Free Pasha by Julian Stockwin Page A

in, his countenance serious.
    â€œYou’ve heard the tidings.”
    â€œI have, you wicked dog. Frightening the womenfolk like that, you villain!”
    But Cecilia had noticed her brother’s tense watchfulness, his unease. “Thomas!” she scolded. “And that’s no way to speak to the Earl of Farndon.”
    â€œOh? Then how am I … What’s his tally now, can I ask?”
    â€œThis is the Right Honourable the Lord Farndon of Eskdale Hall in Wiltshire. He’s to be addressed as ‘my lord’ or ‘your lordship’ and never on your life ‘you villain,’ Tom.”
    â€œThen it’s ‘your lordship,’ if it serves,” Kydd said, in an odd voice, and gave an exaggerated bow, but when he looked again Renzi’s grave expression had not altered.
    â€œThis is harder than ever you will know, dear friend,” he said, in a low voice. “I see before me the sea hero I respect and admire above all men, and society demands he bends the knee to me. I would be gratified beyond measure should you hold to ‘Nicholas,’ dear fellow—or even ‘wicked dog’ would answer.”
    They clasped hands.
    Kydd turned to his sister. “Now, how about you, Cec? What do I hail you as?”
    â€œWhy, I’m sure the Countess of Farndon would be content with ‘my lady’ or ‘your ladyship’ but never in this world ‘sis,’ good Sir Thomas.”
    â€œAs it shall be, Your Worship. Now if we’re to be squared away and all a-taunto for a right true wedding in this week, we’d better bend on more sail. Where do we start, Cec?”
    It was quickly settled that the cosy familiarity of St Mary’s Church would be best suited for the Kydds, and Renzi hastened to make clear that it would suffice also on his side. Its small capacity dictated a family wedding only with a strict limit on guests. This brought a measure of relief in other arrangements, particularly when it was learned that the groom’s family would certainly be invited to Hatchlands, the county seat of Lord Onslow, a distant relative, who might be depended upon in the matter of carriages.
    Kydd assumed charge, sending Cecilia off to fit for a bridal gown and reassuring his parents that they could remain indoors quietly while he took care of all the arrangements.
    The delighted tailors of Guildford went to double tides, Kydd and Renzi both to be as resplendent as it was possible to be, and after judicious choices the needles flew.
    Canon Chaddlewood of St Mary’s allowed he was more than happy to conduct a marriage: who were the blessed couple? When told of the quality of the celebrants and congregation he nearly swooned, and on learning of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s intercessionary licence, he shrank in fright. It took all of a threat to lose the honour to rival Holy Trinity to move him to accept, with the offer of an organist from Hatchlands and a choir from the school.
    The wedding was therefore set for Friday next at ten.
    Kydd had his own preparations to make. Orders under his name were sent on the Portsmouth stage to the officer-of-the-day of
L’Aurore.
It desired him to send a party of trusties by return for special service, their rig to be their best as for captain’s inspection.
    He then instructed Boatswain Perrott of the school to transform his assembly hall into a temporary mess-deck, and left thegleeful peg-legged sailor teaching his eager boys how to rig header tricing knittles for hammocks.
    It was all shaping up in a most satisfying way.
    â€œSo you’re not nervous at all, old horse?” Kydd said lightly, helping Renzi with his snowy cravat.
    â€œOnly that this may in fact all be a vain imagining to vanish at any moment with a loud pop. Thomas, days ago I was a lowly secretary—however honourable the post,” he hastened to add. “And now the world may see me as the espoused of the loveliest