stiff).
'Sister Maria, it is very good of you to receive me. I should have sent notice, but . . .'
'That would only be necessary if you wished to be certain that I was here. But it is so very rare that I am not. Please, take a seat, Colonel. Oh, may I bring you water?'
It intrigued him how much of her pleasant disposition was revealed in her general air, for the wimple exposed so little of her features. Perhaps the severe framing of the face drew attention more directly to the eyes, which were ice blue and had lost none of the ability to pierce. And the years since Toulouse had been kind to her (kinder than to him). There, he had thought she was his senior; now, he thought it the other way round.
He shook his head. 'No, thank you, Sister. Or – forgive me – do I call you 'Reverend Mother'?'
She sat down. 'That is the more correct. I am prioress of my carmel.'
'And you are here . . . temporarily?'
'I am.'
Since she did not volunteer any more information, and since it was no part of the reason he was here, Hervey curbed his curiosity. 'Colonel Holderness has written to you thanking you for your assistance with Mrs Armstrong's funeral. You may have received it already?'
'I have, and I was most touched by it, for I did but a very little.'
'I regret I did not see you that day; there was much to be about.'
'Of course. I did, however, see you, with, I imagine, your wife. And I should most certainly have presented myself had I not been in attendance on the bishop.'
Hervey nodded. 'The bishop's presence was a considerable honour. It ought to go well with Serjeant-Major Armstrong when I am able to tell him of it. Some little comfort, at least. You know that he is at the Cape of Good Hope, and that I return there shortly with the ill news.'
'I understood that, yes.'
He fell silent.
'And so, Colonel, what is it further that I may do for you?'
He shifted a little in his chair, clenched his fists and cleared his throat. 'Reverend Mother, I am troubled by a particular . . . event, and I seek your counsel.'
Sister Maria smiled beatifically. 'Colonel 'Ervey, would that counsel not be better had from a priest?'
'I cannot judge, Reverend Mother, but I recall your good counsel in Toulouse.'
'I recall that I gave you a
'You did indeed. And they were of use.'
'Are they of use still?'
If he had followed the Spiritual Exercises still with any degree of faithfulness, there would be no cause for his coming to Hammersmith. But he could not frame his reply thus. 'I regret that it is some years . . .'
'Well, you are here now.'
He nodded, gratefully. 'I am.'
'Then let me help you begin. Perhaps it would serve if you told me, as much or as little as pleases you, of your life since that day in Paris, after Waterloo, when last I knew anything of you?'
Hervey was a little surprised at Sister Maria's wishing to reach so far back, when quite evidently the event to which he alluded must be recent. Nevertheless he was also curiously relieved, however daunting was the prospect of recounting his life thus. Had he been content with mere pardon, as a man who, in the words of the Prayer Book, 'cannot quiet his own conscience herein, but requireth further comfort or counsel', he might have gone instead to some chaplain, 'or to some other discreet and learned Minister of God's Word, and open his grief; that . . . he may receive the benefit of absolution, together with ghostly counsel and advice'. And but a hundred yards from the house of Kezia's aunt, at St George's church, he would have found a willing curate for 'the quieting of his conscience, and avoiding of all scruple and doubtfulness'.
That indeed would have been the way of his own church. But he feared that its ghostly counsel and advice would be more by formula than true understanding of his predicament. Not that he expected other than dismay in Sister Maria when he told her of his cause for unquietness. Yet in her counsel he felt certain there would be some understanding of his conscience, and that without such understanding the counsel might not be . . . complete. He expected no undue allowance, but he was sure he would be better able somehow to do what was commanded by Scripture if the counsel came from so particular a sister of Carmel.
And so he told her everything. He told her of his marriage with Henrietta, and he spared not her blushes in describing their shortlived bliss (though she did not in the least blush on learning of it), and of Georgiana. He told her of his own part in his wife's death, his guilt, the subsequent resignation of his commission, his time in Rome, his reinstatement, his time in India, his feelings there for Vaneeta, how he and Kat had become lovers, his ill-starred sojourn in Portugal and his resolution to put right his life, not least his neglect of Georgiana and his trespassing on the infinite good nature of his sister (and, indeed, his unreasonable treatment of her of late), of his courtship and marriage with Kezia (which Sister Maria could not fail to recognize was couched in greatly less animated form than that for his first marriage), his indecision over command of another regiment, his return to the Cape alone . . .
So long was his account that the bell began tolling for the afternoon office. Hervey looked at his watch – a quarter to three – and then at Sister Maria, anxiously: he had yet to say what was the urgent cause of his disquiet.
She nodded encouragingly. 'God calls me to hear you, Colonel 'Ervey. Please continue.'
He steeled himself. 'Reverend Mother, Lady Katherine Greville is with child, by me. And her husband believes that the child is his.'
Having braced himself, he sank back into his chair – or so he felt, for the chair was entirely upright and to an
