The Admiral's Daughter (21 page)

It had been worth a try. “Aye. Thank 'ee, Toby.” He allowed a look of sorrow to steal across his face. “Y' see, I'm vexed t' know just where it is ashore they stowed th' cargo. Seems a hard thing t' up hook an' sail away without we have something t' show for our troubles.”

There was no answering smile.

“Such a pity, o' course. We sail back t' Penzance, having been truly gulled, an' there's the Revenue on th' quay, waitin' an' laughin' at our
Teazer,
a squiddy King's ship as doesn't know th' lay . . .”

Kydd waited, realising he had unconsciously slipped back into fo'c'sle ways of speaking, but there was no response so he rose to his feet. “M' thanks anyway, Toby—a rummer afore ye go?”

“It's not ashore. Give me a boardin' grapnel an' the pinnace f'r an hour.”

It didn't take long: under the interested gaze of
Teazer
's company the boat's crew plied the grapnel near where the lugger had been until it snagged. A couple of hands at the line and the first dripping tub broke surface, quickly followed by more, each weighted and roped to the next in a long line.

With a smuggling lugger, prisoners and four hundred gallons of evidence, a well-satisfied sloop-of-war set her sails and left.

C
HAPTER 8

“I
'LL HAVE T' LEAVE YE
to y'r books, then, Nicholas,” Kydd said, in mock sorrow. His friend was dipping into some musty tomes in the corner of a shop in Vauxhall—or “foxhole” to seamen— Street.

“Er, ah—yes, this could take some time,” Renzi replied absently. “Shall we meet later?”

Plymouth was a maritime town, but unlike the noisier Portsmouth, it held itself aloof from the immediacy of a large navy dockyard and fleet, which were safely out of the way in Dock, across the marshes. Instead, it was merchant-ship captains from the vessels in the Cattewater who could be found in the inns on the heights of Old Plymouth—but if any would mingle with the seafarers of a dozen nations, or venture into the rough jollity of their taverns and hide-aways, they could also be found in the rickety antiquity of Cockside and other haunts around the Pool.

Kydd had no wish to be caught up in their shoreside sprees and made his way up Cat Street and past the Guild Hall to the more spacious reaches of the Old Town, which the great sea-dog Sir Francis Drake had called home—he had returned to the Sound triumphant from a voyage round the world loaded with treasure, loosing anchor just a few hundred yards from Kydd's new residence, his first anxious question: “Doth the Queen still reign?”

It was pleasant to be part of the thronging crowds, to step out over the cobblestones and past the ancient buildings that gave Plymouth such a distinctive character. He stopped to peer into a shop's windows at some gaudily coloured political cartoons.

“Why, Mr Kydd!”

He straightened and turned. “Miss Lockwood!” He made her an elegant leg, a dainty curtsy his reward.

“Cynthia, this is Commander Kydd of the Royal Navy, and a friend of mine. Mr Kydd, may I introduce Miss Knopleigh, who is—no, let me work it out—a third cousin on my mother's side. Isn't that so, my dear?”

Kydd bowed again, the use of “friend” not lost on him. “Miss Knopleigh, a pleasure t' make y'r acquaintance—an' so good t' see you again, Miss Lockwood.”

Miss Knopleigh bobbed demurely to Kydd and said warmly, “Oh, so this is the interesting man you told me about. I'm so gratified to meet you, Mr Kydd.” She stepped back but continued to regard him thoughtfully.

“We were on our way to Allston's for chocolate—would it be so very importunate to ask you to join us, Mr Kydd, and perhaps to tell Cynthia a little of your voyages?”

The chocolate was very good; and the ladies applauded Kydd's descriptions of Naples and Nelson, the summit of Vesuvius and the inside of a pasha's seraglio. He felt his confidence grow. She had called him “friend”—and had introduced him to her cousin. Did this mean . . . ?

“That was most enjoyable, Mr Kydd.” Persephone's skin was fashionably alabaster, but her hazel eyes were frank, round and uncomfortably disconcerting the longer they lingered on him. Kydd caught a ghosting of perfume as she opened her dainty reticule. “I don't suppose you will be long in Plymouth this time?” she asked, as she took out a lace handkerchief.

“Ah, I—we await a new fore-topsail yard, it being wrung in a blow. No more'n a sennight I should have thought, Miss Lockwood.”

“Oh, it's so disagreeable when that sort of thing happens.” Then she smiled. “Well, we must go. Goodbye, Mr Kydd, and thank you for your company.”

Renzi's quill scratching away in the quietness of his cabin intruded into Kydd's thoughts. Was he imagining it or had Persephone meant something special when she spoke of him as “interesting”? He had detected no furtive glances, no betraying flush of that other kind of interest—but here he was at a disadvantage, for every woman he had known was of quite another quality. The loose rules of engagement with them did not apply here and if he was to press his attentions—

But
did
he want to? Yes! She was the most attractive and accomplished woman he had ever known or spoken to, and she did seem . . .

The cabin felt small and stifling. “Er, I think I'll take a turn about th' decks, Nicholas,” he said. Renzi murmured acknowledgement and continued to scribble.

The deck was nearly deserted. Standish and most of the men were ashore and Kydd was left alone to pace slowly. Should he make his interest in Miss Lockwood plain? What if he was completely mistaken and she had no interest of
that
sort in him? Would she be furious at an unforgivable impertinence from a low-born— or, worse, laugh him to scorn?

It was galling to be in such ignorance but he knew he was being swept into regions of desire and ambition that made resolution imperative.

A muffled roar of good humour came from the mess-deck below. Jack Tar would have no qualms about action in the situation: cease from backing and filling—clap on all sail and fearlessly lay alongside.

He bit his lip. Renzi would be of no help: he had made his position clear. But there
was
one who might . . .

“Then what is it, Thomas, that's so pressing I must make my apologies to Mrs Mullins at such short notice?” Cecilia said crossly, once they were safely in the intimacy of the drawing room.

“I'm sincerely sorry, Cec, t' intrude on y'r social situation,” Kydd said moodily, staring into the empty fireplace. “Y' see, I've some thinkin' t' do an' it needs sortin' out of a kind . . .”

She looked at him keenly. “Of a personal nature, I'd suspect.”

“Aye, sis, private, ye might say. That is—not t' you, o' course.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Can y' tell me true, Cec, th' answers to some questions, you bein' a woman and all?”

“A lady, the last time I looked,” she said tartly. “What are your questions, then, Thomas?”

Kydd mumbled, “If y' aren't goin' t' help me, then—”

“Don't be a silly, of course I will. Although why you don't go to Nicholas with your man problems I really don't know.”

“He's—he's set in his views, is all,” he said, embarrassed. “This is somethin' I—I need t' ask you, Cec.”

“Very well. Go on.”

“Ah—y' see, I—I met Miss Persephone Lockwood on th' street with her cousin an' she—”

“You're taken with her and, against all my advice, you wish to press your amours!”

“Cec! Don't say it like that. I'm—she's, er—”

“I see. Well, do not, I pray, ask me . . .” She stopped at Kydd's expression and her manner softened. “Dear brother, it's just that I'd loathe to see you brought low by an uncaring world. Tell me, do you feel for her that much?”

“Cec, I'm thinkin' of her all th' time! She's like no one I've ever met—or even seen afore. She's—”

“How do you conceive her feelings are for
you?
”

“That's what I need ye to advise me on.”

“To tell you what she feels towards you? This is a hard thing, Thomas. One woman's way of showing her inside feelings will be very different from another's and, besides, Miss Lockwood will have been brought up to control her passions strictly. Let me ask you, was your meeting on the street by way of an accident, do you think?”

“Aye, it must have been, for—”

“Then she takes you directly to a public chocolate-house—
mmm.
How did she introduce you to this cousin?”

“Cec, she called me her friend an' the cousin said she was pleased t' meet Persephone's interestin' man, an' looked at me— you know—that way.”

“I really don't understand what you mean by that, Thomas, but it does seem she is talking about you to her friends and this is a good start. Tell me also, does she look at you—do her eyes . . . linger?

“This is gettin' a mort too deep f'r me, Cec, but th' last thing she asked was how long the ship was t' be in Plymouth.”

“The ship?”

Kydd's brow furrowed. “Well, yes, it was how long
I
would be.”

“Ah,” Cecilia said fondly. “Then I do pronounce that indeed, brother, she
is
interested in you.”

Reddening, Kydd gave a pleased grin. “What d' you think of her, Cec?”

“I've not yet had the chance to get to know her—and neither, it must be said, have you.”

“Thank 'ee, Cec, now I know what's m' course,” Kydd said happily.

“Thomas, I've said it before, and I won't again, but after your first task, to win her heart, you must then start all over again to impress her family and friends—become part of her world.”

Kydd nodded wryly, but Cecilia pressed on inexorably. “We shall suppose you do win her. What is your intent for her? To debase her breeding so that she comes down to your level of politeness, or should it be your duty to strive to attain
her
level of gentility? That she must make apology for your boorishness to her friends, or be proud of your accomplishments?”

“Aye, sis, I c'n see all that—”

“Then first you
must
attend to your speech, Thomas. It is sadly neglected, after all I told you, and is not at all fit for gentle company. Now, this is what you really
must
do . . .”

Kydd lay back in his new four-poster and stared up into the darkness. His talk with his sister had been hard and lacerating. It was all very well to be proud and contented with an outstanding sea career, but women, it seemed, were on the one hand concerned to discover the man that lay beneath, and on the other taken up with foolish notions of what others might think, whether it be in the matter of incomes or appearances of dress and manner.

He had no reason to disbelieve her—she had gone out of her way to express her love and support—but her constant insistence on the niceties of polite behaviour was trying.

Yet Cecilia's words about whether Persephone should make excuses for him or be proud of him were unanswerable. He would have to try his damnedest to wipe away all betraying traces of his past.

Then doubts crowded in—the first of which was the loudest. Was all this vanity? What
proof
did he have that she felt something for him? There were signs that had been pronounced positive but . . .

Just supposing she had indeed been drawn to him, her feelings grew—and then a passionate declaration! Her heart would tell her which was of a truer value, and it would not be trivial details of speech and behaviour or even a humble background. In fact, she knew of his past and it had not in the slightest affected her addresses towards him.

It was possible! If she really wanted him, nothing would be allowed to stand in the way. Her parents—the brother of a viscount and the sister of an earl—would have to be reconciled or be estranged. So for appearance's sake a discreet settlement would be made that would see them setting up a small estate somewhere in the country, a carriage or two and ample servants . . . and, above all, he could appear among the highest in the land with Persephone, Mrs Thomas Kydd, on his arm—even at court, where everyone she knew would be agog to see whom she had married.

Damn it! It was all very possible.

Some perversity stopped Kydd telling Renzi when the invitation came; he knew his friend would feel impelled to lecture him on deportment, the graces of the table and interminable other points, for this invitation to a reception in honour of some foreign grandee was a prize indeed—but it was to him alone.

Although at short notice, and thereby again implying Kydd's role as useful bachelor, it was to Saltram House, the seat of Lord Boringdon and unquestionably the finest estate in the area.

Whatever the reason behind the invitation, he had reached the rarefied heights of society. Thomas Kydd—common seaman that was—moving in such circles . . .

The rest was up to him: he had been given his chance, and if he performed creditably, acquitted himself with elegance and wit, polish and urbanity, he would be noticed. Other invitations would come and . . . But for now there was much to take on board.

The coach ground on interminably past the Cattewater to the Plym. He had decided on full dress uniform; it was expected in this age of war but also it had the inestimable advantage that he would not have to concern himself with the imperatives of high fashion, or the cost—he felt a twinge of guilt when he remembered how he had wheedled Renzi that real bullion gold lace was crucial for a naval captain's full-dress uniform. His friend had glanced at him once, then gone without a word to their common stock of funds. Still, the effect of so much blue, white and deep gold was profoundly satisfying and would stand against anything the
haut ton
could parade.

They crossed the Plym and began the ascent up the final hill to Saltram. Kydd's heart beat faster; he had devoured Chesterfield's
Guide to Men and Manners,
then consulted Debrett and others in the matter of forms of address and details on European nobility. As always, the
Gentleman's Magazine
had provided plenty of material for small-talk and he had gone to some trouble to acquaint himself with current Plymouth gossip, to Mrs Bargus's surprise and delighted assistance. In the privacy of his bedplace he had assiduously practised his vowels and constructs until Renzi's expression at breakfast told him that progress had been made. He was as ready as he could be.