Chapter 1
The Hamoaze moorings, Plymouth, England
‘Very good. You may stand down sea watches, Mr Bray,’ Captain Sir Thomas Kydd told his first lieutenant.
He took a deep breath and looked around in satisfaction. After her far voyaging, Tyger had picked up moorings in the broad stretch of water fed by the river Tamar between Devon and Cornwall that went on into Plymouth Sound. On its eastern bank was the well-equipped King’s Dockyard. While the ship’s small hurts were attended to, all would have time for leave and liberty.
And not far inland, over the soft green rolling hills, his heart had its home: Knowle Manor, nestling in the Devonshire countryside, now the seat of Sir Thomas and Lady Kydd.
Persephone would not be expecting him – the hastily mounted Northern Expedition into the Baltic that had called him away had had all the signs of a savage and protracted confrontation. As it happened, it was now over, leaving Admiral Saumarez and his Baltic Fleet predominant at sea.
Some ships had been released to return to their original duties. For Tyger this meant rejoining Admiral Collingwood’s Mediterranean Fleet and its eternal blockade of Toulon and the western seaboard of Europe – but that would come later. First, liberty!
For her ship’s company it would be the delights of an English shore where they could raise the wind a-rollicking in a sailors’ town to drown memories of gales and iron-bound coasts, a shipmate lost to the sea or the rage of battle. And with prize money to spend they would make it a famous time.
And for her captain, a release of shipboard cares. With his valet Tysoe at pillion, he took coach to the pretty village of Ivybridge, then a hired trap from the London Inn, his heart thudding with anticipation. The road followed the crystal waters of the river Erme, then veered off into the wooded foothills below the moors before the quaint loveliness appeared of Combe Tavy, with its pond and goose green.
Without stopping, they trotted up the little country road … that left-hand bend … the enfolding woods and then … the ancient wall and the gatehouse, its arch bearing the precious legend, Knowle Manor.
Tysoe brought the horse to a walk as the trap ground grittily along the driveway to the entrance – but Kydd had seen a female figure at the roses by the creeper-clad walls look up in surprise. In a single mad movement he vaulted from the seat and raced forward, crushing her to him.
‘My darling – my love! Seph, I’ve so missed you!’
‘My dearest … you’re home! My sweet, my-’ Her voice broke with emotion.
They kissed, long and passionately.
‘Oh dear,’ she said shakily, brushing the dark earth from her gardening apron, ‘and I’m not fit to be seen.’
‘Seph, you’d look as comely in a pedlar’s rags, my love, never doubt it,’ he said tenderly, kissing her again and taking her arm.
A beaming Mrs Appleby, the housekeeper, held open the door, then made much of primping the cushions on the two comfortable armchairs by the fire. ‘Aye, but you an’ the captain’ll have much to talk on, so I’ll leave ye be.’
Kydd dragged his chair closer and they sat, hand in hand, lost in the moment.
‘There, my dear. My very own kitchen garden.’ Persephone beamed.
The morning sun was warm and picked out the neat rows of plants. They meant nothing to Kydd, but he smiled winningly and expressed his admiration. To his rescue came a distant memory of Quashee, a mess-cook whose flourishing of his ‘conweniences’ had been a legend in the flying Artemis on their round-the-world adventure.
‘You’ve planted an adequacy of calaminthy, of course,’ he said, in a lordly tone. ‘A sovereign physic in any situation.’
‘Calaminthy? I don’t think I have.’ She frowned uncertainly, in the process managing to wring his heart with her loveliness.
‘Oh, er, the common sort would know it as the basil, m’ dear.’
‘Basil?’ She shook her head. ‘But the rosemary is growing splendidly, and tonight you’ll taste it in Mrs Appleby’s venison ragout.’
The improvements she’d made were impressive. The garden was now tamed, the front of the manor with its red Tudor brick freed of the overgrown ivy, but with enough left to frame the darkened oak doors. The weathercock atop its tower was now proud and square and the lawn had been meticulously mown.
Kydd made acquaintance with Persephone’s new horse Bo’sun, the noble brown face, dark ears flicking, looking at him curiously. He knew his wife was an excellent rider and judge of horses but this beast was exceptionally handsome. A full chestnut of some fifteen hands and gleaming with condition, its lithe musculature spoke of effortless speed and endurance.
‘We’ll lease a mount for you while you’re home, Thomas,’ she made haste to assure him. A horse was an expensive article and another could not be justified when he was away at sea for so much of the time.
He beamed, looking forward to riding with her on the moors. ‘Yes, Seph. We’ll see to it directly.’
Workmen were still busy on the small buildings at the back: a charming summer house and a discreet garden shed where Mr Appleby was preparing his pot plants.
‘I want to talk to you about a pavilion, Thomas dear,’ she murmured, as they roamed arm-in-arm along the wilder southern fringes of their property. She pointed out a fine place for a small private shelter with a picnic view into the steep, wandering valley of the Tavy.
Back inside the house, a shy maid stood aside as Persephone asked him anxiously if he approved her choice of dinner service – a Spode setting of exquisite artistry and, to Kydd’s eyes, perfectly attuned to the bucolic placidity of Knowle Manor. Not the pompous gold-lined ornateness of Town but joyous limned English flowers and butterflies on delicately formed ivory porcelain. The selection of cutlery had been put aside until they could consult together on a trip to London.
Combe Tavy folk soon knew that the squire was back from his sea wanderings, and in the Pig and Whistle the one-eyed innkeeper, Jenkins, grinned from ear to ear as he served the alarming number of villagers who had found it convenient to rest from their labours.
Kydd heard from the soft-spoken old sheep-farmer, Davies, of the loss by braxy over the winter of three of his flock, which a long-winded account put down to their consuming grass while still frost-speckled. The beady-eyed thatcher, Jermyn, came in with a harrowing tale of a roof fire in the remote hamlet of Horrabridge that had had him trudging over the moors in wind and sleet of an unpleasantness that a gentleman like Kydd could never conceive.
After politely asking after him, others listened as he contributed a morsel concerning the perils of horse-riding on the hard sea-ice of Finland and the grievous conditions for reindeer looking for forage under snow that had lain undisturbed for four months. It left them bemused as they quaffed their moorland ale.
The days passed in a sweet warmth that Kydd could feel imperceptibly rooting him to the place. Curling up together in front of the fire, he and Persephone made comfortable decisions about their hearth and home, such as where the grand portrait of Knowle Manor she had painted should be hung.
But Kydd’s attempts to win over the sleek tabby, Rufus, who held sway over this his kingdom were forlorn.
‘One night during an awful storm he suddenly appeared as though it were his long-lost home,’ Persephone told him fondly, picking the cat up. ‘Licked himself all over for an hour in front of the fire and settled in. I hadn’t the heart to turn away the rascal.’ The creature accepted a twiggle of his ears, while continuing to stare at Kydd with striking lambent eyes. ‘He’ll be used to you by and by.’