Hervey, huddled in the corner of the hack barouche as if it were midwinter, though he could feel his temperature rising by the minute, was certain of his reply. ‘I do not intend that Elizabeth has those duties for much longer, Father.’
Archdeacon Hervey did not seem to hear; or if he did he did not question the intriguing notion that someone other than Elizabeth should have charge of Georgiana. ‘Matthew, are you sure you are not sickening for something? Perhaps we should see Dr Birch?’
‘No, Father; it will not be necessary. A chill, that is all. I’ll take a powder when we’re home.’
By the time they reached Horningsham, however, the ‘chill’ had revealed itself unequivocally: fever, violent headache and muscular tiredness which, even transplanted from their tropical origins, were quite unmistakable. Hervey excused himself, explained that he would have to take his ease for several hours, and went to his room. There he scrambled in his small-pack, though he was sure there would be no quinine, for he had become careless of late since the remittent fever had not visited him these six months and more. There was not even any powder. He did not suffer from headaches as a rule, unless the wine had been bad, and he had become careless of this too. He took off his shoes, then his coat; he loosened his stock but took off no more, wrapped a travelling blanket around himself and got into his bed.
The old long-case clock in the hall was striking six as he came to. He heard each chime distinctly, and then counted them back to be sure of the hour. But was it morning or evening? There was no other noise. He felt better, much better. The headache was gone, he was no longer shivering, and the pain in his chest was no more. He felt the sheets either side of him and thought it odd, for he did not remember … They were damp, as they had been in India. He did not mind, beyond the inconvenience to the household, for he had evidently sweated out the fever and what caused it. And the recurrence was by no means as frequent as that first year, when the foul air of the Avan jungle had poisoned his blood, and the bouts themselves were not as long (though they were little less violent). Perhaps his restoration to full health would be faster than the doctors in Calcutta had told him? He had always believed it would be.
He sat up. His head swam a little. It was not surprising; it swam each time. But otherwise he felt in hale enough condition. He got up, swaying slightly, even having to steady himself on a bed post for an instant, then went to his window to see where the sun was. The day was overcast, however. He felt at his face: the stubble was thicker than an evening’s. He decided to put on his dressing gown and go to bring hot water from the kitchen.
At the foot of the stairs he saw his sister.
‘Matthew! You are better. I thought you would sleep for ever!’
He knew at once. It was as it had been in India in the early months: sleep, or delirium, a full cycle of day and night, without any sense of time’s passing. ‘I … I was thinking it only morning.’
Elizabeth’s apparition was somehow troubling. The candles were not yet lit, but he could see well enough, and he saw a different Elizabeth. He had never thought of her in other than capable terms, his sister, always there, always knowing what to do, and never for herself. He had not observed the passing of the years, though he had been all too conscious of standing in the way of her prospects. But now he noticed how … grown to maturity she was. Gone were the ringlets; her face was that of a woman – not a young woman, by which he meant girlish, but a woman of consequence, handsome, secure, as if possessed of title or family. He wished for all his heart that it were so, for none was more deserving of it than she.
By the same light, too, Elizabeth could see her brother’s pallor. ‘I’m not sure you should be up even now,’ she said, though without the tone that commanded him to return to bed. She knew her brother well enough to judge these things prudentially. ‘In any case, we’re not to dine until late; father is gone to Longleat. I’ll have Hannah draw your bath.’
Hervey did not object to that.
‘And I shall fetch you tea. Go and sit by the fire.’
He had no objection to sitting by the fire either, but the prospect of tea was somehow unappealing. ‘I think I shall have a glass of claret, Elizabeth. Is there any bread?’
She nodded. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll bring it.’
‘Where is mother, and Georgiana?’
‘They’re both gone to Longleat too, though they went on foot. Lady Bath generally sees them of a Thursday if she’s at home. She sends them back in a carriage towards now.’
Hervey inclined his head approvingly. It was good that Lady Bath saw fit to receive Georgiana, for although Henrietta had lived as one with the family, there were three Bath daughters, of whom one still was at Longleat.
He sat by the fire. Whitehead had made it up well. It gave off a good heat and he was grateful of it, for he ran a temperature yet, and he knew that the shivers could come on again easily. In his condition he reacted excessively to cold air which as a rule would not trouble him.
Elizabeth returned with a decanter, a loaf of bread and a jar of pork dripping. ‘The wine is very possibly fine, for I hadn’t the time to search for the everyday.’
Hervey took a good taste, and smiled. ‘Very possibly. You had better not tell father!’
‘He’ll know right enough: Whitehead’s entering it in the cellar book this moment.’
‘Whitehead reads and writes, does he? I don’t ever recall it.’
‘Father had Mrs Strange instruct him. She said she never saw a man take to it so.’
He took another good taste, and helped himself to bread and dripping.
‘He may not have Francis’s ways,’ explained Elizabeth, ‘but he’s a fine manservant. Papa is very fortunate.’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt it, and I never said ought about his ways. I’ve always found him obliging in the extreme.’
‘And Georgiana likes him too. He’s very good with her.’
‘I am glad to hear it. But see, you’ll have heard of the annuity that Daniel Coates bequeathed? Father ought now to be able to employ a lady’s maid.’
Elizabeth looked uncertain. ‘He is very exercised by the size of Daniel Coates’s fortune. When he agreed to be executor he had no idea it would be to such an estate. The responsibility troubles him.’
‘I told him he should appoint you to be chairman of the trustees.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘He told me. And I replied that I should have no objection. He also said that you had told him that you did not intend leaving Georgiana in our care for much longer.’
Hervey looked awkward. ‘Ah. I had not meant it to sound so decided.’
‘How had you meant it to sound, Matthew? Either Georgiana remains with me or she goes to Hounslow with you. It is not difficult, is it? You have a governess in mind, I suppose?’
He looked even more awkward. ‘A governess, yes, well … no, not really, not yet; but a governess there may be. I am not certain of the arrangements.’
Elizabeth, who might have been put out, seemed instead vaguely amused by her brother’s faltering thoughts of taking up the paternal reins. ‘Perhaps you intend that Private Johnson does that duty, in between seeing to your uniforms and horses?’
Hervey raised an eyebrow, thinking to add ‘And seeing to whatever it was that concerned the gentlemen from Bow Street!’ He recalled that he might have to exercise himself in that regard when he returned. ‘Georgiana would be happy enough with Johnson!’
Elizabeth ignored the tease. ‘Well, I am ever at your disposal. And, as you say, Daniel Coates’s bequest will enable Mama and Papa to employ a fuller establishment, so there would be no reason why I should not come to Hounslow with Georgiana. I imagine, too, that I might even be of help to you in respect of your duties in command?’
Hervey had not considered this, and he chided himself. Elizabeth was not a woman of fashion, but she was by no means incapable of taking her place in any drawing room. She would indeed be of help; with a certain outlay, she would even be an adornment. But, command was temporary; he had no expectations of remaining at the head of the regiment beyond the season. Except, of course, that he now possessed the means of purchasing the lieutenant-colonelcy for himself.
That reminded him. ‘I really must write post-haste to Lord George Irvine.’
Elizabeth knew the business exactly. ‘Shall your colonel approve?’
