Man Of War

father had secured an invitation to visit the relicts of his family in the West Country. He was at once delighted and apprehensive, but he had been determined to detach himself from his friend – and his friend’s new wife – for a decent period following the wedding. ‘Everything is arranged: the mail to Exeter, and from there I shall be conveyed to Crediton by my aunt’s carriage.’

‘I must hope you will not be too pleasantly detained there: I shall count on your arriving at Walden on the fifteenth.’

‘On the ides proximo: depend upon it.’

‘I shall. And . . . may I say again, my good friend, how prodigiously grateful I am that you will escort my people tomorrow.’

‘There is no cause for gratitude. I am honoured.’

But there was most particular cause. Hervey knew full well that Elizabeth wished Baron Heinrici to be invited, for, as she had insisted ‘he is soon to be your brother-inlaw, Matthew’. The idea was, however, unsupportable. He had no clear notion of what had passed between Elizabeth and Peto at Greenwich, but he was certain yet that she would come to her senses before it was too late. Which was why he must make sure there was no impediment to her doing so, and Heinrici’s attending at Hanover Square would undoubtedly be such an impediment. Fairbrother had, without doubt, been the very model of tact in this: Hervey knew that he owed much to the good offices of his friend in ensuring sufficient harmony for the wedding to be celebrated with all due decorum . . . and happiness. He squeezed Fairbrother’s arm.

* * *

The Hervey family was, indeed, much engaged this morning. The archdeacon was to call on his old Oxford friend (and as sometime vicar of Bradford Peverell, fellow Sarum priest), the Bishop of London. Dr Howley was soon to be translated to Canterbury, and Archdeacon Hervey wished to present him with a copy of his new-published (at last) monograph on Laudian decorum, as well as his felicitations. Mrs Hervey was still of a mind that such a thing was perilous: ten years before, her husband had been threatened with the consistory court on account of ‘popish practices’, and she saw no occasion for raising suspicions once more. She had decided to forgo accompanying the archdeacon to Aldersgate on account of the necessity of finding a milliner selling ribbon appropriate to her needs, for which neither Warminster nor even Bath had apparently been satisfactory. Elizabeth had her own calls to pay. And so Hervey was able to take his daughter from their charge with universal contentment.

‘I thought that we would walk,’ he said as they left Grillon’s. ‘It’s a fine morning, and but a mile or so to our destination.’

‘Oh yes, Papa,’ replied Georgiana, taking his hand. ‘I would see all there is to see!’ It was her first time in London proper. ‘Where do we go?’

He had thought carefully how he might broach the matter. He did not know quite why he was so determined that she should see the painting before the wedding, before she would have a new mother (have a mother, indeed, for she had never known one). It was, he supposed, some sort of desire for – as Kezia herself might put it – an appropriate ‘cadence’.

They crossed Piccadilly at a brisk walk, Hervey tipping the sweeper a penny, thence propelling Georgiana to his left, inside, hand. ‘We are going to see a portrait of your late mama. It was begun before you were born, and I learned of it but a month ago. It is by Sir Thomas Lawrence, who is a very great painter.’

‘Oh Papa! Have you seen it? Is it like her?’

He felt Georgiana’s hand squeeze his, and knew the keenest relief at her evident joy. ‘I have, and it is the very image of her, just as she was before . . . before we were wed.’

Georgiana bubbled with questions – how large was the portrait, where had it been all these years, what did her mother wear, did she stand or sit? And then, as if the thought came suddenly to her, she paused for a moment, and her voice changed. ‘But Papa, does it make you sad to see her?’

He had never imagined such a question of her, for he had never imagined her grown to such sensibility. It fair took him aback, and he was momentarily at a loss to make any reply. ‘I am very glad that it is discovered,’ he said, resolutely.

Georgiana knew that her father’s answer was an evasion of sorts, but she would not press him, for the evasion answered for itself.

When they arrived at Russell Square – it took them all of three-quarters of an hour to get there through the throng of pedestrians, drovers and carriages in Soho – they were received by a footman with whom Hervey had become almost familiar. He took them at once to the viewing room, where the canvas stood upon an easel, and then withdrew.

Georgiana advanced on the portrait in silence, and cautiously, as if she were to be presented. She gazed only at the face, and for a long while. Hervey stood back, not wishing in any way to influence her reaction, hoping, indeed, that she might forget he were there, so that he might see her true opinion, and not merely of the portraitist but of his subject.

‘She has a very kind face,’ said Georgiana at length, admiringly. ‘And she looks very happy.’

Hervey had observed the same: all was revealed in the eyes, which sparkled exactly as he remembered. ‘Indeed. We were engaged to be married.’

‘And she is very beautiful.’

‘She is.’ He caught himself echoing Georgiana’s present tense, and resolved to correct it as he elaborated: ‘She was as beautiful as any I ever saw.’

Another long silence followed, in which Georgiana examined every aspect of the painting. And then she stepped back, as if to take in the whole once more. ‘But Lady Lankester is very beautiful too.’

Hervey swallowed. Georgiana’s capacity to surprise was disconcerting. ‘Indeed.’

She took two more paces back, and towards him. ‘And Lady Lankester is now to take Mama’s place. Aunt Elizabeth says that I am very fortunate to have such a mother.’

Hervey cleared his throat. ‘Fortunate . . . yes. But deserving also.’

‘What does Aunt Elizabeth think of the painting, Papa?’

Hervey’s insides twisted in the peculiar way they did when he was suddenly confronted with some dereliction: he had not even thought to tell Elizabeth of it, let alone to have her see it – and Henrietta had been her best friend. ‘I . . . I believe I wanted you to know of it first,’ he said, hopefully.

‘And Lady Lankester, does she know of it? Shall it come with us to Africa?’

‘I’m not yet resolved on that, my dear. It is, as I said, barely a month since I myself was first acquainted with the painting.’

‘I hope it does not make you sad, Papa. I know, of course, that I cannot feel the same as do you, because I never knew Mama, but we are now to begin a new life, are we not? We shall be together for the first time! I wish Aunt Elizabeth could be with us, but she will have her own family, new, just as ours. I hope she will be as happy as we shall be.’

Hervey was rendered speechless once more: he could not have spoken even if he had known what to say. ‘This is eloquence’, he marvelled, somewhere in his mind, echo of something he had read years ago and had forgotten what or where. This is eloquence. For Henrietta could be no more, and neither could their love, for ever now unrequited. Never could there be such love again. Yet be some sort of love there must – ay, and with it its compensations. For his family’s sake; for his own. Else he would find himself again as he was in that cell at Badajoz . . .

Presently, seeing Georgiana looking at him and not the painting, he took her hand, smiled at her, and led her from the room, unhurriedly but without speaking. Perhaps, now, the ghost was laid to rest. He could not quite tell what or how, but there was a change . . . Curiously, and possibly for the first time, he felt altogether composed for what the morning – the rest of his life – promised. He was, indeed, at peace.

XXII

AN HONOURABLE ESTATE