An Act Of Courage

colonel appointed yet, as doubtless you know. Neither do I see any prospect this side of three months, for even if Wellington is in the Horse Guards the day after the funeral, he won’t have opportunity to approve the command lists for weeks. Strickland holds the reins meanwhile, and damned fine he holds them too.’

It was of the greatest moment to Hervey who would be the next lieutenant-colonel, yet warm though the interview was, he did not think it apt to press Lord George to an opinion. ‘I shall go there this day, Colonel.’

Lord George shook his head. ‘No, no, there is no cause for that. I should want you to take your ease in London for the week. Give the regiment time to learn that all is well.’

Hervey saw how the business must have preoccupied him, despite his air of unconcern. ‘Very good, Colonel.’

Lord George brightened. ‘And I would have you join us this evening at dinner if you are not engaged.’

‘I am not engaged, Colonel.’

‘Capital!’ he replied, rising. ‘Strickland will be dining, too. It will be an admirable opportunity for the two of you.’

Hervey was entirely diverted by the prospect. ‘Indeed, Colonel.’

‘Then I shall take my leave, since Mr Canning addresses the House at midday, and I would hear him.’

Hervey prayed that Lord George would hear nothing that might incline him to a change of mind. He could scarcely credit the rapid improvement in his fortunes, and it was all down to the influence of men of rank and position. True, they would not have been inclined to angle in his favour had they no regard for him – his stock had stood high in the regiment for a long time – but it served to remind how precarious was the matter of advancement when there was no enemy to decide these things.

As he left Berkeley Square, he felt the clouds of the past month rolling back. Now he would be able to turn his attention to the promises and resolutions he had made in Badajoz.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A FAMILY REGIMENT

That evening

Dinner was at eight, on account of the late sitting of parliament. Hervey arrived promptly at seven forty-five, the first of the Irvines’ guests. Lady George greeted him as cordially as had her husband that morning, as an old friend, without the circumspection imposed by rank, and very slightly maternal. She had not seen him in half a dozen years – or was it more, she asked – but in the regiment these things did not matter: the years fell away, allowing the fellowship to be renewed immediately, as if there had been no interruption. Hervey felt the comfortable sense of permanence, a distinct homecoming. There was champagne, well chilled despite the bitter cold outside, and a hot punch. He was at once in exceptional spirits.

‘So tell me, Major Hervey, how is your daughter?’

Cheery though the enquiry was, Hervey felt awkward addressing it. ‘I confess I have not seen her in some months, Lady George, though I know her to be generally in good health. My sister has charge of her. I don’t think you ever met.’

‘No, I don’t believe we did. How old is your daughter now – what is her name?’

‘Georgiana, ma’am. She is . . . she will be nine years in but a few weeks.’

‘She is very fortunate, then, in having an aunt as governess.’

‘I think so too, ma’am.’ But he was less certain that his sister might be counted fortunate, though doubtless to someone of Lady George’s age and circle Elizabeth was as perfectly engaged as may be in the event of not having secured a husband.

His hostess’s eye was caught by the arrival of the second guest. ‘Ah, Lady Lankester it must be!’

Hervey turned. It was almost a year exactly since he had last seen her. Then she had been in mourning weeds, the newly married, newly widowed wife of Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Ivo Lankester, lately commanding officer of the 6th Light Dragoons, killed in the assault on the fortress of Bhurtpore. It had been a painful meeting, Eustace Joynson, acting in command, and the squadron leaders calling at the Governor-General’s residence in Calcutta, where Lady Lankester lodged, to pay their respects. More than to pay respects, indeed: it had been to make her acquaintance, for Sir Ivo had returned with his bride after the regiment had marched for Bhurtpore. Salve et salvete: could anything be more cruel? And Lady Lankester had been with child, Sir Ivo’s heir. Or was the child female? He ought perhaps to have known. He was not sure, even, if an unborn male was the heir. To whom did the baronetcy descend? He chided himself. What did these things matter? What mattered was the health of mother and child. The thought was suddenly painful, but then he braced himself for the formalities, allowing his mouth to describe a smile.

‘Lady Lankester, do you know Major Hervey?’

Lady Lankester did not so much smile as maintain the pleasant countenance she had had for her hostess. ‘We have met, Lady George, briefly, in India.’ She lowered her head, the merest bow.

Hervey was grateful for no more formal a greeting (it would have placed them back in the Calcutta drawing room). Sir Ivo’s widow looked very much as he remembered her, but in a dress of dark blue watered silk instead of widow’s lace. She was a woman of considerable, if aloof, beauty, and marked self-possession. He bowed by return. ‘I am very glad to be reacquainted, ma’am.’

Lady George laid a hand to Lady Lankester’s arm. ‘My dear, I would know your name, if you please,’ she said, in an even more maternal fashion.

Lady Lankester smiled, not full, but appreciative nevertheless. ‘It is Kezia, ma’am.’

‘Oh, how delightful! And unusual. Is it family?’

‘The Bible, Lady George.’

‘Major Hervey would be able to say precisely where,’ Lord George suggested.

‘Indeed, Major Hervey?’

Hervey smiled, almost apologetic. ‘I have sat beneath my father’s pulpit these many years, ma’am.’

‘And do you know precisely where is this singular name to be found?’

He glanced at its bearer. ‘I believe . . . in the Book of Job.’

‘Is he correct, my dear?’ asked Lady George, reflecting Hervey’s smile.

‘He is.’ Lady Lankester smiled, although not with her eyes.

Hervey supposed she was not completely out of mourning, despite the blue silk. How could she be, indeed?

He observed that she had attended to her appearance carefully, nevertheless. Her skin was fair, she had applied a blushing rouge, and her lips, though thinner than Kat’s, shone in the way that hers did. Her hair did not look as full as Kat’s, either, but he thought it might just appear so on account of its colour, which was as fair as he had seen in many a year (in Calcutta her hair had been concealed under a mourning cap).

Lady George’s interrogation was halted by the arrival of two members of parliament and their ladies, then the general officer commanding the London District and his lady, the Bishop of Oxford, the dowager Lady — (Hervey did not catch her name) and her niece, a plain-looking girl, and diffident, whom Hervey supposed he would have to sit next to at dinner. Then finally, at ten minutes past eight, came Major Benedict Strickland, acting commanding officer of the 6th Light Dragoons.

‘I am most fearfully sorry, Colonel,’ he began. ‘And Lady George. I was not let go from Windsor until past five. We fairly had to gallop for it, and there was a deuce of a fog.’

‘I am sorry the regiment’s officers are detained in the afternoon,’ replied Lord George. ‘Even on such matters.’ He turned to the general officer commanding the London District. ‘Is the date now fixed?’

‘It is: the twentieth.’

He turned back to Strickland. ‘And what duties shall the regiment have?’

‘All dismounted, Colonel, standing duty for the Guards.’

Lord George shook his head as he looked at the two members of parliament. ‘It astonishes me how rapidly that great machine we had at Waterloo has been dismantled!’

The sentiment was shared by all the males present. The dowager Lady — complained that soon there would