The Admiral's Daughter

Do see my friend is tolerably entertained.'

Kydd took in their waiting faces and tried to think of conversation. 'Er, fine country is Devon,' he ventured. 'I've once been t' Falmouth, as pretty a place as ever I've seen.'

'But, Mr Kydd, Falmouth is in Cornwall,' Miss Robbins laughed.

'No, it is not,' Kydd said firmly.

They subsided, looking at him uncertainly. 'Not at all— Falmouth is in Antigua—the Caribbean,' he added, at their blank looks.

'Mr Kydd, you have the advantage over we stay-at-homes. Pray tell, have you seen the sugar grow? Is it in lumps ready for the picking or must we dig it up?'

It was not so difficult, the ladies showing such an interest, and so pleasantly was time passing that he nearly forgot his duty. 'Miss Amelia,' he enquired graciously, of the shyest and therefore presumably safest, 'c'n you find it in y'r heart t' reserve th' cotillion for m'self?'

Gratified, he watched alarm, then pleasure chase across her features. 'Why, sir, this is an honour,' she said, with a wide smile. A pity she was so diminutive—not like the admiral's daughter, who, he had noted, was nearly of a height with himself—but Miss Amelia had a charmingly cherubic face and he could not help swelling with pride at the image of the couple they must present.

A disturbance on the floor resolved into the master of ceremonies clearing a space about him and the hum of conversation grew to a noisy crescendo, then died away. 'M' lords, ladies 'n' gentlemen, pray take your partners— for a minuet.'

Kydd offered his arm: it had seemed so awkward practising in the great cabin of HMS Teazer with Renzi but now it felt natural. It was to be expected that a stately minuet would open the ball, but the dance's elaborate graces and moves were too intimidating to consider until his confidence strengthened, and they stood together on one side as the lines formed. He nodded amiably to the one or two couples that had seemed to notice him and glanced down at his young lady: she smiled back sweetly and Kydd's spirits soared.

It seemed that the admiral's formidable wife was being led out by his flag-lieutenant to open the dancing, and Kydd, conscious of Miss Amelia's arm on his, sought conversation. 'A fine sight, y'r grand ball, is it not? Do ye have chance f'r many?'

Her eyes grew wide. 'Oh, sir, I have come out only this season,' she said, in a small voice that had Kydd bending to hear.

'That's as may be—but I'll wager ye'll not want f'r admirers in the future, Miss Amelia.'

The cotillion was announced: Kydd led her out with pride and they joined the eightsome opposite a star-struck maiden and her attentive beau, a young lieutenant who bowed respectfully to Kydd. He inclined his head civilly and the music began.

Miss Amelia danced winsomely, her eyes always on him, the more vigorous measures bringing a flush to her cheeks. Kydd was sincerely regretful when it ended and he escorted her gallantly back to her friends.

Somehow he found himself in the position of requesting that Miss Robbins grant him the pleasure of the next dance, which luckily turned out to be 'Gathering Peascods,' a fashionable country dance that he had only recently acquired.

Between the changes Miss Robbins learnt that he was widely travelled, had been moderately fortunate in the matter of prize-money and was unmarried. Kydd was made aware that Miss Robbins was from a local family, much spoken of in banking, and lived in Buckfastleigh with her two younger sisters, single like herself.

There was no question but that this was the world he might now call his own. He was a gentleman and all now knew it! At the final chords he punctiliously accorded Miss Robbins the honours of the dance, then with her on his arm wended his way back to her chair.

Happy chatter swelled on all sides; he was conscious of the agreeable glitter of candlelight on his gold lace and epaulettes, the well-tailored sweep of his coat, and knew he must cut a figure of some distinction—it was time to widen his social connections.

He threaded his way through the crowded ballroom and headed for the upper floor, where there would be entertainment of a different sort—cards and conversation. At a glance he saw the tables with card-players and others politely attendant on them but also couples promenading, sociable groups and forlorn wallflowers.

'Mr Kydd, ahoy!' A remembered voice sounded effortlessly behind him and he wheeled round.

'Mr Bazely,' he acknowledged, and went over to the table. Curious eyes looked up as he approached.

'Mrs Watkins, Miss Susanna, this is Commander Kydd, come to see how prodigious well the ladies play in Devon. Do take a chair, sir,' he said, rising to his feet.

'May I know how the pot goes?' Kydd asked courteously, remaining standing.

'Why, four guineas, Mr Kydd,' one of the ladies simpered.

Sensing that Bazely would not be averse to respite, he replied sadly, 'Ah, a mort too deep f'r me, madam.' Turning to Bazely, he bowed and asked, 'But if you, sir, are at liberty t' speak with me of the country for a space, I'd be obliged.'

Bazely made his excuses and they sauntered off in search of the punch table. 'Your Mrs Watkins is a hard beat t' windward, Kydd,' he sighed gustily, 'Mr Watkins being a fiend for dancing and always absentin' himself,' he added, with a glimmer of a smile.

'Tell me,' Kydd asked, 'how do ye find service in these waters, if I might ask ye?'

With a shrewd glance Bazely said, 'For the learning of seamanship an' hard navigation it can't be beat. The coast to the sou' west is poor, remote, devilishly rock-bound and a terror in a fresh blow.'

He pondered for a moment. 'The folk live on fishing mostly, some coastal trading—and free tradin', if they gets a chance.' Kydd knew this was a local euphemism for smuggling.

'So what sport's t' be had?'