for unrestrained hair had a strong hold now and the future for wig-making looked bleak. There was still a small but reliable demand from physicians, the richer merchants and the like, but the Kydds had to compete against a larger establishment in Godalming that could deliver faster.
Kydd's days were now circumscribed by long hours in the workshop punctuated by periods of soul-destroying inactivity behind the counter, waiting for custom. The days turned to weeks and he felt his soul shrivel.
After listlessly serving ribbons to the voluble Mrs Coombs he looked up from the counter at the person who had just entered — dusty and travel-worn, carrying a ragged bag and in a worn blue sailor's jacket. It was Renzi. He held out his hand.
Kydd couldn't respond at first; it was like seeing a ghost. He was caught utterly off-balance. 'W-well met, sir,' he stuttered, not knowing how to deal with a man he knew to be well-born, but in quite different circumstances his particular friend.
Renzi reached out, took Kydd's hand and shook it warmly. He was shocked at the changes he saw, the slow responses, the downcast look. It was also a grievously sad travesty, seeing Kydd's broad shoulders and lithe foretopman's body draped in wig and breeches and the tight, faded brocade waistcoat. 'Were I to beg shelter for the night, I fear I would sadly inconvenience,' he said, and watched anguish chase delight on his friend's features. 'Nicholas - but o' course! But—'
'I have a story to tell, but it must wait. If you would be so good as to conduct me to a tailor's I will do my best not to shame you to your family — and then we will dine.'
Renzi became another being in long clothes. In anonymous black, a severe and unadorned black, his natural patrician authority readily asserted itself. Other clients in the saloon respectfully made way for them both and they sat down to a dish of salmagundi.
'You'll be stayin' long in town?' Kydd asked, fearful of the reply.
'No plans at the moment, my friend.'
'Then you shall stay at home — my room is yours.' A bed could be made on the floor of the shop for himself.
The cured fish went down rapidly, as did the jug of porter.
'You wonder at my visitation,' Renzi said finally. Kydd smiled, so he went on.
Renzi leaned back with a twisted smile. 'At the boundary of the last field I — remembered, saw again the body hanging in the barn.' He looked intensely at his fork. 'I could not go on. I tried, but could not.' His voice was thick, the first time Kydd had heard it so overborne by emotion. 'The nights I slept under a hedge — it was nonsensical, and so here I am.' His eyes glimmered.
He signalled to the pot-boy. 'Well met — indeed it is!' He smiled, and saw Kydd's fumbling. 'In the article of prize money,' he said gently, 'except for a slight indulgence in poetry I have not had the opportunity to get rid of it before now. Allow me to -. . .'
The claret was passable and under its influence Renzi heard Kydd's story. His heart went out to his friend, for there was little that he could do himself, cut off from his own family and wealth. It needed a long-term solution, but in the time before he must repair back aboard his ship there was little chance that one would be found.
Kydd's mother was surprised at her son's general rally, and therefore looked at his visitor with some interest. Cecilia's hand flew to her mouth when she recognised him. Renzi's impeccable manners and kind attentions quickly charmed the house and he was warmly welcomed.
On occasion Renzi caught some thoughtful looks from Kydd's father but on the whole it was accounted that Kydd's guest was a fine friend to the family. Cecilia was beside herself with curiosity, but was always courteously deflected, to her considerable chagrin.
Renzi, however, sensed Kydd's desperation; the strong likelihood was that when they parted, the next cruise could span years, and by then — he forced down the thought and bent to the task of making the days as agreeable as he could for his friend.
'Do you wait for me a moment, dear fellow,' Renzi said, outside the bookshop at the top of the high street. Sated with depressing news from the
Kydd entered too, and watched as Renzi took down volume after volume in their fine tooled leather bindings. An odd clunking sound intruded from behind, but it was only a shopman approaching; he had a wooden leg. Kydd did not know him — he must be a new assistant.
'C'n I help ye?' the man said. His voice was strong — in fact, it was hard and had a strength Kydd recognised instantly.
'Do I fin' myself addressing a gentleman o' the sea?'
The man stopped, and stared suspiciously. 'Are ye lookin' for somethin' special?' he said.
'I'm sorry, I thought—'
'Then y' thought right. So?'
A corpulent, worried-looking man bustled up and said loudly, 'Is there any problem? Are the gennelmen being attended to, Mr, er, What's-y'r-name?'
They left without the book. Outside, the summer afternoon bustle of the high street eddied around Renzi as he and Kydd walked back the few steps to the wig shop. Its crabbed windows and general seediness clutched at Renzi's heart. Kydd clapped him on the shoulder and disappeared inside, leaving Renzi alone.
Renzi could feel a grey depression settling. He could not interfere, it was Kydd's decision, a good and noble decision for the sake of his family, but it did not alter the fact that the price was ruinous — it was costing Kydd his spirit and therefore his soul; in twenty years he would be an old man. Renzi sighed heavily. A careless grocer carrying a basket of greens on his head cannoned into him, interrupting his train of thought. He shot the man a
