‘One glass, yes,’ replied Hervey to Lord John Howard’s offer of champagne. ‘I should want the clearest head this evening.’
‘For the Duke of Wellington, or . . .?’
The proscription against ladies’ names did not hamper communication. ‘Just so,’ said Hervey, nodding solemnly, yet his face just a shade wry.
‘Hervey, I simply do not know why you will not come to the Horse Guards. I am sure I could arrange it. With the Duke of York in such ill health there is an increase in our work, and your experience of India alone would recommend you to the quartermaster-general.’
Hervey smiled and shook his head. ‘My dear Howard, what colour is my coat?’
Lord John Howard frowned. Hervey was in levee dress; not only was his coat blue but his pantaloons too. Indeed, there was not a trace of red anywhere on his uniform – something the Sixth were rather proud of. ‘You are quite wrong, you know. The Horse Guards is by no means the preserve of the Household regiments. And certainly shan’t be when the Duke of Wellington is commander-in-chief.’
‘A little premature, think you not?’
Lord John Howard raised his eyebrows and drew in his breath as if to say ‘but what’s to be done?’
‘And in any case,’ said Hervey, ‘the duke, despite his own service in the Line, has never shown much inclination to appoint his close staff from within it.’
‘Now that is a moot case indeed, as well your own experience must show. Why do you not at least sit with me there for a week or so and see the work? I warrant you’d find it as absorbing as anything in Hounslow.’
That much was probably true, thought Hervey. The routine of his troop, after seven full years at its head, bore few surprises. His brevet was of no use to him there, and with no prospect of purchase it was a routine that stretched before him indefinitely. ‘I thank you, Howard. I truly do. But I must trust to my instincts in these matters, and I am certain that if there is any distinction for me to be had it must be in the saddle.’
‘Why then do you not exchange, or purchase in another?’
Now it was Hervey who raised his eyebrows and inclined his head, acknowledging the challenge was a fair one. ‘Perhaps I might. For a short time at least. I have worn that uniform since I was seventeen, though, and seen others do likewise. There would be no certainty of returning if once I sold out.’
A candle in one of the wall sconces began to flicker and spit, diverting Howard’s attention for a moment.
‘Are you sure you are not confusing your intention, Hervey? You are ambitious for high rank, I imagine – and justly so – yet only by advancement in the Sixth. What is to be the answer if only the one or the other may be obtained?’
Hervey considered the question carefully, looking directly the while into his friend’s eyes. ‘Perhaps ambition for high rank, naked of such values as a regiment upholds, is to be deprecated.’
‘What sort of answer is that?’
Hervey smiled. ‘The best I can manage for the time being. But your point is not lost on me. I could have had your rank, albeit as a brevet, in Calcutta, but I should have forfeited a degree of honour which the Sixth could not have forgotten.’
‘Ay. And I do not suppose that Lord Combermere’s coat tails would take you far either, from what I hear at the Horse Guards. The Duke of York is vexed with him over Bhurtpore.’
‘I had considered that too, I do confess. But, see, the hour advances and we have not spoken yet of affairs.’
Lord John Howard now returned the smile. ‘My dear fellow, let me first refill your glass. There is a deal to cover.’
Hervey accepted; there was an hour and a half before he was due at Apsley House, with a drive to and from Holland Park in the meantime – long enough to sip and hear the news in tomorrow’s Gazette (though he must have a care, still, with these bubbles). ‘I would know the latest there is of Greece, if you will.’
‘Hah! Would we not all? I am just come from Lord Bathurst, and he said scarce a thing of it. The Admiralty will admit to little, but upon your honour it appears that Codrington is stalking the Turkish fleet.’
‘Has there been any more talk of a landing force?’
‘No.’
‘That is disappointing. If it is all to be left until the last minute, with a great scramble to get ashore, then there’ll be no end of trouble. You cannot ship horses without a deal of preparation.’
‘No,’ agreed Lord John Howard, inclining his head ready to impart the unexpected intelligence. ‘The Secretary for War is much more exercised, it seems, by the situation in Portugal.’
Hervey looked surprised. ‘Is that really to amount to much? It scarcely seems more than a family quarrel, and bombast on the Spaniards’ part.’
‘The ambassador in Lisbon thinks otherwise. There has been a great number of the army there which has deserted, with their arms, and encamped themselves on the other side of the border. Madrid gives them assistance, it seems, material and moral, and there is a fear that these rebels will invade the country. The ambassador believes they might have success, too, since the royal army itself is uncertain. There is even talk of the rebels being assisted by Spanish regulars.’
Hervey was at once alerted. There were long-standing treaties between England and Portugal, and the prospect of action therefore? He sat upright, then leaned forward. ‘So what would be His Majesty’s government’s view of such an eventuality?’
‘I do not know. I have seen no papers on the subject, nor have I heard anything. The talk has been solely of the Greek question, and of late the disturbances in the north, the machine-breaking – and the harvest in Ireland.’
Hervey sighed. The harvest in Ireland – he wanted not to be reminded of the wretched condition of the place. It had all but cost him his commission, if not his honour, a dozen years ago. ‘I trust we’ll not have to go and evict the starving peasantry?’
‘Bathurst says not, but you know his voice is weak in Irish affairs. The Home Secretary’s carries the day for the most part, even against the duke.’
Hervey had heard so. And though he had been in India these past seven years he had followed the progress of Mr Peel and his opinions with great attention. He hoped never to have occasion to act in support of their worst excesses. He could see it coming to a contest, though, with O’Connell and the Catholic Association so apparently bent on trouble. Especially with a want of food now to inflame matters. He shook his head before returning to the Peninsular question. ‘But Portugal, Howard – what is to be done then?’
‘Not a deal at present. The ambassador wants half a dozen officers to go to Lisbon to spy things out.’
Hervey’s ears pricked. ‘When? Who? Is it settled?’
Lord John Howard smiled. ‘No. They are to make ready; that is all. I have sent a memorandum this very evening to the adjutant-general. It is his business rather than the quartermaster-general’s since they do not constitute a formed body. I dare say he will instruct Lord Hill on it tomorrow.’
Hervey’s brow furrowed. He had no connection with Lord Hill, the general commanding-in-chief of home forces; neither did he know any of his staff. And if the Greek business were not to come to a head soon then this little adventure in Portugal would be a deal better than nothing.
‘Though doubtless the duke will have views on who should go,’ added Lord John Howard, with something of a resigned smile. ‘Which is why I have sent him a copy of the memorandum too.’
The rest of their brief confab passed in speculation on the course of events in the Aegean Sea. Hervey was certain that the intervention of the Duke of Wellington – why else would he have travelled to St Petersburg in the depths of winter? – must spell military action there sooner or later. And he needed to place himself in the thick of that action when it came. But for this he needed timely intelligence as well as influence. In Lord John Howard he could trust that he would have abundance of the former; but to secure sufficient of the latter he knew he could spare no effort.
CHAPTE
R TWO
AFFAIRS OF STATE
The same evening
Hervey arrived at Holland Park a few minutes before the half-hour despite having left St James’s Street late. The bright yellow Offord travelling chariot, its sides mud-spattered and the post horses blown, had had a clear run along Piccadilly and then a good rattle through Hyde Park. He saw that Lady Katherine Greville’s dress chariot was already drawn up at the front of the house, its brass and paintwork gleaming in the torchlight. As he alighted, her coachman raised his whip in salute, and the two footmen standing at the back between the cee springs raised their staves. Hervey took in the display appreciatively. They were in court livery – blue velvet coats heavily braided, knee breeches, white stockings and buckled shoes. They wore curled and powdered wigs, the footmen in cocked hats and the coachman in a tricorne. A magnificent crimson hammer cloth covered the box seat, and a pair of fine bays stood before it, coats shining like the patent harness. Lady Katherine, marked Hervey, was intent on making a splash this evening.
Lady Katherine Greville was forty-two years old. Hervey did not know it, and neither did it trouble him not to know, nor even to imagine her his senior. In any case, her appearance that evening gave no clue to it, for her complexion, aided by not an evident great deal of powder, was very fine, as were her features, especially the cheekbones, which were admirably high and the skin taut across them. Her neck was long, her teeth were white, and her hair, the tiara set with emeralds, rubies and pearls, had a fullness that at once seized the attention. Not for long, though, for Lady Katherine’s appearance was in general arresting. Her figure would have made a woman half her age envious. Her dress, yellow (she had supposed the colour would especially please him), had a low square neckline, with a full sleeve which drew it off the shoulder, so that the neckline and shoulder formed a single horizontal line, making her breasts prominent but unbound. And to gild all this she wore a necklace and ear-rings of gold filigree set the same as the tiara. There was but one blemish – if such it could be called. Her eyes were big and brown, and shone as bright as any he had seen in Bengal, but half the white of the left eye was permanently blood-shot, the result, he knew, of an encounter with a briar while hunting in Ireland before she was married.
A footman showed him to a sitting room. He waited not many minutes there, just long enough to appreciate a fine portrait of Lady Katherine when she had come out into Dublin society (he thought it by Romney at first, but then saw it was not), before she appeared at the door, and with a smile the portrait could only hint at. He bowed, then kissed the offered cheek.
‘Well, you see my little establishment at last, Major Hervey,’ began Lady Katherine, holding up a hand to the room. ‘Had you come earlier I could have shown you its adornments.’
Hervey smiled awkwardly. ‘Truly, Kat, I am sorry. I was detained by a very excellent officer from the Horse Guards who had information to my advantage.’
‘Indeed? I should be pleased to hear more. I wonder, though, if I may already know? But the hour is pressing; shall we go and see what the duke has to say of the world? For I read, and hear it on the best authority, that we are to be at war with the sultan soon.’
Hervey bowed. ‘In that, madam, I think opinions may vary, but the duke’s shall without doubt be the best on it,’ he said, smiling agreeably and helping first with her pelisse and then with her carriage cloak. ‘And I would engage your support in a matter touching on it.’
It was the sixth or seventh time they had met since his return from India, but their voluminous correspondence over the past five years had given them a certain intimacy, albeit one circumscribed still by some formality, however flirtatious. Lady Katherine returned his smile and touched his hand. ‘Matthew, you shall have whatever support you feel is wanting. You may tell me of it at once in the carriage.’
Hervey’s acquaintance with the much younger wife of the governor of Alderney and Sark had begun at the place that was their present destination some seven years previously. That evening while, so to speak, he still wore mourning bands, Hervey had been a guest at Apsley House in his own right, if a very junior one. The duke had reason for personal gratitude to him, and undemonstrative though he was, the Duke of Wellington was not a man to make light of such things. Three years earlier, Hervey had covered the duke’s tracks in India in respect of certain . . . pecuniary considerations. And although too, the year before at Waterloo, the then Cornet Hervey had only been one of many officers who had done their duty with skill and devotion, the duke had a special regard for it; Hervey had learned of useful intelligence and imparted it to the Prussians with commendable address. It could not be claimed that his action had changed the course of the battle, but in so close-run a thing as Waterloo, his action, to the duke’s mind, was of rare worth. Nevertheless Hervey considered it singular to have been invited to dine at Number One, London, that first evening. He could recall as if yesterday the duke’s bluff, manly words of condolence on his bereavement: ‘I am glad to see you returned to the colours. In all the circumstances it is the place to be.’
What had made that evening so particularly agreeable, however, was his neighbour at table. He had thought Lady Katherine Greville as handsome a woman as any he had met. She was witty and well informed, and, perhaps because of the standing she enjoyed as the wife of a senior officer, she possessed a self-assurance that allowed her to be, as some had it, forward. And this in spite of – perhaps even because of – her husband’s presence. Lieutenant-General Sir Peregrine Greville KCB was twenty-two years her senior. They had met when she was but nineteen and he a colonel on garrison duty in Ireland. She had at that time been to London only the once, and had seen only two seasons in Dublin, but the Earl of Athleague had been pleased to be able to marry off his third daughter without need for a great settlement (which had been, in any case, beyond him). Thereafter Sir Peregrine, with his own not inconsiderable means, the support of an attractive and vivacious young wife and now connections with the Irish peerage, advanced steadily in rank, filling many a senior appointment whose only requirement was steadfast Tory principles. There had been no issue.
In the seven years since that dinner at Apsley House, Hervey and Lady Katherine had engaged in a warm, even intimate, correspondence – so intimate, indeed, that on more than one occasion Hervey had found himself puzzling as to how it could have become so, their connection having been formed by nothing more than conversation at table and a ride in Hyde Park the next day, albeit the latter unaccompanied. He flattered himself that Lady Katherine enjoyed the company of vigorous men – and they her, as he recalled the duke’s attentions that evening – but India and seven years was an extreme range for so persistent an inclination when there were so many bucks in London. For his part, she filled a significant void in his human intercourse (he had been happy when he found the intimacy of their letters was at once transferred to the vocal), for certain matters he could not speak of so easily with his fellows, preferring instead a female ear. That much had been the signal discovery of his short life with Henrietta. He had been able to speak with her of anything. It was impossible before and since that he should do so with his sister, the female of his longest acquaintance, and certain reasons of propriety had forbidden the same with Emma Lucie, the wife of his good friend in Bengal. And it was wholly impossible that he should have been able to do so with his bibi, for they had been formed in such different worlds that, whatever their common instincts, there would have been only frustration and vexation.
Vaneeta. Theirs had been an unusually long association for Bengal, and one that had brought him far fuller satisfaction than such unions were contracted to bring. Vaneeta had been so much more than his ‘sleeping-dictionary’, for she had possessed intelligence as well as beauty, and considerable grace, so that she was by no means out of water in the company of the other officers, as indeed befitted the high caste of her mother’s line. If only Calcutta were what it had been thirty years before, the place of Warren Hastings and the easy familiari
ty between the races, he would have been able to consort with her openly instead of having to set her up in some hole-in-the-wall haveli and visit her like . . .
But Vaneeta was now his past, as India with all its other delights – and dangers – was. He had rarely felt so low as when they had parted, she sobbing so much that he thought she would faint, or worse. But he had left her a rich woman by the country’s standards, making over his jagirs in Chintal to her. And he had had Emma Lucie promise to keep watch on her for as long as she was able, and to take whatever measures were necessary, in his name, should there be the slightest sign of indigency.
‘Matthew?’
Lady Katherine’s insistence, and her hand on his, recalled him to the present.
‘I’m sorry, Kat, I was—’
‘Some miles away.’
He smiled. ‘Many miles away. But I’m here now. Forgive my inattention.’
‘Well, you said you had need of my support. I imagine that your thoughts were so engaged.’
How easy it was to let her form his excuse for him. Absolute integrity demanded that he correct her; but time was running on. ‘Kat, I have to get myself appointed to something – something active. I can’t stay indefinitely at Hounslow.’
It was not what she wanted to hear, though it was half expected. Her hand was still on his, affectionate, supportive. She squeezed as she spoke. ‘Why do you not simply purchase your promotion, and be content with the increase in responsibility? I’m loath to see you go away so soon after returning.’
He put his hand on hers by return. ‘Kat, it’s not as easy as that. There are no vacancies in the regiment, and I couldn’t bear to buy in elsewhere.’
‘And what does your colonel say? He’s a good man by your accounts. Can he not arrange things for you?’
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