“I love her, Mama. I love Cecilia with all my heart and soul, and before God I say I will marry her!”
The dowager stood up with great dignity and moved to the mantelpiece, fingering its ornate marble carvings. “I see,” she replied, after some moments, clearly taken aback by the fervour and sincerity of his declaration. “Yet I cannot believe you have reflected fully on the consequences.”
Renzi stood, but said nothing, returning her gaze with defiance.
“A belted earl marrying beneath him to such a degree-it will be a scandal. All will ask why this must be, and will not fail to suggest good reasons to this end.”
“I care not for-”
“But you must in your position, my dear. What if-”
“Mother, it is done. I will not retract. It must be Cecilia or none. Do you not see this?”
A faint smile eventually came. “I believe that indeed you truly love her.”
The smile warmed. “And for that how can I not give my blessing? Marry your Cecilia and I will rejoice for you both.”
Renzi took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you, Mama-thank you.”
“Society will howl, but what is that against the joining of two lovers in blessed happiness?”
“You will love her, too, Mama. She has qualities of … gentility and politeness above her station, and her practicality in matters …”
They finally reached the woods at the edge of the estate. Walking together as in a dream, the two stopped and held hands, looking into each other’s eyes. “Cecilia, my darling love. There’s something I must know,” he said tenderly, but with an edge of seriousness.
“Nicholas?” she answered softly.
“It will affect our marriage, our life together, and I must have an answer.”
She hesitated. “What is it, my dearest?”
He looked at her with an odd expression. “You gave your heart to one Nicholas Renzi. Can you find it in you to love the Lord Farndon at all?”
She smiled playfully. “Nicholas, I fell in love with Mr Renzi and he it is who has secured my entire devotion. If Lord Farndon lays siege to my affections he will have to woo me with yet greater ardour.”
They kissed, long and tenderly.
“My darling, there is-”
“Sweetheart, I-”
“You first, my dear Cecilia.”
“You have precedence, my lord.”
“Then in the matter of our nuptials, dear love. At our station even St Paul’s Cathedral is available to us in a great affair of moment and ceremony. Yet I feel it … improper to indulge in pomp and display while the family is in mourning. Can you … ?”
“Nicholas, it is what I would wish. My father is old and frail and could not possibly endure the strain. And my mother would …”
Unspoken was the fact that the Kydds would be wildly out of their depth in such grandeur and would know it. Cecilia, after years as lady companion to a marchioness, was not unfamiliar with society-but there could be no question of exposing her family to ridicule.
“In Guildford, perhaps?” she asked doubtfully.
“So be it, my love.”
“I’ve asked that the banns be read beginning this Sunday.” She smiled impishly. “We shall be wed in a month. I hope you don’t think me forward, my lord.”
Renzi stopped. “Ah …”
Her smile faded. “Nicholas, what is it?”
“Peers of the realm have certain privileges, my dear.”
“Oh?”
“I rather thought for us-a special licence from Doctors Commons attested by the Archbishop of Canterbury. It will serve to have us married within this very week, setting aside the need for banns and similar.”
“Nicholas! You darling man! Yes-yes!”
“As I trust you will forgive my precipitate behaviour, occasioned, may I point out, only by my earnest wish to secure the presence, before he returns to the sea, of my particular friend at our happy event.”
She melted, and clung to him while their passions surged. Then they turned and walked slowly back.
“Mother?” Renzi said softly.
She was waiting on the steps for them, but she turned first to the woman on his arm. “Cecilia, my dear. Did you enjoy your walk?”
“I did, my lady, very much.”
“You will have some notion now of the duties that await my son as lord of Eskdale Hall.”
“Yes, indeed-and we saw only a part of the whole.”
It seemed to please, and the countess went on, “You have yet to make a tour of the house. At above a hundred rooms it is no easy task in the managing. And soon you will be chatelaine, my dear. Do you feel equal to it?”
Renzi intervened smoothly: “Miss Kydd has for some years been in an intimate situation in the household of the Marquess of Bloomsbury, Mama, and is no stranger to society. I have every expectation that she will be an ornament to our establishment.”
“Of course. Then shall we pass on to the wedding plans? In view of the … irregular nature of proceedings it were best, I feel, if the customary great ceremonials be exchanged for something a little less … formal, so to speak.”
“Quite so, Mama.”
“The gutter press will have their sport on this occasion, no doubt,” she said acidly. “There’s no reason to flaunt it in their faces.”
“As we both agree, Mama. We rather thought in Guildford, the Kydd family town?”
It was settled, and with a pronouncement that the evening would see a grand banquet in their honour, she left them.
They wandered on through fine rooms and cloisters, banqueting halls and drawing rooms until they came to the library.
“And here is where I will have my being, dear Cecilia.”
He looked fondly at the endless shelves, the familiar volumes showing no sign of use since his departure those long years before. And there was the broad desk that dated from the first George with its leather inlay and ink-stains, positioned to take the light from the tall French windows that looked out over the formal gardens.
The peace and tranquillity, the fragrance of books and learning, the centuries of time that the room had seen, all reached out to him. Here it would be that his ethnical studies would attain their fruition, a labour of pride and diligence.
He sighed in anticipation. But before he could resume it would be necessary to take up the reins as lord and master of Eskdale. And for that-
A slight cough sounded from the door. He looked up: it was Jago, the dark-jowled under-steward.
“Does m’ lord desire I should instruct the footmen?”
In the hierarchy of a noble estate, every bit as rigid as aboard ship, Jago ranked very near the top. The valets-de-chambre, butler, footmen, cook and gardeners, all were regulated and administered by himself and the steward. He was now asking if he should put into motion the delicate business of assigning attendants to wait upon the new earl wherever he might be at any hour, day or night.
“We’ll leave it until later, I think, Jago.”
Renzi was aware that his father had been up to all manner of sly tricks to further his interests and prejudices, and it was beyond belief that Jago, at his eminence, had not been party to the whole sordid process. Especially as the estate steward himself would make very certain he was not involved directly. Jago’s appearing now was, without doubt, an anxious testing of the waters; he stood to lose his place and prospects if Renzi decided to make a break with the past.
“Thank you, for now,” he added neutrally.
“Very good, m’ lord,” the man said, expressionless, and withdrew.
At the door there was a soft knock. “Ah, come in, Mr Fortescue.”
Renzi turned to Cecilia. “My dear, my confidential secretary.”
He had every trust and liking for the old man who had striven all he could to moderate between his father and the estate tenants.
“I shall endeavour to give satisfaction, my lord. And might I present Mr Edward Dillon, under-secretary and assistant to myself?”
An intense young man came forward and bowed. “My lord Farndon. Allow me to express how delighted I am at your arrival at Eskdale.”