Hervey 08 - Company Of Spears

by Allan Mallinson

  When Lord Bath had sprinkled the earth on the coffin, Archdeacon Hervey began the closing prayers. It was a fine, sunny day. Somehow, Hervey thought, it assisted with the promise of eternal life. Many a time he had stood at the graveside when the rain had drummed on oak, or on simple shroud, and then the promises had seemed corrupt.

  ‘“O Merciful God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who is the Resurrection and the life … who also hath taught us (by his holy apostle Saint Paul) not to be sorry, as men without hope…”’

  He had never been a man without hope, had he? The trials of late years had brought him despair, but never quite that utter loss of hope of which St Paul warned. Or did he deceive himself in that? He picked up a handful of earth and cast it into the grave, then turned to walk after his mother.

  ‘Major Hervey?’ The voice was commanding.

  He glanced to his right. The distinguished mourner was advancing on him. ‘Yes, General?’

  ‘I imagined it to be you,’ said General Tarleton, jabbing his stick into the grass as he walked. ‘Coates spoke much of you in his letters.’

  ‘I’m very honoured, sir; I had no idea.’

  General Sir Banastre Tarleton replaced his hat as they approached the lych gate. ‘Read about the business in Portugal. Glad the Horse Guards have seen sense. Absurd notion, a court martial! When do you return to London?’

  ‘Tomorrow or the day after, General.’

  The grand old man nodded appreciatively. ‘Good. I go to St James’s this Thursday seven days. I would have you dine with me. Where do you stay?’

  ‘We are quartered in Hounslow, General.’

  He nodded again. ‘Very well. I bid you good day then.’

  Hervey bowed and let the general walk on to take leave of Lord Bath, before rejoining his mother, who had by now been joined by his sister.

  ‘Matthew,’ said Mrs Hervey uncomfortably. ‘I would that we take your father home as soon as may be. The air is altogether too chill.’

  ‘As you please, Mother, but aren’t we meant to attend first on the attorney in Warminster?’

  Mrs Hervey had forgotten. She looked vexed, but then composed herself, for it was understood that Daniel Coates had left in his will some appreciation of her husband’s early kindness towards him. Why otherwise should he have been summoned to attend its reading? Her son too: Coates had always spoken of his intention to bequeath him his horses; and, no doubt, there would be other tokens of their friendship… ‘Yes, of course, my dear; it is remiss of me.’ She turned to Elizabeth. ‘You are not summoned, are you?’

  Elizabeth smiled patiently. ‘No, Mama, not I.’

  ‘You travel home in my carriage, Mother,’ said Hervey, replacing his hat. ‘I will go with father in his.’

  The reading of Daniel Coates’s will was to be at two o’clock in the offices of Mr Simeon Tegg and Partners in the high-street, but when Hervey and his father arrived they were greeted by the clerk with instructions to repair across the road to the upper room of the Bell inn since a larger number than hitherto was now expected.

  Archdeacon Hervey nodded benignly at the intelligence. ‘He had favoured a great many during his life. I imagine that it will be so in death.’

  His son thought him probably right, although he was of a mind that Daniel Coates’s charity had never been of the sentimental kind. Coates had brought the Speenhamland system to this corner of West Wiltshire, but he had been a vigorous advocate of public works on which the destitute might labour in return for parish relief, and not everyone of the needy or the poor-ratepayers thought him laudable.

  But when they entered the upper room they were taken aback by the number already gathered – four dozen by Hervey’s rapid reckoning, and more still arriving.

  ‘The entire board of guardians, I think,’ said Archdeacon Hervey, taking a glass of warm punch from another of Mr Tegg’s clerks.

  That much did not surprise his son; Elizabeth had told him often enough of Daniel Coates’s generosity to the workhouse.

  Before they were too much drawn into greetings and further speculation on the prospects of those assembled, the attorney called the proceedings to order.

  ‘Gentlemen, I would beg your indulgence: there is a deal to attend to this afternoon. I propose to move at once to a formal reading of the will, thereafter to make some supplementary remarks arising from the late Mr Daniel Coates’s instructions to me, whereupon I shall be at liberty to answer any questions. I should add that as soon as the will is read a copy shall be taken to the offices of the Warminster Miscellany for publication in tomorrow’s edition.’

  There were now, by Hervey’s more considered reckoning, upwards of five dozen people in the room, of various degrees and of both sexes. He found himself wondering if Daniel Coates’s estate could truly bear the evident expectations.

  ‘Very well.’ The attorney opened his portfolio and took out a single sheet of foolscap. ‘“I, Daniel Peter Coates of the Parish of Upton Scudamore, do by this my last Will and Testament give and bequeath to each man and woman in my employ the sum of twenty-five pounds, to my foreman William Costessey three hundred pounds and also to my housekeeper Anne Evans the same sum of three hundred pounds.”’

  There was a considerable buzz of surprise and appreciation. Hervey calculated that this munificence towards Daniel Coates’s labourers, servants and two most trusted employees amounted to at least two thousand pounds.

  ‘“The remainder of my estate, saving the items specified hereunder, and subject to the payment of my funeral expenses, and to fees for the due management of said estate, I leave in trust to the principal benefit of the Warminster workhouse, with the urgent wish that a proper school and infirmary be established therein.”’

  The acclamation was loud and long.

  At length Mr Simeon Tegg held up a hand. ‘“And I do further leave under the terms of said trust an annuity of five hundred pounds to the Reverend Mr Thomas Hervey and Mrs Hervey of Horningsham, for as long as one or other of them shall live.”’

  The buzz of surprise returned, but respectful.

  Mr Tegg paused only a moment. ‘“And to Major Matthew Hervey of His Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons I leave the sum of ten thousand pounds in trust for the purchase of a lieutenant-colonelcy in any of His Majesty’s corps, and to him also my horses and all their appurtenances, and all military chattels of which I die possessed, this being my most certain act of service to His Majesty, so confident as I am in the loyalty and capability of this officer.”’

  The noise in the room was as great as for the bequest to the workhouse. Hervey, though both astonished and exhilarated by the scale of the generosity, was nevertheless equally discomfited by its proclamation.

  His father laid a hand to his arm.

  The attorney again had to hold up a hand to restore silence. ‘“And I appoint the aforesaid Mr Thomas Hervey the executor of this my last Will and Testament, and to him the appointment of said trustees. Signed Daniel Coates, November 27, 1826.”’

  IV

  IN THE MIDST OF LIFE

  Later

  The shivering began on their way back to Horningsham. Hervey pulled his coat tighter about him, turning up the collar.

  ‘You are unwell, Matthew? It is not so cold.’

  Hervey knew it was not cold. ‘It will be nothing, Father. The beginnings of a spring chill, perhaps.’

  ‘I wonder you are scarce able to reason. I confess I am not. I had never imagined Daniel Coates planned such beneficence towards us. Indeed, I am wholly astonished that his fortune should permit of what we heard.’

  Hervey hid his hands in his pockets to conceal the trembling. ‘The attorney said there was twenty thousand in bonds alone.’

  ‘He asked me, of course, if I would be his executor, but I had no idea it might require so much in judgement.’

  ‘He evidently trusted you more than any man, Father, and with reason, I might say.’ He braced himself to master a vigorous spasm. ‘But you had best appoint the
trustees and let the board of guardians propose their plans for the workhouse. If I were you I’d make Elizabeth their chairman!’

  Archdeacon Hervey looked at his son warily. ‘That is by no means an idle suggestion.’

  ‘I did not intend it to be so, Father, I assure you.’

  ‘But I may remind you, Matthew, that Elizabeth’s duties in regard to Georgiana allow her little time already for her charity. You would not see her neglect the one for the other.’

  Hervey, huddled in the corner of the hack barouche as if it were midwinter, though he could feel his temperature rising by the minute, was certain of his reply. ‘I do not intend that Elizabeth has those duties for much longer, Father.’

  Archdeacon Hervey did not seem to hear; or if he did he did not question the intriguing notion that someone other than Elizabeth should have charge of Georgiana. ‘Matthew, are you sure you are not sickening for something? Perhaps we should see Dr Birch?’

  ‘No, Father; it will not be necessary. A chill, that is all. I’ll take a powder when we’re home.’

  By the time they reached Horningsham, however, the ‘chill’ had revealed itself unequivocally: fever, violent headache and muscular tiredness which, even transplanted from their tropical origins, were quite unmistakable. Hervey excused himself, explained that he would have to take his ease for several hours, and went to his room. There he scrambled in his small-pack, though he was sure there would be no quinine, for he had become careless of late since the remittent fever had not visited him these six months and more. There was not even any powder. He did not suffer from headaches as a rule, unless the wine had been bad, and he had become careless of this too. He took off his shoes, then his coat; he loosened his stock but took off no more, wrapped a travelling blanket around himself and got into his bed.

  The old long-case clock in the hall was striking six as he came to. He heard each chime distinctly, and then counted them back to be sure of the hour. But was it morning or evening? There was no other noise. He felt better, much better. The headache was gone, he was no longer shivering, and the pain in his chest was no more. He felt the sheets either side of him and thought it odd, for he did not remember … They were damp, as they had been in India. He did not mind, beyond the inconvenience to the household, for he had evidently sweated out the fever and what caused it. And the recurrence was by no means as frequent as that first year, when the foul air of the Avan jungle had poisoned his blood, and the bouts themselves were not as long (though they were little less violent). Perhaps his restoration to full health would be faster than the doctors in Calcutta had told him? He had always believed it would be.

  He sat up. His head swam a little. It was not surprising; it swam each time. But otherwise he felt in hale enough condition. He got up, swaying slightly, even having to steady himself on a bed post for an instant, then went to his window to see where the sun was. The day was overcast, however. He felt at his face: the stubble was thicker than an evening’s. He decided to put on his dressing gown and go to bring hot water from the kitchen.

  At the foot of the stairs he saw his sister.

  ‘Matthew! You are better. I thought you would sleep for ever!’

  He knew at once. It was as it had been in India in the early months: sleep, or delirium, a full cycle of day and night, without any sense of time’s passing. ‘I … I was thinking it only morning.’

  Elizabeth’s apparition was somehow troubling. The candles were not yet lit, but he could see well enough, and he saw a different Elizabeth. He had never thought of her in other than capable terms, his sister, always there, always knowing what to do, and never for herself. He had not observed the passing of the years, though he had been all too conscious of standing in the way of her prospects. But now he noticed how … grown to maturity she was. Gone were the ringlets; her face was that of a woman – not a young woman, by which he meant girlish, but a woman of consequence, handsome, secure, as if possessed of title or family. He wished for all his heart that it were so, for none was more deserving of it than she.

  By the same light, too, Elizabeth could see her brother’s pallor. ‘I’m not sure you should be up even now,’ she said, though without the tone that commanded him to return to bed. She knew her brother well enough to judge these things prudentially. ‘In any case, we’re not to dine until late; father is gone to Longleat. I’ll have Hannah draw your bath.’

  Hervey did not object to that.

  ‘And I shall fetch you tea. Go and sit by the fire.’

  He had no objection to sitting by the fire either, but the prospect of tea was somehow unappealing. ‘I think I shall have a glass of claret, Elizabeth. Is there any bread?’

  She nodded. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll bring it.’

  ‘Where is mother, and Georgiana?’

  ‘They’re both gone to Longleat too, though they went on foot. Lady Bath generally sees them of a Thursday if she’s at home. She sends them back in a carriage towards now.’

  Hervey inclined his head approvingly. It was good that Lady Bath saw fit to receive Georgiana, for although Henrietta had lived as one with the family, there were three Bath daughters, of whom one still was at Longleat.

  He sat by the fire. Whitehead had made it up well. It gave off a good heat and he was grateful of it, for he ran a temperature yet, and he knew that the shivers could come on again easily. In his condition he reacted excessively to cold air which as a rule would not trouble him.

  Elizabeth returned with a decanter, a loaf of bread and a jar of pork dripping. ‘The wine is very possibly fine, for I hadn’t the time to search for the everyday.’

  Hervey took a good taste, and smiled. ‘Very possibly. You had better not tell father!’

  ‘He’ll know right enough: Whitehead’s entering it in the cellar book this moment.’

  ‘Whitehead reads and writes, does he? I don’t ever recall it.’

  ‘Father had Mrs Strange instruct him. She said she never saw a man take to it so.’

  He took another good taste, and helped himself to bread and dripping.

  ‘He may not have Francis’s ways,’ explained Elizabeth, ‘but he’s a fine manservant. Papa is very fortunate.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt it, and I never said ought about his ways. I’ve always found him obliging in the extreme.’

  ‘And Georgiana likes him too. He’s very good with her.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. But see, you’ll have heard of the annuity that Daniel Coates bequeathed? Father ought now to be able to employ a lady’s maid.’

  Elizabeth looked uncertain. ‘He is very exercised by the size of Daniel Coates’s fortune. When he agreed to be executor he had no idea it would be to such an estate. The responsibility troubles him.’

  ‘I told him he should appoint you to be chairman of the trustees.’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘He told me. And I replied that I should have no objection. He also said that you had told him that you did not intend leaving Georgiana in our care for much longer.’

  Hervey looked awkward. ‘Ah. I had not meant it to sound so decided.’

  ‘How had you meant it to sound, Matthew? Either Georgiana remains with me or she goes to Hounslow with you. It is not difficult, is it? You have a governess in mind, I suppose?’

  He looked even more awkward. ‘A governess, yes, well … no, not really, not yet; but a governess there may be. I am not certain of the arrangements.’

  Elizabeth, who might have been put out, seemed instead vaguely amused by her brother’s faltering thoughts of taking up the paternal reins. ‘Perhaps you intend that Private Johnson does that duty, in between seeing to your uniforms and horses?’

  Hervey raised an eyebrow, thinking to add ‘And seeing to whatever it was that concerned the gentlemen from Bow Street!’ He recalled that he might have to exercise himself in that regard when he returned. ‘Georgiana would be happy enough with Johnson!’

  Elizabeth ignored the tease. ‘Well, I am ever at your disposal. And, as you say, Daniel C
oates’s bequest will enable Mama and Papa to employ a fuller establishment, so there would be no reason why I should not come to Hounslow with Georgiana. I imagine, too, that I might even be of help to you in respect of your duties in command?’

  Hervey had not considered this, and he chided himself. Elizabeth was not a woman of fashion, but she was by no means incapable of taking her place in any drawing room. She would indeed be of help; with a certain outlay, she would even be an adornment. But, command was temporary; he had no expectations of remaining at the head of the regiment beyond the season. Except, of course, that he now possessed the means of purchasing the lieutenant-colonelcy for himself.

  That reminded him. ‘I really must write post-haste to Lord George Irvine.’

  Elizabeth knew the business exactly. ‘Shall your colonel approve?’

  It was a good question. Hervey had every reason to believe he would. Lord George’s solicitude on his returning from Portugal, his immediate entrusting of acting command to him, spoke volumes. And, indeed, there were very nearly two decades’ association in peace and war. These were no mere things. But the lieutenant-colonelcy of a regiment of cavalry in peacetime was a much coveted prize. There would be no shortage of bidders.

  ‘I believe he will.’

  ‘And ten thousand shall be sufficient?’

  Hervey was pulled up short again, as ever, by Elizabeth’s percipience. There had been much speculation in the mess about the figure. Over time, officers had found more or less legal means to circumvent the regulations, and the price had crept up, whatever the Horse Guards said. Ten thousand ought to be plenty but rumour was that the Ninth had just gone for sixteen thousand, and if that were so then the Sixth could not cost very much less, and perhaps even more, since they were just returned from India and therefore enjoyed the prospect of long and agreeable service at home.