Man Of War

explained, compositions for the pianoforte were now of greater range, it was de rigueur to have an instrument of six octaves, from bottom C to seventh octave F. Hervey supposed he understood that such innovations were necessary in a pianoforte to be played by someone of Kezia’s proficiency. He also wished for an instrument of appropriate beauty for his wife to sit at, and recognized therefore that rosewood was the very least he could choose for the case. The demonstrator took careful note of his requirements (the pianoforte was to be portered to Hanover Square, and thence, sometime in the autumn, shipped to the Cape Colony), and retired to his desk to render a quotation for all but the cost of the shipping room.

A few minutes later, it was in Hervey’s hands. He studied the figures carefully, trying to recall by how much they exceeded what he had imagined. ‘A hundred and eight guineas,’ he said pensively.

‘We ask for a deposit of ten per cent, sir; the balance to be paid within twenty-eight days of delivery.’

Hervey nodded, then sat down at the writing desk to arrange the transaction.

He walked back from Golden Square distinctly lightheaded. Within the past twenty-four hours he had committed himself to very nearly a year’s pay for canvas and rosewood. But it was done, and he did not regret it. He could not, in all honour, have done other than pay the balance on the portrait of Henrietta, and arrange for its completion, for where otherwise might it have been disposed? It was only right, too, that Georgiana should know her mother thus. There had once been a very pleasing portrait of her at Longleat, head and shoulders, when she had been eighteen, but that had perished one evening when the sconce candle had guttered too much and the varnish had taken alight quicker than anyone saw.

And, in truth, he wished the portrait for himself. Where it might hang, and the copy, he had no idea, though even as he walked he began realizing that the question was not principally aesthetic.

As for the pianoforte, that was an expense of an entirely proper instinct. He could think of no better way of displaying his regard for his new wife. It was a token of that regard and, too, a means of cementing their affection. Fairbrother simply did not understand these things: intention could perfectly properly precede success in the marriage state. No, he had not the slightest regret in visiting Mr Broadwood’s. He was, in fact, prodigiously pleased. There was almost a spring in his step as he turned purposefully into Regent Street to head for the office of the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, whither Howard’s letter had bidden him. It amused him, even, to think that he had deferred calling at Downing Street in order to visit a piano-maker, and he smiled at the memory of how far he had come in so many things since first he had visited the Horse Guards, all of a dozen years ago.

Hervey did not keep a journal except when he was in the field. There were too many things he would have to write, yet which, having neither the language nor the will, he knew he would be unable to set down. For whom would he write a journal, indeed?

He had not considered the question much when first he began writing, in Spain, as a mint-new cornet in Sir John Moore’s army, for every officer had kept a journal. He had vaguely supposed that it was filial duty of some sort. And then much later, in India, the habit long established, he had vaguely supposed it some sort of testament, to be given to Georgiana in the event that he did not return.

Except that it was testament only to events: it said next to nothing of his inner life, nor indeed of that part of his external life that he considered unedifying. There was no mention of Vaneeta, who perhaps more than anyone or anything had brought him back to some measure of a full life. He occasionally found himself wishing he had her image rather than merely a lock of that shining, raven hair.

Vaneeta had been kind to him from the very first, unconditionally (the pecuniary business had soon become not a matter of obligation but of desire); she had ministered to him in his convalescence after Rangoon, fiercely protective; and then there had been the terrible parting, when he had almost lost his head, thinking to declare that he would not leave her – and it had seemed as if she might throw herself from the walls of Fort William when the day came for the regiment to leave.

There came a terrible griping, rats scrambling in his stomach. They told him what he would not otherwise hear: that things were not finished simply because he decided they were. He quickened his step, as if somehow he might leave the uncertainty behind, or advance the sooner to that day in June when all would at last be resolved and he would be a married man once more, with the simple certainties that came with his vows, and the knowledge that he did his best for a daughter he had hitherto neglected;and, he must admit (not admit, so much, as devoutly wish for), an end at last to the wretched, unholy desire that had so often warped and twisted him like the sapling in a gale.

18 June: this was the day that Kezia had named, a Wednesday – Waterloo Day. He understood, now, the precision with which the day of the wedding was named by a bride: he would not, as he had with Henrietta, ask that she consider another for the sake of regimental convenience. He smiled as he recalled Henrietta’s exasperation, the first time he had seen her in the least discomfited, when after he had shown no understanding she had blushed and lowered her eyes and said ‘Do not have me spell it out!’ No, this time there would be no such callowness. Even though it would mean that not all of the officers would be able to come – Waterloo would be celebrated in some style, and by all ranks, at Hounslow – he would not raise the slightest objection.

And on Sunday next he would go to divine worship at St George’s in Hanover Square, and hear the banns read for the first time: ‘I publish the Banns of Marriage between Kezia . . .’ (he did not know her other names) ‘Lankester, widow, of the parish of All Saints, St Paul’s Walden, in the diocese of London, and Matthew Paulinus Hervey, widower of the parish of St John the Baptist, Horningsham, in the diocese of Salisbury . . .’

He had given his father’s as his parish, for his name was on the roll there still, and inasmuch as he thought of anywhere as home it was Horningsham. Soon, though, he would be able to think of home as the Cape Colony, and then (dare he imagine it?) Hounslow. The place did not matter: wherever Kezia was would be his home from now on. It was comfort indeed. Comfort of unconscionable measure. How could Fairbrother be expected to understand it?

XV

THE IMMORTAL MEMORY

The Ionian, the twentieth day at sea, 18 October 1827

Peto’s launch cut through the light swell with the ease of a knife through fresh-churned butter. The same midshipman of the golden locks and fine, if boyish, features who had brought him aboard Rupert at Gibraltar kept the stroke sharp by the set of his jaw and the steely resolve in his blue eyes. For not only was his captain in the boat, they approached the flagship, and in all probability the admiral watched their boatwork.

Peto himself was less concerned with the crew’s stroke, or for that matter with the admiral who might be watching from the quarterdeck of His Majesty’s Ship Asia. Rather was he intrigued by Asia’s appearance, for he had not seen her like before, except in the Surveyor’s draught. At two cables’ length he was able to observe her very clearly, and what he saw, he had to admit, he did not much like. She had been teak-built three years before at Bombay to a new design, and although in many respects she looked like any other two-decker, she carried ten more guns than the 74, her stern was round, and it positively bristled with chasers. But an ugly stern, thought Peto, with unseamanlike bowed lights, and altogether too brassy a gallery: more like a gin shop, he reckoned. Stronger, though, he had to admit, this rounded framing. And those sternchasers: no impudent frigate could rake her with impunity.

At a cable’s length he lowered his telescope; he did not want to be observed scrutinizing the flagship, as if he were a boy or a landlubber. He did not know Codrington well – he had met him but half a dozen times – although he was unquestionably the better acquainted with him for the company of his youngest daughter these past three weeks. Codrington, however, had been in command of Orion at Trafalgar, when Peto had been a midshipman (passed for lieutenant); they were both, therefore, if not of the brotherhood, then of that dwindling fraternity which admitted none its equal save perhaps that of Waterloo.