Would his friend be cast into exile from the sea he so adored?
It was so unfair-but life had to go on and he had arrangements to make. As he hurried to his cheap lodgings, he tried to unscramble the racing thoughts.
So, if he was to be married the usual course was for the new wife to cleave to her husband and his establishment-but he had none.
Item: get one.
He had no decent attire, certainly none that could be considered seemly for a proposal of marriage.
Item: find a tailor, expeditiously.
His financial standing did not run to a bank account, let alone an amicable relationship with a bank manager for the establishing of standing and credit and so forth.
Item: use the cash draft nestling in his waistcoat to start one.
He was not a regular attender at any church-how could banns be called, a wedding arranged?
Item: er, ask Cecilia.
Then there would be whom to invite and …
But a dark pall slowly gathered, dominated by the image of his father. The Earl of Farndon.
For an eldest son a marriage contract in the aristocracy was the stuff of lawyers, of negotiation, of delicacy in the settlement with the bride’s noble family. But a moral confrontation with his father had resulted in a titanic rage and the threat of his disinheriting.
His brother in Jamaica had sorrowfully confirmed that his father had taken the legal steps necessary. Although he could not prevent the title passing to Renzi, Eskdale Hall and the large estate would now go to his younger brother, Henry.
His title would be therefore an empty mockery, and he would never put Cecilia to the humiliation of maintaining a sham. She would never know, and would be Mrs Renzi to the day she died.
Yet he owed it to his father to inform him of his intentions. There was no question of seeking his blessing, for had he not been disinherited? By his own act, therefore, his father no longer had power over him.
Any interview would be nasty, brutish and short.
But then it would be finished. He could turn his back for ever on Eskdale: he would never ask anything for himself of the smug and supercilious Henry. And the darkness would then lift and disappear.
Yes! He would get it over with, then let sunshine flood his life. A post-chaise to Wiltshire? It was not unheard of, but would cost a pretty penny. Would Sir prefer an open or closed carriage? Where was his baggage at all?
Impatiently, Renzi climbed in and settled back with a dark frown. It was going to be hardest on his mother, who had been helpless to prevent his vengeful father going through with the shameful deed. Now she would never meet the woman he was marrying and he knew she loved her first-born dearly.
A lump formed in his throat: Eskdale Hall had been, after all, his birthplace and the scene of his youth. To turn his back on it completely was a hard thing to contemplate.
It was some eight years since he had last been there, his visit culminating in the ferocious argument and ultimatum that had ended everything for him at Eskdale. His father had even gone so far as to forbid his eldest son’s name spoken in his presence.
The horses were being whipped unmercifully-he had promised a shilling for every hour they made up. The sooner the distasteful business was over the better.
They reached Noakes Poyle in the early afternoon of the next day.
Renzi directed the driver to the inn where he had stayed previously before sending word of his arrival, but this time it was different. He told the post-chaise to prepare to return-but the destination this time would be Guildford. Their astonishment turned to avarice when he handed over an earnest of his intention that would see them comfortably ensconced with an ale before the fire for the hour or two while they waited.
A local diligence was hired-he had no wish to answer questions as to why he had posted down instead of the more usual stagecoach. It smelt of horse-hair stuffing and dust, and had small, grubby windows, but as they swung into the long drive to Eskdale Hall it suited his mood.
The sweeping light-grey immensity of the building looked as stately as ever, but today it seemed to harbour an air of menace, of pent-up malevolence, that chilled him.
On either side gardeners tended the ornate hedges and lawns, or clipped rosebushes, and horses were being led to the stables as the business of a great estate went on.
The cab took the smaller roadway to the side that led to the tradesmen’s door. Renzi knocked sharply at the roof until an upside-down face appeared. “To the main entrance, if you please.”
With a look of resignation the man obeyed. He had to stop the vehicle and lead the horses around but soon it had come to a halt at the foot of the grand steps leading to the massive door.
Renzi got out, paid the driver and sent him on his way.
He was committed.
As he turned towards the house, he saw the head footman descending importantly to deal with the impertinence. But when he drew near, the man’s expression turned to surprise and then confusion.
“Master Nicholas! We thought …”
“Take me to my father,” Renzi snapped, and seeing him hesitate, added, “This instant, whatever his instructions to the contrary.”
“Lord Farndon is … not available, sir,” the man said awkwardly. “The countess will be at home, I believe.”
“Very well.” If his father was posturing he would send a message in and leave without seeing him.
He followed the man through the tall oak doors into the entrance hall. “I will inform her ladyship of your arrival, sir.”
Keyed up for a confrontation that had festered over the years, Renzi was taken aback by what he saw before him.
His mother stood in the far doorway. Her eyes glittered with tears as recognition came. Then, impulsively, she ran towards him.
She was wearing a black veil and shawl.
Clinging to him, she shook with paroxysms of sobs while he held her. Eventually she drew away, dabbing her eyes.
What did the black veil mean?
“Father?” Renzi asked quietly.
She nodded, looking into his face. “Two months hence. Of an apoplexy.”
“Mother, I’m so grieved for you.” The words came automatically as he tried to grapple with the fact that his demon father was no longer in existence.
“Nicholas. We must talk. Please!”
He crushed his raging thoughts and tried to focus.
If she was going to try to mediate between himself and his brother Henry, now master of Eskdale, in order to beg an allowance and quarters that would see him take up residence here with her, she was sadly mistaken.
“Very well, Mother.” He would hear her out.
They went to the blue drawing room. The footman closed the doors quietly and left.
“Please sit, Nicholas,” she said, with a brave smile, patting a place next to her on the chaise-longue. “We’ve tried to get word to you, but they had no idea where …”
“We were occupied in South America, Mother,” he said quietly. “And then the Caribbean.”
“You never received the letter,” she said.
“If I had to learn of it,” he murmured, “I’d rather it were from my own dear mother.”
She squeezed him tightly for a long time, then held him at arm’s length. “You’re not eating well, Nicholas. You should take more care of yourself!”
“Mama, I came here to see Father to-”
“He is no more, my dear. This is a new beginning.”
“It was to-”
“Nicholas. If you came here to contest your rightful inheritance, then rest easy. It is secured for you. I allowed him to be gulled of a hundred guineas by a scheming lawyer to produce a worthless bill of disinheriting. It seemed to answer.”
“Then …”
“Yes, my dear. I can tell you that the vile paper was quickly determined invalid and that you are now indisputably the Earl of Farndon and master of Eskdale Hall both. No one in the land may disinherit a noble lord.”
He went pale. All those years, those times of moral questioning, the vows of distancing, the bitter reflections … Where did this news leave him?