eroded by the sights and stinks of Calcutta.
‘So which o’ t’brothers is t’wrong’n, sir? Tha were gooin to tell me but tha never did.’
Hervey thought he had explained everything before leaving Hounslow. But it was a twisted affair, he would admit, and the details curious. ‘That depends on how you wish to view it,’ he said, determined not to oversimplify the business. ‘I told you that the old king of Portugal lived in Brazil, because that is where the royal family fled when Bonaparte first took Lisbon. And when he died earlier this year his elder son Dom Pedro succeeded him, but he wanted to stay in Brazil and be emperor there, so he abdicated in favour of his daughter – who’s the same age as Georgiana – and said there would be a constitution.’
‘What’s a constitution?’
Hervey was inclined to sigh, not least because he did not know the exact details of what it was that Dom Pedro proposed, and it was a fair question since the word scarcely had much currency either in India or at home. ‘I believe it would allow for there to be more power given to the Cortes – the parliament – and such like. But the point is that Dom Pedro’s brother, Miguel, believes the throne should be his, and that he should have absolute power and not be governed by parliament. And his supporters, among which, it seems, are to be found many army officers, are threatening to overthrow the infanta. Is that clear enough?’
‘Like in Bhurtpore.’
‘Very like in Bhurtpore. Some of the regiments have defected to Dom Miguel and crossed the border into Spain, and the Spaniards are giving them money and powder, and the Portuguese regent – a princess, by the way – fears an invasion soon, perhaps even with Spanish troops. That is what the British ambassador believes also, and that is why we are here – to see what a British force might be able to do to avert such a thing. It would be civil war otherwise, and that would be an invitation for all sorts of meddling. By Spain and France I mean.’
Hervey put down his hairbrushes, pleased with his exposition of a not uncomplicated question.
Johnson handed him a white lawn shirt. ‘So we’re for Pedro an’ ’is daughter?’
‘Yes, though there’s many in England who aren’t.’
‘What’s ’is daughter called?’
Hervey thought a moment. ‘It quite escapes me. I shall recall it later, or else ask at the legation. If I ever get there.’ He pulled the shirt over his head and began fastening the buttons. ‘You know,’ he began again, nodding to the coat, ‘I do so dislike those new-pattern epaulettes. They’re absurdly large. I’ll look like Tiddy Doll.’
Johnson said nothing. He held no view other than that they required more cleaning. ‘And you want me to take that stuff to yon nunnery?’ he asked instead, holding up the coat.
Hervey slipped on the tunic and began fastening the buttons. ‘If you would. I promised Major Strickland I would deliver it the instant I arrived. Corporal Wainwright may go with you if you both have a mind. Where is the letter by the way?’
‘It’s wi’ t’money.’
‘Very well. The place is called Poor Syon House. Engage a carriage; they are sure to know where it is – not far, I believe. And inform Miss Strickland I will visit in due course to tell her of her brother, and to take any letters for him when the time comes to leave.’
‘Right. Do they talk English?’
Hervey blinked. ‘They
‘Well, tha never said. Why are they ’ere?’
‘I imagine it’s an agreeable place to be. Why shouldn’t they be here?’ He fastened the top button of the bib- front and pulled the points of his shirt proud of the collar.
‘I mean, why wouldn’t they want to be ’ome – in England?’
Hervey considered the implications of the question for a few seconds. His groom’s deficiency in English history was hardly to be deprecated, given the meanness of his upbringing, but his nescience could still surprise. He replied, kindly, ‘Because, Johnson, they are not allowed. They may come home as they please, of course, but not in their robes. There are no nunneries in England.’
Johnson frowned. ‘That’s not right.’
Hervey smiled at the expression of simple humanity. ‘No, I don’t think it is either. But what’s past is past.’
Johnson was at once fired with determination to deliver the packages without delay, his small but defiant gesture of solidarity with these ill-treated exiles.
Although his levee dress was otherwise elegant and understated, Hervey did indeed feel like Tiddy Doll when he was introduced to the charge d’affaires of His Britannic Majesty’s embassy to His Late and Faithful Majesty King John VI, and presently to Her Serene Highness the Senhora Infanta Regent.
‘Major Hervey is to attend to the questions of horses,’ said Colonel Norris.
And, thought Hervey, Norris said it just a shade loftily, as if he were some sort of military ostler. He bowed and took his leave so as to let Norris introduce the others.
The reception was an agreeable and instructive affair, however, not in the least giving an impression of a city on the eve of war, though there were uniforms aplenty. Hervey wished his field coat had been more presentable (he had flatly refused to have it altered, saving himself several guineas in the process), for he could have worn it instead and not felt so . . . got up. The trouble was, he reckoned, the further removed the French war became, the less sense there was of what was most serviceable on campaign. Already some of the hussar regiments were wearing impossibly tight overalls and short jackets. The Portuguese officers present looked subdued in their regimentals by comparison, and it was well known that the dons, be they Spanish
Hervey took a glass of punch and studied the scene closer, and especially the two dozen or so officers on the other side of the room. They did indeed look handy. In truth, they looked to him the image of the Portuguese army that Britain had dressed and trained a decade and a half before. The King’s Lusitanians, they had sometimes been called – and affectionately, too, for they had often as not shown as much address in the field as the King’s Germans. The Duke of Wellington had been unstinting in his praise: the army’s fighting cocks, he had dubbed them. And when at last they had crossed the Pyrenees and entered France, he had sent home the Spaniards but kept his Portuguese. Good men, Hervey recalled – the whole army said so. True and hardy, not given to mutiny and riot like so many others; tractable men. And tractable still, he supposed, wanting only a good officer in which to place their trust. It did not bear thinking about that one part of the army should be at fighting odds with the other.
‘Major Hervey, there is someone here with a claim on your acquaintance.’
Hervey, intent on his distant examination of the uniform of an officer of the 9th Cazadores – the mailed epaulettes, as those of the officer of the 5th Cavalry next to him, eminently modest but practical – had not seen the lady approaching. He wondered how she knew his name.
He bowed. ‘At your service, ma’am.’
She was a handsome woman, in her late fifties perhaps, tall and forthright. She held out a hand. ‘I am Susan Forbes, Major Hervey. My husband you have already met.’ She indicated the charge d’affaires, still receiving his guests.
Hervey nodded. ‘Ah, indeed, ma’am. And who is he that would make my acquaintance, for I believe I know of no one in Lisbon that would have my name?’
Before the lines of mystification could quite leave his forehead, Mrs Forbes had taken him to the other side of the room, to a group of Portuguese ladies, who curtsied at their approach.
Hervey bowed.
One of them, markedly younger, about his own age, was smiling more than merely politely.
‘Dona Robert Broke, Major Hervey.’
Hervey hesitated. He had some recollection of her face, but the name . . .
‘You may remember better Dona
Hervey was astonished. He smiled; and very fully. ‘Isabella Delgado,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I remember very well indeed!’
Mrs Forbes began chatting obligingly to the others in Portuguese while Hervey sought to recover the
