The Admiral's Daughter

by Julian Stockwin

  “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.

  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 an
d 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.