'We shall pray for him as well as for the soul of the faithful departed.'
Hervey nodded. 'I am truly grateful, My Lord.' (He made to rise.) 'And now I think I must detain you no longer.'
The bishop insisted on seeing him out.
As they came downstairs to the hall, a woman of about Hervey's age, in a day dress of fine brown cotton, with a length of white lace draped loosely about her head and shoulders, curtsied deep.
'Ah, Reverend Mother,' said the bishop. 'I am so very gratified you were able to come.'
The reverend mother looked enquiringly at Hervey as she rose.
'A gentleman from the army come on an unhappy but by no means unrewarding mission,' explained the bishop.
'Mr 'Ervey?' She pronounced his name as would a Frenchwoman.
'Sister Maria?'
'I perceive that introductions are not required,' said the bishop, curious.
Hervey was considerably animated. 'My Lord, my regiment was billeted in the reverend mother's convent after the battle of Toulouse.'
There was a deal more that he might have explained had the circumstances been more propitious.
The reverend mother smiled – an easy smile which spoke of the confidence of both her rank and calling. Maria Chantonnay's father was, or had been (Hervey had no idea if he were alive still), the Comte de Chantonnay, a royalist from the Vendée. Sister Maria, of the Carmelite Order, whose convent had been spared on account of the evident piety and charity of its sisters, as well as its seclusion, had nursed him in his temporary prostration which a French spontoon had occasioned. And, indeed, had helped him sift official papers left behind by Marshal Soult, a convalescent labour imposed on him by the authorities on account of his excellent French.
'May I ask why you come 'ere, Mr 'Ervey? Vous voulez devenir Catholique . . . enfin?'
Hervey returned the smile. 'No, ma'am. I am come to arrange a funeral for the wife of one of my non-commissioned officers. Indeed, you may recall my serjeant at Toulouse?'
'I recall him; and your servant.'
'He is with me still.'
The bishop made to close what he imagined might become a prolonged conversation. 'The reverend mother is here on matters touching on the convent at Hammersmith, Colonel Hervey.'
'Ah, yes indeed. Forgive me, sir. I will take my leave at once.'
He was, however, most reluctant to. Much water had flowed under the bridge since he had last seen Sister Maria de Chantonnay, in her father's house in Paris, not long after Waterloo.
He braced himself. 'I thank you again, My Lord – and you, reverend sir,' he added, bowing to the vicar-general.
He took up his hat, caught the eye of Mr Keating, who had waited patiently throughout, and bid good day to the assemblage of priests and religious.
They found a hackney cab, not without a little trouble, and Hervey instructed the cabman to take his companion back to Duke Street, putting him down in Hanover Square en route.
The two had a little more conversation than on the journey out, but in truth Hervey was just as preoccupied as then. So much had happened since Toulouse. Truly, he did not suppose he could begin to recall that time before . . . before Henrietta. Before she had perished (perished on account of his incapability). It had been a vastly simpler age – Bonaparte the enemy, life lived day to day, a distant love; and then a wife, and a colonel not worthy of the name. And then one empty day after another. And the Promethean eagle tearing at his vitals each waking morning.
But that was all over, now. He had a new life, one which he would share with his daughter. For too long he had left her to the care of Elizabeth, gentlest of women though his sister was. Georgiana could not be shut away from him for ever: she had lost a mother; it was not right that her father was lost to her too. And now, of course, she would have a mother – and a practised one – and a sister. And there would be the novelty of Cape Town for several months, with its pleasing climate and easy ways. And then, perhaps, Canada.
One thing was certain, however: Elizabeth's most improvident intentions – her breaking off the engagement to his old friend Laughton Peto, and instead her purpose to marry this baron of hers – made continued guardianship of Georgiana impossible.
''Anover-square, gen'l'men!'
The cab came to a halt close by St George's church, where but a fortnight ago his own nuptials had been concluded. Hervey got down, thanked Mr Keating profusely for his time, and professed sincerely his hope they would meet again, before paying the cabman and waving them off.
He turned and looked at the steps of St George's, where he had waited to greet the congregants, and he marvelled once more at the pace of events in his life of late. It was but eighteen months since he had sat next to Kezia that night at dinner at Lord George Irvine's. He had just returned from Portugal, much chastened by the incarceration at Badajoz, and was resolved on putting his life in order. That very evening, indeed, marriage with Lady Lankester suggested itself (he saw that, now). And there had been so little time for courtship. What hand of Providence could it have been that placed him in a position, only a few months later, to propose marriage to her – and to have her accept? Why, indeed, had she accepted?
Kat had asked him the very same. The question had first seemed impertinent, even for a lover. Except that, riding together in the green lanes of Chelsea after he had spent the night with her, the question seemed entirely reasonable. He had not been able to answer. As Kat herself had concluded, le Coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point. Did it matter, indeed, what reasons must Kezia have? Were his own reasons so very . . . reasonable?
He had concluded that he must marry because he knew there was no health in him in the condition of widowhood. In the condition of adultery, indeed – in disordered, almost casual liaisons, or in the ultimate cruelty (there was no other word) of 'country marriages' such as he had enjoyed in Bengal. Neither was there honour in absentee fatherhood; nor sense in a life at arms which had no secure base. Were these reasons ignoble? Kezia had freely accepted him. She knew he had no fortune, though his abilities were recognized and he therefore had prospects, and she knew there had been too little time for there to have been true romantic love.
And he had desired her. Everything she said or did had seemed to serve its increase as the day of the wedding approached. He admired so much about her, too – her air, her music, that she had once been the wife of such a hero of the regiment – and he was convinced that this, coupled with desire, would in time become the wedded bliss he had once known. And those who thought otherwise (as he knew they did) were quite mistaken in the matter.
Kezia was not at home. Her aunt told him that she had gone to Mr Novello's to buy some sheet music (Hervey did not know of Mr Novello, but supposed that he ought to have), and that she would then most probably call on a cousin in Regent's Park. He declined the offer of solid refreshment, asking merely for coffee and for pen and paper, explaining that he must leave shortly for Whitehall (not caring to specify the United Service Club).
With coffee, pen and paper he sat for half an hour and wrote a memorandum to Kezia of the various and complicated events of the morning, though he explained that he could give no complete account of the offer of the Eighty-first since he was in so many minds about it, and that he would, of course, wish to consult with her before making any irrevocable decision. He ended by saying that, confident it would meet with her approval, he would today send word to Horningsham – perhaps even express – for Georgiana to join them directly, and not at the end of the month as first they had intended.
'You will join us for dinner, will you not, Colonel Hervey?' asked the aunt, as he made to leave.
Hervey hesitated, not least on hearing his Cape rank, for evidently Kezia had described him to her aunt thus (despite his having presented himself before the wedding as 'Major'). 'I . . . I should like very much to, Lady Marjoribanks. It is possible that I might be detained, however. I have a meeting with the commander-in-chief.'
He kne
w he stretched the meaning of the word – 'meeting' – but he saw no occasion for a fuller account. And (he would admit) the drive from Brighton had not been all gaiety, which was why he had thought it better not to try Kezia with proposals directly this evening, trusting instead to words on the page. Such a way would not have served with Henrietta (or Kat, for that matter), but it did not follow that there was but the one proper course. He was perfectly aware that women were as different in their natures as were men. And just because he was yet to fathom Kezia's, he would do nothing so crass as to presume there was fault in it.
IV
PRIMIPARA London, that evening, early
As he entered the United Service Club, Hervey saw one of Kat's footmen conferring with the hall porter.
'George?'
The footman turned. 'Oh, good afternoon, Colonel Hervey. I was enquiring where it might be expedient to deliver this letter to you, sir.'
Hervey took it. 'I am only just returned, and here by chance alone.'
'The porter gave me to understand that you were not expected, sir. But Lady Katherine was most anxious that you receive this, and—'
'Of course, George, of course,' replied Hervey hurriedly, anxious not to have too much rehearsed in front of the porter's lodge. 'Perhaps you will allow me to read the letter and pen a reply as appropriate. I fancy it is in connection with Captain Peto's convalescence.' He did not suppose that it was entirely in that connection, but it served to give respectability to the exchange.
The footman bowed as Hervey withdrew a few paces and broke the seal.
Holland-park,
29th June
Dearest Matthew,
I beg you would come here at the first opportunity, for there is a matter of the greatest delicacy to apprise you of, one which I am quite unable to commit to the page. You must believe me when I tell you this, for I would not trouble you in your present circumstances were it not imperative to do so.
Your ever affectionate,
Kat.
Hervey winced at the old familiarity. Such a letter was compromising enough, in his 'present circumstances'. What was it, therefore, that Kat could not commit to the page? Or was it merely a device to have him travel to Holland Park?
No, that was an ignoble thought. Kat had been the best of friends to him; she would not now use subterfuge. And, indeed, he ought not to flatter himself so. In any case, they would, in all probability, meet in Norfolk, when she convoyed Peto there.
'George, do you have a carriage?'
'I do, sir.'
'Then, if I may, I will return with you to Holland-park.'
'Very good, sir.'
'Colonel Hervey, sir, there are more letters here,' called the porter after him.
Hervey took the little bundle and quickly looked them over. There were none in hands he counted pressing, save Somervile's (and there could be no immediate reply to one originating at such a remove). He beckoned to Kat's footman. 'Come then, George, for I must be back here before eight.'
* * *
As they turned into the Haymarket, Hervey opened the lieutenantgovernor's letter.
Cape-town,
13th May 1828
My dear Hervey,
I trust that by the time you receive this you will be restored to full health and that all nuptials will have been completed satisfactorily, for I must ask you, if you will, to forgo further leave and return here at once, there being the most urgent need of your capabilities in the field. But I must first tell you of the events which compel me to claim your recall.
I took the earliest opportunity, soon after your leaving, of visiting for myself the Eastern Frontier. This progress I made in April, during the course of which I had occasion to fight with the Xhosa in somewhat desperate circumstances, the escort provided by your most excellent corps of dragoons having become divided. In this I digress, but I must next commend to you the conduct of Serjeant-major Armstrong, which was of the most exemplary nature, also that of Serjeant Wainwright who, although grievously wounded, comported himself with the utmost soldierly bearing. I have commanded that a gold medal be struck in recognition of Armstrong's singular service, for he was himself wounded, too, during the course of our escape, and yet so effectually managed affairs as to bring us away with remarkably little loss in the circumstances. I urge that you represent the facts which I lay out in their fullness in attachment herewith to Lord Holderness in the hope that Armstrong might have the proper recognition due to him.
In consequence of the action described therein, I was able to interrogate a captive native who gave intelligence which with other reports received have led me to conclude that a mission at the highest level to the paramount Zulu chief Shaka is a most imperative necessity. I have further concluded, in consequence of my imminent supersession here by Sir Lowry Cole, that I myself must undertake this mission within the third quarter, and therefore that you should return at once to command the escort that shall be required, which must perforce be very much stronger than hitherto . . .
He folded the letter and stifled a sigh.What he would not give to be at the Eastern Frontier this very moment! And then he shivered, though the evening was not cool. He was new-married. Indeed, it was, rightly speaking, his honeymoon still. But to be at the Cape did not mean he must abandon his new wife. Far from it. She would accompany him, take quarters in Cape Town, the house he had found, not far from the Somerviles at the castle. And Georgiana would be with them. Why, therefore, did he recoil from his enthusiasm for being back in the saddle, under arms? It was not escape, nor evasion of his paternal responsibilities, as once it might have been. He was a soldier, was he not? What was a soldier if his instinct were for other than the field and the sound of the guns?
He began turning over in his mind the things he must do preparatory to an early return to duty. He must send an express to Captain Edward Fairbrother in Devon (he could not possibly return without Fairbrother: he was as much a kin of the spirit now as he was a superlative practitioner of frontier war). He must arrange the same passage for Serjeant-Major Collins (no doubt Collins, too, would consider it a mixed blessing, for he himself was newly married). There were all manner of requisites to obtain and accounts to be settled, letters to be written, official and otherwise, work for the War Office to be completed, and not least the business of the Eighty-first to be decided. And there was Kezia and Georgiana . . .
Kat's yellow Offord chariot bowled through St James's and then Green Park, through the Piccadilly bar past Apsley House, the residence of the Duke of Wellington (now prime minister), where Hervey had first met Kat, and along the fashionables' drive through Hyde Park, past the Knightsbridge Barracks, Kensington Palace, and into Holland Park, to the elegant but not large establishment of Lieutenant-General Sir Peregrine and Lady Katherine Greville.
Sir Peregrine, he knew, would not be at home. Indeed, he would not be in London, nor even England. He would be in the governor's residence on Alderney, which position he had occupied largely unaccompanied but with the greatest satisfaction for many years. The fishing off Alderney, and indeed Sark, which island was also within his commandery, was infinitely diverting to him, and now that all threat of hostile landing from France was gone, the appointment allowed him a life of complete ease.
There were many years between Sir Peregrine and his wife. Kat was forty, or there about, yet she possessed the blush of a much younger woman. Her many admirers, of whom the Duke of Wellington was merely the most elevated (not counting the King himself, whom Kat had never found herself able to flatter with much conviction), admitted her one of the handsomest females in London. Hervey, though several years her junior, shared their opinion. Although now he would place Kezia alongside her. Their looks, their whole demeanour, were, however, so unalike as to puzzle him: the attraction of two women so markedly different.
Kat. He had, perhaps, treated her ill. He had courted Kezia (if 'courted' were the right word for something so . . . extemporary) without first speaking with her of it. And then he
had gone to Holland Park to tell her the news of his engagement, and she had been hurt (without doubt hurt) by the manner of his telling her as much as the news itself. And then he had not returned that night to the United Service Club; he had stayed at Holland Park, as he so often had.
He shook his head, for what had followed, on the eve of his wedding, was too shameful to contemplate. And afterwards Kat had been so understanding. She had maintained every expression of cordiality, she had come to his wedding, she had troubled herself no little over the convalescence of his great friend Peto.What a woman she was! He could not regret what they had been to each other, for all that he had broken the Seventh Commandment (as Elizabeth had reminded him with such devastating effect). Except perhaps that last time. For that had been unworthy.
The chariot turned into the little forecourt, and Hervey woke from his thoughts. 'Well, George . . .' He had insisted the footman travel inside with him.
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