A Close Run Thing

too corpulent leader of men, to learn a little humility. ‘Very well, then,’ Hervey conceded.

Oh, to have Jessye, or Nero, or even a troop horse! But he knew this little gelding, though green, had a turn of speed, and he guessed that with a strong leg he would not shy at another horse bearing down. He wished he were wearing a shorter coat, not his father’s long grey one; but this, too, was beyond amendment, and he contented himself instead by shortening his stirrups two holes. One initiative he might take, however, was to find a sharp enough sword. He declined the first one offered and rode over instead to the only yeoman whose sabre had cut cleanly. Styles eyed him quizzically. The lieutenant of yeomanry may even have begun to have second thoughts as he himself rode to the other end of the gallop, two hundred yards distant. But there he drew his sword with an exaggerated flourish, and his chestnut thoroughbred, an entire, began prancing and snorting. The serjeant-major gave the signal, and Styles plunged forward, containing the charger in a steady canter only with difficulty.

Hervey was not without his difficulties, too, as his young horse began bucking, but he managed to get him back into his hands and thence to a goodish canter — and then gallop — and closed with the posts before Styles had even reached the check rails. But instead of running down the outside of his posts he went between them and the rails. Ignoring his own sheaves, and leaning far out of the saddle and stretching over the parallel rails, he sliced each of Styles’s cleanly with economical backhand cuts. At the end of the rails he turned the gelding on its quarters and, with Styles shouting after him incomprehensibly, galloped back down the line on the outside of the posts, slicing each of his own sheaves equally cleanly with neat backhand cuts to the nearside.

The troop’s acclamation was immediate but just as quickly silenced by Styles’s rage: ‘What the deuce d’ye think yer playing at! Who the deuce d’ye think ye are!’

Hervey, who made no reply, had not noticed one of the open carriages drive up to them, and nor had Styles, whose language was rapidly becoming that of the proverbial trooper. Its occupant, a young woman of obvious fashion, with dark tresses and large eyes the colour of the yeomanry’s mid-blue facings, knew exactly who Styles’s recruit was.

‘Hugo, this is Cornet Matthew Hervey of the Sixth Light Dragoons, just back from France,’ she said with some solemnity, but with the suggestion of a smile, too. ‘Have you not met?’

Hervey was taken aback, though he did not at first see the full import of that recognition. Poor Styles, he thought — not only distressed (humiliated was perhaps too strong a word) in front of his troop, but in front of a lady with whom evidently he had some connection. He could hardly take satisfaction in that.

Styles struggled visibly to bring his rage under control as he turned and saluted the carriage. ‘Good morning, Lady Henrietta,’ he spluttered, and, turning to Hervey, he bowed slightly: ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.’ But it carried no conviction.

Hervey was at once mortified by the discovery of who occupied the carriage. Much though he had contemplated the manner of his re-acquaintance with Henrietta Lindsay, he could never have imagined this. She would, he felt sure, think his display showy and vulgar, and would be angered by the discomposing of Styles. He raised his hat but could find no words, not even a commonplace greeting. He might not, indeed, have recognized her at any casual meeting, but a second or so’s study of her eyes left him in no doubt. His stomach heaved and his head swam.

But how had she recognized him?

‘Have you not read of Mr Hervey in the Miscellany?’ she asked Styles with what seemed mock surprise.

‘I have not seen the Miscellany yet,’ Styles replied coolly.

‘Why, indeed, it is printed this very morning, and up with the latest news. Here, let me read you a little.

‘“Matthew Hervey, Esquire, the only son of the Reverend Thomas Hervey, Vicar of Horningsham, has lately returned from the French war in which he has been nobly serving as a cornet in His Majesty’s 6th Light Dragoons. Mr Hervey accompanied his corps to Spain soon after the commencement of Lord Wellington’s campaign and has seen much fighting in the four years thence. It is understood that this gallant officer will remain in the district upon furlough for some two months before returning to the Dragoons who are to be garrisoned in Ireland.”’

Styles glowered, and Hervey shifted uneasily in the saddle.

‘And what do you think of our yeomanry’s appearance, Mr Hervey?’ she added.

‘Very fine, very fine indeed, madam,’ he replied. If she had chosen the word appearance in order to restore the wretched Styles’s self-esteem (and she had a look that said she might), then he did not wish to risk any discourtesy by a critical remark. In any case, his reply was honest enough if by appearance she meant only their fine uniforms.

‘And do you not agree with Miss Austen that there is nothing finer than the volunteers in their regimentals?’

‘I do not know Miss Austen, ma’am,’ replied Hervey, puzzled.

‘You do not know of Jane Austen?’ Her incredulity again had the ring of mock surprise. ‘Miss Austen is our foremost authoress,’ she explained, holding up a small volume. ‘Pride and Prejudice, Mr Hervey, published only recently. It tells of how the militia win the hearts of the ladies when they come into the district.’

Hervey confessed that neither had he heard of the title.

‘Upon my word, Mr Hervey! You are not so conceited a regular as to disdain the affairs of the volunteers?’ she chided.

‘No, madam,’ he stammered back, ‘not at all. I—’

‘Then, do permit me to read some,’ she interrupted. ‘Miss Austen is so keen an observer of human nature. Here, I have it.’ She leafed through several pages until a little smile of triumph overcame her. ‘I must first tell you, Mr Hervey, that the book’s heroines are five sisters of singular intellect and sensibility, but all are enraptured by the presence of the militia officers — just as our own yeomanry steal the hearts of all they meet. Now, here is what she writes: “They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr Bingley’s large fortune” — Mr Bingley is a coarse- bred sort, Mr Hervey, much given to show’ (she smiled, but her continuing irony eluded him — how was he to know Bingley’s true character? — and he presumed this to be some sort of rebuke) — ‘“Mr Bingley’s large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.”’

Hervey felt the deep water into which he had stumbled about to close over him. Here again was the mocking child of the schoolroom, of the fallen tree and the captured hat. The message was as clear as it might be: she indeed thought little of his show, and the yeomanry were as close as she chose to come to the profession of soldiering. ‘Forgive me, madam,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘but I must be away. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

Even as he spoke he thought the words absurd, but he was angry that she had enabled Styles, this pompous ass of an ornamental officer, to reinflate himself. But, more, he had made her re-acquaintance in such a manner as to appear both brash and artless. As he trotted away he knew they would be laughing, and great was his relief when, out of sight beyond the trees, he could spur into a gallop.

He stayed a long time in the stable rubbing the gelding down, cleaning saddlery, filling hay-racks — anything, in fact, which might distract his thoughts from the encounter in the park. It was a full hour before he felt ready to go inside. ‘Matthew,’ began his sister the moment he did, and with the air of someone about to impart good news, ‘we are to dine with Lord Bath this evening.’

‘Oh!’ he replied — groaned almost — as he thought what must come next.

‘Matthew, I am astounded! Do you not wish to see the marquess after so long away?’ ‘Yes … of course … I …’ he stammered.

‘But do you not realize that Henrietta Lindsay will be there also? And there is to be another officer, too — well, from the yeomanry, that is.’

Hervey groaned even louder. ‘Elizabeth, I must needs recount the events of the morning: they are not propitious.’

No, not at all propitious, for it occurred to him that Henrietta Lindsay must have known in the park of this invitation, and she had played him as a cat’s-paw.