“Nicholas, I—I’m out o’ soundings on these matters. Y’ see, I’m concerned that if I . . . press my attentions and you’re on th’ right tack about y’r ladies playin’ with . . . Well, what I’m trying t’ say is—”
“Fear not! If the lady wished to toy with you, then what better than before the large and distinguished audience at the princely reception? No, dear fellow, you must try to accept that for reasons which must escape mere men, you have caught Miss Lockwood’s fancy.”
“But—but if I . . . pursue her, and . . . it doesn’t fadge, then it’ll be so . . .”
Renzi snorted. “Dear chap, do you really believe that you’ll be the first to suffer a reverse in the pursuit of an amour? If so, then shall I remind you that faint heart never won fair lady?” He gave a half-smile. “Besides, I believe that on this occasion you will find the logic unassailable. On the one hand if you hold back for fear of rebuff then, of course, you cannot succeed to win her hand. For the other, if you are active in your addresses and are repelled then you may fail—but equally so you may be gladly received and go on to a blissful conclusion. Therefore only one course is reasonable . . .”
Kydd gulped and pulled the doorbell. He had never been to the admiral’s house before and its severe classical frontage seemed to frown at his audacity in visiting simply on a social matter.
“Mr Kydd calling upon Lady Lockwood,” he said, as firmly as he could, to the footman, handing over his visiting card—his name in blue copperplate with an acanthus-leaf border, much recommended by Renzi—and waited nervously.
By the rules of society he could not call upon Miss Lockwood directly: that would never do for a gentleman. He had first to navigate past her mother and he dreaded facing the formidable matriarch. Perhaps the footman would return to announce that Lady Lockwood was not at home to him.
He heard footsteps and braced himself. The door was opened, but by the admiral in comfortable morning clothes. He appeared bemused. “Mr Kydd, this is a pleasure of course, but may I enquire—Lady Lockwood . . . ?”
“S-sir,” Kydd stuttered. It was not going according to the script that Renzi had patiently laid out for him. The footman should have admitted him to the drawing room where the ladies would be sitting demurely sewing. There would be polite conversation before tea was proffered. He would not stay less than fifteen minutes or longer than half an hour and could not look to seeing Miss Lockwood alone at any time.
“T’ be more truthful sir, it was . . . Well, I was hoping to call upon Miss Lockwood to express personally my thanks for the reception.”
The admiral’s expression eased with the glimmer of a smile. Heartened, Kydd went on, “An’ to be bold enough to ask her advice in a matter of music.”
“My profound regrets, Mr Kydd, but I have to tell you Lady Lockwood is at the moment somewhat discommoded.” He paused, but then said lightly, “However, I shall enquire if Persephone is able to receive you. Will you not come in?”
There was no one in the spacious drawing room. Lockwood turned and spoke to the footman while Kydd’s eyes were drawn to the fine seamanlike painting in pride of place above the mantelpiece. “You like it, Mr Kydd? Persephone presented it to me recently—, damn fine taste for a woman, I thought. See here—not many artists remember to slack the lee shrouds in anything of a blow and, well, you were present at the action as I remember. A good likeness?”
“Master’s mate only, sir—but this is a rattlin’ fine piece o’ work, t’ be sure,” Kydd agreed warmly, peering more closely at it.
Then the door opened behind him. “Why, Mr Kydd! How kind in you to call!” Her voice was charged with such unmistakable delight that he gave a boyish smile before he remembered his polite bow.
“Miss Lockwood!” Her hair was in fetching curls that framed her face and he found himself looking away while he composed himself. “Er, I called to express personally my sense of gratitude at your handsome conduct towards me at the reception.”
Another bow could not go amiss and Persephone returned it with a curtsy of acknowledgement. “And—an’ if ye’d be so kind . . .”
“Yes, Mr Kydd?” She looked impossibly winsome.
“Um, that I can ask your advice in the article of polite music, which you consider I might with profit, er—er—take aboard.”
Lockwood had wandered to the other end of the drawing room and was absently looking out of a window.
“Music? Why, of course, Mr Kydd, I should be glad to assist.” She beamed and crossed to the pianoforte, lifted the lid of the stool and pulled out a thick wad of music. “You have a fine voice, Mr Kydd, I’m sure we can find something . . . Ah, this will always be well received. A favourite of the Prince of Wales.”
She set it on the pianoforte. “Do come and sit beside me, Mr Kydd. You’ll not see the music from there.”
Kydd hesitated. Lockwood had turned to watch but stayed near the window so he moved over to the instrument and discovered that the stool was designed to accommodate two.
“‘Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill,’” she said, in a businesslike tone. “It’s in two-four time and begins like this.” Sweeping her hands gracefully over the keys, she picked out the tune and sang. “There! Shall you sing for me now?”
Sitting so close and singing to her, Kydd felt terror mingle with delight.
. . . and wanton thro’ the grove,
Oh! whisper to my charming fair,
“I die for her I love.”
O may her choice be fix’d on me,
Mine’s fix’d on her alone!
I’d crowns resign to call thee mine . . .
There was the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps and the door was thrown open. Lady Lockwood hurried in, her hair hastily pinned up and face with the barest dab of powder. Persephone’s playing faltered and stopped; they both got to their feet.
“Oh! Mr Kydd—it’s kind in you to call,” Lady Lockwood said icily. Kydd bowed as deeply as he could, returned with the slightest possible bob.
The admiral moved over swiftly. “My love, Commander Kydd has called to tell Persephone of his appreciation for the way in which she rescued him at the reception, if you remember. Oh, and if she might have any suggestion as to any music he might hoist in, as it were . . .”
In any other circumstance it would have been diverting for Kydd to witness the look of scorn that words from his admiral received.
“Can that be so?” she snapped. “And with me lying in bed so ill, and wondering all the time what the commotion was about. Really, Reginald!” Without waiting for a reply she turned to Persephone, who stood with her head hung in contrition. “Your drawing master will be here at three. You will now allow Mr Kydd to go about his business, Persephone.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“He will no doubt have a list of your suggestions and be satisfied with them. Good day, Mr Kydd!”
Kydd bowed wordlessly and turned to go. Impulsively, Persephone went to him clutching the music and gave it to him. “Do practise this—for me, Mr Kydd?”
He swallowed. “That I will, Miss Lockwood.” She curtsied deeply and, ignoring Lady Lockwood’s furious look, Kydd left, his heart singing.
“Nicholas! Your note—a matter of urgency concerning Thomas’s future, you said,” Cecilia said breathlessly, ignoring Kydd, who was rising in surprise from his favourite armchair next to the fire-place.
“Miss Cecilia, allow me to take your pelisse,” Renzi said smoothly, and handed it to Tysoe, waiting behind her. “Yes, indeed I did, and I rather fear it might require some action on our part.”
“Nicholas? What’s this y’ say?” Kydd said, putting down his newspaper.
“Has he—does this concern Miss Persephone Lockwood, do I hazard, Nicholas?” Cecilia asked.
“It does,” Renzi said solemnly.
“Oh! He hasn’t—”
Kydd coughed significantly, “Cec, this is all—”
“He has paid a call on the lady at her home and been received warmly.”
> Cecilia’s eyes sparkled. “Did she—has he hopes of a further—”
“That is the matter under discussion for which I fear I have sadly inconvenienced you in the coming here.”
“Oh, Nicholas, of course I’d come! What must we do?”
Kydd blinked in confusion. “Do y’ mean t’ talk about—”
“Dear sister, pray let’s be seated. There’s much we need to consider.”
They sat in the only two armchairs by the fireplace, leaving Kydd to hover. “If you’re about t’ discuss—”
“Please be quiet, Thomas,” Cecilia said crossly. “This is important, you know.”
It was indeed: the principal difficulty lay in the decorous bringing together of the couple in such a manner that would place Kydd to best advantage with respect to other admirers more talented in the social graces than he, so to speak, not to mention the additional difficulties a protective mother might be expected to present.
There was much discussion of Miss Lockwood’s probable tastes and proclivities, and the delicacies of conduct that would ensue before a course of action could be decided. Eventually one such presented itself.
“Do you pay particular attention to what I say, Thomas. You will be invited to tea by Jane and her husband, and quite by chance Persephone Lockwood will be present as well. When you see her you will be suitably taken aback, and . . .”
• • •
“Why, Miss Lockwood! How surprising to find you here!” Kydd said graciously, fighting down his glee. A warning flash came from Cecilia and he turned to her companion and added quickly, “And it’s always my particular pleasure to meet Miss Robbins. How do you do?”
The parlour was not large and when the ladies had been seated it proved a most companionable gathering. “I’ve heard that the moor in July is quite a delightful sight,” Jane opened, with a winning smile at Persephone.
“I would imagine so, Mrs Mullins, yet I would not wish to be without a hat and parasol out in all that open,” Persephone said politely, with a glance at Kydd.
“Perhaps we should venture out upon it at some time,” Mr Mullins said stiffly, clearly awed by Persephone’s presence.
“Oh, no!” his wife said in alarm. “Think of all the wild horses and escaped convicts—it would be far too hazardous, my dear, for a lady of breeding.”
Cecilia turned to Kydd. “Thomas, would you now please pour the tea?”
“It’s my own mixture of pekoe and gunpowder,” Mrs Mullins said proudly. “Mr Mullins always brings back a pound or two from Twining’s in the Strand when he goes up to London.”
Kydd went to the elaborate brass and silver tea urn and did his duty with the spigot. “Mrs Mullins?” Hard-won lessons on precedence were coming to the fore: Persephone was clearly of the higher quality but Jane was a married lady.
Persephone accepted her cup with properly downcast eyes and Kydd resumed his strategically chosen seat opposite and let the prattle ebb and flow while he covertly took his fill of her.
A lull in the conversation had Cecilia throwing a warning look at Kydd, who cleared his throat. “Capital weather we’re having, don’t you think?” he said brightly.
Persephone lowered her cup. “If we see this nor-easterly veering more to the west, Mr Kydd, I rather fancy we will soon be reaching for our umbrellas. Do not you mariners so rightly declare, ‘When the wind shifts ’gainst the sun, trust it not, for back ’twill run’?” she asked sweetly.
Kydd took refuge in his tea.
Mrs Mullins and Cecilia exchanged a quick look. “Pay no mind to we ladies, Mr Kydd, we do like our gossip,” Jane said, in a determined voice. “Er, why don’t you show Miss Lockwood the new bougainvillaea in our greenhouse, you having been in the Caribbean yourself, of course?”
In the expectant hush Kydd stood, heart bumping, but was so long in choosing his words that Persephone rose and offered, “I’d be very interested, should you be able to tell me more of such tropical blooms, Mr Kydd.”
They entered the small garden together and Kydd steered his way through the vegetables and ancient fruit trees into the greenhouse and said in as light a voice as he could manage, “This is your bougainvillaea, Miss Lockwood, an’ I well remember seeing it in Jamaica, and Barbados as well and . . .”
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.
The Admiral's Daughter Page 22
