Julian Stockwin - 19 The Baltic Prize (Thomas Kydd #19)

Blank-faced, his first lieutenant, Bray, had accepted charge of the ship and, accompanied by Tysoe, Kydd was quickly on the road for the Lockwood mansion. By now Persephone would have broken her news but as a precaution he took rooms at a nearby inn and sent on a message.

Her reply was instant: ‘Come!’

Kydd immediately set off. He had been to the Arctic regions but nothing was as frigid as the Lockwood drawing room where he was received.

‘I’m obliged to remark it, sir, I find your conduct with my daughter impossible to forgive. You have—’

‘Father, you promised …’ Persephone said, with a look of warning.

Her arm was locked in Kydd’s, and she was the picture of happiness. None but those of the hardest of hearts could have condemned her. After an awkward pause, it seemed the admiral was not to be numbered in their company and he gave a mumbled blessing on their union. At the dinner that followed he even found occasion to reprove his wife, telling her that the pair had chosen their path together and let that be an end to it.

The strained atmosphere slowly thawed and by the time Kydd had expressed his sincere admiration for the oil painting in pride of place above the mantelpiece, a remarkably accurate depiction of the sea battle of Camperdown, he and the admiral were in animated conversation discussing technical features with growing mutual appreciation and respect. Kydd was touched by Persephone’s secret smile of relief.

It took more effort to win around Lady Lockwood, who sat mutely, her eyes obstinately averted. Only a suggestion of a reception in honour of their marriage brought forth any conversation.

Chapter 2

One more duty awaited. ‘My love, I do believe that my dear parents would find it strange if I don’t make introduction of my bride.’

‘Of course, Thomas! I’m so anxious – what will they think of me?’

Kydd held back a grin but quickly sobered. This visit of all things would reveal to her just how humble were his origins, the true status of the family into which she’d married. She knew he’d been a pressed man and probably suspected he came from yeoman stock but, no doubt in deference to his feelings, had never pursued it further. Now she would discover the truth.

Evening was drawing in when the coach made the corner and began the hard pull up the busy Guildford high street.

Kydd let the sensations of a home-coming wash over him: the old baker’s yard, the little alley to his dame school, the shops that crowded together, all smaller than he recalled but still there, quite the same, while he had changed so much. Some he barely remembered: the apothecary shop with its dusty human bones, the pastry emporium, the rival perruquier now long transformed to a haberdashery, still others. He felt her hand on his, squeezing, then caught her look of loving understanding and, yet again, marvelled at his lot in life.

The horses toiled further, and just before the Romanesque plainness of the Tunsgate columns they slowed and took a wide swing into the medieval entrance of the Angel posting-house. Persephone was handed down and immediately went back to the high street where she looked around, admiring, and exclaimed, ‘What a charming town.’

Kydd stood awkwardly by her. ‘As this was my life for so long – but I can hardly remember it, truly.’ Although he was in plain clothes, the innkeeper immediately recognised him. The best rooms in the Angel were his – and be damned to the bookings!

They sat companionably by the fire in the snug, cradling a negus, while a messenger was sent to ask if it would be at all inconvenient for him to call. His mother would fuss but at least she would have some warning. Both her children had left home: Cecilia to life as a countess, married to Kydd’s closest friend, Nicholas Renzi, now Lord Farndon, and he to fame as a sea hero. How was she coping on her own with his blind father?

As they sat together, Kydd haltingly told Persephone of his youth in Guildford: making wigs in the shop that they’d presently walk past, being brutally taken up by the press-gang in Merrow – and when, as a young seaman, his father’s failing sight had obliged him to give up the sea and return to wig-making, his soul-searing desolation cut short by Renzi’s brilliant idea to start a school on naval lines …

The thoughts and memories rushed by, and then the breathless messenger came back, wide-eyed, relaying expressions of delight: Kydd’s parents were expecting him home this very minute.

Arm in arm, Kydd and Persephone went up the little path by the red-brick Holy Trinity Church, making for the road now called School Lane. Above the school buildings the blue ensign flew proudly from a trim mast and single yard. The place looked in fine order, its neat front garden in fresh bloom, testament to his mother’s delight in flowers, a white picket fence setting it off from the quadrangle beyond.

‘Sir T, ahoy!’ came a bellow. Jabez Perrott, the school’s boatswain, stumped up on his wooden leg, with a grin that split his face in two. ‘An’ ye’re castin’ anchor for a space?’

‘It’s right good to see you again, Mr Perrott,’ Kydd said, with feeling, shaking his hand, still with the calloused hardness of the deep-sea mariner. He turned to introduce Persephone. ‘This is, um, Lady Kydd, my wife.’ He was still not used to it. ‘How goes the school?’

‘Oragious, Sir T! We had, b’ Michaelmas last, five lads as followed the sea, an’ many more who’s got their heart set on’t.’

‘Well done, sir!’ Kydd said, in sincere admiration. ‘I’ll see you at colours tomorrow.

‘Now, you’ll pardon, I have to pay duty to my parents. Carry on, please.’

With Persephone on his arm and unsure what he’d find, Kydd knocked on the door.

It flew open and his mother stood there, beaming. She hugged and hugged him, murmuring endearments, a frail, diminished figure but still full of life. ‘How do I see ye, son?’ she managed, unable to take her eyes from his. ‘Ye’re well?’

‘Very well, Ma,’ Kydd said awkwardly, then brought Persephone forward. ‘Ma, I’d like you to meet Persephone, who must now be accounted my wife.’

His mother blinked, as if not understanding. Then her eyes widened as she took in Persephone’s elegant appearance and hastily curtsied.

Concerned, Persephone raised her up and said gently, ‘Thomas is now my husband, Mrs Kydd, who I do swear I will care for with my life.’

‘Oh, well, yes, o’ course,’ she said, clearly flustered. ‘Please t’ come in, won’t ye both?’

Kydd’s father was in the parlour and, hearing them enter, rose creakily. ‘How are ye, son?’ he said, his eyes sightlessly searching for him.

‘I’m well, Father, and I’ve brought my new wife, Persephone.’

Mr Kydd jerked up in surprise. ‘Any family I knows?’ he asked at length, as she came forward and took his hands in hers.

‘No, Pa. I married her … I wed her in Iceland,’ he said, with a chuckle, then thought better of it. ‘Who comes from an old English family …’

‘From Somerset,’ Persephone put in softly.

It was all a bit much for the elderly couple and the evening meal passed in an awed hush. Kydd took his cue from Persephone, who brightly praised her first encounter with Guildford, remarking on the sights and mentioning as an aside how they had met in Plymouth and again in a foreign place, where they determined they could not be apart any longer.

‘An’ where will you live?’ his mother asked hopefully.

‘In Devonshire, where the air is bracing and healthy, and the victuals not to be scorned,’ Kydd said firmly. ‘And not so far by mail-coach, Ma.’