A Close Run Thing

intention; for, as if this were indeed a Trinity College tutorial, he now embarked on a summing-up which, if not exactly the denouement Hervey had been anticipating, in its way began to explain why these three men might share — more or less amicably — a table. ‘You see, Mr Hervey, it is wholly illusive to regard the troubles here as unbridled religious animosity. To begin with, the label “Catholic” is as misleading as is “Protestant”. Which Catholics, ask yourself always — the Normans, the Old English, the later recusants or the native Celts? Nor would you expect me to own that my church is Protestant — at least, that is, it is not akin to those dissenters who take it upon themselves to claim that mantle. No, the troubles here are at heart a conflict between an often weak and corrupt land-owning class and a peasantry in, for the most part, abject poverty. Indeed, it is almost a tyranny. The guilt of the landlords’ co-religionists is largely by association only. I am tarred with the same brush as the worst rackrenter simply because my faith is the same as his, although I am ashamed that he should pretend to the same, for, indeed, my church was conceived in Catholicism — but that is another matter. And O’Begley here is likewise suspected by the Ascendancy because he shares the declaratory faith of the most murderous Whiteboy, though he, too, would be appalled to share the altar rail with such a wretch. Understand this, Mr Hervey, and you may begin to serve the king wisely — God bless him.’

So scholarly and humane a summary deserved — to Hervey’s mind — a respectful silence by return, but he felt a greater need to make some acknowledgement, to express some appreciation of the erudition. Prompt and unqualified endorsement he thought wanting in aptness, however, so there was indeed a respectful silence while the three worthy historians sipped their port, eyes elsewhere but on him. ‘One more thing, Dr Verey,’ he enquired, after several sips of his own. ‘This “rackrenting” — what is it precisely?’

The canon looked at the doctor, who began by shaking his head. ‘Put very simply, Mr Hervey, it is the greed of the landlords — absentees often enough — in stretching the rents to the utmost value of the land. The tenant has no margin therefore either to improve his smallholding or to insure for a year when crops fail. The tenancies are for the most part on short leases, too, and when they expire the landlord jacks up the rent again, knowing the wretched tenant will agree to anything to avoid eviction.’

‘The problem is not always directly with the landlord,’ added Nugent, aspiring less than enthusiastically to some balance. ‘Those not resident rely on agents, many of whom are short-termers and downright unscrupulous. Some of the tenancies are in truth sub-lettings, too, the middlemen taking the marginal yield.’

There was another moment’s pause, and then Dr Verey made a minor prophecy. ‘You will come across its worst effects soon enough, Mr Hervey: families by the roadside evicted without a thought for their well-being, either physical or spiritual. And there is no Speenhamland system here: they will starve without the private charity of their neighbours — who will be in no condition to assist them — or that of their church, which has nothing. They will not seek or accept ours for the most part, either. Your own namesake, Lord Hervey, bishop of Derry — a distant relative, I understand — was assiduous in arguing the Catholics’ case, and indeed used much of his own wealth to improve their condition. He is fondly remembered still in those parts, but even he was able to effect only the most modest relief.’

‘A very distant relative,’ confirmed Hervey.

And finally Dr O’Begley added his advice — and with just a suggestion of warmth, it seemed to Hervey. ‘You must read a novel called Castle Rackrent. You may know of it? It is full of truth. Indeed, it should be, since it recounts the events on the neighbouring estates to the author’s father in County Longford at the turn of the century: Miss Maria Edgeworth is the author — a quite remarkable work for so young a lady. She has written more lately, and still it is the same.’

‘I now seem to have a veritable list of lady novelists,’ replied Hervey ruefully as they rose to begin their leave-taking.

Pulling the oil-lamp at his bedside closer in order to begin reading Castle Rackrent, which Dr Verey had pressed on him as he had left that same evening, Hervey felt a sense of purpose that had been wanting since Toulouse, a deficiency made worse by the confusion of feelings that was his attachment for Henrietta Lindsay. He desired keenly to understand this place, a country he was already beginning to think might be as alien as Spain or France. But another book had been pressed on him, too (on leaving Horningsham), and he had made a promise to read it sooner rather than later. He put down Miss Edgeworth’s novel and picked up Miss Austen’s instead, trying to remember which passage Henrietta had urged on him — something about Meryton, chapter six or seven? He opened the red-leather volume and began to read, though with little enthusiasm. It seemed full of talk of getting a rich husband (and Styles was certainly that), and a good deal of London, of St James’s (where he had observed as much that was vacuous as fine), and of superior society and the like, but nothing that suggested any explanation of her remarks at the henge. He began chapter seven, now yawning and struggling hard to keep his eyes from closing: he had had little enough sleep during the crossing, and Miss Austen’s was not a voice that commanded them to remain open.

And then he saw it. There, at the bottom of the first page, veritably leaping from the page! ‘They could talk of nothing but officers; and 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.’ He cursed himself for not having looked up the passage before. It was no riddle. Why had he not seen beyond the here-and-now when first he had heard those words? If Henrietta Lindsay were not apt to regard Styles as an officer — and, indeed, how could she? (it was plain to him now) — then the passage made perfect sense. True, the militia were no more or less soldiers than the yeomanry; but if she likened this Bingley and his large fortune to Styles and his large fortune, then the approving reference to an ensign (for she must be wholly sensible of the difference in name only from cornet?) must surely mean …

He sprang out of bed and took the lamp to the table where Johnson had laid his writing-case. Now was the time for resolute action. His earlier uncertainty, his vacillating, his downright incapability (the very contrary to what was, in his understanding, the essence of the cavalry spirit) — all this must be a thing of the past. He must make up ground. He had heard, as it were, hounds speak, or the sound of the guns: as both a sporting man and a soldier he knew he must gallop at once towards that music.

CHAPTER NINE. BEYOND THE PALE

4 September

At 6 a.m. a drummer began to beat reveille in the Fusiliers’ lines, echoing around the barrack squares so as to wake even Hervey in the next-door quarters. He stretched his arms wearily in the chair where he had spent half the night, his greatcloak falling from his shoulders to reveal one of the cotton shirts he had brought from the Peninsula. Around him on the floor lay crumpled sheets of writing paper, testament to his hard cross-country ride to rejoin hounds or to reach the field of battle. In front of him, on the desk, lay one sheet three-quarters filled by his careful handwriting. Only two clean sheets lay in reserve. When he had begun his bold dash, in the early hours, he had written freely, expressively, with some passion even. But when he had read that first draft he had been unhappy with its presumption and had taken a new sheet. Each subsequent draft had lost a little more in candour until, shortly before dawn, he had settled for something not unlike a dispatch from the Duke of Wellington’s headquarters. He had omitted any exegesis of Pride and Prejudice and had instead contented himself with inviting Henrietta to come and hunt with him and his brother officers. Picking up the pen, as the drummer finished with a long roll and emphatic tap, he signed the letter your humble servant.

An hour later he was in the stables telling Johnson he would take out Harkaway. ‘But a hunting saddle, not the Hungarian,’ he insisted, ‘and no shabracque, just a sheepskin.’

‘Right, sir,’ said Johnson in a resigned but reproving tone. ‘If t’adjutant were ’ere, though, there’d be words.’