At five o'clock, Hervey went wearily to his quarters in the castle. He could have – ought perhaps to have – dined with the troop officers and stayed in the lines, but his need of retreat took precedence. And there was, after all, the business of the Zulu to discuss.
In driving back he had passed the house which he had engaged as his married quarters, a pleasant place with its window boxes in spring bloom. Tomorrow he would have to go and find the owner, and surrender the lease – and he had cursed at the need to do so, and wondered if he ought to have done more to persuade Kezia; or, indeed, brought Georgiana by herself, and a governess. But the days before his leaving London had been full of affairs, with little time for thinking. Even when he thought he might have half a morning or a part of an afternoon to spare, he had invariably found himself detained at Hounslow on regimental business, or in seeing to Caithlin Armstrong and her children. Kat he saw but once more after that Hammersmith evening, at a drawing room. He had even had to send word to Sister Maria, deferring another meeting until his return from the Cape, so that her counsel had been left, so to speak, in the air. The turning of the paddle wheels at Gravesend had been a welcome thing.
He found Private Johnson in the servant's room, saddle-soaping the leather that had hung unused since March.
''Allo, sir,' tried Johnson, cheerily.
Hervey nodded.
'It's not bad at all – only a bit o' mildew 'ere and there. Tea, sir?'
'Yes, please . . . if you would.'
Hervey went back into his sitting room, sank down into the low armchair next to the unlit fire, and closed his eyes.
In barracks, Johnson served tea in one of two ways: on a tray, with linen and silver, and the china which Henrietta had bought; or in an enamelled mug. His choice depended on what was convenient to him, and his perception of Hervey's indifference. This afternoon – or evening, for the light was fast failing – he was in no doubt, and he returned with a steaming mug of the strongest brew.
'Si-ir.'
Hervey opened his eyes, smiled gratefully and took it.
''Ow was Eli, sir, an' Molly?'
'The veterinarian says they're well. I'm afraid I had not the heart to go in.'
''E's a good'n is young Toyne.'
'He is.' Private Toyne had looked after the chargers while they were gone.
Johnson had brought in the second spare bridle, and he now resumed his saddle-soaping.
It was, perhaps, a strange place to be cleaning leather, but Hervey was glad of it, for the smell of saddle soap was always pleasing, and the company welcome.
There was a few moments' silence, and then Johnson put the question he really wanted to ask. ''Ow were t'serjeant-major, sir?'
Hervey sighed, took a big sip of his tea again, and then rested the mug on his foreleg. 'I never saw a man so broken by anything I said. Nor, I believe, any man so broken by ill news.'
'Will 'e be gooin back?'
'Yes. Tomorrow. And it's as well that I brought Collins. The sar'nt-major was dismayed at first – the thought of handing over the troop to another – but it couldn't be to a better man, and he said as much. And Collins will keep watch tonight, which I admit was occupying me rather. I wish there were someone to go back with him; it will be a hard thing to make that passage with no one to speak to.'
'Mebbe 'e's better off by 'imself,' said Johnson, reattaching the reins to the snaffle he had been polishing. 'Don't reckon ah'd be wantin anybody, and ah'm not a serjeant-major.'
Hervey nodded: perhaps Johnson was right. 'Well, let us pray it is so.' He took another sip, and frowned. 'I don't complain, but this is uncommonly strong.'
'Ah thought ah'd make thee a good mashin', sir, but a'may've put in a bit too much. It's gunpowder ah foraged from Mrs Somervile's.'
Hervey smiled resignedly. He had long given up teaching Johnson correct form.What did it matter if no one were accorded their title: there would always be tea. 'Johnson, would you send word to Captain Fairbrother to come at eight? And I would sleep for an hour, and then write a letter for tomorrow's sailing . . . and then a bath, if you will.'
'Right, sir.' Johnson looked suddenly contented. He was contented, for the uncertainty that was his position in Hervey's new domestic establishment (he was sure that Kezia would give him his
Fairbrother came carefully upon his hour. They drank whiskey brought with them from London, and Hervey listened while his friend recounted the intelligence he had gained in an afternoon with his barber – and with his housekeeper, M'ma Anke.
M'ma Anke: she was round, her thick curls were white and she walked with a rolling motion, but somehow she combined the qualities of mother, aunt, sister and housemaid in ideal proportion. How fortunate his friend was in having such a good soul as she to keep house! When Hervey had first called on Fairbrother's little establishment by the Company's gardens, he had formed the distinct impression that without her, his friend would rarely have bestirred himself, content as he seemed to spend his day with books and wine, living comfortably on bank drafts from Jamaica in exchange for a very modest effort in commerce. Indeed, if the man whom Somervile had superseded, Lord Charles Somerset, had not recommended Fairbrother's employment as guide-interpreter (although Fairbrother was convinced of the governor's contempt for him, and therefore reciprocated the supposed emotion), then Hervey would have turned on his heels early, dismissing him as a mere idler, jealous in honour, too sudden and quick in quarrel. It had been M'ma Anke's evident regard that had made it otherwise. Hervey had much to thank her
