The Admiral's Daughter (28 page)

Without waiting for Kydd she began to walk rapidly out towards the moor. Kydd hurried until they were side by side, not daring to speak.

“You will have received my regrets for your interesting evening.” She did not look at him.

“I understand, Miss Lockwood.”

It won him a glance. They walked on in silence, the pace not slowing. “I do hope it goes well for you, Mr Kydd,” she said eventually, in a neutral manner.

“I—we shall fin' someone else t' entertain us, I'm sure,” he said stiffly, his hands in his pockets so she would not see that the fists were clenched.

She said nothing but, after a few moments, slowed. “Mr Kydd,” she said, turning to him, “I don't think I ever mentioned my friend to you.”

Confused, Kydd muttered something and let her continue. “She's quite like me in a way,” she said lightly, stooping to pick a furze flower. “The same age, as it were.”

“Oh?” he managed.

“But at the moment she has a problem,” she said, in a light tone. “Which she seems to have resolved, I believe.”

Kydd said nothing, guessing where this was leading and dreading the outcome. “You see, she met an amiable enough gentleman who might have been considered as a possible—consort. However, her condition of life is such that her family felt he did not answer their expectations, his connections being decidedly beneath her own.”

She flicked at an errant stalk of furze with her ivory whip and went on, “She foolishly allowed her feelings to lead her to behave in an unseemly manner and was taken to task by her mother, who forbade her to continue the association.”

“Then you—she—”

“She loves her mama and would not go against her, Mr Kydd. That you must believe,” she said, looking at him seriously.

His gut tightened. “Can y' say to me—is there another man payin' his addresses to—t' your friend?”

She replied instantly; “There is none of any consequence who may stand against him.”

Kydd swallowed. “Then you'll let me say, Miss Lockwood, that I think your friend is—is a shab indeed, if she had said t' him afore that she'd not be wed t' any except she cares for him!”

She stopped, her face white, and rounded on him. “Mr Kydd, you cannot know what you are saying. Do not speak so.”

“An' if she puts the comforts o' life before her heart's—”

“Be silent, sir! I will not have it said—”

“Persephone, I—”

She took a deep breath and held it for a long moment, then continued sadly, “Mr Kydd. She—she loves her mother and would not grieve her, but this is not the issue.” She turned away from his gaze and went on softly, “Mama is right, but not in the way she intends. Shall we suppose they marry, even that her parents are reconciled? Can you conceive what it must cost as she divides her social acquaintances between her own—when she will be constantly in need of explanation for the lack of his own connections at the highest level—and his, where daily he must find excuse for her airs, her manner? She could not bear to see
him
put upon so.”

“Oh! Nicholas, it's you. I—I expected Thomas. Er, is he out?” Cecilia, however, unlaced her bonnet and gave every indication of wanting to stay, though that was contrary to the rules of polite society, which frowned on unmarried young ladies attending on gentlemen unaccompanied.

“Good evening, Miss Kydd,” Renzi said quietly, rising but remaining by his chair.

“I see. Then you have my sincere regrets, sir, should any now think you to be so far in want of conduct as to entertain the female sex alone . . .” But it brought no returning smile and Cecilia paused, concerned.

“May I sit, Mr Renzi?” she asked formally.

“If it is your brother you are intending to visit, then I have to tell you that he has not set foot ashore for the last three days, and the vessel due to sail on Monday.”

“He—”

“Is in a state of despondency.”

“Poor Thomas.” Cecilia sighed, twisting a ribbon. “It did seem so possible, did it not?”

Renzi resumed his chair and blinked. “I rather think now it was not a deed of kindness to encourage him to believe there could be any favourable conclusion to the affair. His lack of connections damns him in her mother's eyes—an ambitious creature, I believe.”

“Persephone Lockwood is much attached to him,” Cecilia said thoughtfully. “They would make a fine pair together—if only . . .”

She stood up and paced about the room. “She will not go against her mother's wishes, that much is sure. Therefore
this
is the problem we must address.”

“I can only agree in the heartiest manner with your observations on such a match but it is not to be. Do you not consider that, perhaps with some reluctance, you should cease from match-making in his case?”

“Why, Mr Renzi, I do believe you have no romantic inclinations whatsoever.”

Renzi held still, his eyes opaque.

“I shall certainly do what is needful to assist Thomas to a blissful destiny—if I can think of any such,” Cecilia said, with spirit, and picked up her bonnet, settling it thoughtfully. Then she stopped. “There is . . . but this will require that the gods of chance do favour us in the timing and that, when asked, a certain person will grant us a particular kindness . . .” She frowned prettily, and left.

A footman entered noiselessly with a note on a silver tray. The admiral at breakfast was often irascible, and the man spoke diffidently. “For your immediate attention, sir.”

“What? Oh, give it here, then, damnit!”

Lady Lockwood sighed and continued her criticism of her daughter's needlework but at her husband's snort of interest she looked up. “What is it, dear?”

“Well, now, and you'll clear your engagements for tonight, m' love! It seems the Marquess of Bloomsbury is giving me the favour of an At Home. Didn't know he was in Plymouth. You remember? I managed an introduction for you at court a year or so back.”

“Oh!” Lady Lockwood said, in sudden understanding. “The Marquess of Bloomsbury—this
is
interesting, Reginald. Isn't he high in the diplomatic line, as I recall?”

“Yes, indeed. Discreet sort of cove, gets all about the world but likes to do his work in the strictest confidence. Now, I happen to know he has the ear of Billy Pitt himself—and I don't have to tell you, my love, that if I'm to get a sea command he's the kind of man I need to keep well in with.”

“Yes, you must, Reginald. Wasn't he married to the Earl of Arundel's eldest? Charlotte? I must look it up.”

Well satisfied, she turned to her daughter. “Now, Persephone, the marquess is very important. You will come and be introduced, and remember, my dear, the men will be making high talk and we should never speak unless addressed directly.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Your tamboured cream muslin will do, and do try to bring those curls more into control—you'll be under eye tonight.”

The Lockwood carriage rumbled grittily to a stop, the footmen hastening to hand down the party. “Not grand at all—but so in keeping with the man,” chuckled the full-dress admiral, as he took his wife's arm. “Consults his privacy always. I know he's only passing through—I wonder who's his host? May need to make his acquaintance after he's gone.”

They were greeted at the door by a distinguished butler. “You are expected, sir,” he was told, and they were taken up the stairs to a small but discreet drawing room.

Outside Lady Lockwood did a last-minute primping of her ostrich plumes and surveyed Persephone once more before they entered. “Remember, child, a warm smile and special attentions to the host and hostess. We're ready now, Reginald.”

“Admiral Sir Reginald Lockwood, Lady Lockwood and Miss Lockwood,” the butler announced. Wearing her most gracious smile Lady Lockwood advanced to be introduced.

“Sir, may I have th' honour t' introduce Sir Reginald an' Lady Lockwood, and their daughter Persephone,” their host intoned. “Sir,” he said, turning to the gaping admiral and wife, “please meet th' most honourable the Marquess of Bloomsbury and his wife, th' Marchioness.”

The marquess bestowed a smile. “And perhaps I should introduce you all to my friend,” he indicated the genial man standing to one side, “who is the Baron Grenville, foreign secretary of Great Britain—if that will be allowable, William?”

“Why, thank 'ee, Frederick. I think it unlikely that Addington's shambles of an administration will survive the winter, and when Pitt takes power again . . . well, I stand ready to take up the burden once more, hey?”

Lady Lockwood rose from her deep curtsy, struck dumb with the effort of trying to come to terms with what she was seeing, while the charming young hostess took the arm of the marchioness and drew her aside. “Lady Charlotte, I can never thank you enough! You and—” she stammered.

“Nonsense, Cecilia, dear. So good to see you again and, of course, we're delighted to offer Cupid a helping hand. That Grenville happened along was the merest chance, of course.” She gave a fond smile and continued, “But, then, with Frederick having succeeded his father it seems they have plans in mind for him in the new year. And that will mean . . . I do hope you will not refuse another engagement with us, my dear?”

Cecilia blushed to be so honoured by one whom, as lady's companion, she had always known as Lady Stanhope. “It will be my pleasure and duty.”

Finally Lady Lockwood came to herself and hissed at the host, “Mr Kydd! Why on earth—what are you doing here?”

“Lady Lockwood, this is my house and I believe I may entertain whom I will.” It was worth every minute of his recent torments to see her resulting expression.

“A fine part of the country,” the admiral said respectfully, to the foreign secretary.

“No doubt, Admiral—but later. I'm with child to find out from Mr Kydd himself if it's true that he once told Frederick in a boat to pull on a rope or be keel-hauled. Come, sir, tell me the story.” He accepted a glass of Constantia and took Kydd to one side to hear of stirring events long ago in the Caribbean.

A bemused admiral turned then to the marquess. “Sir, may we know if this is your first visit to the West Country?”

But the marquess had turned to greet an exquisitely turned-out gentleman who had just descended hesitantly from the stairs. “Why, it's Mr Renzi! Well met, sir! I've heard that your thoughts on the ethnicals of the cannibal islands have met with some success.”

“You've heard? Well, yes, sir, I have been fortunate enough to secure the approbation of Count Rumford of the Royal Institution, who seems to consider my small musings of some value.”

The marquess turned confidingly to Lady Lockwood. “Mr Renzi, a very learned soul. Mark well what he has to say, madam, for his wisdom in matters academical is only matched by his experiences in the wider reaches of the planet.”

Lady Lockwood could only curtsy mutely.

“Tell me, Renzi, where are you at present?”

“Mr Kydd has had the infinite goodness to afford me lodging at his own residence, sir.”

“Fine fellow, an ornament to his service,” the marquess agreed, then called across to the foreign secretary, “I say, Grenville, this is Renzi. Do you remember him? Hatchards in Piccadilly and the occasion need not trouble this gathering.”

“Why, yes indeed. Good day to you, Renzi. Have I by chance yet won you to a proper appreciation of the Grecian ode?”

“Perhaps, sir.” Renzi chuckled, and the three laughed at remembrances of former times and past perils, while Kydd had eyes only for the soft and very special look thrown to him by Miss Persephone Lockwood.

C
HAPTER 11

I
N
B
ARN
P
OOL
,
not half a mile south from the pleasant walk round Devil's Point, at precisely ten in the forenoon, HMS
Teazer
went to stations for unmooring. On her pristine quarterdeck Commander Kydd took position, legs braced astride, trying not to notice the promenaders gathered to watch a King's ship outward bound to war.

Everything about the morning was perfection; the deep colours of sky and sea, the verdancy of the countryside in the languid sunshine, the easy south-westerly breeze, the fine seamanlike appearance of the ship he commanded. And the incredible knowledge, which he hugged to himself, about Persephone.

“Take her out, L'tenant,” he ordered. “You have th' ship.” Even with the small craft lazily at their moorings in Barn Pool and ships passing to and from the Hamoaze, it would not be an onerous task to win the open sea.

“Aye aye, sir,” Standish said smartly, and stepped forward. “Lay out 'n' loose!” Topmen manned the rigging and climbed out along the yards, sail blossomed and caught.
Teazer
swayed prettily as she got under way, leaving Devil's Point to larboard, but Kydd knew he could not snatch a look for
she
was watching. Possibly even now his image was being scrutinised through a powerful naval telescope.

Rounding Drake's Island
Teazer
heeled to the sea breeze and made splendid sailing south to the wider sea. This time there would be no sordid grubbing about after smugglers—that could wait for now. Today it was a more serious matter: Kydd was to go after the privateer Bloody Jacques, who had appeared off the coast again and slaughtered more innocent men in his predations.

Teazer
was under orders to look into every bay and tiny cove, even the lee of islands, from Rame Head westwards—everywhere that the privateer with his uncanny local knowledge might conceivably hide himself. Kydd vowed that when they came upon the rogue he would make sure his career was ended then and there.

But it would be without their gunner's mate. Stirk had not yet returned from his mission to Polperro. Just before they sailed Luke Calloway had straggled back with a painfully written note:

Dere Mr Kydd. Agreable to yr order, I hav enquyered of the wun you seek and fownd him owt and now I sayle to fynd the hevidance I may be gon won or 2 weaks yr obed

Tobias Stirk

Did this mean he had uncovered something? Kydd felt misgivings at the thought of the open and straight-steering shipmate from his days on the fo'c'sle trying to act the spy in the company of a villainous and ruthless gang. But if any had the brute courage and strength of mind to see it through, it was Stirk.

“Course, sir?” Standish asked.

“Oh—er, to weather the Rame,” he replied. Coastwise navigation did not require elaborate compass courses and it would exercise Standish to judge just when to put about to fetch the headland in one board.

Orders passed, Standish returned to stand by Kydd. “Um, might it be accounted true, sir, what they are saying—please forgive the impertinence if it were not—that, er, you have made conquest of the admiral's daughter?”

Kydd looked at him sharply, but saw only open admiration. “Miss Lockwood has been handsome enough t' visit,” he said, regretting his pompous tone but finding it hard to conceal his feeling otherwise. “In company with her parents, o' course.”

“And if my sources are correct—and they're all talking about it—also the highest in the land.”

Now it was to be hero worship. “That is t' say I knew the marquess before as Lord Stanhope, but his particular friend the foreign secretary Lord Grenville . . .” This was only making it worse. Kydd glanced aloft. “Is that an Irish pennant I see at the fore-top-sail yard, Mr Standish?” he growled, and while it was being attended to, he made his escape below.

“Nicholas.” He sighed as he sat to stare moodily through the stern windows at the dissipating wake. “It seems th' whole world knows. What will I do?”

Renzi put down his papers with a half-smile. “It is what
I
shall do that preoccupies my thoughts, dear fellow. In a short space you will be joined to a family of consequence, be in receipt of a fair dowry that will, in the nature of things, have your lady casting about for an estate of worth.”

Kydd beamed. The thought of himself as one half of two was new and wonderful.

“I rather fear,” Renzi continued, “my
arcadia in urbes
at number eighteen will be a lonely one, even supposing I am able to find the means to—”

“Nicholas,” Kydd interrupted warmly, “y' will always find a place with us, never fear.”

“I thank you, brother, but I am obliged to observe that when the head of the house proposes it is always the lady who disposes . . .”

They sat in companionable stillness, until Renzi asked, “May I be informed of the progress of your attachment? Have you made her a proposition?”

Kydd eased into a deep smile. “There will be time enough f'r that after we return, Nicholas—an' I'll be glad of y'r advice in the detail, if y' please.”

“It will be my pleasure. You will follow the polite conventions, of course—first to seek a private interview with your intended to secure her acceptance, followed by a formal approach to her father requesting approval of the match. There will be some . . . negotiations, at which various matters relating to your post- nuptial circumstances will be—”

Suddenly Kydd felt restless with all this talk. He could contain himself no longer and got to his feet. “Belay all that, m' friend. I have a cruise t' command. Where's that poxy boatswain?”

That night, under easy sail from the south-west, Kydd crawled into his cot and composed himself for sleep. He tried to shut out the crowding thoughts but they kept coming in different guises, different urgencies.

It was now clear he would wed soon—Persephone had made plain that her father had always approved of him and Lady Lockwood would come round to it, given time. Therefore in the next few months his life would change to that of a married man with a defined and highly visible place in polite society.

Cecilia would be so proud of him. And when he visited his parents in Guildford it would be in a carriage with footmen and a bride of such character and quality—it was such a dizzying prospect that his mind could hardly grasp it.

But what about Persephone? Would he match up to her expectations, be a proper husband with all the trappings of dignity and wisdom, refined tastes, ease of manner in high society? Damn it, was he good enough for her?

It had happened so quickly. Was he ready to exchange self-reliance and the freedom to choose a course of action that had been his way of life until now for the settled certainties of an ordered, prescribed daily round?

Would living graciously and the delicacies of polite discourse begin to pall and he to harbour a secret longing for the plain-speaking and direct pleasures of his old way of life? Would Persephone understand? Or would she be wounded by the betrayal?

He slept restlessly.

Their task was clear and unequivocal: find and destroy the privateer. It would involve a slow cruise westwards, searching thoroughly as they went, while Bazely in
Fenella
sailed in the other direction, east from Plymouth.

Staying close in with the land would be tricky work: each night they would remain resolutely in the offing and resume in the morning. There would be no crossing of bays headland to headland, only a long tracking round, keeping as close inshore as prudence would allow.

With Rame Head left astern, there was now the sweeping curve of Whitsand Bay under their lee and with all plain sail they set to work. They passed the occasional huddles of dwellings whose names Kydd now knew well, Trewinnow, Tregantle, Portwrinkle: all would have their sturdy fisher-folk, their reckless smugglers and local characters who, one day, would be worthy of Renzi's ethnical study.

Towards the afternoon they had raised Looe; Kydd toyed with the idea of going alongside in the harbour overnight so that Renzi could see the medieval sights there but decided to keep to sea for freedom of manoeuvre; besides which the Admiralty frowned on captains incurring unnecessary harbour dues.

Checking on Looe Island just offshore, he shaped course to continue along the coast: the Hore Stone, Asop's Bed, Talland Bay—a wearisome progress with the ship cleared and half the company at the guns at all times.

Polperro, Udder Rock, round the questing Pencarrow Head and to anchor in Lantic Bay. It was going to be a long haul. In the early morning they weighed and proceeded once more; Kydd sent Standish in to Fowey for news, but there was none.

St Austell Bay saw them in a slow tacking south to the Dodman; Mevagissey, Gwineas Rocks—all had such meaning now. Mile after mile of rugged coastline, lonely coves, rock-bound islets. Inshore coasters, luggers and yawls wended their way between tiny ports, each vessel a potential enemy until proved innocent. Occasional flecks of sail out to sea could be any kind of craft, from a deep-sea merchantman inward-bound to a man-o'-war on her way to a rendezvous off the enemy coast.

At Falmouth Kydd went ashore to see if there was word, but again it seemed that Bloody Jacques had an uncanny knowledge of suitable bolt-holes and had simply vanished between pillagings.

Wearily he put back to sea, down in long tacks towards the famous Lizard. He decided to wait out the night in its lee for if there was one place more likely than any other for a privateer to lurk it would be at the end of England, where shipping bound up-Channel diverged from that making for the Irish Sea and Liverpool.

The next day, however, the summer sunshine had left them for a grey day and whiffling, fluky winds backing south, and a dropping barometer—sure signs of a change in the weather. After rounding the Lizard, Kydd was troubled to find the seas far more lively and on the back of an uneasy westerly swell; he had no wish to make close search of Wolf Rock and the outlying Isles of Scilly in thickening weather.

Penzance knew of the privateer but could contribute little to the search. Kydd had half expected Parlby in
Wyvern
to be there for he had been sent to the northern coast and might well have put into Penzance. Kydd had his duty, however, and pressed on instead of waiting, dutifully heading for Wolf Rock,
Teazer
taking the seas on her bow in bursts of white and an awkward motion.

In the gathering misery of greying skies
Teazer
found the lonely black menace set amid seething white, cautiously felt her way past and onward into the wastes of the Atlantic. Kydd was determined to clear the Isles of Scilly before the blow really set in.

It was getting more serious by the hour; the wind was foul for rounding the Isles of Scilly from the south, which had the sloop staying about twice a watch in the difficult conditions, but this was not the worst of it. They could not set a straight intercepting course for the islands and because of the resulting wide zigzags against the wind they lost sight of them for most of the time with the danger of an unfortunate conjunction on the next board.

Seamanship of the highest order was now required. Usually a mariner's first concern was to keep well clear of the deadly rocks, but Kydd knew their voyage would be in vain unless they not only made a sighting of the Isles of Scilly but searched closely. This would involve the careful reckoning of each tack such that the last leg would place them precisely and safely to westward of the scattered islands.

The weather was sullen but still clear; however, this could change in minutes. It was now not navigation by the science of sextant and chronometer but the far more difficult art of dead-reckoning, leeway resulting from the wind's blast, the mass movement of the ocean under tidal impetus, contrary currents from the north. The master stood grave and silent, his eyes passing ceaselessly over the white-tipped rollers marching in from the open Atlantic.

Rain arrived in fits and blusters, settling to drenching sheets that sometimes thinned and passed on, leaving the seas a hissing expanse of stippled white that curiously took the savage energy from the waves and left them subdued, rounded hillocks rather than ravenous breakers.

Then the first islets formed, alarmingly close, out of the hanging rain-mist. It was vital to make landfall with precision, and there was only wind direction to orient them. The master told Kydd, “This is y'r Pol Bank, sir, an' Bishop Rock somewhere there.” There was no disguising the relief in his voice.

The western extremity of the Isles of Scilly. The low, anonymous grey rain-slick ugliness was probably the worst sea hazard in this part of the world. Here, less than a century before, an admiral of the Royal Navy and near two thousand men had died when the
Association
and most of a victorious returning fleet had made final encounter with these isles.

“Nor'-nor'-east t' Crim Rocks, sir,” the master murmured. By now Kydd's dream-like memories of beauty and gracious living were fast fading. The present reality was this wasteland of sea perils and cold runnels of rainwater inside his whipping oilskins.