Pasha Read Free

happiness, you and Cecilia both.”
    They clasped hands, then parted.
    Renzi turned and left the Angel, crossing the road and taking the short cut through the Tunsgate to the Kydd naval school.
    His mind raced—even now it was not too late to slink away, avoid the issue entirely, for there was every chance that Cecilia had given up on him, had married another. Or perhaps she was outsomewhere in the far reaches of the world with her employer, that diplomat of mysterious assignments, the Marquess of Bloomsbury.
    Or she might be at home.
    Hammering at him was one overriding question: was it right to propose marriage dependent on a settlement from his friend? A delicate ethical dilemma: on the one hand there was every moral imperative to decline to pursue his suit but on the other he had given his word to Kydd.
    He looked up from the rain that drove in his face and found that he was close to the school. He must make up his mind quickly. So much hung on—
    A hand touched his arm. Startled, he swung around to see the rosy face of Emily, the Kydds’ maid.
    â€œIt is! Mr Renzi, as I stand!” she blurted, with a broad smile. “Come t’ visit. Right welcome you are too, sir.”
    â€œDo let me assist, my dear,” he said, taking the basket of vegetables she was carrying.
    â€œWhy, thank you, sir. They’ll be main pleased t’ see you, what with no news about Mr Thomas and such. Have you had tidings a-tall?”
    There could be no retreating now and he let her prattle wash over him until they reached the door.
    Unexpectedly, a calm settled. He would go through with it: he would formally propose to Miss Cecilia Kydd.
    â€œWhy, Mr Renzi!” Mrs Kydd cried. “Do come in out o’ that rain. I’m so pleased to see you—have you any word o’ young Thomas?” she added anxiously.
    â€œHe’s hale and hearty, Mrs Kydd, let me assure you. He’s important business in London but desires me to convey to you his filial devoirs and promises to visit at the earliest opportunity.”
    â€œYou’re so wet, Mr Renzi. Emily, run and get a towel for Mr Renzi—quickly now!”
    â€œWho’s that, Fanny?” quavered a voice from within.
    â€œWhy, Mr Renzi, Walter, that’s who,” she replied.
    â€œCome into the parlour, Mr Renzi. Sit y’self down while we find you something to warm the cockles.” She ushered him into the small front room, so well known from times before.
    â€œYou are in good health, Mrs Kydd?”
    â€œSo-so. I always gets chilblains in this blashy weather, but never you mind.”
    â€œAnd Cecilia?” he asked carefully.
    â€œOh? Yes, she’s fine. Now do tell us where you’ve gone to these last—bless my soul, it must be coming on for two years now.”
    â€œA long story, and I’d much rather it were Thomas in the telling.” He paused, “Might I enquire, what does Cecilia these days?”
    â€œPoor lamb. She had a fine position, as y’ know, with the marquess an’ lady, but now they can’t travel so she’s been let go with an encomium. Spends her days about the house moping—she should get out and find herself a man, if y’ pardon my speaking so direct.”
    â€œIs she here? I’d like to pay my respects.”
    â€œShe was. Gone out to see a friend—she’ll be back soon, I’ll not wonder.”
    Renzi’s heart skipped a beat.
    â€œEmily!” Mrs Kydd called in exasperation. “Where’s that posset? Mr Renzi here is a-dyin’ from the cold an’ wet. I’ll give you a hand.”
    She bustled out, leaving Renzi alone.
    He looked about: was there anything that spoke of Cecilia’s presence, that was hers? He was now about to face the one who had captured his heart, and a sudden wave of emotion engulfed him. He loved the woman: he adored her, was hopelessly lost to her. And he would propose, go on bended