The Admiral's Daughter (22 page)

The spare, classical stateliness of Saltram was ablaze with lights in the summer dusk and a frisson of excitement seized Kydd as a footman lowered the side-step and stood to attention as he alighted. In a few moments he would be entering a milieu to which he had never aspired until now and so much would hang on how he comported himself.

“Commander Thomas Kydd,” he announced to the head footman, attending at the door. It was the largest entrance hall he had ever seen, complete with Doric entablature and a Roman bust set about with panels and carving. The area was rapidly filling with guests of splendour and importance; the candlelight and brilliance an exhilarating backdrop to the scene.

It had begun. He took a deep breath and turned to the distinguished gentleman in the plum-coloured frock coat to whom he had just been introduced. Soon there was movement, a general drift inside. “The Velvet Drawing Room,” drawled his acquaintance. “Have you been here before?”

“Not to Saltram,” Kydd replied languidly. “I hail from Surrey originally,” he added, inspecting his cuffs in a lordly way.

“Oh, really?” the man said, interested. “Then you'd know Clandon?”

The room was impressive: red-velvet-hung walls decorated in the Italian way with giltwood and stucco, and an ornately carved marble fireplace. The babble of conversations rose and fell, the rich foetor of candlesmoke, perfume and warm humanity an intoxicating assault on his senses. He accepted a tall glass from a gold-frogged footman. Furtively he glanced about for familiar faces in the crowded room. “Ah, yes, Clandon. Splendid place, a credit to the Onslows,” he said casually, and sipped his champagne.

Suddenly the arched double doors at the far end were opened ceremoniously to reveal an even bigger room beyond; a hush descended as a well-built major-domo took position. “His Grace the Landgraf Karl Zähringen of Baden-Durlach.”

There was a surge forward but Kydd held back while the more lofty dignitaries went in, and made polite conversation while he waited and observed. It quickly became apparent that an equerry was discreetly approaching individuals to be introduced and conducting them forward when the time came.

Then Kydd spied her. Nearly hidden in the throng he saw Admiral Lockwood and his lady before he caught sight of Persephone on her father's arm—a vision in lemon silk and a tracery of cream lace, talking gaily as though it were quite the most ordinary evening. Of course she would be here, he admonished himself. Was this not her world by right?

They were led forward and Kydd saw Lady Lockwood held at a fawning curtsy by a genial gentleman in a splendid hussar's uniform.

Others made their way in, and then the time came for Kydd. He strode into the great room, holding himself proud and ignoring the magnificent pale blue silk-damask walls, the perfection of the Italianate painted ceiling and the blaze of light from the tortoise-shell and ormolu candelabra.

The equerry brought him to a discreet distance but the previous couple had not yet concluded, the man holding forth in florid German.

Eventually they retired backwards, the man giving three short bows, and the equerry murmured, “Sir, Commander Kydd, His Britannic Majesty's Navy. Commander, the Landgraf Zähringen.”

Kydd swept down in a leg of extreme elegance, practised in his cabin until his muscles ached. “Your Grace—or, since the happy elevation of your father the Margrave to Elector, should this not be
Hoheit,
sir?”

He straightened to meet raised eyebrows. “‘Your Grace'” vill do,
Kapitan,
und may I say 'ow rare it is to meet an English who know th' happening in our little kingdom?” His benign features creased with pleasure.

“Thank you, Your Grace. And might I desire you a happy stay in England, the weather being uncommon pleasant this time of the year,” he dared.

“Vy, thank you. May the fortunes of war be kind to you,
Kapitan.
”

Kydd backed from his presence, remembering to bow three times before he turned away in relief and growing exultation.

He was succeeding—and on his own merits! With earnest attention but wandering thoughts he held himself quietly while he heard of the grave consequences of the fluctuations in corn prices in the north country and their probable effect on 'Change.

He looked about him discreetly, and saw Persephone listening politely to a voluble colonel with forbidding whiskers. Then her head turned—and she gazed directly at him. Before he could look away there was a sudden wide smile and a nod of acknowledgement.

Covered with confusion, he bowed his head stiffly and forced his eyes away from her, but his thoughts raced: if he had had any doubt before that he was merely a name to her, it was gone now. In another existence he would have boldly gone across and taken things further, but now he was unaccountably hesitant.

The evening proceeded. A light supper was brought in and everyone found a seat; Kydd practised his small-talk on a ponderous gentleman and simpering middle-aged lady, adorned with ostrich feathers, and covertly noted that Persephone had resumed dutiful attendance on her parents.

“Your Grace, my lords!” Lord Boringdon clapped his hands for attention. “Pray do indulge me for a moment. The good Landgraf has expressed a keen desire to hear our English entertainments and what better, I thought, than to beg Miss Sophie Manners to oblige?”

The good-natured applause was redoubled when a shy young lady rose and made her way to the pianoforte. There was a scraping of chairs as all manoeuvred to face her. “A little piece by Mr Purcell,” she announced nervously.

Her voice was pure and sweet but the prolonged tinkling of the melody was not altogether to Kydd's taste. He brightened when a tall soldier in scarlet regimentals joined her to sing a duet, which, in its pleasant intertwining of voices, proved most charming. After rapturous acclaim they sang another. The soldier grinned broadly. “Most kind in you,” he acknowledged, when the clapping died, and bowed to both sides, then looked directly at Kydd. “Could I persuade the navy to stand up for us?” he called jovially.

Kydd froze, but a storm of encouragement broke—the Royal Navy was popular in these parts. He cringed, but there was no escape.

He stood, to be greeted with thunderous applause, but was rooted to the spot, speechless at the sight of so many lords and ladies staring at him with expressions ranging from boredom to avidity.

Then he felt a light touch on his arm. It was Persephone. “Don't be anxious, Mr Kydd—we're all your friends here, you'll see,” she said softly, and then more loudly, “Mr Kydd will now perform— and I will accompany on the pianoforte.”

She took his arm with a winning smile, and drew him firmly towards the front to a very tempest of support. She sat at the instrument and stretched her fingers, but Kydd stammered in a low voice, “I d-don't know anything, Miss L-Lockwood.”

“Nonsense!” she whispered back. “This pretty piece of Mozart's perfect for you. You're a baritone?” Her fingers caressed the keys in an expert introductory flourish and the room fell quiet. “You shall turn the page for me, Mr Kydd, will you?”

At his stricken face she added softly, “Don't worry, I'll manage. Just follow the words—they're below the stave.”

He stared down, transfixed. “It—I can't—!” She looked up at him with sympathy and unconcealed disappointment.

Kydd pulled himself together. “Thank you, Miss Lockwood, but I've just remembered one—and this I'll sing on my own. That is to say, a solo.”

He stepped forward and faced the august room, the serried ranks of painted faces, the formidable lords and gentlemen, the Landgraf—then filled his chest and sang. It was one of the only pieces he knew well, songs that held meaning and memories but that he had kept suppressed for many years on the quarterdeck.

It came out with deep feeling, the parting of an outward-bound sailor from his true love:

Turn to thy love and take a kiss
This gold about thy wrist I'll tie
And always when thou look'st on this
Think on thy love and cry . . .

The simple melody was received in absolute quiet, Kydd's powerful voice echoing about the room, and soon a soft improvisation from the pianoforte tentatively accompanied it, strengthening and growing in invention as the chorus repeated.

The song finished; there was an astonished silence, and then the room broke into rapturous applause. Kydd dared a glance at Persephone—she returned it with one of delight, her eyes sparkling. “I rather think an encore is expected,” she said fondly. “Shall you?”

Kydd obliged with a fo'c'sle favourite, and then his lordship and a bemused Landgraf heard a salty rendition of “Spanish Ladies,” Persephone coming in almost immediately with a daring flourish and a laugh.

Now let every man take up his full bumper,
Let every man take up his full bowl;
For we will be jolly, and drown melancholy
With a health to each jovial and true-hearted soul!

While he sang out the old words heartily he saw reactions about the room ranging from delight and amazement to hostility. He dared a glance at Admiral Lockwood and saw him pounding out the rhythm on his knee with a broad smile; his lady, however, impaled him with a look of venom.

Kydd finished the fine sea song to thunderous acclaim and, Persephone at his side, bowed this way and that. “Well done, Mr Kydd!” she whispered, her eyes shining. “You were . . . wonderful.”

Kydd's heart melted.

Renzi was sitting by a single candle at his desk when Kydd returned. He glanced up and, seeing Kydd's expression, remarked drily, “So, the evening might be accounted a success, then, brother?”

“Aye—that is to say, it passed off right splendidly, Nicholas.” He peeled off his coat and flopped into his chair, wearing a broad smile that would not go away.

“And—dare I hazard the observation?—you there saw Miss Persephone Lockwood.”

“I did,” Kydd said sheepishly, and gave a graphic account of events. “And y' should have been there t' hear the thumpin' applause they gave us at th' end,” he said, with huge satisfaction.

Renzi heard him out, then shook his head in wonder. “So by this we can see you have achieved your object. You have indeed attained an eminence in society,” he declared, “and, it must be admitted that at one and the same time you have been able to attract notice, it seems. Though what a young lady of breeding will make of a gentleman who eschews Mozart for ‘Spanish Ladies' I cannot begin to think.”

“Then can I point out t' you, Nicholas, that it was this same who came an' played for me in the first place, an' it was she who said I should do an encore?” Kydd retorted acidly.

Renzi stretched and gave a tired smile. “In any event, dear fellow, you are now known and talked about. For good or ill, the society world knows you exist and have made conquest of Miss Lockwood.”

The fore-topsail yard, now promised for Wednesday, would be fitted and squared on Thursday, and Friday, of course, being not a day for sailing to any right-thinking sailor, Kydd would begin to store
Teazer
for a Saturday departure. He called Purchet to his cabin to set it in train.

Only a few days more. Guiltily he was finding himself reluctant to put to sea and he told himself sternly to buckle down to work. Renzi was dealing swiftly with a pile of ship's papers, his pen flying across the pages, no doubt eager to dip into the parcel of books that had recently arrived at number eighteen.

There was now the difficult task of how or indeed whether he should open some form of address to Persephone. Was she expecting an overture from him? Should he ask Cecilia? Or was advice on the best way to woo another woman not quite what one might ask a sister? A knock interrupted his thoughts as a letter for the captain was handed to him respectfully.

Kydd recognised Cecilia's bold hand and smiled at the coincidence, tearing open the seal. Another letter fell out with unfamiliar handwriting. Cecilia went quickly to the subject to his growing astonishment and delight. “. . . and she is wondering if you would wish to accompany us. I really think you should, Thomas—it would get you out of your ship and seeing something of the moors, which are accounted to be some of the most dramatic country in the kingdom . . .”

A ride on the high moor—the wilds of Dartmoor. With Persephone.

The other letter was from Persephone, in a fine round hand, and addressed to Cecilia, whom she had met at the picnic. Kydd's eyes lingered on the writing: it was perfectly executed penman-ship with few ornaments, bold and confident. The content was warm but practical—a rendezvous at the Goodameavy stables a few miles north on the Tavistock road, well-phrased advice concerning clothing for ladies and then, in a final sentence, the afterthought that if Commander Kydd found himself at leisure that day, did Cecilia think he might be persuaded to join them?

Cecilia said little on the journey out of town and gazed from the window as they wound into the uplands. It suited Kydd: his thoughts could jostle on unchecked. Would it be a substantial party? The lonely moor was probably a place of footpads and robbers so he wore a sword, a discreet borrowed hanger rather than his heavy fighting weapon. He hoped his plain riding outfit of cut-away dark-brown frock coat and cuff-top boots would pass muster with someone accustomed to the latest in fashionable wear.