Kydd sighed. ‘You know you now stand in a fair way of losing the woman?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s every prospect that, having conquered and held the place, the Admiralty will see fit to keep us here indefinitely, we doing such a sterling job.’
Renzi’s expression turned bleak. He had sworn to Kydd he would go down on his knees and seek Cecilia’s hand the same day that they reached the shores of England. That time now distant, would she still be free?
‘I’d suggest you write to her this hour, m’ friend.’
‘Believe me, I’ve tried, but-’
‘Then I’d think it wise to consider your position, old horse.’
A half-smile appeared. Kydd knew the signs and waited for his friend to speak.
‘Dear brother, in logic, as I see it, there are three alternatives. The one, that she is already taken by another, which at the moment I cannot know; the second, that she is not, but will nevertheless decline my suit; and the third that . . . that she will listen favourably to that which I shall propose.’
After a moment’s reflection he said, ‘So it seems my course is clear. No dilemma, no equivocation or foolish agonising.’
‘Oh?’
‘On the one, I am helpless to alter the dictates of Fortune, likewise the second, neither requiring either action or decision. As to the third – this must presuppose I should prepare for the day. Now, in the absence of intelligence to the contrary, each condition bears an equal probability of being the outcome, the odds of one in three. I accept those odds, but you see it makes no difference – in the event of the first two, no prior intervention will affect matters while for the third it will. Therefore, irrespective, I am obliged to assume the last . . . that I am to marry.’
‘Well done, old trout!’ Kydd applauded. ‘Therefore, for both your sakes write to her now! There’s a mail to close tomorrow on Bombay Castle.’
‘It’s impossible. I cannot trust that I could write without betraying my true feelings and I abhor pity. Therefore I ask a boon – that you write to her as a brother and enquire of her personal circumstances.’
Kydd frowned, then nodded reluctantly.
‘Meanwhile, in this far region there is one, and one only, contribution to my future with Cecilia left open to me.’
Kydd waited. It would come out logically, as it always did.
Renzi took a deep breath, looked skyward, then slammed both fists on the table and choked, ‘That novel! I’m going to write my novel – for Cecilia’s sake!’
To see Renzi so taken with emotion shook Kydd. ‘Er, why, to be sure – I know you’ll do it, Nicholas,’ he said, with concern. It was clear his friend’s so recent cruel fall from fortune and prospects for marriage had affected him more than he had revealed.
Renzi took control, then said evenly, ‘I shall dedicate my heart and soul to Portrait of an Adventurer, Tom. Never doubt it for one minute.’
‘Yes, Nicholas.’
Writing a novel had been Kydd’s idea, a suggestion to which, until now, Kydd had never given much more thought, but he knew that it was probably the only thing Renzi could do that had any promise for the future. The public seemed to crave such works, and Renzi had had a number of adventures around the world that might inspire such a book. But, most importantly, it would keep his friend occupied until they returned and he could resolve matters with Kydd’s sister.
‘Damme – whatever it takes out of me, this is the only thing I can positively do for the both of us,’ Renzi said defiantly.
‘I quite understand, m’friend.’
‘Not forgetting, mark you, what I said about Cecilia.’
Kydd smiled: a natural philosopher turned writer of novels? Of course she should never hear of it! He clapped his hand on the desk and gave a mock frown. ‘So, what do you know of novels, ever?’
‘Ah. Not much – I confess I’ve yet to read one, my father railing against them so vehemently. I’ve taken some first steps, however, which persuade me that it may not be as plain-sailing a task as first I’d conceived.’
‘You’ll do it, Nicholas, never fear.’
‘I enquired in our worthy gunroom if there was by chance a reader of novels who might lend me a volume, but it seems there was not. Yet mysteriously by evening a pair lay on my cot. Such noble fellows!’
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out two well-used pocket editions and passed them across. Curious, Kydd opened one. The Castle on the Rhine; or; The Fatal Warning was its title, and lower down it went on breathlessly to declare that it was the harrowing tale of the fate of Reginald de Vere, who dared pierce the deathly walls of a deserted castle in pursuit of a ghostly love.
‘Um, you’ve experience of ghosts at all, Nicholas?’ Kydd asked doubtfully.
‘We have an ancestral phantom but I’ve never met it,’ Renzi said apologetically, ‘and never a spirit, of the ghostly sort that is, have I seen at sea.’
Kydd turned to the second book. ‘Then this other one, “Quentin Dandy, being an account of the peregrinations of a scoundrel and his dreadful end”, in five volumes – but this is the third only, damn it.’
‘It must serve, I fear. We need all the research matter we can lay hands on.’
‘We?’
‘My dear fellow! You don’t imagine I shall exclude my most particular friend from this literary adventure, surely.’
‘But I’m a sea officer, fit only to write a log or beg favour of my admiral, Nicholas. What do I know of romance and plotting?’
‘Tom, dear fellow, you have a crucial role, one suited only to a clear and strong mind as will not be swayed by fashion and sorcery. In fine, dear friend, you shall be my audience.’
‘Oh. To make critical remarks, review your meaning and similar?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Then shall I be telling the truth or will I be losing a friend?’ Kydd asked slyly.
‘I’ve yet to write a word,’ Renzi said stiffly. ‘There’s a mort of work before then.’
Gravely, the commodore paced slowly along the assembled divisions, asking a question here, commending an appearance there. Kydd followed: L’Aurore was at her best and he could vouch for her fighting spirit. Some senior officers insisted on a faultless appearance, others fell back on pedantry in the matter of ceremonials, but he knew Popham prized intelligence and audacity above all else – and who on this station had shown more than L’Aurore?
Concluding his tour, Popham stood genially on the quarterdeck and addressed Kydd loudly: ‘A splendid turn-out, Captain! And as fine a King’s Ship as any I’ve seen. You shall have my order that the mainbrace be spliced this afternoon.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Kydd replied courteously.
‘That is, if you’re able to satisfy me in one last particular.’
‘Sir?’
Popham wheeled about and strode purposefully to the spotless after end of the quarterdeck beyond the mizzen-mast. ‘I desire you should make to Diadem the following signal.’
Saxton, the signals master’s mate, hastily took out his notebook.
‘“Report the Christian name of the captain of your main-top.”’
That would be quite impossible to send with the current Admiralty signal book.
‘Telegraph,’ muttered Saxton, instantly, to his petty officer, who lost no time in having the telegraph code flag bent on while Saxton composed the signal. It drew an approving nod from the commodore when ‘Christian’ was not found in the book and Saxton muttered, ‘Um, that is, “fore, forward, bows” and then “name” will do’. He rapidly found the numbers.
The hoist soared up, to be answered with a spelled-out reply from all three masts of Diadem. ‘Cholmondeley,’ Saxton reported, wooden-faced.
‘Very good,’ Popham said graciously. ‘You may stand down your ship’s company, Captain.’
When this had been done, Kydd asked politely, ‘And may I offer you refreshments, sir?’
Once in Kydd’s great cabin, hats and swords were put off and Popham eased himself into one of the armchairs by the stern-lights, stretching luxuriously and loosening his neckcloth. ‘A thoroughly good-spirited ship, Kydd. Count yourself blessed you’re her commander.’