Company Of Spears

‘Oh, he was. Indeed he was. He was at the head of one of the trenches closest the walls of Bhurtpore.’ He was surprised she needed to ask.

‘And was his death … was it done quickly?’

Hervey sighed. ‘It was instant, madam.’

‘You are certain of it, Major Hervey? You do not say it just for my sake?’

Hervey shook his head. ‘I am certain of it.’

‘So he was unable to say anything by way of … last words.’

‘I am afraid not.’

He could not determine whether his reply was a comfort or the exact opposite. He wondered why she was so concerned with last words. They were rarely, in his experience, especially noble, and frequently they were entirely profane.

She seemed now to rally. ‘And how do you like your command? Poor Major Strickland: I thought him a fine man.’

Hervey was momentarily thrown off what passed for his stride by the bitter-sweet in the connection of command and his old friend’s death. ‘Well, I … command of one’s regiment, even temporarily, is the greatest satisfaction.’

‘But Lady Somervile tells me you may have the lieutenant-colonelcy proper soon.’

Hervey wished Emma had not. ‘I very much hope it may be so, Lady Lankester, but there are many formalities.’

‘And your daughter, as I recall: she is well?’

Again, the sudden turn she took broke his stride. But he had surrendered the initiative …’She is well, thank you.’ He tried to form a question by return: her own daughter—

‘And she is, as I remember, with your sister in Wiltshire?’

‘Indeed.’ He was now determined to wrest back the initiative, at least partially: ‘And you will be staying in Gloucestershire long?’

But wresting was hardly necessary, for she seemed perfectly content to surrender the initiative. Glad, even. And so the initiative remained with him for the rest of their dinner, his fluency in finding question after question quite taking him by surprise, until, after a while, there was no initiative but free conversation – and on matters other than the here and now, the weather or family, the subjects by which a little prior study usually served in otherwise faltering table-talk. He was even composed enough to observe her closely as they spoke. He had admired her complexion when they had dined at Lord George Irvine’s: it was fair, and she had applied a blushing stick, no doubt to relieve her mourning pallor, and he fancied she had again this evening. But soon he concluded that her face was more naturally suffused with colour, and altogether warmer than that evening in January. He found himself admiring the gentle swell of her breast, and although her lips were decidedly thinner than Kat’s – or for that matter Vaneeta’s – he began wondering, too…

‘Whom do you think shall be prime minister?’

He woke sharply. He had heard the question plainly but evidently not what had preceded it. Desperately, he used one of the devices Kat had taught him. ‘Whom do you think shall be prime minister?’

She smiled (did she recognize the trick?). ‘I asked first, Major Hervey!’

Great heavens, he thought, and with admiration: this woman was assured! And her protest was not without a certain teasing – which these days he recognized as encouragement rather than the opposite. ‘Sir Eyre Somervile believes it might be the Duke of Wellington.’

She frowned purposefully. ‘Surely not, Major Hervey. Would the duke fit that office?’

‘You mean, ma’am, may a soldier do ought but bark orders?’

She smiled again. ‘Would you imagine the duke to be given to discussion?’

‘I know him but a little, but I know him to take counsel, and even his time in the Peninsula required a good deal of diplomacy.’ He tapped the table. ‘Now, ma’am, perhaps you will tell me your opinion.’

She gave it freely and in such a manner as to command his considerable attention. He could not help but think that although Kat would have been able to say as much, it would have been hearsay and the whispered opinion of high-placed confidants. With Kezia Lankester it was very evidently her own thinking. And he liked what he saw of her serious mind.

At length came Monsieur Anton’s desserts – baskets of glace fruit and plates of croquembouche, charlotte russe, Nesselrode pudding, moulded jellies, coffee custard, praline and orange ices, chocolate gateaux. Kezia Lankester was not greatly tempted, nor seemingly very impressed. Hervey had noticed how sparingly she ate throughout (neither had she drunk more than half a glass of hock), and wondered if it were yet a feature somehow of her mourning. But when their conversation resumed, he found himself more and more attracted by both her appearance and spirit, and encouraged by her complete ease of manner. He was disappointed when the conversation opened up to the table: it was, besides anything else, much the duller, despite the wit of a dozen more. And then once the table as a whole was engaged she made no attempt at further vocal contact with him, nor with her eyes – not even when they rose to let the ladies retire. He was suddenly anxious once more. Was it true indifference on her part? He was sure it could not have been shyness. Or perhaps she had thought that she – or he – had spoken too freely? As he sat down again he was wholly uncertain of whether she had in fact dismissed him.

When the gentlemen were all done with cigars and the price of corn – close on half an hour – they rejoined the ladies. Chairs had been arranged meanwhile so that the drawing room was now an auditorium, with a forte- piano and a harp at one end. Lady Cockerell at once began ushering her guests to their seats. After announcing that her house guests would provide a little diversion, she herself – very gamely, thought Hervey – began the entertainment, playing two rondos (which he had heard before but could not put a name to) and then a composition of her own incorporating several popular songs that he knew quite well. She played skilfully, earning vigorous applause, and hearty appreciation from the squires. Next came her husband in a worthy, if reedy, rendering of two Neapolitan songs sung in Italian to Lady Cockerell’s accompaniment. There was again hearty applause, perhaps more in appreciation of hearing something so apparently out of character in their host as for any true appreciation of his voice; but there was no encore. Then it was the turn of the Reverend and the Honourable Mrs Castle (the advowson being Sir Charles’s, Mr Castle was deemed a permanent house guest). Mrs Castle played accompanying harp, and her husband sang something about virtue, and then about perseverance, and in a voice that Hervey recognized was capable though not to his mind attractive.

Next was Lady Lankester. An older man in a powdered wig and round spectacles came into the room, bowed and sat at the forte-piano.

‘Must have stayed from last night,’ said Somervile to Hervey, more or less sotto voce. ‘There was a regular band.’

Lady Lankester bowed to her hostess and announced: ‘“Se mai senti spirarti sul volto”, from La Clemenza di Tito, by Christoph Gluck.’

Hervey was at once all attention. He had heard of Gluck. He had no idea that Kezia Lankester possessed a voice that encompassed opera.

The forte-pianist began the introduction, a gentle melody in simple time, and Kezia Lankester entered confidently and with one of the clearest, sweetest voices Hervey thought he had ever heard. It was a slow aria, but with considerable range, and she sang it expressively. Hervey was charmed. He led the applause.

‘She’s been rehearsing all day,’ said Somervile, as if he thought it mildly bad form.

Hervey frowned. ‘I thought it enchanting.’

‘My dear Lady Lankester, we must press you to an encore,’ said their host.

Lady Lankester smiled indulgently. ‘Very well, Sir Charles.’ She turned to the forte-pianist.

He had already placed a new sheet of music on the rest.

She turned back to her audience. ‘“Di questa cetra in seno”, from Il Parnaso confuso, again by Christoph Gluck.’

It was, once more, a slow melody, but in triple time and with a range perhaps even greater than the first. As