A Regimental Affair

‘For it would be contrary to all Christian doctrine,’ explained John Keble, ‘to imagine — as did the Gnostics — that the body is the enemy of the spiritual life.’ Henrietta listened as before. She had not the slightest notion of who the Gnostics were, but her instincts were true enough. Hervey had known who the Gnostics were, and what their heresy was, but had forgotten, and he drifted off into recollection of his Shrewsbury divinity. Indeed, he would have languished there an age had not John Keble’s discourse suddenly taken an unusually frank turn. Henrietta’s eyes lit, at last, as the young priest began speaking with perfect candour of the growth in love that came with its physical consummation. Hervey did not see her eyes, for he was avoiding them intently, wondering how a man so recently ordained priest, so unworldly a man, could speak of this so assuredly.

‘So let me conclude with Scripture,’ said Keble at length, and rather to Hervey’s relief. ‘Not St Paul, this time, but from the Old Testament — from the Song of Solomon.’

Hervey glanced at Henrietta. She touched his hand for an instant, telling him at once she understood all, perfectly.

‘As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters,’ began John Keble.

Henrietta smiled so happily that he paused, very deliberately.

‘As the apple among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.’

She smiled wide again. Her neck, where the demure single string of pearls circled it, became red in vivid patches, and her eyes grew larger.

‘He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.’

Hervey at last turned full to Henrietta. She looked more desirable than at any time he had seen her, and he ceded his thoughts to all that the words aroused.

The day of the marriage between Captain Matthew Paulinus Hervey, bachelor of the parish of Horningsham, and of Lady Henrietta Charlotte Anne Wharton Lindsay, spinster of the parish of Longbridge Deverill (as the banns had lately declaimed them), passed slowly at first — all too slowly, they would both agree — until, from about three in the afternoon, the time began to pass twice as quickly as it ought.

And so, though he had made his preparations with meticulous care, the bridegroom found himself hastening to fasten the knee buttons of his regimental court dress as Lord John Howard, his supporter, looked anxiously at his watch. They got into the carriage a full fifteen minutes later than Hervey had planned, risking being caught behind others in the darkening lanes, but the driver earned himself a sovereign by taking his team at a canter the length of Horningsham and the park drive, arriving three minutes before the time Hervey had first intended. The groom was therefore content once more as they stepped down.

It had not been his idea to wear uniform. A sombre coat would have been his preference, but Prince Leopold had worn his uniform at Carlton House, and so Henrietta had wished her affianced to do the same. Lord John Howard wore the selfsame uniform (albeit a brand new set) in which he had first appeared at the vicarage two years before. The memory of that unhappy business — when the lieutenant of foot guards had come with the mistaken orders for his arrest — crowded Hervey for an instant when, as then, they had got into the carriage. But all that had been put from his mind by the gallop to Longleat, and they stood now as if friends of long years.

Longleat House was lit inside and out as he had never seen it before. The music of a string orchestra could be heard even above the talk of the seventy privileged guests who had just been treated to a dinner of immense refinement in the great dining room, and, indeed, of nearly the same number of only marginally less privileged guests who filled the Tudor hall: the yeomen and tenants of the village, those who had nursed bride or groom to adulthood, and the NCOs of the Sixth who would form their guard of honour. Roast pork filled their plates, and hops their glasses if burgundy was not to their liking. And both parties, separate and content, were now beginning to rise to make their way to the grand state room, where they would bear witness to the marriage vows.

At one end of that elegant room was a velvet-covered altar, just as at Carlton House, with chapel ornaments brought from Longbridge Deverill, including two handsome candlesticks six feet high. A little string orchestra played Purcell airs as the principal wedding guests began to find their places in the ranks of gilded chairs, and at the rear the yeoman and tenants assembled, though in a more respectful hush — fine worsteds and cottons to the silks and satins in front. Hervey, quite composed, took his seat with his family. He had managed to exchange a few words with the NCOs as they took post along the wall at the back of the state room, and he was much gratified that their turnout was as fine as he had seen, perhaps finer; testimony to his troop serjeant-major’s authority, or else (dare he imagine?) to that mutual respect which was the regiment at its best. Serjeant Armstrong’s hessians were so mirror-like that Hervey thought he must have shuffled every step of the way to prevent their cracking across the instep.

The Dean of Hereford, flanked by John Keble, entered quietly through a side door, and together they took their sedilia. Shortly afterwards the marquess’s butler, the master of ceremonies, gave a discreet nod, and Hervey left his place and went out to meet his bride.

Hervey knew that a bride on her wedding day was transfigured. Legend had it so, as well as village lore. But Henrietta’s transfiguration was beyond anything he had imagined, for beneath the veil her features had an ethereal quality — her eyes, hair and complexion luminous. Her dress was exquisite, and he stood before her quite unable to express anything but utter admiration, and silently at that.

‘Sir! A button!’ snapped Private Johnson suddenly, having stationed himself with his customary prescience. ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ he said to Henrietta, pulling his captain aside into the little ante-room off the hall.

Henrietta smiled warmly at so faithful a servant, and turned to her bridesmaids. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said, with perfect composure, ‘I have never been so sure of anything or anyone than at this moment.’ It was true that her bridegroom had perhaps never appeared to her more dashing in his regimentals than now, for levee dress set off everything in appearance about Matthew Hervey that a woman might admire. But more than that, she knew the uniform signified a strength and a constancy on which she might, with utmost certainty, rely. This ceremony might show Longleat at its finest, and witness to the great affection in which she was held by its lord, but she would quit it gladly for the complete affection with which Matthew Hervey would honour her, and would follow the trumpet for that love, no matter what its calls and privations. And she hoped he might soon trust in that.

‘Is tha all right, Cap’n ’Ervey?’ asked Johnson, pushing the needle once more into the stiffened cloth of the tunic collar to secure the idle button. ‘Tha looks like tha’s seen a ghost.’

Hervey looked at his groom incomprehendingly. ‘What?’

‘Tha’s miles away, sir!’

He had indeed been miles away. He had visited things years past, in his mind; all the way back to that first encounter with the little girl who had never been far from his thoughts ever since, deny them though he so often had. He smiled, the colour now coming back to his face. ‘I saw quite a few ghosts, Johnson. But they don’t trouble me any more.’

‘Eh, sir?’

‘Never mind. Is that button fast yet?’

‘It is.’ Johnson knotted the thread, bit off the ends and fastened the collar up again.

Hervey clapped him on the arm, grinned his thanks and took his place at Henrietta’s side.

‘Are we ready, Matthew?’ She smiled at him full again.

This time he returned the smile — and with interest. He nodded to the master of ceremonies, who signalled to a footman, and the little string orchestra began the march from Alceste to which Hervey, his bride and her retinue would process to the altar.

The seamstresses of Bath, whom Henrietta had long thought superior to those of London, had made so faithful a replica of Princess Charlotte’s wedding dress that it might have been supposed she wore the original. Except that Charlotte’s figure stood in unhappy comparison with Henrietta’s, and the removal of several yards of the silver cloth would not have been possible without destroying the overall effect. Layer upon layer of the costly fabric was sewn with silver thread, and embroidered at the borders with patterns of shells and bouquets. It was cut full below the high bodice, and while the original had — as many sadly observed — emphasized Charlotte’s corpulence, this Bath replica served only to present Henrietta’s figure in all its elegance. Somehow too, its frills, lace trimmings and garlands of diamonds wholly became her, rather than drawing attention away from her fine eyes and captivating face (under its wreath of rosebuds, leaves and brilliants). Princess Charlotte had graciously given Henrietta leave to imitate her; to flatter her, indeed, by such imitation. But there were several in the assembly that evening who said how providential it was that the royal pregnancy kept Charlotte from Longleat now.