Pasha by Julian Stockwin Page B

which each time kept her agog until the next halt.
    Renzi was annoyingly quiet, seemingly content to contemplate the passing country.
    They stayed the night in Trowbridge but at the evening repast Renzi would say nothing of what the next day would bring.
    Early the next morning they set out at a brisk clip, the soft chalk downlands passing agreeably by.
    â€œHow far now, Nicholas?”
    â€œAbove an hour, I believe.”
    They went on in silence until they drew up at a modest inn. “We’ll rest here a space before the last stage,” Renzi announced.
    The ladies took their leave to make themselves respectable while a discreet note was passed to the innkeeper, who hurried away.
    They boarded once more, and in a short while, they swung into a long, curving drive.
    â€œOh, Nicholas!” Cecilia cried. “A noble’s mansion! Is this why you haven’t told me about your family? You silly billy—to be in service to one as high as this is a great honour indeed. You’ve no need to hide it from me.”
    She watched breathlessly from the window of the coach, then suddenly spotted what was going on. “Nicholas—quick! They’re expecting someone. All the staff, they’re coming out and lining up. Oh, dear, we’re going to be in the way. Tell the coachman to go back!”
    Renzi didn’t answer, gazing absently as they drew nearer until the carriage ground grittily to a halt at the foot of the steps before the grand entrance.
    â€œNicholas!” she hissed, in anguish. “We can’t …
Please,
we’ll be making a spectacle of ourselves.”
    A bewigged footman in green and gold arrived to assist them down. Cecilia stood helpless, gazing anxiously at the long line of staff in front of the stately magnificence.
    And in the centre a lone figure, waiting.
    Renzi moved forward, and as one, the line curtsied and bowed. “Nicholas!” she gasped in consternation. “They think we’re someone else.”
    He still said nothing, leading them on towards the figure at the top of the steps, watched in silence by a hundred or more.
    Struck dumb with confusion, Cecilia followed until they reached the top.
    Renzi bowed. “May I present Miss Cecilia Kydd and Miss Hetty Panton?”
    Cecilia curtsied with as much grace as she could find, unable to face the keen glance of the great lady standing there.
    â€œMiss Kydd,” Renzi said quietly, “this is the Dowager Countess Farndon of Eskdale Hall. My mother.”
    She looked up suddenly, struck dumb. Then the significance of the black veil and shawl penetrated her numbed mind.
    â€œIf her ladyship is …”
    â€œYes,” Renzi said gently. “You see, I am now the Right Honourable Lord Farndon, and this is my seat.”
    After the shocked ladies had been ushered away to rest after their journey, Renzi walked with his mother into the blue drawing room.
    â€œDear Nicholas, it is so good to see you. May we indeed believe you are now returned to us?”
    â€œYou may, Mama.”
    â€œTo take up your title and inheritance—to assume your duties and ancient obligations in line of succession?”
    He straightened and faced her gravely. “This I will do, Mother—you have my solemn promise.”
    She took his hands, and there was a glitter in her eyes as she murmured, “You have no idea how happy you have made me, my son.”
    They stood for a long moment together until she let go his hands and said, with just a hint of curiosity in her voice as they took their chairs, “I do hope your guests enjoy their stay.”
    There was no point in delaying the inevitable and Renzi braced himself. “Mother, Miss Cecilia Kydd has accepted my proposal of marriage. I bring her here for your blessing.”
    At first he feared she hadn’t heard but then she spoke, calmly but with determination. “My child, I find this difficult to follow. Am I to understand you