again. He now felt sicker in his stomach than he had even at Holland Park.
Another brandy and soda settled him somewhat, but it required a considerable act of will to rouse and make to leave. He really could not in all decency stay a second night at the United Service; especially when he had sent no communication to Kezia to say even that he might return late to Hanover Square.
He went out into the hall and asked the porter to hail him a cab.
Alone, now, he had the sudden and profoundest desire to speak to someone. But who? Fairbrother? Fairbrother was the only one of his military companions that he could possibly conceive of speaking to. And it was strange, because Fairbrother was not as the others: he neither wore the 'VI' on his shako plate, nor was he even an Englishman. Not in the usual sense. For much of the time Hervey had no notion that Fairbrother was any different in birth or upbringing from any in the Sixth, for his manners were entirely those of the gentleman, his speech likewise, with but the faintest accent of the plantation. Nor was the colour of his skin so markedly different, especially in the summer months, when the sun in Spain and India had made of the Sixth a fraternity of half-castes.
But he could not speak to Fairbrother, for even had his friend been at hand, these were waters too deep. The Reverend Mr Keble, perhaps, would have given steadfast counsel, but could he face such a man as John Keble? Would that admirable, saintly curate truly be able to understand his situation? Elizabeth should have been his confidante, but although his sister had for so many years been his support (without her, indeed, he did not know what would have become of him after Henrietta had died), he had never spoken his innermost thoughts. And now that there was this . . . estrangement between the two of them, any such course was out of the question. He was not certain, even, if she were in London or in Wiltshire (this improvident engagement with her German widower had made her lose all sense of judgement).
One person only did he imagine might help him: Sister Maria. For a few short weeks in 1814 they had been intimate in the easy manner of their conversation, touching on things spiritual that were never the subject of discourse with any other of his acquaintance. It had been helped no little by her calling, the otherworldliness of her habit. And yet, though she had not worn the habit that morning (the law forbade it in public), he was certain that if she were here now he would be able to tell her all.
He sighed, giving way for the moment to the greatest sense of hopelessness.Which would occasion the greater alarm at two in the morning: pulling on the doorbell at the Hammersmith Convent, or at Kezia's aunt's in Hanover Square?
He woke to the sound of piano scales. He looked at his watch; it was not yet seven. He sat up and looked about: a good-size room, with fine hangings and paintings; he had not taken it in by the light of the candle when the manservant had brought him to it in the early hours (he hoped he had not woken too many of the household, for there had been a noisy drawing of bolts). He rose and poured water from the decanter by his bed into a washing bowl, supposing it a little early for hot water to be brought, even though there was piano practice. He shaved, then dressed.
He went downstairs to the music room. Kezia was now begun on her arpeggios. He bent and kissed her forehead. 'Good morning, my love,' he said boldly.
'Good morning,' she replied, without interruption to her practice. 'Evidently priests are not easy to find these days in London.'
He smiled. 'I'm sorry. I was detained by all manner of things yesterday. And some I must speak with you about as a matter of urgency. I saw Lord Hill, and he has proposed I go to the seat of the Turkish war for six months – not immediately, but in the new year. And Eyre Somervile wants me to return forthwith to the Cape. And I have been offered command of the Eighty-first.'
Kezia continued playing, if perhaps less complex chords. 'On what particular do you seek my attention?'
Hervey's brow furrowed. 'On all of them! We might begin with the Turkish war.'
She threw him an indulgent smile. 'I am perfectly aware that the wife of a soldier must bear such absences.'
'And the early return to the Cape?'
'I cannot think but that the lieutenant-governor has good reason.'
Hervey was finding the easy acceptance a shade disconcerting. 'And the Eighty-first?'
She smiled indulgently again. 'I cannot know the reputation of every regiment of the army. Where are they stationed?'
'Canada.'
'
His mouth fell open. If she had gone to India with her late husband, what possible objection could there be to Canada?
'Are you inclined to accept the command?' she asked, taking up the exercises again, speaking in an indifferent manner, not that of wife to husband.
He put a hand to her shoulder. 'I am not strongly minded to, no; and your disapproval reinforces me in that position.'
She stopped playing, momentarily. 'I thank you for consulting me in the matter.'
'The fact is, my love, I may not get a better offer. It is without purchase too. Lord Hol'ness shows no sign of selling out, and when he does, the price may be too high. John Howard told me the Seventeenth went for twenty- five thousand!'
'To whom? Who would pay such a sum just to sit in front of five hundred other men on horses?'
Hervey was rather put out by this dismissal of the honour of command, even though he supposed she spoke with irony. 'Lord Bingham.'
'Oh, then that explains it. George Bingham will merely rack-rent his miserable tenants in Mayo all the more.'
Hervey frowned again. 'I don't know George Bingham in that particular – or, indeed, any – except that he is to go to the Russians meanwhile. Lord Hill wishes me to take his place when he goes to his regiment.'
