all too transparent. ‘I do rather think that Tom is more a man of daring and action, dear sister. This posturing must be a disagreeable strain for such a one.’

‘Nevertheless, he shall require his manners wherever he may be,’ Cecilia said coldly. ‘A gentleman does not put aside his breeding simply for the perils of the moment. Now, please attend, Thomas…’

 

‘Miss Cecilia Kydd, Mr Thomas Kydd and Mr Nicholas Renzi!’ blared the footman.

The babble of conversations faded: it was common knowledge that the two guests now arrived had suffered in the legendary October clash off the Dutch coast – and it had been said that they had chosen tonight to resume their place in polite society. There were many curious rumours about these officers, but no doubt before the night was over the details would have been made clear.

A wave of determined females advanced, led by the hostess, and the groups dissolved in a flurry of introductions.

‘Enchanted,’ said Mr Kydd, making a creditable but somewhat individual leg to a gratified Mrs Crawford.

‘Do say if you become too fatigued, Mr Kydd,’ she said, eyeing his broad shoulders. ‘You’ll find us in the utmost sympathy with your time of trial.’

‘That is most kind in ye, dear Mrs Crawford,’ the handsome sailor officer replied gravely.

She turned reluctantly to the other one, a sensitive looking, rather more austere gentleman, and reclaimed by her duty, murmured politely.

 

They sat down to dinner under the golden glitter of chandelier and crystal, to polite approbation at the first remove.

‘May I help you t’ a portion of this fine shott, Miss Tuffs?’ said Mr Kydd politely. The young lady on his left, nearly overcome at being noticed by one of the principal guests, could only stutter her thanks, tinged with alarm at the resulting pile of roast piglet generously heaped to occupy the whole plate.

‘Sir, this toothsome venison demands your immediate attention. Might I…’ The red‑faced gentleman to the right would not be denied, and placed a satisfying amount on Mr Kydd’s plate.

‘Your servant, sir,’ said Mr Kydd, inclining his head.

It was clear that the middle‑aged woman across from him was set on securing his attention. ‘The weather seems uncommon blowy for the time of year,’ she said.

Mr Kydd thought for a moment, and replied politely, ‘It’s a saying ashore only, Mrs Wood, “When the wind is in the east, ’tis no good to man nor beast.” And by this is meant that in the winter season we often shiver in th’ winds o’ Tartary from the east. Now, at sea we bless this wind, Mrs Wood, for it is a fair wind for our ships down‑channel and…’

Fully satisfied in the matter of explanations, Mrs Wood retired to contemplate, at which Mr Kydd turned his attention to the red‑faced gentleman. ‘Gentleman’s Magazine’s interestin’ this week – says about your electric fluid invented by Mr Volta all comes from frog legs in the end,’ he remarked bravely.

The man shook his head slowly in amazement. ‘Now, that’s something I never knew,’ he said at length. A look of barely concealed satisfaction suffused Mr Kydd’s face as he looked up the table to where Mr Renzi sat quietly, nodding slowly.

A footman obliged with claret. ‘Wine with you, sir!’ Mr Kydd said happily, with all the joyous relief to be expected of one having passed through a personal trial and not been found wanting. ‘I give you Lady Fortune, an’ may she always be one!’