Hervey 08 - Company Of Spears

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Great heavens,’ growled Peto, holding it to the light. ‘There’s more crossed out than in! One soup, is there no fish?’

  ‘’Fraid not, sir,’ said the waiter, matter of fact. ‘We’s been uncommon busy tonight, sir; on account of the—’

  ‘Not even oysters?’

  ‘I can ask M’seur Franswar, sir.’

  ‘And who is he?’ asked Peto, suspiciously.

  ‘He is the new French cook, sir. Came on Monday.’

  ‘I’d be obliged. Good and devilled, if he will.’ He looked at his friend. ‘Yours, Hervey?’

  Hervey had been studying the list – not that the alternatives before him required great concentration, except that the excisions were of the French dishes that Monsieur Francois had evidently introduced that very week. ‘Well, there is nothing for it but the vermicelly soup, and then the oysters, if there are any, and then the snipe pie, I think: it was good the last time I had it.’

  Peto frowned. ‘I think it must be extraordinarily old snipe. Oh, very well. I had hoped for something more choice, but…’

  ‘You may have a beefsteak, of course, sir, or a chop.’

  Peto shook his head. ‘Have the wine steward come, if you will.’

  ‘There’s a very serviceable burgundy,’ tried Hervey.

  ‘I am pleased for it, but if your regimen tomorrow will permit, I should prefer we take something more robust.’

  Hervey nodded. If his old friend wished to fortify himself in anticipation of their lordships’ laying him up, then he had no objection to claret.

  ‘Damnable business, beached like some dismasted man o’ war, and at two-score years. Damnable. I applied to Hardy, you know, when I heard he was for Portugal.’

  Lord Nelson’s flag captain commanded the naval force which had accompanied the army to Lisbon. Hervey would rather not have been reminded, but he decided to make light of it. ‘It was one of my several regrets that I never met him there. I think you would have been well to have been with him, for they’re bound to see action. The Miguelites are pushing hard again, I read. He had no opening for you?’

  ‘No, though he said he’d remember me to Blackwood, who’s to have the Nore.’

  The butler came with his list. Peto assumed command, taking it and holding it to the light as if intent on studying every word.

  ‘If you will permit me, sir…’

  ‘I’m always glad of advice from someone who knows his cellar,’ replied Peto, now turning through the hocks and the burgundies until he found what he was looking for. ‘Is Ho Bryan ready?’

  ‘Oh, yes indeed, sir, very fine. Lord Exmouth and Sir Philip Broke have just taken a second bottle over there.’ He indicated a table at the further end of the room.

  Peto looked with suitable reverence, and closed the list. ‘I can’t want for better recommendation.’ ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Frigate men, Hervey,’ he said as the butler withdrew. ‘Swift and bold. None better!’

  ‘Broke of the Shannon, is that?’

  ‘Ay,’ replied Peto, maintaining his watch and making no bones about it. ‘I wonder what brings them up?’

  ‘Do they serve still?’

  Peto turned back to his friend. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Though neither has an active command. Broke must be close to his flag: he’s been post-captain a long time. He was damnably wounded taking the Chesapeake. I wonder if that’s why he dines with Exmouth?’

  Hervey knew how hard it must go with Peto, seeing a man promoted when he himself faced the Half-Pay List, albeit Broke was a captain older and much the senior.

  The soup arrived, fortuitously, and a bottle, requiring Peto’s close attention.

  He tried it, sucking the wine noisily across his tongue. ‘It is passable,’ he said gravely. ‘Though I would keep it another year. Open a second, if you will.’

  When the waiter and the butler were gone, Peto gazed long again at Admiral the Viscount Exmouth and Captain Sir Philip Broke, as if they might reveal something of his own situation. Then frowning, intrigued, but with evident determination, he turned back to his old friend.

  ‘Imagine they are come with the sole intention of enjoying a good dinner,’ suggested Hervey, smiling.

  Peto frowned even more. ‘I shall try.’ Then he resolved to hoist his spirits, and emptied his glass. ‘But you must tell me more of your prospects. How are your people?’

  Hervey picked up a spoon and began stirring his soup. ‘They are very well, all.’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘Elizabeth especially.’

  ‘And Georgiana?’

  ‘Georgiana is very well. I intend she comes to live with me at Hounslow.’

  Peto looked genuinely engaged by this news. ‘Indeed? That is very agreeable. And as it should be.’ He seemed then to hesitate. ‘And your sister shall come to live with you too?’

  ‘No,’ said Hervey, drawing out the word as if thinking it over. ‘Not for any length of time, to be exact. The truth is, Peto…’

  ‘Yes?’

  He hesitated again. ‘The truth is … I intend marrying.’

  His friend’s mouth fell open. ‘You have said nothing of this! Who?’

  ‘You do not know her. Lady Lankester, my late commanding officer’s widow.’

  ‘Great heavens!’ boomed Peto, turning a dozen heads in their direction. ‘A widow!’

  Hervey winced. ‘My dear fellow, your discretion if you will! I have not yet proposed!’

  ‘Bah! A widow? She’ll not turn you down!’

  ‘She is of independent means.’

  ‘Of course she is. I’d never take you for a fool!’

  Now Hervey frowned. ‘She has a child too, not yet one year.’

  ‘And evidently therefore of proper maternal sentiment.’

  ‘Just so.’

  Peto looked long at his old friend. ‘Tell me, Hervey: you love this woman?’

  ‘Peto!’

  ‘Come, man: mayn’t we speak of these things?’

  ‘I … do not yet … that is to say I … have not yet had opportunity to form so deep an attachment.’

  ‘You have met the woman?’

  ‘Of course I’ve met her! We met in Calcutta after Sir Ivo Lankester was killed at Bhurtpore.’

  ‘And how many times since?’

  Hervey shifted awkwardly in his chair. ‘Just the once. But—’

  ‘Well, if it’s a mother for Georgiana you’re looking for…’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Peto; it’s not only that. She’s a fine woman, a handsome woman – very handsome, indeed.’

  ‘More handsome than Lady Katherine Greville?’

  Hervey glanced anxiously at the ears still inclined in their direction. ‘What is Katherine Greville to do with it?’

  ‘You ask me?’

  ‘You know very well the circumstances.’

  ‘Indeed I do, as does, I suspect, half this dinner room, though they might not put face to the name.’

  Hervey shifted even more awkwardly. ‘I do wish you would lower your voice.’

  ‘Well, I consider it a double occasion for celebration! You will be lieutenant-colonel, and with a rich and beautiful widow at your side. I envy you; I truly envy you.’

  This latter was said in a tone of some fervour. And Hervey – for all that both occasions for congratulations were yet but aspiration – felt the true extent of his old friend’s melancholy.

  * * *

  Hervey had instructed the coachman to return to the United Service Club at eleven o’clock so that he could be back in Hounslow by one. Several times during the evening he had wondered if instead he might go to Holland Park; his letter to Kat of the day before said he would call as soon as he was able, uncertain as he was when that might be on account of being summoned to the aid of the civil power. There were matters about which he must speak with her. One matter, rather. It was insupportable that he should press his suit with Kezia Lankester while continuing to call at Holland Park. He must make a cle
an breast of things, and at once; certainly before travelling to Gloucestershire. That was what he could do this evening at Holland Park.

  Except that it was late. Kat kept late hours, it was true. The trouble was … the affair of Waltham Abbey, the uncertainty of getting the regiment, the offer of command at the Cape, the manly dinner: there would inevitably be but one purpose in calling at Holland

  Park…

  He climbed into the chaise, not speaking. ‘Hounslow, Major Hervey?’ asked the coachman, holding open the door.

  Hervey sighed. ‘Hounslow, Peter; quick as you can.’

  X

  THE SERPENT’S COILS

  Gloucestershire, three days later

  Sezincote was the strangest house that Hervey had ever seen. It resembled the Pavilion at Brighton, with its Moghul turrets and tracery, its dome and peacock-tail arches, and yet it was very evidently a gentleman’s house rather than a place of entertainment. The grounds called to mind the abundant gardens of the governor-general’s residence in Calcutta, with all manner of plants patently not native to the country. On the balustrades of an ornamental bridge over a stream that watered the ‘paradise garden’ were little statues of Brahmin bulls – Nandi, ‘the happy one’ – and at a remove from the house itself stood Sir Charles Cockerell’s bedroom, an octagon fashioned like a rajah’s tent, tall poles supporting a canopy, and arch-windows, and a chattri – a minaret – in the centre. All was of local stone, but dyed yellow in the fashion of the native houses of Rajasthan. Yet within was as classical as any of the fashionable houses of not-so-distant Bath – ‘Greek revival’, as Somervile tersely dismissed it. Twenty years before Hervey had first set foot on the Madras beach (Somervile told him) Colonel John Cockerell, the present owner’s brother, had returned from Bengal and bought the house from the Earl of Guildford to be near his friend Warren Hastings. On his death the house had passed to his youngest brother, who had been with him in Bengal, first as an official of the Company, later as a founder of the most successful of the Calcutta agency houses established to handle the affairs of Englishmen in India. Now Charles Cockerell was Sir Charles, denizen of Messrs Paxton, Cockerell and Trail of Austin Friars in the City – and member of parliament for Evesham.

  ‘Wellington’s brother got him the baronetcy,’ explained Somervile, not entirely unkindly, as a footman unpacked Hervey’s valises. ‘I am very glad you could come. Cockerell’s is not a bad ear to have.’

  ‘Was it he who had the house Indianized, or his brother?’

  ‘It was he. Another brother was the architect, with the Daniells. And Repton, I think, did the garden.’

  ‘I liked it very much, after first overcoming my surprise.’

  ‘The King visited, when he was Prince of Wales, which is why he decided on his pleasure dome in Brighton, apparently.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Hervey, staring rather absently from a window towards the formal water gardens. ‘I look forward to taking a good turn about the grounds tomorrow.’ He turned sharply, as if steeling himself. ‘What is the order for this evening?’

  ‘A small party, I understand. Last night was rather a formal, parliamentary business, though not disagreeable. Your affair of the gunpowder was all the talk. I wish I had known it was your affair. You must tell me all of it later. I was vastly diverted by the notion of Westminster’s being blown to the skies.’

  Hervey looked at him, with a frowning challenge.

  ‘Diverted by the thought that so many could imagine it possible. But we’re in Tory country now, to be sure. As well not try saying “Catholic”, Hervey. “Papist” is preferred among the gentry. They would have feted you last night, had they known.’

  Hervey shrugged. ‘That is as well. I should be loath to disabuse them and mistreat Sir Charles’s hospitality.’

  Somervile smiled conspiratorially. ‘Oh, and I should say: there’s music again, but Lady C has dismissed the band which entertained us so agreeably last night, and the party’s to provide it instead. You’ll not be expected to perform, though; not on your first night here. Emma and I have something, and your Lady Lankester.’

  Hervey frowned again. ‘Somervile, she is not my Lady Lankester.’

  ‘Ah, then you have had second thoughts?’

  ‘Not at all, only that it’s a presumption to speak that way. I rather think I should not have said anything now. It was ungallant.’

  Somervile threw an orange at him hard. ‘Oh, perfect knight!’

  Hervey fumbled the catch.

  ‘Hands not what they were, Major Hervey?’

  ‘They are quite safe, I assure you.’

  Somervile rose. ‘Come down at once when you’re dressed to meet our host. It’s a pity you did not arrive a little earlier: Emma and your lady were teaing together in the orangery – rather a useful kala jugga, I should have thought.’

  Somervile was being frivolous, Hervey knew full well, but Somervile’s frivolity was invariably laced with substantial intent. What the substance was this time, he could not be sure: but he would have need of a kala jugga – a secluded place – at some moment in the party. He most certainly hoped he would.

  ‘And that dog of hers!’

  ‘Dog?’ said Hervey, as if this would mean some recalculation. ‘I did not know there was a dog.’

  ‘If you could call it that. An Italian greyhound.’

  ‘I think them delightful!’

  ‘Then you had better go to it, for it bit me.’

  Hervey laughed. ‘It sensed an unadoring presence perhaps?’

  ‘Mm. Shall you wear regimentals this evening?’ ‘I had not thought to. Would it be remiss?’ ‘It is a private party. But our host might deem it a courtesy.’

  No one seemed to be out much in regimentals in London, Hervey remarked, but the country was always a late follower of fashion. ‘Very well.’

  ‘No doubt it will serve your purpose, too. What female heart can withstand a red coat?’

  ‘Somervile, you read too many novels! And my coat is blue, not red.’

  ‘It is metaphorically red. And I was quoting from the Edinburgh Review, or are Whiggish journals beneath you?’ He took his copy from the pocket of his coat. ‘I at once resolved to save it for you when I saw it: “What female heart can withstand a red coat? I think this should be part of female education. As boys have the rocking horse to accustom them to ride, I would have military dolls in the nursery, to harden their hearts against officers and red coats.”’

  ‘Who writes such nonsense?’

  ‘Hervey, my dear fellow, I could have written it myself! But we know that Lady Lankester must not have had military dolls in the nursery to harden her heart against red coats – though I should like to know what it would take to raise that heart’s temperature above freezing!’

  With some force Hervey threw back the orange (which his friend caught deftly with one hand). ‘Somervile! I wonder that you asked her to accompany you at all with so low an opinion of her.’

  ‘Not low, my dear Hervey, not low. Her temperature is of no concern to me.’

  The acquaintance between the Somerviles and Kezia Lankester had begun firmly and happily in Calcutta, and after the death of Sir Ivo, Emma and her husband had stood not as mere friends but in loco familiae. Hervey understood this full well. What sense of obligation rather than true affection maintained their acquaintance now he did not know, but in truth it mattered not. That acquaintance had propelled the woman he was to ask to be his wife into circumstances that might otherwise have taken an age to contrive. The initiative was now his alone, however.

  A hot bath had been drawn for him, which, after the early start and the clatter down from Hounslow, Hervey found welcome and restoring. He dressed in his levee coat, with white knee-breeches (trousers might be considered rather careless in such a place, even though Somervile had said they would be a small party), and descended to join his host and Lady Cockerell, and such of the small party that were assembled already.

  ‘I read the Bhurtpore dispatch
es,’ said Sir Charles Cockerell, extending a hand. ‘You captured that wretch Durjan Sal!’

  ‘I did, Sir Charles. He was bolting the place like a manged fox.’

  ‘And you saw off that desperate business the other night in Hertfordshire.’

  ‘I would not have called it desperate, sir: I’m afraid it was a rather feeble affair.’

  Sir Charles looked doubtful. But there were other introductions to make: Lady Cockerell, considerably younger than her husband’s seventy-odd years, a woman of fashion, with an easy smile in contrast with her husband’s cold aspect and manner; there was the vicar of the parish of Sezincote, an urbane man perhaps five years older than Hervey, and his wife, the Honourable Mrs Castle.

  ‘Lady Lankester you know of course.’

  Hervey turned. He had not seen her enter the room. She no longer wore demi-mourning, but instead a ball dress of embroidered net over cream satin, the décolleté distinct but modest. He was more taken by her appearance than he had somehow expected, and almost caught his breath. ‘Of course,’ he said, bowing.

  Kezia Lankester curtsied, rather formally. ‘Major Hervey, what a pleasure to see you again.’ She smiled, but – he imagined it – perhaps rather distantly.

  He sought too urgently to make reply. ‘And a great pleasure for me, Lady Lankester—’

  She had turned already to the Reverend and the Honourable Mrs Castle.

  But Hervey’s discomfort was soon relieved by the arrival of two local squires, one of them a baronet, both of them ten years at least his senior, together with their wives and the baronet’s daughter and her betrothed. The squires were short and stocky, the untitled one perfectly round-faced and with a good many broken blood vessels. They were by no means mere floggers of the shire bench, however, and in the course of the evening would reveal a fair breadth of thinking, not viscerally against Reform, and sympathetic (if cautiously) to Catholic Emancipation. Both had served loyally in the militia during the French wars and were interested in Hervey’s thoughts on military retrenchment. Their wives, however, would prove not so diverting, but since they seemed to prefer the company of the Reverend Mr Castle this would not trouble Hervey unduly. The betrothed daughter was, he estimated, not yet twenty. Besides a perfect complexion, some prettiness and good teeth, she had no conversation, nor little else to recommend her. What might pass momentarily as sparkle was, he discovered, mere silliness, although he would later chide himself for such a harsh judgement of one so young. Except that Henrietta had been her age when…