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branches.

Quarterdeck
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    He became aware of hoofbeats out of synchrony with his own, and indistinct shouting. He guessed it would be Renzi following, but dared not look behind. He shot past a gaping greenwood for-ager, then reached a more substantial lane across their path.
    The horse skidded as it negotiated a random turn, but the mud slowed it, and the gallop became less frantic. It panted heavily as it slowed to a trot. Renzi caught up and grasped the reins. “How are you, brother?”
    Kydd fl ashed a wide grin. “Spankin’ fi ne time, Nicholas, s’
    help me,” he said breathlessly, his face red with exertion.
    Renzi hid a grin. “And what has happened to your decorum, sir?”
    “Oh? Aye, yes. Er, a capital experience, sir.”
    They rode together for a space. The lane widened and a small cottage came into view ahead. “Do dismount, old fellow, and ask directions back,” Renzi suggested. Gingerly, Kydd leaned forward to bring his leg across the saddle, but in a fl ash he had toppled backwards into the black winter mud, still with one foot in a stirrup.
    The horse stamped and rolled its eyes as Kydd got ruefully to his feet and trudged down the garden path to the door.
    It was answered by a stooped old man with alert bright eyes.
    Before Kydd could speak, he smiled. “Ah, Master Kydd, I do believe? Thomas Kydd?”
    “Aye, y’r in the right of it,” Kydd said. “That is t’ say, you have th’ advantage of me, sir.”
    The man feigned disappointment. Kydd’s face cleared. “O’
    course! Parson Deane!” It seemed so long ago that, as a boy, he had taken delight in going to the lakeside with the old man and his dog after duck. “I hope I fi nd you in health, sir,” he said.
    The parson glanced up at Renzi, who was still mounted. “Oh, sir, this is Mr Renzi, my particular friend. Mr Renzi, this is the Rev’nd Deane.”
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Julian Stockwin
    Renzi inclined his head. “My honour, sir. Our apologies at this intrusion, we merely seek a more expedient way back to our manège. ”
    Deane’s face creased in pleasure. “I shall tell you, should you come inside and accept a dish of tea while Thomas tells me where he’s been spending his days.”
    They left the horses to crop grass outside the garden fence and went into the parson’s house. Deane looked at Kydd keenly, clearly enjoying his sparse recital of his impressment and subsequent adventures. “So now you’re an offi cer?”
    Kydd grinned boyishly. “L’tenant Kydd!” he said, with swelling pride.
    “Then you are now, in the eyes of the whole world, a gentleman. Is this not so?”
    It seemed appropriate to bow wordlessly.
    Deane contemplated Kydd for a long moment. “Do you stop me if I appear impertinent,” he said, “yet I would later remember this moment with shame were I not to share with you now my thoughts concerning your station.”
    “It would be f’r my advantage, Mr Deane.” He couldn’t resist a quick glance of triumph at Renzi—after all, he had remem bered the polite words—but Renzi responded with a frown. Obediently Kydd turned all his attention to the old man.
    “It seems to me that the essence of a gentleman is to be found in his good breeding, his impeccable civility to all, including his servants. ‘Manners maketh man,’ as the Good Book teaches us.
    Outer manners refl ect inner virtue.”
    Renzi nodded slowly. “The worthy Locke is insistent on this point,” he murmured.
    “It is never quite easy for the young to acquire the civil virtues,” the parson continued. “ ‘Quo semel est imbuta recens, servabit oderem testa diu,’ was Horace’s view, and by this you should understand . . .”

Quarterdeck
    33

    • • •
    Kydd stirred restlessly in his armchair. “Gettin’ to be a gallows’
    sight more’n a man c’n take, Cec, all this’n.”
    Cecilia affected not to hear. Kydd glanced at her irritably. “I mean, how much o’ this is going to stand by me at sea?”
    “That’s better,” Cecilia said