would not tell him that she imagined only this) but the necessity of proceeding on that possibility gave their parting a fateful edge that all but overcame him. It was not possible for a man – a man with a soul – to see even native eyes which looked so loving, and not be touched deep. In truth, Hervey had come to love her, too, in a certain way. It was not a love which fulfilled all his needs; their minds, so differently schooled, could never wholly meet, but there was a tenderness that could make him content, for a time. He saw that period of contentment, however, only as time that stood still, not the sharing of life's time.
It was of no consequence, however. He had long known that he could only have shared life's time with Henrietta, and it mattered not how or with whom he shared time that stood still, for it was a wholly different property. As the sun began to sink in the direction to which his duty called, he rose from beside her to bathe. He was certain of one thing: he had not the will, and certainly not the heart, to sever himself from her now. It would take the lawful command of a superior to accomplish that – a return to England, alone or with the regiment. Yet did he have the desire and the will even to comply with such an order? Why should she not accompany him home?
That twisting ache which came in his vitals in such moments of apprehension hauled him back to the truth – that here in Hindoostan he might live largely as he pleased, but that in England (above all in Wiltshire) he must live as he was expected. All the Christian charity of his family combined could not accept an Indian paramour, let alone a wife. And beyond his immediate family – Henrietta's guardians and the gentry of those parts – such a thing could signal only that Hervey had announced his intention to withdraw from all society. He might even come to know what his late friend Shelley had called 'social hatred'.
Would that matter to him? As he lay in her arms he had imagined not. But now, as he sponged the cold water over his shoulders, he knew that he would always hark back – no matter how infrequently – to the earlier, sober days, and that it would begin eating at the heart of the arrangement. And his career? He would have to forgo it. Any arrangement with a native girl, except in a native station, was insupportable. Perhaps he might implicate Georgiana, to appoint his bibi as ayah to her? But what passed as a decent and honourable association in India would in England look no better than the slave-owner visiting the cabins of an evening.
As they embraced at their parting, Hervey was in more than half a mind to seek a commission in the Company's forces, to make his home here, to see how long he could make time stand still, until events resolved his troubles. In the army's hands lay the Company's honour and prestige. If Hervey's bibi understood this, how much more did Somervile. The King's honour, indeed, now rested in the balance at Bhurtpore, and there were some in the great houses of Calcutta – those connected with the native powers especially – who would say that the very presence of the British in India was at stake, that in Combermere's hands lay the course of history.
'There is much to speak of, Hervey,' said Somervile, welcoming him at the door of No. 3, Fort William. 'Send for all your necessaries and rest the night here. A good dinner's the very least the council might provide before you go and pay their rent for the next hundred years.'
Hervey needed no inducement to stay with the Somerviles, for besides the unflagging pleasure he took in their company he had no agreeable alternative. He could not return to the bibi khana having said his farewell, the officers' mess was at this moment being readied to lumber in a score of yakhdans and bullock carts in the direction of Agra, and his own bungalow was once again shuttered and draped with dust sheets.
Emma joined them, the ayah with her, babe in arms.
For a moment Hervey saw something – the timeless vision of mother and child, perhaps – that reached deep into his own void. And his godson – a contented baby, swaddled with affection, a child that would grow to manhood sure of its nurture. Mother and child seemed somehow to rebuke him. 'I had a mind to stay here when the Sixth is recalled,' he said, absently.
Emma read that mind, and thought better of questioning it.
Her husband was less nimble. 'Be sure to take six months' home leave beforehand, mark. It would be perilous to chance the marriage stakes on the angels who come out here.'
Serious advice, well-meant as ever – if blunt: Hervey could not take offence. 'Perhaps I shall,' he said, vaguely; and then, in a tone suggesting his true thoughts, 'and I should want to know how my own offspring fares.'
Emma sensed the danger. She nodded to her ayah. 'Mehrbani, Vaneeta.'
The ayah bowed and smiled back, and took the child to the nursery. 'When do you leave, Matthew?'
Hervey, whose eyes had followed the child from the room, turned attentively to his hostess. 'I, er… tomorrow. At first light. By budgerow as far as Agra. Johnson is there with the horses.'
Somervile uncorked a bottle of champagne noisily. 'Damned carriers! They must have trotted every case for a mile and more. I had a bottle blow up in my hand last week.'
Hervey smiled. 'A perilous position you occupy these days, Somervile!'
'I wouldn't trade it for a safer one, I assure you.'
Looking now at the third in council of the Bengal presidency, with his thinning hair and spreading paunch, it was difficult to imagine the defiant defender of the civil lines twenty years ago when the Madras army was in one of its periodic foments, or a decade later the angered collector going at the gallop, pistol in hand, for the Pindaree despoilers of one of 'his' villages. Hervey knew of the first by hearsay, but he had witnessed the latter himself, and he had not the slightest doubt that, after all due allowance for the increasing effects of gravity and claret, there was no one he would rather serve with on campaign than Eyre Somervile. The erstwhile collector looked an unlikely man of action, but man of action he was, at least in his counsels, as well as being a fine judge of men, of horses, of the country, and above all of its people. No, Eyre Somervile did not seek safe billets.
'I am of the opinion that it will not be a safe place inside Bhurtpore. There's a fair battering train and good many sepoys,' said Hervey airily.
'Tell me of it.' Somervile handed him a glass after Emma.
Hervey at once retailed the order of battle, including the line number of the Company's regiments. He had fixed them in his mind as if the printed orders were in front of him – a happy knack, and one he had found could endure indefinitely if he recollected the picture once or twice a day. Emma, by her eyes, expressed her admiration.
Hervey's exposition lasted the whole of Somervile's glass. 'There was a deal of speculation in the drawing rooms as to his capability when first the news of his appointment reached here' said the third in council when his friend had finished. 'You know it's tattled what passed when Wellington proposed it to the Duke of York? The grand old man's supposed to have protested Combermere was a fool, to which Wellington's supposed to have replied, 'Yes, but he can still take Bhurtpore.'' Hervey frowned.
'You're right, no doubt,' said Somervile, though by no means contrite. 'We all know the respect Combermere's held in from Peninsula days, but now he's no longer subordinate, and it is not for him only to implement the design of the commander-in-chief. The design must now be his own.' Hervey merely raised an eyebrow.
'So we must trust in Wellington's faith,' continued Somervile blithely. 'And I certainly take it as a mark of Combermere's capability that he should seek out the opinion of a junior officer. How was he, by the way?'
'Cool, thoughtful. He listens very attentively, and reads too, it would seem. He had read all there was about the last siege.'
Somervile nodded with satisfaction. He liked a thoughtful commander. He considered it the prime military as well as manly virtue. But he had his fears still. 'I would wish that he knew something of India, though. The bones of a host of Englishmen and sepoys are piled in those walls, and Lake was a general of much practice. They've stood as succour to every malcontent and freebooter who thought he could tweak the tail of the Company or chew off a bit of the bone – look at how the Jhauts have rallied to that murdering usurper just because he dares hoist his colours in the place! There must be no possibility of defeat this time, Hervey. If Combermere does not take Bhurtpore, then we may as well recall Campbell and his army from Ava and hand in the keys to Fort William!'
Hervey sipped at his champagne, judging that no answer was required.
'By my reckoning there are not so many engineers,' said Somervile suddenly, and looking puzzled. 'I should have thought the requirement in a siege was for more of these, even at the expense of your own gallant arm.'
Hervey sat up again. 'I had thought the same. But it seems the engineers can't drive tunnels far enough. And Durjan Sal will have a host of cavalry to hold at bay.'
'Has Combermere good interpreters? He must have someone who is fluent in Persian as well as others for the native languages.'
It was a detail Hervey had not missed, for the officer was an old friend. 'Captain Macan, from the Sixteenth Lancers. Do you know him?'
Somervile nodded contentedly. 'Yes indeed. A most able linguist.' 'Then I regret the position appears filled.' Somervile saw the tease. 'Believe me, Hervey, if I thought it was safe to leave Calcutta for one hour without
