Warrior

little unvarying. And I was most engaged by Colonel Smith and his wife.'

'Oh, indeed yes; they are a most welcome adornment to the Cape. I quite wish we were to stay longer.'

Hervey had almost forgotten the Somerviles were to leave the colony in not many months. Or rather, he had failed to imagine all the consequences of it. 'I did not ask: Eyre will return to the court of directors?' Somervile was principally a servant of the Honourable East India Company. The two of them had first met in Madras, ten years before, and renewed their friendship in Calcutta when the Sixth had been posted to the Bengal presidency; and they had continued it on return to London.

Emma looked surprised. 'He did not say? We are to go to Canada.'

Hervey brightened, like a child given a present. 'Canada!'

Emma looked at him a little strangely. 'Ye-es. Eyre is to be lieutenant-governor, minister, or whatever it is called there, in Fort York.'

Hervey smiled broadly. 'My dear Emma, you will forgive me if I ask you to keep this to yourself – I mean, I will tell Somervile of course – but I too am to go to York. I am to have command of the Eighty-first there.'

Emma positively beamed. 'That is wonderful news, Matthew! Wonderful! I know now that I shall have agreeable company. You and Kezia . . . the most agreeable thing!'

Hervey was tempted to tell Emma that to this date Kezia had set her mind against Canada, but . . . it would not help him, nor would it please her. And there was every chance that Kezia would have a change of mind in the matter.

But they had known each other too long, and his face betrayed something of his unease. 'What is it, Matthew?'

He cleared his throat. There was no point in pretence. 'Kezia is not yet persuaded to go . . . But I have every hope she will change her mind in the normal course of things, and especially once she knows that you will be there.'

Emma looked dismayed. 'You mean that you will otherwise go alone?'

Hervey shifted in his chair. Jaswant returned with wine (for which he was now especially grateful). 'I . . . That is . . . She has not said that she will not accompany me to Canada, merely that, when I spoke with her about the offer of the Eighty-first, she did not wish me to accept command.'

Emma's brow was now deeply furrowed. 'But you have said yes to command – have you not?'

'I have. These things are always somewhat provisional, of course.'

She shook her head, uncomprehending.

'I had but little time before returning here.'

'Not the time to speak with your wife?'

He shifted again. 'No.'

Emma studied him carefully. 'Matthew?'

He looked away, and raised an eyebrow the merest fraction.

It was enough, however. Emma rose.

'Matthew, I must go to the children; it is the nursery hour. Perhaps you would come tomorrow morning, when you have spoken to Eyre?'

That night, after an unusually abstemious dinner in the officers' house (he had felt an unaccountable reluctance to give way to the pleasures of the cellar), he retired to the little room that was permanently made up for him, and seeing there was pen and paper as well as brandy and water on the table (in proper regimental fashion), he sat down to write a few lines to Kezia. He knew he ought to have done so a day or two out from the Cape so that Armstrong could carry them back – as he had with letters to his family (and, if truth be known, to Kat) – but somehow the words had evaded him. He had, after all, written not many days out from England, and then again off the Azores, and the letters had been transferred to passing merchantmen, so he was not wholly to be thought inattentive in the matter. It was just that . . .

He picked up the pen.

My dear wife, he began. And then he put the pen down again.

Such an inadequate salutation, that. He could not quite recall why he had used the form in his first letter. Was it, somehow, that he was reminding himself of his status; reminding Kezia, too? After all, they had hardly begun things in the best of ways. So unlike the month – months only – that he and Henrietta had enjoyed. In truth, the marriage was barely consummated.

But to change the form of salutation . . . what might he write? My Dearest? It seemed too contrived.

He must, however, tell her of his decision to take command of the Eighty-first, and butting no further delay, for it was bound to be out soon. How much more agreeable it would have been had she been Kat – he meant had she been like Kat – who seemed to delight in his progress always.

He picked up the pen again and wrote his news, fast.

When he had finished, he read it over. He felt a twinge of unease as he did so, for he had couched the news as if he had only now made the decision, and after a great deal of thought. Kezia might believe that he had had to make his decision at once, without being able to discuss it with her. She might perceive there were other matters which she herself could not know. She might accept that he had decided with reluctance but in good faith, and that since he was unable to communicate with her in coming to the decision he must – as paterfamilias – act as he saw best. She might. But it was not the truth. He had made the decision almost defiantly, before leaving England, and he had not told her because. . . Well, he knew there would be the strongest objections, and if he waited there might come a more propitious time to break it to her. And so, in all honesty, he ought to tear up this half truth before him and begin afresh. But he was tired, and there were other matters pressing on him, matters of considerable moment, and if he waited for an opportunity tomorrow he would miss the Indiaman which was due to sail at midday . . .