The Baltic Prize

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.’

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.’