Kydd - 08 - The Admiral's Daughter by Julian Stockwin

Author:Julian Stockwin
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Military Fiction
Published: 2011-05-31T03:27:57+00:00

Chapter 8

“I’ll have t’ leave ye to y’r books, then, Nicholas,” Kydd said, in mock sorrow. His friend was dipping into some musty tomes in the corner of a shop in Vauxhall—or “foxhole” to seamen— Street.

“Er, ah—yes, this could take some time,” Renzi replied absently. “Shall we meet later?”

Plymouth was a maritime town, but unlike the noisier Portsmouth, it held itself aloof from the immediacy of a large navy dockyard and fleet, which were safely out of the way in Dock, across the marshes. Instead, it was merchant-ship captains from the vessels in the Cattewater who could be found in the inns on the heights of Old Plymouth—but if any would mingle with the seafarers of a dozen nations, or venture into the rough jollity of their taverns and hide-aways, they could also be found in the rickety antiquity of Cockside and other haunts around the Pool.

Kydd had no wish to be caught up in their shoreside sprees and made his way up Cat Street and past the Guild Hall to the more spacious reaches of the Old Town, which the great sea-dog Sir Francis Drake had called home—he had returned to the Sound triumphant from a voyage round the world loaded with treasure, loosing anchor just a few hundred yards from Kydd’s new residence, his first anxious question: “Doth the Queen still reign?”

It was pleasant to be part of the thronging crowds, to step out over the cobblestones and past the ancient buildings that gave Plymouth such a distinctive character. He stopped to peer into a shop’s windows at some gaudily coloured political cartoons.

“Why, Mr Kydd!”

He straightened and turned. “Miss Lockwood!” He made her an elegant leg, a dainty curtsy his reward.

“Cynthia, this is Commander Kydd of the Royal Navy, and a friend of mine. Mr Kydd, may I introduce Miss Knopleigh, who is—no, let me work it out—a third cousin on my mother’s side. Isn’t that so, my dear?”

Kydd bowed again, the use of “friend” not lost on him. “Miss Knopleigh, a pleasure t’ make y’r acquaintance—an’ so good t’ see you again, Miss Lockwood.”

Miss Knopleigh bobbed demurely to Kydd and said warmly, “Oh, so this is the interesting man you told me about. I’m so gratified to meet you, Mr Kydd.” She stepped back but continued to regard him thoughtfully.

“We were on our way to Allston’s for chocolate—would it be so very importunate to ask you to join us, Mr Kydd, and perhaps to tell Cynthia a little of your voyages?”

The chocolate was very good; and the ladies applauded Kydd’s descriptions of Naples and Nelson, the summit of Vesuvius and the inside of a pasha’s seraglio. He felt his confidence grow. She had called him “friend”—and had introduced him to her cousin. Did this mean . . . ?

“That was most enjoyable, Mr Kydd.” Persephone’s skin was fashionably alabaster, but her hazel eyes were frank, round and uncomfortably disconcerting the longer they lingered on him. Kydd caught a ghosting of perfume as she opened her dainty reticule.

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