Free Pasha by Julian Stockwin Page B

creature in existence.”
    â€œHold still, Nicholas. How can I get a decent tie if you move?”
    â€œDear fellow,” Renzi said softly. “You’ve said that before.”
    â€œWhat? And I never did!”
    â€œI’m desolated to contradict my best man, but do you not recall in
Artemis
frigate we were most certainly tie-mates?”
    Kydd stopped. The memories flooded back of a young man with a cherished deep-sea mariner’s long pigtail being combed and plaited by his friend, the favour to be returned afterwards.
    â€œAye, I do, Nicholas.” A stab of feeling came as he realised that not only were those times so distant in the past, but the continued friendship, which saw them that morning performing exactly the same favours for each other, was now about to be concluded.
    â€œI … I’m going to miss you in
L’Aurore,
m’ friend,” he said quietly. “It won’t be the same without I have a learned cove scratching away for me somewhere.”
    â€œYou may believe that I too shall miss … deeply … the freedoms and sights of the sea life.”
    He paused, then brightened. “Yet there is perhaps a final service I can do my good captain. It crosses my mind that, should you continue to require a confidential secretary, may I recommend for your consideration a young man of shining qualities whosediscretion I can vouch for personally?”
    â€œOh? Who then is this splendid fellow?”
    â€œAn under-secretary on the estate, Dillon the name. He has notions of one day travelling the world, as I have done, and it seems to me that were you to oblige him in this manner then his loyalty would be unbounded.”
    â€œLife in a man-o’-war is not for the faint-hearted, Nicholas.”
    â€œIs that so, dear chap? You might give him fair trial and see if he measures up to the profession.”
    â€œVery 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.
    â€œBe 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