A Regimental Affair

by Mallinson, Allan

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows the merest touch, but her brother was already alerted to the point. ‘What might these other objections be?’ he asked.

  Elizabeth glanced at her mother to see if she wished to take up the question herself, but Mrs Hervey evidently did not. ‘He has taken to celebrating the Lord’s Supper during the week.’

  ‘But that is scarcely offensive to the bishop, is it? Father is anyway obliged by rubric to say morning and evening prayer. To what can there be objection in adding the Communion?’

  ‘The Prayer Book forbids the celebration of Communion privately,’ said his mother, with another heavy sigh.

  ‘But on this all may not be lost,’ said Elizabeth, with a breeziness intended to lift her mother’s rapidly flagging spirits. ‘For we might yet find sufficient parishioners to attend.’

  ‘At least until the fire has died down,’ suggested Hervey.

  ‘Quite.’ Elizabeth frowned. ‘If only he would not be so . . . Romish, as the archdeacon calls it, when he celebrates.’

  ‘Romish? How so?’ Hervey was finally alerted to the true seriousness of his father’s situation.

  Elizabeth looked anxiously at her mother, who purposefully turned her gaze to the window. ‘He places candles on the communion table and stands eastwards. With his back to the congregation, that is.’

  ‘Though there isn’t one,’ smiled Hervey. But he knew it was a practice – as well as the candles – that would bring strife. ‘Is any of this of a Sunday, too?’

  ‘No, only the surplice for his sermon.’

  ‘That much is as well,’ opined Mrs Hervey. ‘Though if he speaks any more with Mr Keble, heaven knows where it will all end!’

  ‘Mama,’ protested Elizabeth. ‘You cannot blame Mr Keble. Father has held these opinions for many years before he visited with us. You may as well blame the Jesuit at Wardour, for Father has dined with him many more times than he has ever spoken with Mr Keble.’ It was well known in the village – and therefore in the diocese – that the Reverend Thomas Hervey had for many years enjoyed monthly conversation with Father Hazelwood. It was even supposed by some that these were occasions for auricular confession, and yet this had never given offence (as far as the family was aware), for such was Mr Hervey’s genuine piety and devotion to his parish. It was true that he had some years ago written a monograph on the life of Archbishop Laud, but since it remained unpublished its support for Laudian excesses could only be imagined.

  ‘Well, we may say goodbye to all hopes of preferment at any rate,’ complained Mrs Hervey. ‘We shall not see even a canon residentiary now!’ And with that she rose and left the room.

  Elizabeth knew that her father had long considered himself past all preferment, but she was also aware that her mother still entertained some hope of easeful retirement in a cathedral close, and it had occurred to her more than once that her own life might take a more lively turn were she to be translated thus. And much as Hervey would have been loath to quit the place in which he had been born, he too had hoped that his father might see out his days in such comfort, for there was little enough prospect that the modest family annuity would allow him to do so.

  It appeared that John Keble had visited twice while he had been away, and Elizabeth had been to his priesting at Trinitytide the year before. Hervey imagined that to his father the young clergyman was a remembrance of his elder son. Hervey had also imagined some attachment forming with Elizabeth, for in John Keble’s letter to him (a most welcome poste restante in Paris) there was mention of quitting Oxford – and therefore its rule of celibacy – for his curacy in the Cotswolds. But it was evidently not so. Devoted to her father though Elizabeth was, there were evangelical sentiments in her which might in any case militate against such an alliance. She read Hannah More copiously, and had only recently declined a position out of Clapham with the Society for Returning Young Women to their Friends in the Country; not out of any qualmishness, but from a conviction that her father and mother had need of her.

  With their mother gone, Hervey thought he might change the subject. ‘How are your good works in the town, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Never in all our years at Horningsham has there been such distress,’ answered his sister solemnly. ‘The marquess has set in place a system of relief, but it does not extend beyond the estate, and so many were the calls on the parish last year that funds were exhausted before harvest time. Warminster Common is become more than ever a refuge for beggars and every kind of felon.’

  Hervey could easily believe it. At the time of his going to the Sixth it was known to be a fencing-crib for the three counties.

  ‘Gangs now maraud from there. They take the game, sometimes quite openly, at Longleat. Daniel Coates sat three times each week with the other magistrates last month, and still there is no end to the lawlessness. Father will not allow me to visit, though.’

  ‘And how should your being allowed to visit the common prevent this?’ Her brother frowned sceptically.

  ‘I do not for one minute think that it would. My concern is for the children who are being raised in that depravity. And Daniel Coates believes there should be a mission there too.’ Elizabeth knew this recommendation would turn her brother’s opinion.

  ‘I shall see Daniel this morning. He’s coming to look over Jessye.’

  ‘Do you know he is the owner of three brewing houses now?’

  ‘Which keep his bench well supplied with miscreants of a Monday, no doubt!’ joked Hervey.

  Elizabeth returned his smile, for she was not so much an evangelical as to be an advocate of temperance.

  Hervey was pleased, for with a smile her face became pretty, and he still entertained hopes of a husband in regimentals rather than clericals.

  ‘He is the only farmer hereabouts who has managed to keep all his labourers in work these past two years.’ Elizabeth said it with real pride, as if Coates were family. ‘He has not dismissed a single one. Indeed, he has even engaged some of the wretched Imber shepherds, so much in need of relief were they.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be very much interested to learn how he has been able,’ replied her brother. ‘For everything I read is of depression in that business.’

  She frowned. ‘It’s an ill thought that with peace there comes a fall in demand for the county’s wool. I hope we shall never come to be thankful for war as the means of providing for our working men.’

  ‘Let us hope not,’ he agreed. ‘Though I should sooner see sturdy men in a red coat – with the colours, that is – than have them without work. There are men in scarlet begging along every road from here to London.’

  ‘I can believe it, for there are several in Warminster, and a sorry sight it is too. They would at least be provided for in the army. And they would be under discipline. I confess I am sometimes a little afraid of them in the town now. And that was never so before.’ She poured him more tea and then for herself. ‘By the by, Matthew, do not take against Mr Keble for this business of Father’s. I truly believe there is not any guilt attached to him in this – if guilt, indeed, be the right notion.’

  ‘No,’ sighed Hervey. ‘I don’t suppose I should have been inclined to think Mr Keble guilty. How is he?’

  Elizabeth frowned again. ‘I think he is well, though his eldest sister suffers ill health still. You did know, did you not, that a younger one died of consumption?’

  Hervey did not. He had written to Keble from London but a fortnight ago: he hoped the letter did not intrude on any grief. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Two summers past – the time, in fact, that he stayed here.’

  That was a mercy in its way, thought Hervey, though he had written to him several times from Ireland unconscious of his grief. ‘I had no way of knowing when I wrote to him later. And he said nothing by return.’

  ‘Then he will presume you still do not know.’

  ‘I shall write to him at once. I should very much like to see him again.’

  The younger Towle girl, elevated t
o parlourmaid since last Hervey had been home, came with the news that Mrs Pomeroy was returned. The household would no longer be reliant on extemporary measures in the kitchen, therefore. ‘Well, Matthew, shall you join us for a proper dinner this evening?’ asked Elizabeth. ‘Or do you expect to dine at Longleat?’

  ‘I really cannot say,’ he said, reddening a little. ‘I still don’t know that Henrietta will return today. Tomorrow is the more likely.’

  Moreover, he was by no means certain that Henrietta’s return would bring an invitation to dine. Indeed, nothing had discomposed him quite so much of late as the anxiety that his sweetheart might jilt him. And now his father’s troubles with the bishop seemed to threaten his happiness even if she did not, for if the Reverend Thomas Hervey were dispossessed of the living, then his son would be obliged to support the family – with the very means he required to keep a wife.

  Hervey looked long at Elizabeth as she gave Hannah Towle instructions. Might she not at least be able to set his mind at rest on the first question? He had never been able to fathom the true extent of his sister’s intimacy with Henrietta, the two being so different that he could not imagine on what basis their familiarity proceeded. In truth, he invariably underestimated their connection, though it made little odds, since asking his sister about his fortunes in love would have been entirely ignoble to him.

  Two years of absence suddenly seemed a long time. If Henrietta had changed, then perhaps Elizabeth had too. Hervey’s mother had told him that despite what she was sure had been the pressing attentions of three suitors – of whom Lord John Howard had been one – Elizabeth showed no signs of accepting any offer of marriage. He was sad of it, for his leaving Horningsham with Henrietta would be to make a lonely woman of his sister, now especially that their brother was dead. And, indeed, if the business with the bishop went ill for their father, who could tell what would become of the family?

  ‘Did you hear what I said, Matthew?’

  He was brought rudely back to the present. ‘No, er . . . I . . .’

  ‘I said that there is one about whom you have not yet asked.’ He looked puzzled.

  ‘Mrs Strange: I saw her yesterday. She asks to be remembered to you.’

  He had not forgotten. He had enquired of her of both his mother and father, but their replies had not yielded much beyond the here and now. ‘I had a letter from her in India, thanking me for the position.’

  ‘You may never do Horningsham a better favour. The school thrives and her charges are devoted to her,’ said Elizabeth, admiringly. ‘You may see her take them each afternoon on walks about the village. The children learn so much of natural history that I should be ashamed myself to be put to the test. I do believe she knows the name of every flower underfoot. And before they walk they have spent three hours and more with the slate – writing and numbers and all manner of things. I have even seen her teaching geometry!’

  Hervey was gratified by Elizabeth’s enthusiasm. ‘And the obligations of worship don’t trouble her?’

  Henrietta shook her head with the same look of admiration. ‘She is more punctilious in her observance than any but the wardens. And then afterwards she will go to her own chapel. She is the finest of women. You were very right and clever to see the opportunity in her bereavement.’

  ‘Has she formed any friendships, do you know?’

  ‘She has dined with us on more than one occasion, but she keeps a distance. In truth, I’m sorry for it, but I cannot but respect her wishes. As for more intimate attachments, I know that one of the farmers who attends her chapel has made her an offer, but so far she has not been inclined to accept it.’

  ‘Has she spoken at all of her situation? How her husband came to be . . .’

  ‘Killed? Yes.’

  Hervey felt uneasy. ‘What exactly did she say?’

  ‘She told me that you somehow felt you bore a responsibility for his death.’

  ‘She said that? I never told her so!’

  ‘Oh Matthew! Sometimes I think you have not the slightest notion of what a woman can see. Why did you not tell me of it when you came home?’

  It was a fair question. What was the purpose of close kin if not to share such doubts? Why did he suppose that, just because the death of Serjeant Strange was on the field of battle, a woman might have no understanding of the turmoils of conscience that followed? And yet perhaps a woman could only see so much. Indeed, a man who had not known the face of battle could only see a little. He looked at Elizabeth and saw a sensibility that could not – and should not – ever understand what the prospect of death in battle made of men. Sudden, violent death; by a hand that was in a frenzy to sever the spirit from its body. That, or else to make the body a cripple: to impale on the bayonet’s point; to stab or slash or cut with the blade; to shatter with the musket’s ball, the rifle’s bullet; or disembowel with the cannon’s shot. How could he even look at Elizabeth – close as she was to their Saviour’s commands as anyone could reasonably be – and not feel he had quitted a part of her company for ever?

  ‘Matthew?’

  He hesitated; and then smiled. ‘We must allow that Mrs Strange is a perceptive woman.’

  ‘Then why don’t we walk together this afternoon, and we shall see her. We might call on her, even.’

  ‘Yes,’ said her brother, smiling still. ‘I should like that very much.’

  Jessye lifted her head from the early shoots of spring pasture and looked at her master without a sound. Hervey had been watching from the gate of the old glebe meadow for a full five minutes before she saw him. The mare was content, at her ease. Somehow, he supposed, she must know that she was back in the place where first she had stretched her legs to a trot – and then more – all those years ago. When was that? All of twelve years before. She had certainly seen and endured more than any village horse hereabouts ever had. Now, as March went out like the lamb, and before the summer swarms of flies had come up from the water meadows, there was no pleasanter place on earth for her to be. And, thought Hervey, Jessye deserved it. After what she had been through only this last year she deserved it. He had vowed months ago that never again would she have to attend the call of the trumpet, let alone the bugle, and now he was sure of it, even though she was the best age for a charger – beyond the worry of splints, her bones being stronger with each year. He would never find another like Jessye for agility and bottom, he told himself, and perhaps even for honesty. But if he cast her now from service she could take her ease without the broken wind and lameness that was the fate of many a trooper which had served too long. She could sate herself on the Wiltshire pasture instead of haphazard campaign fodder, enjoying good timothy from the Longleat hay meadows through the winter, and fresh water from the chalk streams of the downs.

  ‘I’m going to put a stallion to her, Dan,’ he announced.

  Daniel Coates smiled. ‘Now there’s the mark of the man full-grown!’

  Hervey looked at him quizzically. The snow-white hair and weathered face, deep-grooved and sun-dried, spoke of age, but for the rest there was nothing that revealed the passing of his many years. Such had been the reward – as well as riches – for Coates’s soldierly virtue and sober living.

  ‘I’ve observed it many times – the urge to see a foal when a man’s taken from a horse a little too much.’

  Hervey made a sort of frown, enough to acknowledge the sentiment.

  ‘Do you have a stallion in mind?’

  Hervey shook his head. ‘More an idea of the horse I want from the foal. About Jessye’s height – half a hand higher, perhaps, but no more.’

  ‘And a bit more blood?’ suggested Coates, nodding his head as if he could see the reasoning. ‘Jessye not quite as fast as you’d care?’

  ‘She was never outrun in the field,’ said Hervey quickly, as if to make amends for disloyalty.

  ‘In which case,’ replied Coates, looking purposely bemused, ‘you want another Jessye!’

  Hervey smiled.

  ‘Have
you seen Lord Bath’s improvement stallion?’

  ‘No, I’ve not. To tell you the truth, Dan, I’ve called on the marquess, but he’s much occupied by affairs in parliament. He went to London at the beginning of the week and I haven’t been to the house since.’

  ‘When does Henrietta come – Friday you said?’

  ‘Yes. That is what the express said. But Derbyshire is some way distant, and I don’t suppose the roads at this time will have been much mended.’

  Coates clapped an arm on his shoulder. ‘I would dare any odds that yon carriage will move like a fly coach. Besides that, most of the turnpikes’ve been macadamized while you’ve been away. In any case, that young lady would ride astride if she thought she could be here the sooner!’

  Hervey smiled again. ‘How can you be so sure?’

  Coates was not sporting with him, though. ‘I didn’t tell, did I? She came to Drove Farm to ask me all I knew of the Indies, and how long I thought you might be gone.’

  ‘When was this?’ pressed Hervey, gratified yet surprised that Henrietta could have shown so much eagerness.

  ‘Just after she came back from France. Oh, a great occasion it was – a barouche with the Bath arms in my drive!’

  Hervey made a little ‘oh’ of disappointment. ‘But that was the better part of two years ago.’

  ‘Matthew Hervey,’ sighed Coates, clapping his shoulder again. ‘I ’ave been on this earth long enough to recognize certain things when I see them. And, I may tell you, the look in that yon lady’s eyes was not going to go absent in the space of two years. She made me promise to let her know the instant I’d any knowledge of you. And she reminded me of it when last I saw her – at the Michaelmas rents.’

  Hervey could have heard nothing so heartening. Michaelmas was only six months ago. ‘I gave the lodge-keeper a half-sovereign to let me know within a quarter-hour of her carriage arriving – by whichever gate!’

  ‘If I was you I’d sit at the picket post myself from mid-morning o’ Friday,’ said Coates, his smile as wry as if he were still the young dragoon.