The Admiral's Daughter

'Cec, she called me her friend an' the cousin said she was pleased t' meet Persephone's interestin' man, an' looked at me— you know—that way.'

'I really don't understand what you mean by that, Thomas, but it does seem she is talking about you to her friends and this is a good start. Tell me also, does she look at you—do her eyes . . . linger?

'This is gettin' a mort too deep f'r me, Cec, but th' last thing she asked was how long the ship was t' be in Plymouth.'

'The ship?'

Kydd's brow furrowed. 'Well, yes, it was how long I would be.'

'Ah,' Cecilia said fondly. 'Then I do pronounce that indeed, brother, she is interested in you.'

Reddening, Kydd gave a pleased grin. 'What d' you think of her, Cec?'

'I've not yet had the chance to get to know her—and neither, it must be said, have you.'

'Thank 'ee, Cec, now I know what's m' course,' Kydd said happily.

'Thomas, I've said it before, and I won't again, but after your first task, to win her heart, you must then start all over again to impress her family and friends—become part of her world.'

Kydd nodded wryly, but Cecilia pressed on inexorably. 'We shall suppose you do win her. What is your intent for her? To debase her breeding so that she comes down to your level of politeness, or should it be your duty to strive to attain her level of gentility? That she must make apology for your boorishness to her friends, or be proud of your accomplishments?'

'Aye, sis, I c'n see all that—'

'Then first you must attend to your speech, Thomas. It is sadly neglected, after all I told you, and is not at all fit for gentle company. Now, this is what you really must do . . .'

Kydd lay back in his new four-poster and stared up into the darkness. His talk with his sister had been hard and lacerating. It was all very well to be proud and contented with an outstanding sea career, but women, it seemed, were on the one hand concerned to discover the man that lay beneath, and on the other taken up with foolish notions of what others might think, whether it be in the matter of incomes or appearances of dress and manner.

He had no reason to disbelieve her—she had gone out of her way to express her love and support—but her constant insistence on the niceties of polite behaviour was trying.

Yet Cecilia's words about whether Persephone should make excuses for him or be proud of him were unanswerable. He would have to try his damnedest to wipe away all betraying traces of his past.

Then doubts crowded in—the first of which was the loudest. Was all this vanity? What proof did he have that she felt something for him? There were signs that had been pronounced positive but . . .

Just supposing she had indeed been drawn to him, her feelings grew—and then a passionate declaration! Her heart would tell her which was of a truer value, and it would not be trivial details of speech and behaviour or even a humble background. In fact, she knew of his past and it had not in the slightest affected her addresses towards him.

It was possible! If she really wanted him, nothing would be allowed to stand in the way. Her parents—the brother of a viscount and the sister of an earl—would have to be reconciled or be estranged. So for appearance's sake a discreet settlement would be made that would see them setting up a small estate somewhere in the country, a carriage or two and ample servants . . . and, above all, he could appear among the highest in the land with Persephone, Mrs Thomas Kydd, on his arm—even at court, where everyone she knew would be agog to see whom she had married.

Damn it! It was all very possible.

Some perversity stopped Kydd telling Renzi when the invitation came; he knew his friend would feel impelled to lecture him on deportment, the graces of the table and interminable other points, for this invitation to a reception in honour of some foreign grandee was a prize indeed— but it was to him alone.

Although at short notice, and thereby again implying Kydd's role as useful bachelor, it was to Saltram House, the seat of Lord Boringdon and unquestionably the finest estate in the area.

Whatever the reason behind the invitation, he had reached the rarefied heights of society. Thomas Kydd— common seaman that was—moving in such circles . . .

The rest was up to him: he had been given his chance, and if he performed creditably, acquitted himself with elegance and wit, polish and urbanity, he would be noticed. Other invitations would come and . . . But for now there was much to take on board.

The coach ground on interminably past the Cattewater to the Plym. He had decided on full dress uniform; it was expected in this age of war but also it had the inestimable advantage that he would not have to concern himself with the imperatives of high fashion, or the cost—he felt a twinge of guilt when he remembered how he had wheedled Renzi that real bullion gold lace was crucial for a naval captain's full-dress uniform. His friend had glanced at him once, then gone without a word to their common stock of funds. Still, the effect of so much blue, white and deep gold was profoundly satisfying and would stand against anything the haut ton could parade.

They crossed the Plym and began the ascent up the final hill to Saltram. Kydd's heart beat faster; he had devoured Chesterfield's Guide to Men and Manners, then consulted Debrett and others in the matter of forms of address and details on European nobility. As always, the Gentleman's Magazine had provided plenty of material for small-talk and he had gone to some trouble to acquaint himself with current Plymouth gossip, to Mrs Bargus's surprise and delighted assistance. In the privacy of his bedplace he had assiduously practised his vowels and constructs until Renzi's expression at breakfast told him that progress had been made. He was as ready as he could be.

The spare, classical stateliness of Saltram was ablaze with lights in the summer dusk and a frisson of excitement seized Kydd as a footman lowered the side-step and stood to attention as he alighted. In a few moments he would be entering a milieu to which he had never aspired until now and so much would hang on how he comported himself.

'Commander Thomas Kydd,' he announced to the head footman, attending at the door. It was the largest entrance hall he had ever seen, complete with Doric entablature and a Roman bust set about with panels and