The Admiral's Daughter (27 page)

But something was distracting her and she was facing away, not hearing his words. Kydd made a play of looking closer at the plant, then offered his arm to escort her back. Had he done something to offend?

Then she turned towards him and asked, “Did Mrs Mullins marry in the Caribbean?”

“Er, yes, Miss Lockwood, and my sister was at the wedding.” He cast about for something else to say but no words came and she went on ahead. They wandered a few more steps, Kydd following helplessly, before she stopped and said quite casually, “Your perceptions of society might lead you to suppose that I should marry as bade, but I can assure you, Mr Kydd, I shall only wed one I care for and I cherish. An odd notion, don't you think?”

Was she saying . . . ?

“I—I admire you for it, Miss Lockwood,” Kydd replied hoarsely, as she lifted her eyes to his, her expression softening unbearably. He took a deep breath and said, in a voice that came out harsher than he had intended, “If you married a—a man who followed the sea by profession, would ye—would you expect him t' leave it? Th' sea, I mean.”

She waited until his eyes held hers. “No, Mr Kydd, I would not.”

The silence thundered in his ears until she turned and walked slowly to a little grotto of sea-shells set in the shady side of the wall. She looked back at him once and stooped to pick up a shell, which she admired in her cupped hands. “I believe I will take this to remind me of you, Mr Kydd.”

Renzi scrambled to his feet when Kydd returned, eyes shining, an unmistakable air of excitement about him.

“Nicholas! Ye'd never smoke it! She
was
there an'—we walked together an' talked, and I'd lay out a sack o' guineas t' say before ye that she—she has a takin' for me!” He was touched that his friend was so evidently sharing the same soaring elevation of spirit.

“Felicitations, then, brother, but I trust you will hope to remember your speech in her presence—I am obliged to remark that at the moment it sorely betrays a lack of delicacy.”

Kydd grinned. “She was wearing such a fine dress, Nicholas. Was it just f'r me? An' her hair, she had—”

Renzi's voice was odd—somewhat charged with emotion. “Dear fellow, do you know what I have here?” He held up a grubby piece of paper covered with crabbed handwriting.

“Er, no, Nicholas. Pray, do tell me.”

“This,” Renzi said, “this, dear friend, is the first—the very first evidence from the world that my humble conjectures in ethnical philosophies might indeed possess some degree of merit. This, brother, is a communication from Count Rumford himself! Praises me for a new insight and encourages me to go further.”

He sat down suddenly and blinked rapidly. “And—and wishes that when in London I might consider attending with him at the Royal Institution in Albemarle Street.”

To Kydd the name reminded him more of fireplaces but there was no doubting the effect it was having on Renzi. “Why, that's thumpin' good news indeed, m' friend. Count Rumford himself!”

There was just sufficient Cognac to steady them both, then Renzi was able to say to Kydd, “I am forgetting myself, brother. Do tell me more of your happy situation.”

“Well, I've been givin' it a deal of thought. I'm t' call on Miss Lockwood, I believe—I have t' return her music, y' see,” he said smugly. “But not afore I ask Mrs Mullins if she'd help me learn it. I saw a pianoforte while I was there,” he added.

Kydd pulled the doorbell ceremoniously and waited. He was in his most elegant attire: a dark-green morning coat over buff waistcoat and cream breeches, with a painstakingly tied cravat. And the sheet of music tied with a ribbon.

“Sir?” It was the same footman, but he gave no sign of recognition.

“Mr Kydd, to call on Lady Lockwood.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, with a bow, and went back inside, closing the door gently in Kydd's face. His heart bumping, he heard the footsteps die away. It seemed an age before the footman returned. “Lady Lockwood is not at home, sir,” he announced, fixing a glassy stare over Kydd's shoulder.

Kydd had seen the carriage in the mews and knew that she had not left the house. “Then—then Miss Lockwood?” he asked.

“Miss Lockwood is not at home, either, sir.”

“Er, then please to give this to Miss Lockwood,” Kydd said, handing over the music, realising too late that he had just lost his best excuse for calling in the future. He turned on his heel and walked off, thoughts churning furiously.

Cecilia dismissed his fears. “This is Lady Lockwood being protective, I do believe, Thomas. We shall have to find another way. Now, let me see . . . Jane is being so obliging I think we can ask her to invite Miss Robbins and ‘friend' once again—this time to a cards evening. She has some tolerably high-placed acquaintances who are martyrs to the whist table.”

It cost Kydd a notable effort to ingest the finer points of whist: the mysteries of the trick, the trump suit and the potential for delicious interplay between the partners, but he was determined to reach the point at which he would not disgrace Persephone.

Time dragged, but eventually the appointed evening arrived and Kydd found himself making inane conversation with a young army lieutenant while the guests arrived. At last he heard Miss Robbins's silvery laugh in the doorway and forced himself not to look round.

“Ah, Miss Robbins,” came Jane's loyal cry. Kydd could bear it no longer and casually manoeuvred round until he could see her. She was with her “friend”—a diminutive soul with an irrepressible giggle. Not Persephone.

A little later Miss Robbins slipped him a note and whispered archly, “I rather think you'll want to see this.” The rubber went on interminably but at its conclusion he was able to excuse himself. He feverishly took out the note—it was to Miss Robbins, thanking her for the invitation to a card evening, but saying “. . . my engagements at present are such that I find I am unable to accept any invitation for some time to come . . .”

Cecilia's frown as she scanned the words was telling, but Kydd chuckled. “It's naught but someone tryin' t' flam me, is all. See? This is not Persephone's handwritin'!”

Her expression did not lift. “That is not the point, Thomas. It's almost certainly from her mother and it tells me that she has set her face against you, for whatever reason.” She bit her lip. “It will require some thought. I believe I will need to consult Mr Renzi. Is he at liberty to return to land, do you know?”

Kydd thought guiltily of Renzi in
Teazer,
not at his precious studies but loyally accounting for stores come aboard and other ship's business. As captain, Kydd had a perfect right in port to allow the ship's routine to continue in his absence but his appearances on board were now minimal. He knew, however, that Renzi would send for him if there were difficulties.

“He's t' come for dinner tonight, Cec. Do y' not think—”

“No, Thomas, we three will discuss this together.”

It was sobering to find Renzi in so solid agreement with Cecilia on the gravity of the situation. “Her mother, undoubtedly. In matters of this kind her wishes will prevail, of course. It will be difficult indeed to formulate any plan that might mollify, evoke a contrary tenderness.”

Cecilia asked, troubled, “Shall he withdraw his attentions for a space, do you think? Allow time for Lady Lockwood to come to an—an appreciation of his qualities?”

“In the absence of any communication between them, there will be nothing at work that will tend to ameliorate her position, I fear. At the moment, dear sister, I am without inspiration . . .”

Kydd got up and paced angrily up and down. “Belay that wry way o' talkin'! She told me to m' face as how she would not marry as she's bid, only t' one she cares for! Let her lay course where she will an' be damned!”

Renzi steepled his fingers. “Brother, if she goes against her mother's desires in the matter of matrimony then without question she will lose her portion—her dowry—and your expectations for your position in society will, er, necessarily require revision.”

“And think this, Thomas, can you conceive that with her breeding she will be content to live the life of a—a sailor's wife?” Cecilia said softly.

Kydd stopped and looked at her. “Yes, I do, sis!” He paused, then said forcefully, “An' I will show you. I'm going to—to invite her
here
and then th' world will see.”

Renzi's face softened and he said gently, “Dear fellow, do you think this wise? Her mother will—”

“It's t' be a musical evening an' there'll be—there'll be grand coves attendin' who it'll be unfortunate t' ignore. I'll be askin' Miss Lockwood if she'd assist me with the musical entertainments f'r these important guests. Even her mother c'n see she'll have to come.”

“Grand coves?” asked Renzi. “And a lavish, therefore expensive, evening?”

There was no dissuading him, however, and Kydd would only hear those whose contributions were in some wise positive; towards midnight the main elements had been hammered out, and on the next day Cecilia began the delicate task of sounding out possible luminaries.

It was not to be a naval occasion—at his rank Kydd could not command the presence of flag-officers—but at the same time there were those in the wider community who would be flattered to attend a fifth anniversary dinner of Nelson's battle of the Nile hosted by one who had been present.

Well before noon Cecilia was back with the satisfying information that should he be favoured with an invitation the worshipful Lord Mayor of Plymouth himself was in a position graciously to accept, as were the colonel and the adjutant of the mighty Citadel that guarded the entrance to Old Plymouth.

It was time to set in train the events of the evening but not before the most important detail of all: Cecilia had demanded the right of wording the invitations, which she insisted must be properly printed on stiff card, albeit at a ruinous price.

They were sent out promptly and Kydd tried to contain his impatience. This would be a most splendid occasion and one that even the most suave and accomplished of the
ton
would not be in a position to mount. He swelled with happiness: as host it was the pinnacle of his achieving in society and to think that . . .
she
would be here to witness it.

The military acceptances were prompt and officer-like, the Lord Mayor's not far behind. But one seemed to have been delayed. Kydd reasoned that Persephone regularly attended such functions as his, and must have many in hand to balance. He waited as patiently as he could.

As the day neared with no word from her he began to fret and to take to his ship as a familiar refuge. It was not until the day before the event that the mate-of-the-watch handed him a sealed message. The handwriting he recognised instantly. For some unaccountable reason he was reluctant to open it on board his ship. He slipped the precious missive into his pocket and ordered a boat.

In the privacy of his drawing room he dismissed the flustered Becky, sat in his armchair and opened it. As if by dictation, the words repeated what he had seen once before, but now undeniably in Persephone's own strong hand—that she was not able to attend and, further, that she was unable to accept any invitation for some time to come.

He folded the paper mechanically and placed it in the centre of the mantelpiece. There was no evident compulsion, no form of words that left any room for hope—and no trace whatsoever of the feelings he had seen in her the last time they had met.

There was something at the bottom of it all, he was sure—but what? Had she changed her mind, reconsidered what it would mean to live in greatly reduced circumstances? Had an unknown suitor cunningly turned her against him with evil words? Was there something in the Byzantine society code that he had infringed and thereby earned her contempt?

He would hear it from her own lips—by confronting her when next she rode on the moor. Shameless bribery of the stable-hands would ensure the time and place.

Kydd heard her arrive. Skulking at the end of the line of horse-boxes he listened to her cool voice greet the groom and dismiss her carriage. Her firm steps on the cobblestones approached and Kydd stepped out.

She was on her own, dressed in her usual immaculate fashion, and looked at him in shock. Recovering quickly, she said politely, “Mr Kydd, what a surprise! You—I hadn't thought to see you here.”

“Why, Miss Lockwood, I did so enjoy our ride together before— do you mind if I join you?”

“I—I do not believe you should, sir.”

Kydd felt the warmth of a flush rising to his face and said huskily, “Then I should ride alone?”

“As you will, sir. It can be no concern of mine.” She took the reins and prepared to mount.

“P-Persephone!” Kydd blurted. “W-Why?”

She paused, then looked away suddenly. Then, turning to the groom, she ordered, “Garvey, I shall walk on ahead for a space. Do you follow on discreetly, if you please.”