Scarce a dozen words (of Irish) passed between them before Hervey turned to Henrietta, yet in the space of those seconds of vocal intimacy Henrietta’s doubts seemed confirmed: all her instincts were to turn her horse for Cork. Only pride kept her hands still.
The fine cloth and colours of his uniform had thrown the village and its people into drab contrast, and his black coat for once made him almost a part of that scene, but the golden-yellow velvet of Henrietta’s riding habit was in stark contrariety. Caithlin knew that the cash-crops of the entire village would not in one year be enough to buy such clothes. And, for certain, all that there was inside their cottage, into which Henrietta now stepped at her invitation (and with perfect graciousness), would buy neither scent nor gloves for such a lady. Caithlin was at ease, however, for if she had no need of such a habit, or scent or gloves, then the want of them was no deprivation. Whether such a costume would make her as desirable as Henrietta was a question which might later stir her, but it was one to which Hervey at least had never given the slightest consideration (unlikely that it may have seemed to Henrietta). Or, to be precise, he had never until that moment: Caithlin’s copper-red hair and dark eyes were not without their effect after so many weeks.
The meanest of the Longleat tenants was better-housed and better-dressed than the O’Mahoneys, and Henrietta’s self-possession was not so great that she did not notice. There was, in consequence, some warming towards this girl to whom, to her mind, Hervey had lost his reason (though she would be the first to own that he did not himself know it). And Caithlin for her part placed not a foot awry in the perilous mire that passed for conversation. Time and again she faithfully led their talk back from exclusively mutual matters, though Hervey blithely pressed question after question on her. But there was not any mention of arrest or the action he faced – though all the village knew of it.
‘How have the regiment’s patrols been behaving?’ he asked at length with a smile.
‘Oh, we’re right thankful for them always, sor,’ Michael O’Mahoney interjected. ‘And pleasing it is always to see that Serjeant Armstrong.’
‘Yes, dear Serjeant Armstrong,’ added Caithlin emphatically, ‘I so much enjoy his company!’
Her eagerness seemed to generate further unease. Michael O’Mahoney looked away; and his wife, who had said next to nothing throughout, began poking the contents of the fire-pot in a purposeful fashion. Caithlin looked down at her lap as silence descended.
‘Well,’ said Henrietta, never content with such pauses, ‘we have a long ride back to Cork. Matthew, do you not think we should take our leave of these good people?’
Taking their leave was a protracted affair, however, since the rest of the village was intent on shaking the hand of the man in whom, quite simply, they had seen both their deliverance (the eviction warrants had been cancelled on grounds of public order) and a promise of equitable treatment in the future by the military. But, if a handshake was one thing, it seemed scarcely appropriate for Caithlin after her welcoming embrace. Indeed, Hervey judged it to be wholly inadequate. So as she, the better judge of prudence, held out her hand, he took her by the shoulders to kiss her cheek, and so innocent and natural a gesture might have passed unremarkably had not Caithlin’s own unease suddenly manifested itself in coyness. And in that instant Hervey finally, though with chill confusion, sensed the delicacy.
As they left the village Henrietta was mute, and she continued thus as they took the road to Ballincollig, the chill now beginning to numb his faculties. Yet something from deep within told him what he must do to explain his former insensibility, to lay to rest what had blighted their time together these past weeks, to put an end to any concerns she might have about Caithlin. ‘I should like to show you a special place near here,’ he said after what seemed an age of silence.
‘Is that not where we have just been?’ she replied with a hurt that left him in no doubt what he faced.
They rode to the ruins of Kilcrea friary. The place had lost nothing of its peacefulness, though the wind now whistled constantly through the lancets. As he helped Henrietta down from the saddle she would not meet his eyes. She seemed almost lifeless, like one of Elizabeth’s childhood dolls whose horsehair filling had been lost. There was no sign of the self-possession which had drained him of his own confidence so many times that summer in Wiltshire.
They walked round the ruins, he recalling their history as it had been told to him by Father O’Gavan, though she showed scant attention and even less enthusiasm. He pointed to the stones and their inscriptions, and he told her how Caithlin had taught him Irish there.
‘And what did she want from you, Matthew?’ she asked with a directness he had never imagined of her.
He could give her no answer. In truth he had never supposed Caithlin had wanted anything but an increase in learning. And had they not always been chaperoned by Father O’Gavan? No, they had not of late. But nothing had ever passed between them, had it? Hervey found himself quite unable to think clearly, and even began to shake his head as if to deny the doubt. But, if he had anything in his heart for which to beg forgiveness, there were no deeds for confession. ‘I taught her a little Greek,’ he replied, and even as he said it he knew it sounded absurd.
‘Greek!’ exclaimed Henrietta.
Hervey took fright, losing all remaining perspective. ‘Yes,’ he replied, in panic almost, ‘she already has some Latin.’
Henrietta began to laugh. She covered her mouth, so loud was her laughter, yet it scattered the starlings beginning to roost in the lintels. ‘Greek!’ she exclaimed in another peal of giggling.
Hervey looked at her hopelessly.
‘Oh, Matthew, you are so … That girl adores you: it is as plain as can be. What do you really suppose has passed between you?’
He opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. At last, though, his instincts began to speak, for he saw at once quite clearly – indeed with absolute clarity – that the resolution of their separate months of confusion and despair lay within his grasp in this moment. He took her shoulders gently in his hands. ‘Marry me, Henrietta,’ he said, and he was surprised by his own words, for he had been trying to formulate the proposal with what he considered due refinement.
She looked up at him and shook her head, and it seemed as if a cold blade were piercing him. But then a look of absolute contentment came about her: ‘I want nothing else,’ she said clearly. ‘I do not think I have at heart wanted anything else since the schoolroom!’
‘So, my dear Henrietta, you are to marry a man of no fortune, a man very likely to be cashiered, disgraced and cast out from society. You will be dishonoured. And all this for love?’ asked the duke with so grave an air of dismay that Henrietta was almost abashed.
‘Yes,’ she replied defiantly.
The duke smiled. ‘What great things might I do if I had such a wife!’
Henrietta smiled, too, a smile of relief, and with it sprang back her spirit. ‘Then take unto yourself some Hervey blood. Do not you have any feeling for Elizabeth?’
‘Permit me, Henrietta, but I know a woman’s heart well enough. Miss Hervey’s would not open itself to me – of that you may be assured. No, not even for a coronet!’
‘William, that—’ But the duke bade her stop.
‘There are more felicitous matters to discuss, madam,’ he began. ‘Your affianced’s court martial – 1 think I may have news that will be pleasing.’
‘Truly, I am all ears, sir,’ replied Henrietta intently.
The duke rested an arm on the chimney piece in his voluminous library and began the news that he supposed must bring her such happiness: ‘It seems to me too risky to let this case proceed to trial. What must needs be is that proceedings are abandoned.’
Henrietta looked dismayed. ‘Forgive me, William, but is not that what everyone has been trying to do? You said the news was felicitous.’’
‘Felicitous – yes. But, on the contrary, it is not what Mr Hervey’s attorney has been about.
What he has quite properly been doing is addressing the issues – the case for the defence – in anticipation of its coming to trial. And it is a clever case, too, turning on a most elegant point of law. But so elegant, I fear, and so momentous in its implications, that it runs the gravest danger of defeat – though I for one would take it to the House of Lords come what may.’
‘Then, why seem you so sanguine?’ she asked, perplexed.
‘Because, dearest Henrietta, these several past weeks I have been canvassing my fellow landlords and have secured a remarkable concordance so far as this case is concerned. What do you suppose would be the implication if your Mr Hervey were to be acquitted in open court – remote though the chance may be?’
‘I cannot think,’ she replied, more perplexed.
‘Well, let me suggest to you, as I have to my fellow landlords, that the whole question of forcible evictions might subsequently be adjudged dubious in law. Every landlord in the country would then be in the very devil of a position.’
‘But’, began Henrietta, grasping well enough the proposition but remaining unconvinced, ‘you have said that there seemed but little chance of Matthew’s being acquitted?’
‘Indeed,’ smiled the duke wickedly, ‘but in the question of rights of eviction none of them would wish to wager, even against such long odds. None would ever want to see it subjected to a judicial ruling. I think it is time that I wrote to Sir Dearnley Lambert and went to see Mr Magistrate Gould, and perhaps the agent, too.’
‘Oh, William, you are cleverness personified!’ gasped Henrietta as she threw her arms round him.
‘Let us just say that honour and self-interest are for once in accord.’
A Cavendish, and a descendant of the great Boyle, if only through marriage, was enough to put the Ballinhassig magistrate into a state of mild panic. For his part, he declared on hearing the duke’s proposition, he would be content to leave things entirely to the military and, on second thoughts, he would also rescind his submission to the Lord Lieutenant. William Devonshire was especially relieved at this latter since it saved him the journey to Dublin to argue his case at the Castle.
Fitzgerald, the agent, was altogether less pliable. Only the threat of using the Cavendish name with his employer shifted his stubbornness. At first he protested that there were no grounds on which to press for his removal: the wider implications of the legality of forcible evictions were not his concern, he argued. Whereupon the duke simply smiled and agreed, adding that, although it would give him no pleasure to use his title to coerce a baronet, he would have no hesitation in doing so on this occasion.
These two, were, however, the easier of his antagonists. There remained one enterprise of especial delicacy, for if this business with Hervey did indeed comprise an element of vindictiveness (and his instincts told him it did), then he would have to make sure that General Slade abandoned any proceedings when the magistrate withdrew his complaint. Buoyed by his success at Ballinhassig, the duke therefore journeyed to Fermoy to pay what he announced as an introductory call on the startled general, and invited him to dine at Lismore the following evening. He then left Fermoy as soon as he decently could, but would have been heartened to learn that, such was the enthusiasm for dinner at Lismore, Slade’s staff spent the rest of the day sending messages throughout the county to cancel the invitations which the general had issued to dine at his own headquarters that same evening.
Henrietta took much persuading to be at dinner the following day, and Elizabeth even more. The duke insisted, however, that in his scheme of things their being there was of the essence. For he had surmised that a ward of the Marquess of Bath would tend further to overawe Slade, and that, when he learned she was in Ireland at the express invitation of Matthew Hervey, the seeds of doubt as to the wisdom of proceedings against him would be sown. Elizabeth’s connection need not be revealed until it was propitious, he added, and if the general possessed the least degree of acuity there might be no mention at all of the … difficulties.
And so, at the end of that dinner into which Slade had entered as an unwitting enemy enters an ambuscade, Henrietta and Elizabeth retired with the general’s lady. The Duke of Devonshire poured out his best port (as Slade was quick to recognize) and broached the question of the charges laid against Lieutenant Hervey. Slade professed but an imperfect knowledge of them but looked disconcerted by the volley. The duke bade a footman bring cigars, thereby allowing the general a little more time to appreciate the extent of the danger he was in. Though no soldier, the duke was now warming to his work and judged it the moment to fire a volley from, as it were, the second rank: ‘Oh, by the by, General, you know, I presume, that Lady Henrietta Lindsay and Mr Hervey are to be married?’
Slade reeled visibly at this intelligence.
Now was the time for ruthlessness, the duke knew, and his third volley was decisive – a model of artfulness, of fox-cunning, even. The words were so deft that, later, Slade would not be able to recall them with any precision. Yet firmly in his mind, now, was the awful notion that he was laying charges against the brother of the future duchess. He could barely hide his discomposure. ‘If this magistrate is to withdraw his complaint,’ he began, his voice transposed by half an octave at least, ‘then there is no reason whatever why this young officer should be kept in anguish a moment longer. I shall send instructions, first thing tomorrow morning, that all charges against him (if indeed there be any) be dismissed. I am right grateful to you, Duke, for advising me of the matter.’
Now, if the Duke of Devonshire had any reservations as to his stratagem, any doubts as to Hervey’s integrity in the matter, any fears that Slade might be too much maligned, they were largely allayed by the general’s quite evident disingenuousness. And when they joined the ladies the doubts that remained were entirely dispelled by Slade’s great show of discovery that Elizabeth was the brother of ‘one of my officers – a most active and engaging young man!’
The duke raised an eyebrow as he glanced across to Henrietta and Elizabeth. And in that he managed to convey the intense satisfaction of a man who had comprehensively outmanoeuvred a knave of the blackest kind.
Serjeant Armstrong hitched up his sword and fell into step beside Lieutenant Hervey. Picket duty came round frequently when there was but one troop in barracks – and only one officer and a handful of Serjeants. But there were worse things on a cold January morning than inspecting the lines.
‘Will Miss Lindsay and Miss Hervey be paying another visit to Ireland, then, sir?’ he asked with a distinct twinkle in his eye.
‘I hope so, but not before the summer, I should think,’ replied Hervey, non-committal.
‘It was good that they were able to stay longer to make up time for your confinement.’
‘Arrest, Serjeant Armstrong, arrest – I’m not a woman with child!’
‘Forgive my lack of learning, sir,’ Armstrong retorted with heavy irony.
Hervey returned the fire-picket’s salute as they passed the hay store. ‘Learning be damned! You were fishing!’
‘I was no such thing! I merely asked if we were to see the ladies again.’
In the feed store Hervey checked the quartermaster-serjeant’s ledger to compare it with the figures he had been given at the orderly room. Armstrong began counting the sacks of oats, opening several at random and prodding the contents with his whip.
‘Sixty-seven, sir,’ he called at length.
‘Thank you. All correct, then, quarm’serjeant,’ said Hervey, signing the ledger.
Taking up the conversation again as he and Armstrong left the store, Hervey decided there had been enough beating about the bush. ‘You will see plenty of Lady Henrietta because, as you very well know, we are to be married – that is, if her guardian consents.’
‘Now, how did I know that, sir?’ was Armstrong’s almost convincing protest.
‘Because Johnson told me you had already collected your winnings from Serjeant Harkness! Really, Armstrong! Betting on your troop lieuten
ant’s marriage stakes!’
Serjeant Armstrong was momentarily, and uncharacteristically, silenced, giving Hervey further opportunity to discomfit him. ‘Tell me how in heaven’s name you learned of it,’ he pressed.
‘I can’t say, sir.’
‘What do you mean, you can’t say? This isn’t a game of charades!’
‘Would that be like brag, sir?’
‘Armstrong!’
‘Well … all right,’ he began reluctantly, halting in mid-stride. ‘Miss Lindsay told me ’erself.’
‘She what?’
‘She came to riding school just before leaving for England – while you were away in town – and told me.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘She’s your intended! How should ‘I know why she wanted me to know?’
‘Serjeant Armstrong, if she confided in you that day there must have been something earlier. What had you been saying to her before then?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t lie.’
‘I … I just put in a good word for you from time to time. You’d do the same for me!’
Hervey laughed. ‘I just have!’
Armstrong’s expression lost its remaining assurance. ‘What do you mean?’
I mean last week. While you were with my intended at riding school, I rode over to Kilcrea to see Michael O’Mahoney. And he asked me if you were good enough to be a son-in-law.’
Armstrong was struck dumb, though he recovered after some self-conscious shuffling. ‘Ah, well, right enough. I’ve been on duty at that place for the best part of two months off an’ on since the trouble. I got to calling on the O’Mahoneys and walked out with Caithlin once or twice. I never thought I’d be asking an Irish lass to marry me, an’ I never would ’ave thought she’d have me – they may be dirt-poor, but she’s full of learnin’. I think the old man’s pleased enough but I couldn’t speak for them two brothers. She’s a grand lass, though. She’ll make a soldier’s wife right enough!’
A Close Run Thing mh-1 Page 23
