‘Is tha all right, Cap’n ’Ervey?’ asked Johnson, pushing the needle once more into the stiffened cloth of the tunic collar to secure the idle button. ‘Tha looks like tha’s seen a ghost.’
Hervey looked at his groom incomprehendingly. ‘What?’
‘Tha’s miles away, sir!’
He had indeed been miles away. He had visited things years past, in his mind; all the way back to that first encounter with the little girl who had never been far from his thoughts ever since, deny them though he so often had. He smiled, the colour now coming back to his face. ‘I saw quite a few ghosts, Johnson. But they don’t trouble me any more.’
‘Eh, sir?’
‘Never mind. Is that button fast yet?’
‘It is.’ Johnson knotted the thread, bit off the ends and fastened the collar up again.
Hervey clapped him on the arm, grinned his thanks and took his place at Henrietta’s side.
‘Are we ready, Matthew?’ She smiled at him full again.
This time he returned the smile – and with interest. He nodded to the master of ceremonies, who signalled to a footman, and the little string orchestra began the march from Alceste to which Hervey, his bride and her retinue would process to the altar.
The seamstresses of Bath, whom Henrietta had long thought superior to those of London, had made so faithful a replica of Princess Charlotte’s wedding dress that it might have been supposed she wore the original. Except that Charlotte’s figure stood in unhappy comparison with Henrietta’s, and the removal of several yards of the silver cloth would not have been possible without destroying the overall effect. Layer upon layer of the costly fabric was sewn with silver thread, and embroidered at the borders with patterns of shells and bouquets. It was cut full below the high bodice, and while the original had – as many sadly observed – emphasized Charlotte’s corpulence, this Bath replica served only to present Henrietta’s figure in all its elegance. Somehow too, its frills, lace trimmings and garlands of diamonds wholly became her, rather than drawing attention away from her fine eyes and captivating face (under its wreath of rosebuds, leaves and brilliants). Princess Charlotte had graciously given Henrietta leave to imitate her; to flatter her, indeed, by such imitation. But there were several in the assembly that evening who said how providential it was that the royal pregnancy kept Charlotte from Longleat now.
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God,’ began the dean. He had said the words many times before, and yet always they seemed new and full of promise. ‘. . . To join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate . . .’
He enunciated the purposes for which marriage was ordained, and no one alleged or declared any impediment, when called upon to do so, why Hervey and Henrietta should not be joined together. Bride and groom answered clearly and distinctly when the dean asked of them both if they would honour their obligations to each other. Each of them spoke clearly and distinctly as they gave their troth to each other, Henrietta’s right hand in Hervey’s and then Hervey’s in Henrietta’s. And Hervey put the ring on the fourth finger of Henrietta’s left hand, as the Prayer Book required, and vowed with it to worship her with his body, and to endow her with all his worldly goods. They knelt, and the dean asked God’s blessing on them both, commanded that those whom God hath joined should no man put asunder, and then pronounced them man and wife together. And when Hervey lifted Henrietta’s veil, he marvelled equally at his fortune that this woman had indeed consented to be his wife.
There followed psalm one hundred and twenty-eight, Beati omnes – ‘. . . O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be’ – and the Lord’s Prayer, and others for general blessings and for fruitfulness in the procreation of children. Then all were bidden to sit to hear the homily on the duties of Man and Wife.
‘I do hope this is not to be a long affair,’ whispered the marquess audibly to Lady Bath. ‘These Oxford fellows can be mightily pleased with the sound of their own voice.’
John Keble, as he rose and moved to the middle of the extemporary chancel, gave no clue as to how long he would detain his congregation, nor, indeed, how engagingly. ‘Dearly beloved, in the preface to the form of solemnization of matrimony, the persons to be married are bidden to come into the body of the church with their friends and neighbours.’
The words, his voice, and his sublime aspect at once commanded unusual attention in a congregation enlivened by the host’s hospitality.
‘And this, Matthew Hervey and, now, Henrietta Hervey have done, for you indeed are their friends and neighbours. We need not dwell on the reasons for requiring that they should not come privily, save that those whom they love best, and who love them best, should bear witness to the mutual love that these two persons have for each other. Love, the last best gift of Heaven.’ He paused. ‘Above all, they witness before God to this love, this gift of Heaven, this heavenly grace, and they and we ask God’s blessing that, as Isaac and Rebecca lived faithfully together, so might they. Sustained by the prayers and society of you, their friends and neighbours, and by the grace of God, Matthew and Henrietta may hope fervently that they might live as Isaac and Rebecca, and that they might follow Christ’s commandment to love one another. Love, the last best gift of Heaven. Love, gentle, holy, pure. Amen.’
John Keble turned and knelt before the altar. Hervey took Henrietta’s hand. Neither bride nor groom could possibly know the range of sentiment for them in that chapel-room. For the most part it was that of friends and neighbours, young and old, who had watched or somehow shared their progress to adulthood and their consent now to be man and wife. In Hervey’s case, although his society was limited in comparison with Henrietta’s, the range of acquaintances which his profession admitted was much the greater. There were some in that congregation, like Mrs Strange, with feelings of obligation for a past kindness out of the run of the ordinary; some, like Private Johnson, would owe that daily life was infinitely the better for the command of their captain; one or two might even claim their very being here, rather than in the grave, was because of him; and there were some (perhaps no more than a dozen) who hardly knew either of them – officers of the Sixth happy to accept the customary invitation to see a fellow wed, including his commanding officer, whose duty it was to be there. It was impossible that John Keble’s address should touch each as strongly; but touch each in some way it did, if for nothing but its singular brevity and clarity – as well, perhaps, as for its challenge. The silence between its ending and the dean’s blessing and dismissal was memorable.
The service ended, the little orchestra began to play the ‘Triumphing Dance’ from Dido and Aeneas – the bride’s choice both for its purport and liveliness – and the congregation, led by Captain Matthew and Lady Henrietta Hervey, walked from the chapel-room between a file of carried sabres and into the great hall. There the band of the 6th Light Dragoons, high in the minstrels’ gallery, struck up the regiment’s quick march, ‘Young May Moon’, to the spontaneous applause of all the guests, who now mingled freely, or at least unseparated, to enjoy their host’s generosity once more. And only now did Henrietta feel an inclination to rue her idea of imitating all Princess Charlotte’s arrangements, for she realized how very detained they would be by so many well-wishers. Not that Hervey imagined any such feeling on his wife’s part. How might he, yet? He could only submit to duty once more, content with the thought that for Henrietta this must be the happiest time of the whole day.
It would be two hours and more before he came at last to understand the truth, the whole truth, of John Keble’s words of the day before.
It was indeed a glorious May moon that lit the guests’ way home that night – by foot, horse and carriage alike – and which shone a full three hours on Hervey and Henrietta in their marriage bed. And it was after midday that Hervey came down the great staircase of Longleat House, for the first time in his life. His slight feeling of awkwardness in his new status was made worse by the obvious cause of the
lateness of the descent – Henrietta would be a full fifteen minutes behind him. He was doubly surprised, therefore, when the butler greeted him formally but with polite indifference, and astonished when he announced that Daniel Coates wished to see him as soon as might be possible.
Hervey sighed. On this, of all mornings, might not Daniel Coates allow him to be his own man – for right or for wrong? ‘He surely does not expect me to ride to Upton Scudamore?’
‘Oh no, sir. He is here, waiting,’ replied the butler.
‘In heaven’s name, for how long?’
The butler’s voice changed just a point to explain the propriety of Coates’s request. ‘Mr Coates has not been home this last evening, sir. At about one o’clock this morning – after you had retired, sir,’ (Hervey coloured a little) ‘he came up to me in – may I say, sir – a degree of agitation, and asked if I knew what were your and her ladyship’s plans in the coming days. I replied that I was not privy to them, sir. Mr Coates then said that he had to go to Bristol for several days in his magisterial capacity, and that he could not risk your leaving without his speaking with you.’
Hervey knew he would see him at once – of course he would. But he wanted to know all there was of it beforehand. ‘Did you not offer him paper, Thurlow?’
‘Indeed I did, sir, but Mr Coates said he could not possibly commit his business to paper.’
Ten minutes later, when they met together in the library, Coates bore an expression of great anxiety which was not helped by his evident lack of sleep.
‘My dear Dan, whatever is the matter?’ said Hervey, now genuinely concerned for the man who was in both senses his oldest friend.
Daniel Coates shook his head several times. ‘Your commanding officer – Lord Towcester . . .’
Hervey looked puzzled. ‘Yes, Dan? You met him last night?’
‘Not exactly; not as such,’ he replied, shaking his head again.
‘Well, what is it then?’ He laid a hand on Coates’s forearm.
‘He’s not . . . not . . . not right!’
By now Hervey was becoming exasperated. ‘Dan, to be frank, he’s to hardly anyone’s liking in the Sixth. And it’s only too clear to me why! As, doubtless, it was to you.’
‘No. It’s not just that. I’ve met ’im before.’
Hervey was about to try allaying what he judged to be a veteran’s anxiety, when the old soldier rallied. ‘In Holland. In ’99, with the Duke of York and Abercromby. I was an orderly dragoon at General Poole’s headquarters.’
Hervey began to listen intently, for he knew that tone well enough.
‘We’d landed on the Helder towards the end of August, and it was muddle as usual. But a few weeks later we were giving the French a trouncing at last, on the coast, at Bergen. There was a hell of a long skirmish with the French ’ussars, all along the dunes for half a dozen miles – pouring rain an’ all. It was mainly the Fifteenth and Eighteenth, but then the Twenty-third was thrown in, new-come from England. They went at it well enough, but then the French counter-attacked good and proper out of Egmont, and rolled over them like they wasn’t there.’
Hervey knew the battle well: a good light dragoon action, he had always understood. And Coates had spoken of it before. But now it was as if he were still there, so intent was his look. ‘Go on, Dan.’
‘Lord Towcester – well, he wasn’t Lord Towcester then: he was Lord Charles Keys, wasn’t he – Lord Towcester had a troop of the Twenty-third and he upped and left them – galloped off the field as if the hounds of hell were after him! In full view of his brigadier!’
Hervey’s mouth fell open. ‘How in heaven’s name could he become a captain, then, let alone a lieutenant colonel?’
Coates didn’t answer directly. ‘The Eighteenth charged through and through – young Stewart at their head, him that is Lord Londonderry now, privy councillor an’ all. “That’s the way cavalry should be handled,” called General Poole. “And as for that officer who bolted I’ll have his name disgraced for ever!” ’
‘But it seems he didn’t,’ sighed Hervey.
‘That night, I was outside the general’s office waiting on him to take his despatch to Lord Abercromby’s headquarters. Just a curtain for a door, it had. Lord Towcester was brought in under arrest, and I heard everything. The general’d been appalled when he’d learned who the officer was, because he knew his father as a very old friend. He’d wanted to have Lord Towcester court-martialled at first, but said he couldn’t bear to think of the pain it would bring so noble a man as was his father. He made him swear upon his honour to resign his commission at once and never again to seek one. And then Lord Towcester went out into the night, and no one ever saw him again.’
‘But this was all done in front of witnesses, was it not?’ pressed Hervey, disbelieving that such a promise could not have been enforced, let alone dishonoured. ‘And the whole brigade saw the flight too?’
‘The only man that I know of who would have heard the exchange was the brigade major, but he died that winter. And General Poole went peacefully in his bed many years ago now. He called me in to take the despatch soon afterwards and asked me if I’d heard what’d passed. I said I had, and the general said he believed he might well live to rue the day he had been so weak-minded about it. I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday, for a general would never share such a thought with a corporal if he were not truly dismayed.’
Hervey could not but agree. ‘But what about those who saw him bolt?’
‘That I can’t say,’ said Coates, shaking his head. ‘It was nigh on twenty years ago. Who remembers anything when so much has happened in between? And who could say anything against their betters anyway? I don’t even know if Stewart himself saw it.’
What a dismal thing to hear on any morning, thought Hervey. ‘So I have a commanding officer who is not merely disliked for his manner by all, he was – and therefore almost certainly still is – a coward. And, what’s worse, his word counts for nothing.’
‘Ay, Matthew,’ agreed Coates, shaking his head gravely. ‘You see now why I was in such haste to warn you of it. A regiment commanded by a knave like him will be a damned pitiable place. He’d give you the point from behind soon as look at you. Stay on guard, Matthew! Stay on guard!’
PART TWO
SKIRMISHERS OUT
CHAPTER SIX
FROM WHOM NO SECRETS
ARE HID
Hounslow, six weeks later
‘His lordship is most insistent on it, Captain Hervey. He wishes that you will take command of your troop at once. The major general’s inspection is at the end of the month.’ The adjutant’s tone was emphatic.
Hervey could not complain. These were the petty exigencies of the service after all. But why had July been declared the grass month only weeks before, and officers promised leave? He accepted Lord Towcester’s wish as if it were an order – that went without saying – but it seemed not unreasonable for the adjutant to say why the change had been necessary. Did the annual inspection come as such a surprise?
The adjutant clearly believed he had a fight on his hands. ‘If you wish to protest any more then you shall have to put it in writing to his lordship,’ he said, defiantly.
‘But I have not protested in the least! I have merely asked to be told the reason for the change. Things will go all the easier with the troop if they know why it is.’
‘I do not think his lordship would hold with that sentiment. An order is given and it is a subordinate’s duty to obey!’
Hervey sighed to himself. Only an imbecile would think that this truism was the last word on the command of men. ‘Dauntsey, do not mistake me. I say again that I have not the slightest wish to question the order. But I have always observed that our men go the better for it if they are told as much as possible.’
‘Our’ came properly enough, for they both wore the same badge.
The adjutant sneered. ‘In my former regiment I pride myself that we were greatly more punctilious in
such matters, Captain Hervey. You shall have to put your objections in writing to the lieutenant colonel. He would not countenance it if this conversation continued.’
‘And I say for a third time that I make no objection!’ Hervey managed to keep his voice quite even, to begin with, but then his patience failed him. ‘See here, Dauntsey, if you go blustering to the troop captains in this way you will soon have their resentment, and it is not a good thing for a commanding officer to have an adjutant who cannot manage the captains.’
The adjutant made to protest.
‘I am not finished, if you please, Mr Dauntsey. When you speak, it is as if the lieutenant colonel himself were speaking, and it is as well that you remember that privilege, for if you use words that the colonel would not have wished, then your authority will be shot through once and for all.’
The adjutant wore a look like thunder.
‘Very well, then, Dauntsey. I shall return to Longleat now, and I shall be back, as his lordship wishes, in seven days’ time. Be pleased to give my respects to him when he returns.’
Hervey left the orderly room and walked to the officers’ mess, fulminating at the adjutant’s disdain and presumption. He was angry at having been driven to speak so sharply, but Dauntsey had had it coming to him. The fellow had been deuced rude on their first meeting two months ago, and since his own arrival yesterday – to do no more than make a few domestic arrangements – Dauntsey had scarce had a civil word for him.
A Regimental Affair Page 11
