A Call to Arms

farmer in our parts in Wiltshire who used to be a general’s trumpeter many years ago, and he and Matthew will ride all day on the downs spying out the land.’

Shelley had observed the deeper change too, having had heed of it at the first meeting with Peto. ‘I own to very great pleasure in your brother’s company, Miss Hervey, but his true heart is always elsewhere. And I do not mean that it grieves the while for his lost love. Does that seem cruel?’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘I do not think that any of us can say what is his heart or his mind, nor Matthew himself even, for there is such a confusion of sentiment. But painful though it is to say it, I am of the opinion that Matthew could only be free of his slough of despond if he were to put on uniform again.’

‘Yes. I do agree. If a man quits the circumstances of his pain he only ever leaves the pain distant. Your brother, I judge, is hero enough to fight the demons on their own ground.’

Before their first meeting, every evangelical instinct in Elizabeth had tended to being appalled by Shelley. Yet now she considered him a true friend. Indeed, at their first meeting his very appearance and air had captivated her. She wondered how it might have been had they all met in Wiltshire, and then concluded that since such a thing was unthinkable, it was also pointless to imagine. ‘He has received two letters, you know, asking that he would return to his regiment. But he will not entertain it. They are for India; that is half of the problem, I’m sure.’

‘Then why cannot he go to another regiment that is not for the Indies? There are plenty about the shires alarming honest folk.’

‘But that would not be the same at all, Mr Shelley,’ replied Elizabeth, ignoring his barb. ‘His attachment is to his regiment, not to any uniform. He would feel it a betrayal in any circumstances, let alone these.’

‘Then I very much fear, Miss Hervey, that your brother will cease to be a pilgrim, in any sense. And I am very sorry for him.’

At Signora Dionigi’s that evening they dined formally, a la russe, on account, said Shelley beforehand, of the presence of an English duchess. They were twenty at table, and Hervey was pleased to be seated at the furthest end from the lady (they did not sit promiscuously), for she seemed to eye him with a look that might have been disapproval. She had arrived late, after the signora had given up hope of her attending and they had taken their places, and there had been no introductions. Hervey could not imagine what offence he might have given her, and had first supposed that she mistook him for Shelley, except that the latter had then begun to speak of her in terms that indicated they were congenially acquainted.

‘Do you not know the family?’ asked Shelley when Hervey had confided his discomfort.

‘Not really. I know the present duke, whom I suppose this lady must be stepmother to, but I only knew him after he had succeeded to the title.’ In truth he would rather speak of other things, for the Devonshire acquaintance, distant though it was, brought only painful thoughts.

‘She married the late duke only a little time before he died. She is a very generous patroness of letters. You should be kind to her.’ Shelley smiled, as if suggesting something faintly disreputable.

Conversation then became difficult because of a noisy troupe of mandolin-players, gaudily dressed and exuberant, in curious contrast to the formality hitherto. They put Hervey in mind of the feast at Chintalpore, when the hijdas had brought the dignity of the palace banquet to a raucous end.

‘Napolitani,’ boomed Peto from across the table. ‘We had ’em aboard my ship a week or so past. Not these, but dressed the same. Hands mocked them something terrible to begin with, then they played so well they wouldn’t let ’em leave.’

A sudden fermata left the commodore’s words exposed, and heads turned his way. Hervey smiled, for Peto seemed not to notice. ‘I recall your being fond enough of music to engage an orchestra for the Nisus.’

Shelley looked interested. ‘Music calms the seaman’s savage breast, does it, Commodore?’

Peto saw no irony in the proposition. Nor in truth did Shelley intend any. ‘You should come and see for yourself, sir. A squadron of frigates in Naples Bay is a sight to stir any heart, let alone a poet’s.’

Shelley looked tempted, but there was an objection. ‘I have affairs overdue in the north, I’m afraid, else I should very much like to see them. We passed some months in Naples last year, and the bay was empty the while.’

‘I should certainly like to see them,’ said Hervey, the mandolins’ crescendo forcing him to raise his voice a little. ‘How long shall you be there?’

Peto consciously lowered his voice. ‘A month, probably. We are waiting on some American frigates, and then together we shall make a sortie against the Barbary pirates.’

Hervey was all attention. When last they had spoken, Peto had despaired of ever getting command of a seventy-four, let alone of a squadron of frigates with their guns run out. ‘Do they offend us?’

‘It seems they do very much, especially the Americans. The Barbary states have made grave depredations on their merchantmen these past few years. Did you know we bombarded Algiers together while you and I were in India?’

Hervey did not. ‘Shall you do so again?’

‘We shall stand ready to, but our actions will be directed on the ships themselves. I hope to cut out a good many.’

And that would bring a further small fortune for Commodore Peto, mused Hervey. ‘I half wish I were coming with you!’

Peto frowned. ‘Half wishing’s no good to me, Hervey!’

Hervey was cut, and could make no reply for the moment. It was made all the worse by the mandolins’ unexpected finale. But he was saved by the signora, who stood and invited the duchess to take coffee on the balcony of her drawing room.

The little procession of ladies left the men to their cigars, although Hervey himself declined his, disheartened still by Peto’s reproof: was Peto — unconsciously at least — impatient of him now that his life was no longer mortgaged in the King’s service? Hervey was, as Shelley would have put it, very dull in the ensuing conversation.

When they rejoined their hostess, it was for her to present each of them to her principal guest. She was a handsome woman, the Duchess of Devonshire: not yet sixty, Hervey supposed, and time had not been at all unkind to her.

‘And this is Captain Hervey, Duchess,’ said the signora, in English, ‘although I regret that he prefers to be called plain “mister”. I tell him that here in Italy it will not do, that every man has rank or title, or both. But he will not oblige me.’

The signora’s happy prating did not induce the duchess to smile. She continued as at dinner to eye Hervey in an altogether unnerving manner. ‘Hervey?’ She pronounced the ‘e’ as if it were an ‘a’. ‘Are you family?’

Dull though his spirits may have been, Hervey was quick enough to make the connection, and he rallied. ‘So distantly, ma’am, that you had never known of mine.’

The duchess looked at him quizzically. ‘I did hear tell of a Hervey who married a Lindsay — Thynne’s ward. Indeed, I once met her, at my sister’s in Bath. That would not be you?’

A sick feeling came on him. Only his mind seemed to remain whole. ‘Henrietta Lindsay was my late wife, ma’am. She died but a year ago.’

The duchess’s expression changed to one of dismay. ‘My dear, dear boy: how perfectly dreadful. Had I but known … ’

‘Mr Hervey, had I known too …’ added the signora.

But Hervey stayed both their protestations. ‘I have not been inclined to speak of it. There is no reason for your distress.’

The duchess took his arm and led him a little to one side. ‘Was there issue, my dear?’

Hervey told her. ‘She is called Georgiana.’

The duchess smiled. ‘A good Devonshire name.’

‘Just so,’ he nodded, managing a little of a smile, but not seeing Shelley’s more knowing one. ‘Indeed, a godmother is Lady Camilla Cavendish.’

The duchess nodded. ‘We were not close, I’m afraid. The duke died but three years after we were married. Not as cruel a severing as yours, Mr Hervey, and at our time of life these things are to be expected. But …’

Hervey put his hand to hers. There was no saying that the pain of such things was any the less with the