more canvas, younker!' Kydd growled. An idea took shape — he shied from it at first, but it would meet the case splendidly. He sighed. He'd thought he'd left all of that behind in another life ...
As they opened the little gate he rounded on Luke: 'Have y' made up m' accounts yet?'
Luke's face dropped. 'Mr Kydd, y' know I haven't m' letters.'
'Damme! I f'got,' said Kydd, with heat. 'This means I have t' spend my valuable time a-copyin' and figurin' — may have t' get a proper servant, me havin' such responsibility now.' Kydd turned his gaze from Luke's pitiable expression, and frowned grimly. 'An' that ain't going to be easy hereabouts.'
They went up the stairs. Then Kydd stopped, as though struck with a sudden thought. 'There maybe is a way ...'
'Mr Kydd?' said Luke eagerly.
'Perhaps not. You're a lazy rascal, an' won't—'
'I will so, I swear.'
'Right, me hearty! We starts tomorrow. Y' hoists aboard yer letters at last.'
'Yes, Mr Kydd,' Luke said meekly.
Just before noon, a rain squall stopped all work. Kydd and his crew hurried into the shelter of the boat-house while the downpour hammered into the ground and set a thousand rivulets starting towards the brown waters of the harbour.
'I have been hearing good reports of you, Thomas,' said Caird.
Kydd looked around in surprise. 'Mr Caird?' 'You have been teaching your servant his letters.' Kydd's face eased into a smile. 'Aye, keeps him out o' trouble betimes, the scamp.'
Caird's voice softened. 'That is what I thought. It is the Lord's work you are doing, Thomas, never forget it.'
Embarrassed, Kydd mumbled something, but was interrupted. 'If you are at leisure, perhaps you may wish to dine this evening at my house - we eat at six promptly.' Noting Kydd's hesitation he went on, 'I can well comprehend the godless depravity you are sparing the boy, and confess from the start, I had my hopes of your conduct.'
'The salt, if you please, my dear,' Caird said to the arid lady at the other end of the table, who, Kydd now knew, was his sister Isadore. She nodded graciously, with something suspiciously like a simper.
It was hard on Kydd; bad enough the enervating warmth, but worse the starched tablecloth, precise manners and formidable air of rectitude. He searched for some conversation. 'Luke's not a shab, really, it's just that—'
Isadore broke in unctuously, 'And as a sapling is trained, so does the tree grow.' She helped herself liberally to the cream sauce.
Opposite Kydd sat the delicate, timid Beatrice. Each time he looked at her she averted her eyes quickly, disconcerting him. She was a slight figure in filmy grey, which added to her air of unworldliness. She had been introduced as Caird's daughter, her mother long departed for a better world.
'Another akee, Beatrice,' Caird said, his voice tender.
'Thank you, no more, Father,' came her small voice. Caird nodded to the hovering servant who gracefully removed her plates.
'I see
Caird's eyebrows lowered. 'In deference to the ladies, Thomas, I make it a practice never to discuss at table matters they cannot be expected to know.'
'Oh - er, I mean—'
'It is Friday, my friend. On the Sabbath, Beatrice and I go about the good Lord's business in this country, ministering to his children. Do you not feel that it would lift your heart to accompany us?'
