Quarterdeck

state of tide, then referenced to the chart datum.

Kydd was so engrossed in the work that, for a space, he had forgotten his concern about the banquet. It had been heavily hinted at by Captain Houghton that every officer would not only attend but with a suitable lady. To those who had attained a degree of intimacy with the gentle reaches of Haligonian society it would be a matter of choice. For Kydd, who had not only been away but felt awkward and ill-at-ease in well-born company, it was a trial. He realised he would probably end up with the insipid daughter of the vicar, with whom he was on nodding terms, to the amusement of the more senior in the wardroom.

He forced his mind back to the task at hand. Surprisingly, their first traverse reached the twenty-fathom limit of a hand-lead less than a third the way across. Such deep water? Perhaps he should stay with the shoreline and first establish a forty-foot line of depth along it, this being of most interest to a big-ship navigator. It was not difficult to pick up the mark again, and astute reading of the characteristics at the edge of the shoreline soon had a useful number of forty-foot soundings carefully pencilled in. But for the unfortunate narrows at the entrance, restricting access to square-rigged vessels whenever the winds were in the north, it was spacious and deep enough to take the entire Channel Fleet at single anchor, an impressive body of water.

Something ashore caught Kydd's eye: a figure in white, standing, watching. He ignored it and continued with his work. They drew abreast; the figure was still there. As he watched he realised it was a woman, waving a handkerchief.

She waved again, an exaggerated movement. 'Someone wants t' speak, sir,' Poulden volunteered.

'Aye. Well, perhaps we should see what she wants. Oars, give way together.'

The boat headed inshore. The wooded slopes leading down to the water looked immaculately cared for, and they saw the edge of a building peeping out from blossom-laden trees. Closer in, Kydd noticed a discreet landing- stage and headed for it. The woman made no move to descend to it, still standing and watching from her vantage- point.

Cursing under his breath, Kydd threw a rope ashore and pulled himself up to the little jetty. He was hardly dressed for meeting ladies in his worn sea uniform but he clambered up to where she was waiting.

'Yes, madam?'

'Oh. I was watching you, you see,' she said, her voice soft and prettily accented with French.

Kydd remembered himself and snatched off his hat. Dressed for the garden, she was in a white gown and beribboned straw hat. She was also strikingly beautiful, her large dark eyes adding an appealing wistfulness.

'And I thought 'ave you lost something—you look for it so long.' She seemed a touch older than him and had a disconcertingly worldly-wise air.

'Not at all, madam. We conduct a hydrographical survey o' the coastline.' She was probably one of the sad band of royalist refugees who had settled in Nova Scotia, he conjectured, although apparently from a wealthy family. 'Oh, er, might I present m'self? L'tenant Kydd, Royal Navy.'

'Enchantee, Lieutenant.' Her bob coincided with Kydd's sturdy bow. 'Then you do not know me?'

'No, madam, er, you have th' advantage of me.'

She contemplated him, then said, 'I am Therese Bernardine-Mongenet and zis is where I live.' She gestured gracefully up the slopes.

At a loss, Kydd bowed again.

'I was taking refreshment in ze garden. Perhaps you would care to take some lemonade wiz me, and tell me about your hydrog-cally, Lieutenant?'

Kydd accepted graciously: the boat's crew would be reliable with Poulden and would not object to an hour's leisure. They walked together up a winding path, past little summerhouses with gilded latticework and bells tinkling on their pagoda-like roofs. It was the most enchanting and sumptuous garden Kydd had ever seen. Atop a bluff overlooking the water, cunningly nestled among trees, there was a two-storey wooden mansion, vaguely Italian in style, and on the grass lawn below a cloth-covered table with jug and glass.

'A moment.' She summoned a maid and spoke rapidly in French to her, then turned back to Kydd. 'So, tell me what is it you are doing.'

Kydd was uncomfortable in his old uniform but he thawed at her warmth, and by the time the maid returned with another glass and a cake stand he was chuckling at her misapprehensions of the sea service. 'Rousin' good cakes,' he said, having sampled one of the tiny, lemon-flavoured shells.

'Ah, ze madeleines,' she said sadly. 'The old King Louis, 'is favourite.'

It did not seem right to dwell on past griefs, so Kydd said brightly, 'Have you heard? The Duke o' Shwygery is t' be honoured with a banquet, an' we're all invited to attend. Your husband will have an invitation, o' course?'

'I am not married,' she said quietly.

'Oh, I'm sorry, madam,' he said. 'Ah—that's not t' mean I'm sorry you're not married at all. I — er, please forgive . . .'

'Forgiven, M'sieur,' she said gently.

'Will I see you there?' he asked hopefully.

She looked at him steadily. 'I have not been invited.'

Kydd's heart went out to her, so elegant, beautiful and serene. No man had begged her hand for the occasion, unwilling to risk the mortification of being declined—indeed, in the normal way he would never be noticed by a lady of such quality. It was so close to the event it was more than probable there would be no more offers forthcoming and she would be obliged to stay at home. Any gentleman . . . 'Madam, I am not engaged for the occasion. It would be my particular honour t' escort you, should ye be inclined.'

There was a fraction of hesitation, then she smiled. 'I would be delighted to accept, Lieutenant,' she murmured, and the smile moved to her eyes.

'What do ye think, Nicholas.?' said Kydd, rotating in his new full-dress uniform coat. The white facings with gold