A Regimental Affair

‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God,’ began the dean. He had said the words many times before, and yet always they seemed new and full of promise. ‘… To join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate…’

He enunciated the purposes for which marriage was ordained, and no one alleged or declared any impediment, when called upon to do so, why Hervey and Henrietta should not be joined together. Bride and groom answered clearly and distinctly when the dean asked of them both if they would honour their obligations to each other. Each of them spoke clearly and distinctly as they gave their troth to each other, Henrietta’s right hand in Hervey’s and then Hervey’s in Henrietta’s. And Hervey put the ring on the fourth finger of Henrietta’s left hand, as the Prayer Book required, and vowed with it to worship her with his body, and to endow her with all his worldly goods. They knelt, and the dean asked God’s blessing on them both, commanded that those whom God hath joined should no man put asunder, and then pronounced them man and wife together. And when Hervey lifted Henrietta’s veil, he marvelled equally at his fortune that this woman had indeed consented to be his wife.

There followed psalm one hundred and twenty-eight, Beati omnes — ‘… O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be’ — and the Lord’s Prayer, and others for general blessings and for fruitfulness in the procreation of children. Then all were bidden to sit to hear the homily on the duties of Man and Wife.

‘I do hope this is not to be a long affair,’ whispered the marquess audibly to Lady Bath. ‘These Oxford fellows can be mightily pleased with the sound of their own voice.’

John Keble, as he rose and moved to the middle of the extemporary chancel, gave no clue as to how long he would detain his congregation, nor, indeed, how engagingly. ‘Dearly beloved, in the preface to the form of solemnization of matrimony, the persons to be married are bidden to come into the body of the church with their friends and neighbours.’

The words, his voice, and his sublime aspect at once commanded unusual attention in a congregation enlivened by the host’s hospitality.

‘And this, Matthew Hervey and, now, Henrietta Hervey have done, for you indeed are their friends and neighbours. We need not dwell on the reasons for requiring that they should not come privily, save that those whom they love best, and who love them best, should bear witness to the mutual love that these two persons have for each other. Love, the last best gift of Heaven.’ He paused. ‘Above all, they witness before God to this love, this gift of Heaven, this heavenly grace, and they and we ask God’s blessing that, as Isaac and Rebecca lived faithfully together, so might they. Sustained by the prayers and society of you, their friends and neighbours, and by the grace of God, Matthew and Henrietta may hope fervently that they might live as Isaac and Rebecca, and that they might follow Christ’s commandment to love one another. Love, the last best gift of Heaven. Love, gentle, holy, pure. Amen.’

John Keble turned and knelt before the altar. Hervey took Henrietta’s hand. Neither bride nor groom could possibly know the range of sentiment for them in that chapel-room. For the most part it was that of friends and neighbours, young and old, who had watched or somehow shared their progress to adulthood and their consent now to be man and wife. In Hervey’s case, although his society was limited in comparison with Henrietta’s, the range of acquaintances which his profession admitted was much the greater. There were some in that congregation, like Mrs Strange, with feelings of obligation for a past kindness out of the run of the ordinary; some, like Private Johnson, would owe that daily life was infinitely the better for the command of their captain; one or two might even claim their very being here, rather than in the grave, was because of him; and there were some (perhaps no more than a dozen) who hardly knew either of them — officers of the Sixth happy to accept the customary invitation to see a fellow wed, including his commanding officer, whose duty it was to be there. It was impossible that John Keble’s address should touch each as strongly; but touch each in some way it did, if for nothing but its singular brevity and clarity — as well, perhaps, as for its challenge. The silence between its ending and the dean’s blessing and dismissal was memorable.

The service ended, the little orchestra began to play the ‘Triumphing Dance’ from Dido and Aeneas — the bride’s choice both for its purport and liveliness — and the congregation, led by Captain Matthew and Lady Henrietta Hervey, walked from the chapel-room between a file of carried sabres and into the great hall. There the band of the 6th Light Dragoons, high in the minstrels’ gallery, struck up the regiment’s quick march, ‘Young May Moon’, to the spontaneous applause of all the guests, who now mingled freely, or at least unseparated, to enjoy their host’s generosity once more. And only now did Henrietta feel an inclination to rue her idea of imitating all Princess Charlotte’s arrangements, for she realized how very detained they would be by so many well-wishers. Not that Hervey imagined any such feeling on his wife’s part. How might he, yet? He could only submit to duty once more, content with the thought that for Henrietta this must be the happiest time of the whole day.

It would be two hours and more before he came at last to understand the truth, the whole truth, of John Keble’s words of the day before.

It was indeed a glorious May moon that lit the guests’ way home that night — by foot, horse and carriage alike — and which shone a full three hours on Hervey and Henrietta in their marriage bed. And it was after midday that Hervey came down the great staircase of Longleat House, for the first time in his life. His slight feeling of awkwardness in his new status was made worse by the obvious cause of the lateness of the descent — Henrietta would be a full fifteen minutes behind him. He was doubly surprised, therefore, when the butler greeted him formally but with polite indifference, and astonished when he announced that Daniel Coates wished to see him as soon as might be possible.

Hervey sighed. On this, of all mornings, might not Daniel Coates allow him to be his own man — for right or for wrong? ‘He surely does not expect me to ride to Upton Scudamore?’

‘Oh no, sir. He is here, waiting,’ replied the butler.

‘In heaven’s name, for how long?’

The butler’s voice changed just a point to explain the propriety of Coates’s request. ‘Mr Coates has not been home this last evening, sir. At about one o’clock this morning — after you had retired, sir,’ (Hervey coloured a little) ‘he came up to me in — may I say, sir — a degree of agitation, and asked if I knew what were your and her ladyship’s plans in the coming days. I replied that I was not privy to them, sir. Mr Coates then said that he had to go to Bristol for several days in his magisterial capacity, and that he could not risk your leaving without his speaking with you.’

Hervey knew he would see him at once — of course he would. But he wanted to know all there was of it beforehand. ‘Did you not offer him paper, Thurlow?’

‘Indeed I did, sir, but Mr Coates said he could not possibly commit his business to paper.’

* * *

Ten minutes later, when they met together in the library, Coates bore an expression of great anxiety which was not helped by his evident lack of sleep.

‘My dear Dan, whatever is the matter?’ said Hervey, now genuinely concerned for the man who was in both senses his oldest friend.

Daniel Coates shook his head several times. ‘Your commanding officer — Lord Towcester…’

Hervey looked puzzled. ‘Yes, Dan? You met him last night?’

‘Not exactly; not as such,’ he replied, shaking his head again.

‘Well, what is it then?’ He laid a hand on Coates’s forearm.

‘He’s not… not… not right!’

By now Hervey was becoming exasperated. ‘Dan, to be frank, he’s to hardly anyone’s liking in the Sixth. And it’s only too clear to me why! As, doubtless, it was to you.’

‘No. It’s not just that. I’ve met ’im before.’

Hervey was about to try allaying what he judged to be a veteran’s anxiety, when the old soldier rallied. ‘In Holland. In ’99, with the Duke of York and Abercromby. I was an orderly dragoon at General Poole’s headquarters.’

Hervey began to listen intently, for he knew that tone well enough.

‘We’d landed on the Helder towards the end of August, and it was muddle as usual. But a few weeks later we were giving the French a trouncing at last, on the coast, at Bergen. There was a hell of a long skirmish with the French ’ussars, all along the dunes for half a dozen miles — pouring rain an’ all. It was mainly the Fifteenth and Eighteenth, but then the Twenty-third was thrown in, new-come from England. They went at it well enough, but