Hervey had placed her arm in his. ‘I would not disturb their ease. I have been to Southwold; it is very agreeable.’ Sir Delaval and Lady Rumsey had left Hertfordshire but three days before for the sea air, which Sir Delaval’s doctor prescribed twice yearly. ‘The arrangements are easily made. You are quite sure you would not wish the wedding from here . . . or Hounslow?’
‘I am quite sure. And my parents are in agreement. Quietly from my aunt’s in Hanover-square, and the wedding breakfast there afterwards. I see no occasion for greater ceremony.’
Hervey was not too strongly of a contrary opinion. He understood that, her marriage to Sir Ivo having been at Walden, she would not wish to return to that church again; and he certainly appreciated the advantages of London; but he had hoped that it might be somehow a little more . . . regimental. Lord John Howard had even suggested they might avail themselves of St James’s Palace.
‘You would not object to my non-commissioned officers attending on us, would you?’
They strolled on a while before Kezia answered. ‘I would rather they not.’
Hervey tried to put himself in her mind: would the sight of blue, and sabres, be of too painful memory?
‘Besides,’ she added, ‘are not your non-commissioned officers at the Cape still?’
She was right. The men he would have wished to stand at the door of the church were several thousand miles away. Not all of them: there was Collins for one. But if Armstrong and Wainwright could not be there . . . He cleared his throat. ‘Indeed they are. And it would be a pale imitation of a guard without them. There will be no ceremony.’ He squeezed her arm.
She made no move by return, but expressed herself grateful for his understanding. ‘And I have asked a cousin to give the address. He is a canon of St Paul’s – the cathedral, I mean.’
‘Ah.’
‘You object?’
He frowned, and sighed. ‘I have already asked someone, a family friend. He was at Oxford with my late brother.’
‘That was a
She was right: it was the bride’s prerogative to arrange her own wedding. ‘I could, I suppose, write and tell him—’
‘I should be glad of it, yes,’ said Kezia, almost absently. And then more decidedly: ‘My cousin is a most ardent preacher, of a very proper evangelical temper.’
Hervey groaned inwardly. He knew well the sort of clergyman. It was to counter such a possibility, in part, that he had asked John Keble to preach. ‘Indeed. Of course.’
They strolled on further, Kezia stooping to pick an anemone, and twirling it between her hands as they walked. ‘Did you find your people well in Wiltshire? How is Georgiana, and your sister?’
Hervey had known it must come, and he had not resolved on what he would say. He ought, he knew, to say everything, without hesitation; but he wished in some way to spare Elizabeth (the whole family indeed, and not least himself) the ignominy that would inevitably follow from the breaking off of an engagement to such a man as Peto. ‘They are all in good health, thank you.’
‘Is there yet a date for Elizabeth’s wedding?’
He cleared his throat. ‘No,’ he answered, truthfully but unhelpfully.
‘Perhaps I should invite her here, and Georgiana?’
‘That would be very civil. My parents keep little company.’
‘You surprise me; I did not think them unsocial.’ Hervey smiled. ‘In this their taste and means coincide.’
‘Happy thought indeed.’
‘And, forgive me, I had meant to ask earlier, how is Allegra?’
‘She walks very strongly since you saw her last, and she speaks much. We may see her before we leave this evening.’
He wanted to broach the question of ‘arrangements’, where they would live, what staff they would need, but Kezia seemed somehow preoccupied.
She stooped and picked another anemone, and gave it to him.
He threaded the stem through a button hole of the double-notched lapel of his coat, his favourite, dark green, the yellow of the anemone a felicitous match. ‘I did not say, but I fancy I shall be detained in London rather, for the next month or so.’
‘Oh? How so?’ She sounded curious rather than disappointed.
‘There’s to be a court of inquiry over the affair at Waltham Abbey.’
‘Ah.’
‘Perhaps you will come and stay in Hanover-square the while?’ he said, thinking how to make the business more agreeable.
‘I fear it would be inopportune. Mrs Bulwer Lytton is giving a
‘And you must assist in this?’
She looked quite taken aback. ‘I am to sing in the opera.’
‘Oh . . . of course, the opera.’
But in truth, now that he thought more precisely of it, it might not do for Kezia to be in London during the inquiry; she might learn of . . . ‘I hope I may be allowed to propose myself to attend the
The question – if question he had made it – was to his mind rhetorical; but not to Kezia’s. ‘I shall ask Mrs Bulwer Lytton. I’m sure she will issue an invitation, in the circumstances,’ she answered solemnly.
He wondered if she teased . . . ‘Well, I hope I may propose my supporter to visit with’ (he hesitated at presuming on the plural), ‘us here before the event.’
‘By all means. But there is a concert at Hanover-square in two weeks’ time which my aunt has arranged for me to attend. Perhaps it would be convenient that we meet then?’
Hervey was beginning to wonder if Kezia thought of anything but her music, for both the months ahead seemed wholly regulated by it. ‘Perhaps.’
As an afterthought (it appeared), she turned to him and added, ‘I believe my aunt may be able to secure an extra ticket. Would you wish to attend?’
Hervey reeled somewhat. ‘Of course I should wish to attend. I should wish to escort you!’
‘And you do not wish to know first what is the music?’
He cared not in the least what was the music. He knew he would have to steel himself to it (as he had on several occasions with Elizabeth), whatever the band or the composer. He took her hand. ‘Kezia, I shall be accompanying you. That is sufficient to engage me.’
She looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I have known some who cannot abide Beethoven, yet call themselves musicians.’
He brightened. ‘I have heard Beethoven, and liked it very much.’
It was true. He had once attended a concert by the Grenadiers’ band, when they had played
Kezia brightened, too. ‘Then I shall write to my aunt at once.’
They continued their stroll. The birdsong, so intense in the morning, was now diminished. A distant cuckoo called, but neither of them remarked on it.
‘I have found us a very pleasant house at the Cape, and but a short walk from the Somerviles.’
Kezia said nothing for the moment, and then: ‘How are the Somerviles?’
Hervey supposed the domestic details did not trouble her, that she trusted him to make what arrangements were necessary (she was, after all, in no position to make any herself). ‘They are very well. I think Emma especially is glad to be in those climes again – although it is not India, for sure. Somervile himself is rather vexed at finding the administration of the colony keeps him at Cape-town, but there is a good deal for him to do. And it is the most pleasing place, the country and the climate.’
Kezia stopped suddenly, and turned. ‘Matthew, I think I will return to the house. I would speak with Mrs Benn and the nurse before making ready for this evening. And I must practise a little more. We leave at six, you know.’
