An Act Of Courage

be too few soldiers to keep the Catholics from her door (by which Hervey understood she had estate in Ireland), and now that the Duke of York was dead there would be ‘no one to gainsay the wretched Emancipators’.

Hervey said nothing, and prayed he would not be seated next to her, either.

In fact, Hervey was very agreeably placed at dinner. On his right was the wife of the Honourable and Gallant Member for North Elmham, a constituency in not too great need of reform, and she was an easy interlocutor, principally upon the subject of Greek independence, of which she seemed to know a good deal. Their conversation was without interruption until the entrees, when convention required that Hervey turn to the place on his left.

In the best part of twenty minutes, he had been unable to think how he might adequately begin. ‘Lady Lankester, may I enquire of your situation?’

He cursed himself for the ambiguity. But Lady Lankester was an intelligent woman and, as he had observed on first acquaintance, as well as again this evening, remarkably self-possessed for someone ten years his junior (as he understood from the Calcutta drawing rooms).

‘Both my daughter and I are well, Major Hervey. And for the moment we are living in Hertfordshire.’

The Lankester estate he knew to be in that county. ‘My congratulations, ma’am, on the birth of your daughter. When was it, may I enquire?’ In truth he had no interest whatsoever in the answer, but he fancied it was a safe line – except, he now realized, her condition being what it had been in Calcutta, she could not have sailed for home at once without some peril.

‘June.’

She said it with some finality, so that Hervey found himself without a sequential question or remark, and much to his dismay. However, she appeared then to make a decided effort, even turning a little towards him.

‘June: I never thought anything so hot as then, the air so heavy. And then the monsoon – such a great relief when it came. I confess I was very afraid of the fever and all the other pestilences. Not so much for myself as . . . I suppose you became used to it, Major Hervey?’

They were speaking of the weather, he observed, but she did so easily, and he enjoyed her apparent engagement. ‘I suppose we did, though the time before the monsoon tried us sorely too. The horses bore it surprisingly well. When did you return?’

‘We sailed in July, towards the middle. The sea air was most wonderfully welcome.’

Passage to and from the Indies was a subject on which Hervey felt assured. ‘You did not encounter too many storms, I trust? The worst, I think, would have passed by then.’

‘Only once, off Madagascar. For the rest we had pleasant sailing, even in the Atlantic, and very fair winds. We made a fast time, only a little over sixteen weeks.’

‘Very fast, I should say. Ours was twenty-two! But that was rather earlier in the year.’

Lady Lankester picked up her wineglass and turned from him to take a sip. ‘But I understand that you have a daughter, Major Hervey?’

He was surprised by her knowing. ‘I do, Lady Lankester, though I own she has never taken so long a cruise.’

‘She has a governess, I presume. Does she then not live with you?’

Hervey felt the merest challenge. He answered cautiously. ‘My sister is guardian, and so far, I have not thought my postings suitable for them to accompany me.’ As he said it, he realized that it might imply disapproval of her own intrepidity – the very furthest from his mind. Indeed, he had always admired the willingness of Sir Ivo’s bride to risk herself in the Indies. And he had admired her husband equally in this regard, for a man of his means and station frequently sold out of a regiment on posting abroad and paid twice the sum to take up the same appointment in one on the home establishment.

But he need not have feared. Lady Lankester took no offence. ‘Perhaps, when she is a little older, your postings may be more conducive. How old is she now, Major Hervey?’

‘Nine . . . rising nine.’

‘What a delight she must be to you.’

Lady Lankester did not smile, her remark almost mechanical; but Hervey did not notice. Speaking of Georgiana he never found easy – the feelings of guilt and regret, and great sadness still. Instead he was concentrating hard on his responses. ‘Oh, yes, indeed, ma’am.’ He took a sip of his wine by way of reprieve. ‘May I ask what brings you to London?’

‘I was about to ask you the same, Major Hervey,’ she replied, this time with a warming smile.

‘I, ma’am? I am just returned from Portugal. I had business with the Horse Guards. I return to the regiment in a week or so. They are at Hounslow, as you may know.’

‘No, I did not know. I thought them somewhere in Sussex.’

‘That was where we formed a depot for India. And you are in London . . .?’

‘My father was to have attended a levee, and I accompanied him. My mother is presently in Devon visiting my grandmother.’

‘And shall you remain long . . . now that the court is in mourning, I mean?’

She smiled again. ‘Two or three weeks, perhaps. My father was glad of respite: his birds have not obliged him much this season!’

Hervey was intrigued by the change in his table companion in the space of an hour. When they had been introduced he had observed a stiffness, a remoteness, as if she were of a world very distant from his own. Henrietta had never been stiff or remote, even during the years of waiting, when he fancied she thought him but a dull country son without the refinements of high society. Henrietta had teased him with mock haughtiness, and when they had met again, after an absence of seven years, she had teased him greater still, until he had been man enough to defy her and declare his passion. Then she had returned it, and it had grown ever stronger during the brief span of their marriage. But Kezia Lankester he did not imagine was of the same fire. Perhaps it was her situation as widow and mother; perhaps it was her position (the county gentry frequently had a more elevated view of it than did the Whiggish nobles). Perhaps it was nothing at all. Perhaps he himself had been absent from English society for too long. Was not Lady Lankester smiling easily now, and making jokes at her father’s expense? He had been away too long: Kezia Lankester was a fine woman. She had enchanted Sir Ivo Lankester, and that was recommendation enough.

When the ladies had withdrawn, there was a quarter of an hour’s conversation – mainly on the Corn Law bill and who would be next commander-in-chief – and then, when the gentlemen in their turn withdrew, Strickland took Hervey to one side, the first opportunity of the evening.

‘It is very good to see you, Hervey. What a trial it must all have been. I am grateful for your communicating with my sister; she writes that you managed to visit twice.’

‘I wish it had been more, I assure you. Your sister was the most engaging of company, and the convent a pleasant place. I’m sorry not to have been able to carry back any correspondence, but my last days in Lisbon were . . . shall I say, constrained.’

‘Quite. Think nothing of it. Now see here, when do you return to Hounslow? I should be much obliged for your support.’

Hervey shook his head. ‘My dear Strickland, I should return tomorrow were it my decision. Lord George has told me to take leave for one week. He wishes the business of the court martial to be settled. Settled publicly, as it were.’

Strickland nodded. ‘I can see his reasoning, though I think it not necessary. However, if I may count on your coming in a week’s time then I am content. The Duke of York’s funeral will be over, and there’s much to do before the season’s drills.’

‘You may count on it.’

Strickland drained his glass and looked left and right before beginning again, his voice lowered. ‘I tell you, I shall be deuced glad when this funeral is done. There isn’t a moment’s peace between the castle and the Horse Guards. I didn’t think I would be able to attend in time this evening. I shan’t stay long, forgive me. The weather’s damnable.’

‘I have a short walk only, I’m glad to say.’

Strickland took a glass of brandy and seltzer from a footman’s tray, and lowered his voice another degree. ‘What did you make of the widow Lankester?’

Hervey glanced at the door. ‘I was thinking how very different things were since the meeting in Calcutta. Had