Hervey 08 - Company Of Spears

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey began shaking his head. ‘I don’t understand why Johnson didn’t say anything to me. After all this time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t fret if I was you, sir; he wouldn’t say ought to me either.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Hervey thought better of it. He knew it was a conceit ever to suppose he might have gained so completely the trust of a private man, however much they had shared their lives in the twelve years past. But, no, Johnson was different. He was not merely a private man – not any more, not in essentials. ‘Well,’ he said, and heavily, ‘we shall have to deal with Johnson’s delinquency in due course. Where is Captain Snagge now?’

  ‘He accompanied the detectors to Bow-street last night,’ replied the adjutant.

  Hervey nodded. There was some propriety in the sound of that at least; it would not have done for there to have been any sort of ‘scene’ in barracks. ‘I despair that it is ever those officers from the ranks – Barrow in Calcutta, and now Snagge.’

  Armstrong braced.

  Hervey saw the look, and cursed himself for his crassness. ‘I’m sorry, Sarn’t-major; that was ill-judged.’

  ‘And with respect, sir, incorrect.’

  ‘Yes, incorrect.’

  Had the adjutant not been present they might have had a robust exchange on this punctilio, for Hervey thought he could reasonably claim that while the ‘gentlemen’ officers were capable of dereliction of duty and all sorts of vice, pecuniary misdemeanour was not one of them – not in the Sixth at least.

  ‘So it’s Johnson in the clear, sir. He’ll give King’s evidence, and the Revenue will not prefer charges. We ourselves could, of course, charge him with disobeying a lawful command; he failed to divulge the facts of the affair when instructed to do so.’

  Hervey permitted himself the wryest of smiles as he recalled the words of the Mutiny Act. ‘“And every person so offending in any of the matters before-mentioned shall suffer death.” That would certainly put the fear of God in him!’

  ‘“Or such other punishment as by a Court-martial shall be inflicted,”’added Vanneck, intending to carry the exchange swiftly towards the material issue. ‘I think the sarn’t-major shall be able to inflict sufficient restrictions of privileges, sir. May I direct you towards the question of Captain Snagge? He has admitted everything; that much is to his credit. And I took from him before he left a letter of resignation. Unless you are strongly of a mind to refuse the resignation on the grounds that it might be seen as attempting to avoid court martial, I suggest the business can be done with Greenwood and Cox quite expeditiously.’

  Greenwood and Cox, the regimental agents, through whom all things could be arranged – at a price. Hervey could see the advantage of an expeditious selling-out, not least the (partial) avoidance of scandal. But there was another advantage, and rather more to his liking. Hervey had no intention of leaving any matter for the new lieutenant-colonel that he could reasonably attend to himself. For one thing it would be a discourtesy to delay decisions unnecessarily; for another it would be equally discourteous to overwhelm a man with matters for resolution on his arrival. Above all, if things were to be done the Sixth’s way it was better that he, Hervey, put things in hand at once. He had heard nothing but good of Lord Holderness, but the unhappy memory – albeit a decade ago – of a lieutenant-colonel intent on changing things was never wholly out of mind.

  ‘Well, there is a silver lining in this otherwise black cloud. There will now be a vacancy in the rank of captain, which means in turn there will be a vacancy for lieutenant and thence cornet – a vacancy for Mr Hairsine.’

  It meant also a vacancy for Vanneck, if Vanneck had the money, which Hervey knew he certainly did have. And it might hasten the promotion of Armstrong. But whereas Vanneck’s captaincy was a mere matter of financial procedure Armstrong’s promotion to regimental serjeant-major was a matter for executive decision. Rightly the decision could not be Hervey’s own, not now that he had received word of a new lieutenant-colonel. But as acting commanding officer, and soon to be Lord Holderness’s second in command, his opinion in the matter would undoubtedly be the deciding one.

  ‘Mr Vanneck, be so good, would you, as to allow me words with the sarn’t-major’ (Hervey was surprised to hear himself using the definite article, implying that already Armstrong was RSM). ‘And then I would have words with you directly, before I leave for the Horse Guards.’

  The adjutant withdrew, and Hervey sat down again. ‘You are the senior serjeant-major, Geordie. As soon as Mr Hairsine is commissioned you shall take the crown. But I should add that it will be subject of course to a new commanding officer’s approval, though I see no reason why that should be withheld.’

  Armstrong was silent for a while. Though he was partly overcome by his own astonishing fortune, he recognized the implication in the words ‘new commanding officer’. When he spoke it was in a lowered voice. ‘Ay, sir, thank you. I never much thought it could come, what with America, and leaving an’ all; but if it did, I always hoped it’d be you as colonel.’

  Hervey cleared his throat. ‘Well, I have not told even the adjutant yet, but I’m afraid it is not to be, at least not for the present.’ And then he smiled. ‘Just make sure you keep that crown on your arm until it is!’

  ‘Oh ay, sir. Don’t you worry on that account.’

  ‘Very well. Give me your hand.’

  When Armstrong was gone, Hervey took up his pen. He had two expresses to write. The first was to Eyre Somervile. He wrote quickly. He said, quite simply, that he wished to take up the commission at the Cape. The second express was his reply to Elizabeth’s – a letter which on second reading he found more touching in its expression of their tie than ever he would have imagined.

  Hounslow,

  27th March 1827.

  My dearest Sister,

  I do not think that anything you might have written me could have given such cause for pleasure. I am delighted for you to the very depths of my being, for you know I owe you more than I could ever repay, and can now at least rejoice that a man I so fervently admire shall bring you happiness where I have for so long stood in its way. And if I give a very imperfect account of those feelings of joy here, it is solely on account of the expressman’s attending and my knowing the urgency in which my reply is held by you.

  But Fortune favours us greatly, my dear Elizabeth, for not only are you to be married, but I also. Lady Lankester – Kezia Lankester – widow of Sir Ivo, has accepted my own offer. She has a daughter, not yet one year old, and I believe Georgiana will therefore be as completely happy in this as can I. I do not know when the marriage shall take place, for much depends on a commission abroad, which Eyre Somervile has asked me to undertake with him…

  He wrote a few more lines, largely repeating his joy at Elizabeth’s news and assuring her that his own arrangements stood in perfect accord with her own, then laid down his pen with considerable relief. It was a letter he had found strangely difficult to compose, and not merely for knowing the expressman waited. At a stroke Elizabeth’s news removed a burden of guilt he had begun to feel was intolerable. Besides her own happiness, therefore, he had much to be thankful for, which in no small measure served as balm to the wound of Lord George’s letter. How often he and his brother officers had spoken – and with black humour – of the fortunes of war; yet here the fortunes of peace were no less outrageous. In the space of but a few minutes his family circumstances were radically recast, and his military horizons transferred from Hounslow Heath to the wide Karoo. He would be lieutenant-colonel, at least, albeit in another uniform, and he had the satisfaction of seeing Hairsine on the brink of commissioning and Armstrong stepping into his shoes. These were mixed fortunes indeed. And, he had to remind himself, they were still to be safely decided. He must waste no time in thinking what might have been: he had to fashion the details of what now remained as his fortune.

  XII

  AN UNDERSTANDING

  That evening

  ‘Major Hervey, m’lady.�
��

  Hervey entered the drawing room like a man arraigned before a court martial. He saw Kat rise, and the smile light her face as if she were a delighted child.

  Lady Katherine Greville was but a month or so from her forty-third birthday. Hervey did not know her age precisely. Indeed there were very few clues to her seniority, and he would never have supposed it had not Sir Peregrine Greville himself been a man of – to his mind – advanced years, silvery and bald, paunchy and ponderous (though a kind man by all accounts); and had not Kat, too, from time to time hinted at worldly knowledge that came with a certain maturity. It did not trouble him in the least to know she was older than he. Most assuredly not when she appeared as she did now, for her looks and her figure would have made a woman half her age envious. But there lay something of a problem, for although Kezia Lankester was not exactly half Kat’s age, she was undoubtedly close to it. He would not, of course, tell Kat this – why would there be need? – but she might suspect; she would certainly question him; she might even discover for herself.

  ‘Matthew, at last you are come!’ She embraced him unselfconsciously, even before the footman was able to close the doors of her sitting room. ‘Have you dined? Shall you stay? Where have you been?’

  Hervey found himself unable to answer any of her questions with candour. ‘We have had much to do in Hounslow,’ he tried.

  ‘Indeed? You have always found the drive here and back an easy one,’ she said, raising her eyebrows just enough to convey her meaning.

  Hervey cleared his throat. ‘I—’

  ‘You have a chill or something, Matthew? Let me get you a little brandy.’

  She pulled for the footman before Hervey could protest. He really had no intention of prolonging the call; to do so would be, to his mind, ungentlemanlike.

  ‘Kat, I—’

  The doors opened. ‘M’lady?’

  ‘I believe Major Hervey will have some brandy, Charles.’

  Hervey bowed. He knew he should have refused – but how? Now he would have to wait until the footman returned before he could come to the point of his call; and it would be twice as difficult to get to that point with every minute that passed.

  ‘Sit down, Matthew,’ insisted Kat, indicating the place next to her rather than the settee opposite, to which he was mentally heading.

  He did as she bid him. Kat placed a hand on his. He pulled away, glancing at the doors.

  ‘My dear Matthew, are you quite well? Whatever is the matter?’

  The footman brought him brandy, and a glass for Kat too.

  Hervey took an unusually large sip of his. ‘Kat, I … I really don’t know how … that is…’

  She looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. She took his hand again, although he had tried to withdraw it to safety. ‘Tell me.’

  He sighed, heavily. ‘Oh, Kat.’

  She began stroking his hand. He did not pull away. It was the last thing he wanted to do. ‘What is it, sweetest?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Kat, I have asked Lady Lankester to marry me, and she has accepted.’

  Kat stiffened as if by an electric shock. Her hand grasped his the harder, and the colour went from her face. ‘Who is Lady Lankester?’ she asked, in almost a whisper.

  Hervey screwed up his courage once more. ‘She is the widow of my former commanding officer in India.’

  ‘How very convenient for all,’ she said icily, letting loose his hand and folding hers in her lap.

  He said nothing.

  ‘And when did this … development occur?’

  ‘Kat, I—’

  ‘Oh, do not be squeamish, Matthew. I would know the worst.’

  He placed a hand on hers. ‘Kat, I … I have not been…’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Matthew? That the business has entirely come about since last we met, all of a week ago?’

  ‘Ahm, in a manner of speaking, yes.’

  ‘Great heavens! Then what do you know of her? That she can take charge of the camp followers, and give orders to servants in Hindoostani!’

  ‘Kat, I—’

  ‘The widow of your erstwhile commanding officer, you say? How old is she, Matthew?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know.’

  ‘Well, imagine. Is she older than I?’

  ‘No-o.’

  ‘Younger?’

  ‘I … suppose.’

  ‘Very much younger?’

  ‘Kat, what has this—’

  ‘Are you intending to breed from her? Is that your design, Matthew? Bear you a son and heir, will she?’

  He cleared his throat again. ‘She has a child, a daughter.’

  Kat pulled her hand free. ‘Ah, so now I understand. Do you love her, Matthew?’

  ‘Kat, that is not—’

  ‘I don’t care one jot what it’s not. If you loved her you would confess it at once, and with the greatest pleasure!’

  He drained his glass. Kat immediately pulled the bell cord.

  ‘Major Hervey has want of more brandy, Charles.’

  Hervey did not gainsay her. Indeed, he said nothing.

  Nor did Kat for some time, not until the footman had brought more brandy.

  ‘Have you dined, or not?’

  Hervey shook his head. ‘In truth, Kat, I’m not hungry.’

  She pulled the bell cord again. When the footman returned she said simply, ‘Major Hervey and I will supper in half an hour, Charles.’ She turned back to Hervey. ‘Did you come by hack?’

  ‘No, by the regiment’s chariot. Corporal Denny is waiting.’

  She turned again to the footman. ‘Charles, please see to Major Hervey’s driver and horses. They may all stay here the night. It’s too drear out to be driving back to Hounslow.’

  ‘But, Kat,’ protested Hervey, glancing at the footman, ‘I’m staying at my club. I go to the Horse Guards tomorrow.’

  ‘Then that is all the more reason to stay here.’ She nodded to her footman, who bowed and closed the doors behind him.

  They rode out together the following morning. It was a frosted, quiet world, no one much about the market gardens or the green lanes of Chelsea, the carting traffic light, a mist on the Thames so that they could not see the south bank, and the cold air suppressing the worst stink of the laystalls. At the Royal Hospital, Hervey raised his hat to two pensioners marching in perfect step together, though each man had a wooden leg. This was Kat’s regular route of exercise; he knew it from many a morning. She took her exercise seriously, believing it to be in some measure a preserver of her youth. She knew women younger than she who were quite immobile. And they, poor souls, could not expect therefore to enjoy the company of any but men equally immobile.

  Kat liked nothing better than the company of vigorous men, men in scarlet coats, men who would pay her attention rather than each other in their preoccupation with affairs of state, or of sport. Sir Peregrine was an undemanding, even accommodating, husband. She had once, in a heady, unguarded moment, thought she would leave him and live with her lover, but she had come to her senses in the double realization that she could no more forgo the luxury of Holland Park than could her lover throw up his regiment to live with her. And, lying awake in the early hours of this morning, her lover asleep beside her, content, she had concluded that there was no reason why the arrangement should not continue, with but the simple modification in her lover’s marital status. Providing, of course, he would not be so insensitive as to fall in love with his bride (she knew perfectly well that that was not his present condition, and neither could it be his betrothed’s). She must therefore find out what sort of woman was Lady Lankester. She could not expect to meet her very soon, but she had sufficient means of gathering intelligence on the gentry of Hertfordshire. She might even make a beginning this morning, and here, as they walked alongside the Physic Garden.

  ‘Matthew, dearest, one thing intrigues me about Lady Lankester – by the way, what is her name? You have not said.’ (As he had not said a lot of things, she
felt like adding.)

  Hervey changed hands with the whip as he came up on the offside of Kat’s mare, having at last got the young gelding round a hay-cart athwart the road. ‘Kezia.’

  ‘Heavens!’ She kicked herself: it really wouldn’t do to make any disparaging comment, no matter how provoked. ‘What I wanted to ask, what intrigued me, is why did Lady Lankester – Kezia – why did she accept at once when the acquaintance was so slight? Oh, don’t mistake me, Matthew: I can think of no reason why any woman should not at once accept an offer of marriage from you—’

  ‘Kat, really, you—’

  ‘No, Matthew, I do not jest. You are a most eligible man.’ She would not add ‘except in fortune’, for she did not wish him bruised at this stage. ‘But widowhood with a good name and adequate means would be a very respectable situation for her. Was she, do you know, predisposed to affection towards you; had she a tendresse?

  Hervey sighed, inwardly. It was a question he had asked himself; but that was very different from discussing the matter with Kat. ‘In truth, I don’t think I can say, except that perhaps Kezia Lankester is a woman of very decided … spirit. She went out to India with Sir Ivo, after all.’

  ‘I would have travelled to India had you asked me, Matthew.’

  ‘Kat!’

  She loosed the reins a little, giving the mare a chance to stretch her neck after the collection of the previous half-hour. ‘You do not suppose she wishes to become colonel’s wife once more? I know what a powerful hold the prospect of command has for a man; does it, I wonder, extend to the female of the species?’

  ‘Really, Kat, that is quite outrageous! I never thought it for a moment.’

  ‘And she will not know, yet, of your disappointment in that regard.’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘Then we suppose that we do not in truth know why Lady Lankester accepted. “Le Coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connattpoint.”’

  Hervey smiled. ‘Bonnes “Pensees”.’