to the college.' He bowed.
The bishop, formerly rector of the English seminary in Rome, held out a hand.
Hervey saw the episcopal ring, and wondered if he were meant to kiss it (he had once observed the custom in Spain). But the hand was held at such an angle as to suggest a more English fashion of greeting.
'I recall that you had left the service at that time,' said the bishop, motioning him to resume his seat.
'I had indeed, but I rejoined immediately on returning from Rome. Are you yourself long returned, sir?'
'Only lately, Colonel Hervey. In point of fact I was ordained bishop but a week ago.'
'And I myself was married but two weeks ago.'
The bishop nodded. 'We are each of us blessed in our respective sacraments.'
'I remember well your kindness that day, Father. I would not have explained, I am sure, that I had then only recently lost my wife.'
'Then you are doubly blessed in the sacrament,' the bishop pronounced gravely.
Hervey bowed again. 'I am.'
The bishop placed his hands together to indicate a change of direction. 'But now, the purpose of your visit . . . most admirable. If there are no objections, I myself will attend the obsequies.'
Hervey looked surprised. 'I am certain I may say, sir, that far from there being any objections, your presence would be an honour. The widower is my own serjeant-major, who is at this time at the Cape Colony. I believe it will be of great comfort to him when I inform him on my return.'
'We shall pray for him as well as for the soul of the faithful departed.'
Hervey nodded. 'I am truly grateful, My Lord.' (He made to rise.) 'And now I think I must detain you no longer.'
The bishop insisted on seeing him out.
As they came downstairs to the hall, a woman of about Hervey's age, in a day dress of fine brown cotton, with a length of white lace draped loosely about her head and shoulders, curtsied deep.
'Ah, Reverend Mother,' said the bishop. 'I am so very gratified you were able to come.'
The reverend mother looked enquiringly at Hervey as she rose.
'A gentleman from the army come on an unhappy but by no means unrewarding mission,' explained the bishop.
'Mr 'Ervey?' She pronounced his name as would a Frenchwoman.
'Sister Maria?'
'I perceive that introductions are not required,' said the bishop, curious.
Hervey was considerably animated. 'My Lord, my regiment was billeted in the reverend mother's convent after the battle of Toulouse.'
There was a deal more that he might have explained had the circumstances been more propitious.
The reverend mother smiled – an easy smile which spoke of the confidence of both her rank and calling. Maria Chantonnay's father was, or had been (Hervey had no idea if he were alive still), the Comte de Chantonnay, a royalist from the Vendee. Sister Maria, of the Carmelite Order, whose convent had been spared on account of the evident piety and charity of its sisters, as well as its seclusion, had nursed him in his temporary prostration which a French spontoon had occasioned. And, indeed, had helped him sift official papers left behind by Marshal Soult, a convalescent labour imposed on him by the authorities on account of his excellent French.
'May I ask why you come 'ere, Mr 'Ervey?
Hervey returned the smile. 'No, ma'am. I am come to arrange a funeral for the wife of one of my non- commissioned officers. Indeed, you may recall my serjeant at Toulouse?'
'I recall him; and your servant.'
'He is with me still.'
The bishop made to close what he imagined might become a prolonged conversation. 'The reverend mother is here on matters touching on the convent at Hammersmith, Colonel Hervey.'
'Ah, yes indeed. Forgive me, sir. I will take my leave at once.'
He was, however, most reluctant to. Much water had flowed under the bridge since he had last seen Sister Maria de Chantonnay, in her father's house in Paris, not long after Waterloo.
He braced himself. 'I thank you again, My Lord – and you, reverend sir,' he added, bowing to the vicar- general.
He took up his hat, caught the eye of Mr Keating, who had waited patiently throughout, and bid good day to the assemblage of priests and religious.
They found a hackney cab, not without a little trouble, and Hervey instructed the cabman to take his companion back to Duke Street, putting him down in Hanover Square en route.
The two had a little more conversation than on the journey out, but in truth Hervey was just as preoccupied as then. So much had happened since Toulouse. Truly, he did not suppose he could begin to recall that time before . . . before Henrietta. Before she had perished (perished on account of his incapability). It had been a vastly simpler age – Bonaparte the enemy, life lived day to day, a distant love; and then a wife, and a colonel not worthy of the name. And then one empty day after another. And the Promethean eagle tearing at his vitals each waking morning.
