to venture forth on the world! Mark my words, before this year's end there will be such a bursting forth by the French as will make the world stare!'
He leaned back in his chair and resumed his wine, looking reprovingly at Kydd. Deliberately, Kydd turned back to Robertson, who was now engrossed with the task of picking at a pretty corner dish. 'Sweetbreads?' he mumbled, and offered the dish.
Kydd took one and tried to think of an intelligent remark to make. 'The Americans'll be amused at our troubles wi' the French,' he said hopefully.
Robertson raised his eyebrows. 'Ah, not really, I think.' He looked at Kydd curiously. 'You must know they've done handsomely out o' this war—being neutral an' all, I mean. Can trade with any and all, if they can get away with it, o' course.'
Kydd's blank look made him pause. 'How long've you been made up, then?' he asked directly.
'Just this January,' Kydd answered warily.
'Then I'd clap on more sail an' get as much o' this business hoisted aboard as you can. You're boarding officer an' take in a fat merchantman that the court decides is innocent, expect to explain yourself to the judge in damages!' He grinned broadly and turned to a pyramid of syllabubs.
The warm glow of the wine fell away. These men were of a different origin, brought up from the cradle with discernment, education, the talk of politics continually around them. How could he conceivably claim to be one of them? Kydd stole a look at Renzi, holding forth elegantly on some exemplary Greek, then at the admiral, listening with his head politely inclined to a fine story from a young lieutenant, and finally at the officer opposite, who was now yarning with his neighbour.
Kydd closed the door of his cabin. There was nobody in the wardroom, but the way he felt he did not want to see another face. His experience of the previous night had left him heartsick, unable to deny any longer that trying his hardest was not enough: he just did not belong in this society. He was a deep-sea sailor, true, but as an officer he was a fish out of water; talk of fox hunting and the Season was beyond him, the implications for his acceptance by them only too clear.
He knew well what was in store: others who had 'come aft by the hawse' had found their place—as a tarpaulin officer. Known in the Navy as characters, they were bluff, hard on the men they knew so well and had no pretensions to gentility or learning. Utterly reliable at sea, they were outcasts in polite social situations, and usually took refuge in hearty drinking. As for promotion and ambition, improbable.
Was this his fate? He had tasted the sweets of a higher life with Renzi—their leisurely talking of philosophers and logic under a tropic moon, the dream-like times in Venice; the dinner with Renzi's brother in Jamaica had been a taste of what should be, but now . . .
Thought of his friend brought with it a wave of desolation. Renzi was in his element now, clearly headed for the highest levels and thoroughly enjoying his change of fortune. He had aided Kydd as much as he could, teaching him the forms and appearances, but there was no help for it. This was not a matter of learning the ropes, it was breeding.
His depression deepened: logic would say—and Renzi was a servant to logic—that in truth his friend no longer needed a sea companion to lighten his intellectual existence and ease his self-imposed exile. Now Renzi had the chaplain to dispute with whenever he felt inclined, Kydd thought bitterly. All told, perhaps it would have been more merciful if Kydd had never known another existence—had never encountered Renzi, even.
He felt despair and flung open the door for Tysoe. When his servant did not immediately appear he roared his name.
Tysoe arrived, his hands showing evidence that he had been at work boning Kydd's best shoes. He wore a perfectly composed expression. 'Sir?'
'Fetch me one o' my clarets.'
Tysoe's eyes flickered. 'Will that be two glasses, sir?'
Kydd coloured. 'No, damn y'r eyes—just th' one!'
When it came, he snatched bottle and glass, slammed his door, then splashed the wine into the glass, hands shaking with emotion. He drank hard, and it steadied him. He stared morosely at the ship's side in his tiny cabin, forcing himself to be calm. 'Tysoe! Another bottle an' you can turn in f'r the night,' he shouted.
It was obvious now. There was only one cause for his despondency: loneliness. An outsider in the wardroom, he was cut off from the rough, warm camaraderie before the mast that he knew so well. Now he had no one. And Renzi would be moving on soon, probably taken up as a flag-lieutenant.
The second bottle was half-empty already, but Kydd's pain was easing. He allowed the warm memory of Kitty to return: she had stood by him during the terrible days of the Nore mutiny—she had a strength he'd rarely seen in a woman. With her, he might have . . . There was a lump in his throat and he gulped another glass. If only she were here, if only . . .
He stared at the glass in his hand. Already he was turning into what he dreaded to be—a tarpaulin officer. Through self-pity he was sliding down the same slope as they all must have: to find acceptance they had turned themselves into a patronised caricature, then found a steady friend in the bottle.
'God rot me, but I'll not be one.' His harsh croak in the confined space startled him. He seized the bottle and pushed it away. So shameful was the thought that he lurched to his feet and threw open the door, clutching the bottle by its neck. The wardroom was still deserted, all others no doubt gone ashore together.
'Tysoe!' he called. The man came quickly and silently and Kydd knew why: he had conceived it his duty to stand by his master while he got helplessly drunk, then tumble him into his cot.
The realisation hurt Kydd: it bore on his spirit that others would now be making allowances for him, and he stiffened. 'If ye'd like the res' o' the wine . . .' He awkwardly held out the bottle. 'I shan't need any more.'
Renzi was not at breakfast but Kydd found him later in the day in his cabin. 'The admiral plans to visit his realm in Newfoundland,' he said, 'and for some unaccountable reason he wishes me to accompany him. A vexation—if you remember I planned to join the Shiptons for whist.' He seemed preoccupied. 'There will be no sea exercises with the admiral in Newfoundland counting his cod, dear fellow. If you can bear to leave your signal books, why do you not see more of the country? You really should get away more.'
Kydd murmured something, watching his friend rummaging in his chest.
