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' gen-nelmen! 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'r presence at the presentation."
They emerged together on 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 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 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 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 floorcloths. 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 desire 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, 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, and withdrew.
Kydd tried to look unconcerned and toasted his rear until the servant returned bearing a gilt tray.
"A votre sante," 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 responded. "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 takin' 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'r 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 nigh 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.