“Is that so, dear chap? You might give him fair trial and see if he measures up to the profession.”
“Very well. Send him to L’Aurore and we’ll take a look at him.”
A fore-top bellow sounded outside. “Ah. That’s Toby Stirk rousing our carriage alongside. I fear it’s time to face your destiny, Nicholas.”
They were not prepared for the sight that greeted them at St Mary’s.
“Be damned! There’s half Guildford Town here!” spluttered Kydd, red-faced with pleasure.
Surrounding the church was an overflowing, joyous crowd of chattering, delighted men, women and children in their best dress, bedecked with flowers and ribbons. They were not going to miss the wedding of the age.
Harassed church functionaries managed to keep a lane to the entrance free but the people were impatient to catch a glimpse of the principals and pressed them sorely.
Kydd stepped down and bowed to them pleasantly. It brought a ripple of excitement and scattered awed applause. This was Sir Thomas Kydd, a son of the town and now a famous frigate captain; there in his gold and blue with a crimson sash and star, looking every inch the sea hero.
The tongues clucked. Look at that gold medal and riband! The tall cocked hat with all the gold lace! Was it true he once laboured in the wig-shop that used to be up High Street past the clock?
No! Never! It couldn’t be!
Then the Earl of Farndon descended. There was a respectful hush and a spreading sigh as he formally greeted an awestruck Canon Chaddlewood.
Such a vision had not been seen at St Mary’s within living memory: a white waistcoat and silk stockings with knee breeches and discreetly jewelled shoes-this was your genuine article, an earl of an ancient family of England, come to do the greatest honour to their little town.
Once more Kydd felt unreality creep in. This couldn’t be happening to him, young Tom Kydd as was. It must be a dream. Here in this church, which had stood on this spot for a thousand years and had seen christenings, weddings and funerals of the good people of Guildford in an endless succession. And on this day …
As they entered the packed church a sea of faces turned to watch them take their place at the altar. There was his mother, blubbing into a handkerchief, his father struck dumb with the occasion-and Lord Onslow, whom he’d been summoned to see in Monarch’s great cabin after the great battle of Camperdown when he’d been set on the quarterdeck and his path to glory.
And the dowager countess, cool and aloof, others he could only guess were members of Nicholas’s family, with nobles, gentry and notables beyond counting. His vision swam with colour and circumstance.
The organ stopped suddenly, then began a grander air. He twisted round: it was his sister entering in an exquisite white gown, supported by a tremulous Hetty Panton.
She reached the altar and gave Kydd a look for him alone, of the utmost softness and love.
A lump formed. He had always hoped it would happen-but this was the reality.
The organ stopped and time-hallowed words fell into the silence.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God …”
The wan sunlight of winter streamed through the stained-glass windows, bright motes of dust held in motionless thrall to the words.
“… to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony …”
That was the Cecilia who, as barely more than a child, had travelled alone to Portsmouth to plead with him to return to the wig-shop and leave the sea. The practical good sense, but then the tears of understanding as she saw the desolation of Fate closing in on his carefree existence.
“… signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and His Church …”
And the man now in the glittering pomp of a peer of the realm: he had seen him stand with bloodied sword at the gates of Acre, denying Napoleon Bonaparte himself his victory. The one who, in only months past, had, single-handed, brought down the devilish plot to destroy England’s precious Caribbean trade-and who could ironically never claim the credit, while he himself was proclaimed glorious victor of a lesser triumph.
“The ring!” hissed his mother from her pew.
He had been oblivious and scrabbled for it in his pocket. Pink-faced, he handed it to his one true friend, who slipped the ring on to his bride’s finger.
The rector joined their hands and solemnly pronounced to all the world, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
It was done.
Bells pealed out overhead in a glorious, joyful din as the newly married couple went to the sacristy for their formal signing.
Then they reappeared, joined in blissful, self-conscious union.
The congregation rose and waited as they processed along the aisle to emerge at the arched entrance, to a muffled roar of ecstasy from the crowd outside.
Kydd followed them out and stood blinking as wheat grains were showered on the couple. Traditional wedding gifts were pressed on the guests and coins thrown high into the crowd.
Joining with others in expressing their wishes to the couple for a long and fruitful marriage, he was taken aback when Cecilia leaned forward and whispered fiercely, “The carriage! Thomas, you forgot to send for it!”
He hid a smile and shook his head in sorrow. “Sorry, Cec-no carriage, I’m afraid.”
She looked at him, speechless.
Then he clapped on his cocked hat with a flourish. It was the signal.
From around the corner came a frightening bellow. “Billy Roarers-forward!”
The crowd fell into a stunned silence-and into view came a boat.
It ran on wheels and was pulled by a dozen Jack Tars as large as life, tailing on to ropes, driven by a roaring Stirk.
“Handsomely, y’ lubbers,” he bawled. “Star’b’d a touch forrard, there.”
It was gaily ornamented from stem to stern and had huge imitation anchors and mermaids, ribbons streaming everywhere and on its stumpy mast it flew an enormous Union flag. On the centre thwart, a pair of dainty cushions.
The people were delighted. It was very seldom that the Navy, so popular after its recent victories, could show itself so far inland and they immediately gave a raucous appreciation.
Stirk, in an exaggerated sea roll, went to Renzi and snatched off his cap. “An’ yer boat’s alongside, y’ lordship.”
“Thank you, Mr Stirk. You and your Billy Roarers all. My dear?”
They sat in state, waving regally as the boat set off to the sudden skirl of fife and drums of the Surrey Militia, which had magically appeared and was now marching behind.
Grinding up the steep High Street, the din and revelry were deafening. They brought shopkeepers and customers on to the street and children screaming and running by the incredible sight.
Under the projecting clock of the town hall, past the Tunsgate, and followed in procession by the lords, nobles and honest townsfolk of Guildford in an unstoppable show of happiness and pride.
Then, at the top of the hill where the old Elizabethan grammar school stood, and the road out of town ran, they stopped.
There, with liveried footmen attending, was Lord Farndon’s four-horse open landau. Its gleaming black with the scarlet, gold and green swirl of its crest spoke of another world, unattainable to the mortals who looked on.
The merriment ebbed while the newly married earl and his bride disembarked.
And then, in the short distance between the boat and the carriage, Kydd saw Cecilia transmogrified from his young sister into a countess-from a laughing girl into a noble lady.
The landau glided away. Cecilia turned to wave, blowing him a kiss, and then they were off into their future together.
He watched them disappear and his eyes misted.
In that moment he had lost both his sister and his best friend.
CHAPTER 3
PORTSMOUTH WAS THE SAME: somewhat grubby and showing not a little wartime drab-but there was magic, too, and as he peered from the window of the stagecoach Kydd could just make out the distant sight of slender masts and yards soaring above the mean roofs. Among them would be L’Aurore, his command and his love-his true home.