The Admiral's Daughter (13 page)

“I'll not be made—”

“Then shall you meet us for an expedition on the strand tomorrow? Or . . . ?”

“Aye—at eleven,” Kydd muttered.

“Now, pray don't take it amiss, brother, but I'm bound to observe that your speech is not at all that is to be expected of a high officer. It smacks too much of the old ways and simply will not do. You must try to speak more slowly, to pronounce every word to its full measure, to use circumspection in your language. Surely you don't want to be mistaken for some kind of sea bumpkin?”

Kydd felt a flush rising. “The sea's a hard enough place. Y' need plain-speakin',” he growled.

“But we're not at sea when we're on the land,” Cecilia replied firmly, “and on shore we do as others do. I will give you a poetry book, and you are to read it aloud every morning to Tysoe, trying very hard to make the words beautiful.”

Utterly lost for something to say, Kydd snorted.

“And, Thomas,” she said primly, “I cannot help but note that you speak to me in too familiar a manner. I may be your sister, but that is no excuse for omitting the usual delicacies of converse. Do, please, try to be a little more polite in your address to me.”

“If this'n pleases y'r ladyship,” Kydd said sarcastically, and instantly regretted it. Cecilia was right: the eighteenth century had gone, and with it, much of the colour and vigour he remembered from his youth. Now, in the year 1803, times were more sombre and careful. Appearance and manner were valued over spirit and dash. “That is t' say, ye're in the right of it, o' course.” The warmth of her smile touched him and he felt ashamed of his obstinacy. “I'll try, sis,” he said sincerely.

“Well, now, there's the matter of deportment—but you already cut a fine figure of a man, Thomas. I think we might accept your qualities in this. But there are other skills of a social order that you'll find indispensable: ability at cards, the arts of gallantry—”

“Be damned! You're beginnin' t' sound too much like Nicholas.”

Her face shadowed.

“Oh, er, Cec, I didn't mean to . . .” But there was no going back. “May I know . . . how is it wi' Nicholas an' yourself? Are you . . . ?”

At first she did not answer; she crossed to the windows and stared out into the darkness. Then she spoke. “He is a man like no other, Thomas. I will wait for him, whatever his reasons, but you are never in life to tell him of my—my feelings for him. When he's ready . . .”

She found a handkerchief and dabbed her eye. “Is he—is he happy, do you think?”

Floundering at the change in subject Kydd gathered his thoughts. “Nicholas? Well, I—but then he's a fathom an' a half too deep for me t' know f'r certain, but I can tell ye—that is t' say, you—that he's taken aboard s' many books and scratches away in his little cabin all th' hours God gives that it must be givin' him satisfaction.”

“You're such a good friend to him, Thomas,” she said softly. “You'll both take care, won't you?”

Kydd saw her eyes had filled. Out of his depth in the presence of female emotion, he reached for the brandy. “Cecilia, let's toast. T' the future, sis, as who knows what's lyin' in wait for us both!”

“Mm, yes. I do see what you mean, Cecilia, dear.” Mrs Mullins was in no doubt about Kydd's shortcomings in the way of dress and twirled her parasol in exasperation. “Men are such tiresome creatures to encourage when it comes to matters of appearance.”

“Quite so, dear Jane,” Cecilia said comfortably, on Kydd's arm for the short walk up Fore Street to the Plymouth diligence stand. “But Thomas has promised, and he shall bear his lot with patience until his dress may match his station in life—is this not the case, Thomas?”

“Aye, Cec,” he said reluctantly.

“I do beg your pardon, Thomas?”

“Er, I meant t' say, that is so, Cec—Cecilia.” Be damned to this wry way of talking—but she was right. Kydd accepted that in some ways his sister had advanced much further into polite society than he, even to familiarity with the ways of the nobility and landed aristocracy. If he was to be fully accepted, there was no alternative but to follow her strictures and conform to the way things were at those levels.

“Jane has very kindly brought a newspaper with her, and after we have finished at the tailor we shall consult her concerning a suitable district for your residence.” Cecilia informed him firmly, “We are fortunate, Thomas, that we have a friend living here who is to advise us.”

They climbed into the diligence and set off for Plymouth town. The ladies happily chattered about sartorial possibilities while Kydd stared out over the Sourpool marshes, scattered pine houses among their melon and cucumber pits. There was no question but that he was going through with whatever it took to enter fully into society. Fortune had brought him this far but he had to fit himself properly to take advantage of the next big stroke.

He allowed his fancies to soar: as a commander he had the respect of the world, but most probably it would be as far as he could reasonably expect to go in naval service and he should then be content with an honourable retirement as a gentleman. In the navy, the next and final step was to post-captain with an automatic but slow rise by seniority to admiral, but for this he had either to succeed in a particularly spectacular feat of arms—unlikely in a brig-sloop—or benefit by the workings of interest on his behalf.

Interest: embittered officers, envious of others' rise, blamed a system whereby if it was possible to secure protection from one of lofty rank at the centre of power one's name would go forward over others of equal merit. Kydd, however, saw that at least it was an open and recognised form of favouritism that carried its own check and balance: the favouring would be clearly seen so no senior figure would allow his name to be associated with that of a fool—and if his
protégé
went on to glory, he would bear the credit also. This was how a daring young man such as Nelson had been given his chance. A post-captain at twenty!

The rattling, jolting conveyance left the potholes of the open country for the smart clatter of cobblestones as they reached the Frankfort gate and the Old Town. Kydd's mind, however, sped on. The key to interest was first to come under notice; but even to come within sight of a luminary he should be able to move in social circles that would intersect on the right occasions. And having achieved this, nothing could be more disastrous to his cause than to be seen as an outsider, however characterful.

His course was set, the way ahead clear.

The tailor was most obliging, promising a first fitting in two days, and Kydd found himself in prospect of showing quite a different face to the world. Gone were the gorgeous colours and lace of before. Mr Brummell had decreed that gentlemen would now be choosing the plain but exquisitely cut over satins and brocades; light-coloured pantaloons with cuffed-top boots in place of breeches and buckles.

It would take some getting used to but Kydd persevered. In the end he allowed himself satisfied; a dark-green coat that swept back rakishly into tails with not a peep of lace, a buff double-breasted waistcoat cut high and a pair of what felt like indecently close-fitting cream nankeen pantaloons.

“Sir'll require some gallowses wi' his hinexpressibles?” Of course: pantaloons were cut generously at the top for comfort when horse-riding and would need reliable suspending. At the bootmaker, orders were put in train for the latest style of pointed-toe black boots with brown tops, despite Kydd's objections that they resembled a jockey's, and at the gentleman's outfitter much care was given to the selection of a black beaver hat with a white silk lining. It was odd to feel its round bulk in place of the sensible navy bicorne, but he could tell it would be much more convenient in the bows and flourishes of polite ceremony.

“Now, Thomas, we have time to inspect one or two properties for you. Jane is insistent that officers of rank do favour Stonehouse above Plymouth for its salubrious air and genteel neighbourhood. Will we visit, do you think?”

Commander Kydd, lord of sixteen guns and suzerain of near a hundred men, agreed meekly and followed his sister. They reached Stonehouse and turned south down the main street, which he recognised as leading to the Long Room, but stopped, well before the open fields, in Durnford Street, which consisted in the main of substantial terraced mansions.

After a flash of glances between herself and Jane, all lost on Kydd, Cecilia announced that number eighteen might repay the visiting, and shortly Kydd found himself before the sturdy pale façade of a half-mansion three storeys high. Appalled, he turned to Cecilia. “No! It's too—”

“Nonsense, Thomas! You will need to entertain. Come along.”

The landlord's agent sized Kydd up and, with a well-practised smile, took them in. The front door opened into a small hallway and a passage with rooms on either side. The ladies sniffed politely in unison—the kitchen and scullery apparently passed muster. At the end of the passage a fine staircase mounted invitingly up.

Ushered impatiently, Kydd ascended to the first floor—a fleeting impression of a jolly dining room on one side and a full-length drawing room on the other—then to the second, with a capacious main bedroom and a children's room.

“Should you desire to view the servant's quarters?”

“Aye—er, yes,” Kydd said hurriedly. It was the navy way always to ensure that the men were taken care of before consulting one's own comfort. The final attic floor, with its sloping ceilings and two sizeable rooms, would be more than adequate for any level of domestic manning that Kydd could consider.

A last quick look and they were on the street again, with Cecilia possessively on his arm. “Well, Thomas, I do declare—a fireplace in every room, an entirely splendid drawing room. We shall need to change that odious curtain colour of course, and the floor rug is rather disgraceful, but your bedroom is quite the most commodious I have seen.”

It was for Kydd too—he remembered it hazily as nearly the size of
Teazer
's quarterdeck. “Now, sis, afore we go much further, this is jus' too big f'r me. I don't—”

“Don't be such a silly,” Cecilia said impatiently. “One drawing room, one dining room, a bedroom for yourself and another— how can you live with less?”

A glance at the serene expression of her friend seemed to suggest that an understanding of sorts had already been reached and in these matters it were best to follow along. “But, Cec, the cost must be—”

“An arrangement in the short term would be ruinously expensive, I'll agree,” she said, “But an annual lease will be had for, say, twenty pounds or so?” she added, with suspicious confidence.

That was a substantial portion of his pay but less than he had feared; and the thought of being master in his own home to do as he pleased, to return invitations, to announce an assembly, have dinners to be talked about for months afterwards . . . “Y' may be right, Cecilia. I'll think on it.”

“Nicholas, I'd be greatly obliged if you'd assist me in a small matter.”

Renzi looked up from his book. “By all means, brother.”

The morning light reflected up from the water was playing pretty patterns on the cabin deckhead but Kydd's mind was on other things. “Y' see, I'm thinkin' on takin' a lease—in a small way, of course—in a lodgin' ashore. If you'd be so kind as to step off wi' me to inspect it . . .”

Courteous and patient, Renzi toured number eighteen with Kydd, admiring the staircase, commenting on the number of floors and forbearing to point out that Kydd's observation on the felicity of having cooking country on the lowest floor and the servants safely aloft in the highest was quite in keeping with general practice.

“Might I know the asking price for this lease?” he murmured.

“Twenty guineas,” Kydd answered stoutly.

“That will be unfurnished, I believe. Shall we say about twenty-three if semi-furnished, which I earnestly recommend?”

“Ah, just so, I'd think,” Kydd replied hastily, and sought to bring himself to a proper state of seriousness. “Nicholas. I have a proposition I'd like ye to consider.” Choosing his words carefully, he went on, “In the matter of y'r own situation—I know how scant y'r means are as a captain's clerk wi' no other. As a man o' learnin', you'll need a place to rest your books an' things. I'm offerin' such a place for you here—but I have m' price.”

“I'm flattered to receive your offer,” Renzi said equally carefully, “but as you may see, I'm fully provided for aboard the fine ship
Teazer.
”

“Ah, but here you would have an address you can give to people that will stop 'em thinkin' ye're a singular cove as lives all his life in a ship . . .”

Renzi paused.

“. . . and y'r grateful assistance at times of m' social duty such as dinners will be well remarked.”

“I see.” He stroked his chin. “You mentioned a price, as I remember.”

“I did. One shillin' a month—and I shall see m' name, Thomas Kydd, printed for all the world to see, in y'r first book.”