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

In the morning there was nothing for it but to muster at the main-mast, the boatswain fierce and unbending before the assembled pupils of the Guildford Naval Academy, standing in strict line, eyes agog to see the sea hero they had been told about so often.

Kydd was in uniform, albeit without his knightly ornaments, the quantities of gold lace of a post-captain quite sufficient for the occasion, and he stood next to the headmaster, Mr Partington, now a gowned and majestic dominie. His prim wife took her place behind him.

‘Pipe!’

The ensign rose in reverent silence, the squeal of the boatswain’s call piercing and clear above the muffled bustle of the town. To Kydd’s ears it was so expressive of the sea’s purity against the dross of land.

‘Ship’s comp’ny present ’n’ correct. Sir!’

‘Very well.’ Kydd stepped forward to say his piece, but he was put off balance by the scores of innocent faces before him as they waited for words of courage and hope. In desperate times at sea he’d fiercely addressed his ship’s company before battle but now he found he couldn’t think what to say.

‘A fine body of men,’ came a fierce whisper behind him. He repeated the words and she went on to hiss, ‘As fills you with confidence for England’s future … only if they faithfully and diligently pay attention to their grammar and reckonings … that the good captain-headmaster is taking pains to teach them …’

The awed students were dismissed to their lessons and Kydd was escorted on a tour of the classrooms, where he bestowed compliments and earnest assurances that the subordinate clause was indeed a handy piece of knowledge to hoist inboard for use at sea.

He was touched by the little building at the back that had been made to resemble a frigate’s mess-deck. There, industrious boys bent hitches and worked knots under the severe eye of Boatswain Perrott – and at the right and proper time took their victuals, like the tarry-breeked seamen they so wanted to be.

A civic reception was a grander occasion and, in full dress with sword and sash, Kydd spoke rousing words of confidence to the great and good of Guildford. He then accompanied the mayor out on to the town-hall balcony beneath the great clock to address the citizenry much as, long ago, after the battle of Camperdown, Admiral Onslow had invited Kydd up to join him as one who had made his victory possible.

It was unreal, a dream – he’d changed beyond all recognition since those days and needed time to take it all in.

Kydd took Persephone to see the old castle, the weathered grey stones just as massive and enduring as he remembered, then down to the River Wey, its gliding placidity reaching out to him in its gentle existence. They followed the tow-path, silent and companionable, letting the tranquillity work on them until it was time to return to his parents.

‘We have to be off now, Ma,’ Kydd said quietly, ‘to see to our estate, to set up our home.’

‘Yes, m’ darling. I know ye’ll be happy there, wi’ your Persephone. Do come an’ visit when ye can, son.’

Chapter 3

Duty done, and knowing that their time together would be brief, they posted down to Ivybridge. There, they took horse for Combe Tavy and the old manor they had chosen. As Kydd dismounted before the dilapidated Tudor building, he was dismayed to catch the sparkle of tears in Persephone’s eyes. ‘My love – what is it? We’ll soon have the place squared away, all a-taunto, never fear.’

She clung to him, but when she turned to speak he saw she was radiantly smiling through her tears. ‘Oh, Thomas, dear Thomas! I’m such a silly, do forgive me. It’s just that I’m so happy.’

He kissed her tenderly.

The old couple caretaking were surprised to see them. ‘We thought as you’d forgotten us, sir,’ Appleby said, aggrieved. ‘The manor needs a mite o’ work, an’ that’s no error!’

‘It does,’ Kydd agreed. ‘And we will make it so, for this is our home as we shall be moving into, just as soon as we may.’

Mrs Appleby clasped her hands in glee. ‘How wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘To see Knowle Manor have life in it once more!’

There was no time to lose. They made tour of the house, noting what had to be done, and by the time Tysoe arrived in a cart with their luggage they had enough to set priorities. That evening they sat down to a fine rabbit pie, Mrs Appleby wringing her hands at the sight of such a humble dish to set before them.

With imperturbable dignity Tysoe did the honours as butler, finding among the few remaining bottles in the cellar a very passable Margaux, and afterwards, replete, Persephone and Thomas Kydd sat in bare chairs by the fire and began to plan.

By his sturdy wardship of the manor, Appleby had earned his place as steward, and his wife was well suited to serve as cook. Lady Kydd would require a maid, of course, and there would be need of others, but these could wait while workmen attended to repairs and furbishing.

Kydd insisted that the land must remain wild for the time being – after all, the manor had first to be made fit for his lady. Furniture, hangings, fitments, stables, horses, a carriage, it was never-ending.

In the days that followed, from the chaos came forth order, and by the third day, after expeditions to Exeter and Plymouth, something like a degree of comfort and refinement was beginning to take form.

Then Persephone suggested they should take their first steps to enter in upon the acquaintance of their neighbours and tenants. ‘My darling – you are Lord of the Manor, at an eminence in Combe Tavy, and must make yourself known.’

For Tom Kydd, one-time wig-maker of Guildford, it felt like a fairy tale. He was now Sir Thomas Kydd and of the landed gentry, come to take up his seigneury as local squire and magistrate: his land and his people. With Lady Kydd at his side, a village ox roast passed off in fine style. At first awed then delighted that a famed frigate captain, lately in the national news – and so handsome with his beautiful lady – had chosen to make his ancestral home among them, they flocked up to be noticed.

Kydd made acquaintance with them all: the red-faced, brawny blacksmith Tovey, the one-eyed innkeeper Jenkins, the white-haired and seamed old sheep farmer Davies, these with their being so firmly one with the land.

On the eighth day they had visitors.

‘When we received your letter I had to sit down and cry,’ Kydd’s sister Cecilia confessed, after hugging them both. ‘So romantic! To see you two together at last …’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘Do forgive us for the intrusion but we had to come – and we’ve brought some little things in the hope we can have a house-warming party.’ She went to the door and beckoned. In came a succession of footmen bearing carefully wrapped delicacies, which found their place on the kitchen table.

It was a decisive moment. As the celebration warmed Kydd realised that a point in his life had been reached. This was no longer a dream, it was the reality. For the rest of his days this would be the centre of his existence, all else to be at a radius of so far from here, where his heart truly was.

Persephone had been adamant about his future, saying, ‘My dear Thomas, I knew from the first time we met each other that you were of the sea, born to it and never to be parted from it. I accept this – if you gave it up you would be only half the man and that I could not bear. You shall go to your Tyger and have adventures without counting, then return to me. And I shall be content at that.’

In trust and confidence he would sail away over the horizon to who knew what lay ahead in the knowledge that he would come back to Persephone, their home and hearth together. It was incredible after all his years a-wandering, but it was true: he had put down roots.