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.”
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.”
The Admiral's Daughter Page 23
