On His Majesty's Service

him.’

Hervey checked himself; she meant it kindly, no doubt. ‘I must bear the deprivation,’ he replied, trying hard to avoid any note of indifference, resentment – or any other of the sentiments welling up within.

Kezia noticed no dissent, however. ‘I shall ring for breakfast and have them get your horses ready. And the express-return,’ she added, tugging at the bell-pull.

‘I had hoped to see Allegra. Does she speak yet?’

Kezia looked at him plainly astonished. ‘She is rising three years, Matthew.’

‘Ah …’ But he was no wiser, not knowing whether her astonishment proceeded from his imagining Kezia’s daughter to be either precocious or retarded. He realized with considerable discomfort that he could not calibrate the child’s progress with his knowledge of Georgiana’s, for in truth he had scarcely observed the latter.

And that gave him no satisfaction either in the present state of affairs. It had been his profound wish that Georgiana might have a mother, that she need no longer rely on her aunt to take that place. In fact it had been this consideration perhaps as great as any that had determined him on his course to marry again. And yet Georgiana was with Elizabeth still.

Kezia took the letter from his hand. ‘I will go and make the arrangements. Come down as soon as you will.’

He was still fretting over the cost of the express (perhaps because it distracted him from worse thoughts) many miles after Walden. Why had he thought to send instructions to Fairbrother post-haste, which could only reach him mere hours before he himself was come? Had he thought he would tarry at Walden, even for an hour or so? Kezia had given him no encouragement. He had taken his bath quickly, dressed sharp and had come down before it was full light, but Kezia had absented herself soon after he began his breakfast – there were matters to be arranged, she told him – and when she returned it was with every appearance of wishing to help him in his declared haste to be away. He had a momentary doubt once again: it was his own expectations that were unreasonable; he had arrived, presented unpalatable news of a foreign posting, retired to bed as if it were an everyday occurrence, and next morning was summoned by the trumpet to quit with all despatch for a distant place whence he might very well not return; how agreeable was this to a wife of any sensibility? And yet, had this not been implicit in their vows – and in the knowledge of marrying (not for the first time) into a cavalry regiment of the line? Could she not have embraced him, even?

The semi-silent running in the snow – hoofs dull-thudding, and only the sound of the axles turning instead of iron tyres on metalled road – somehow gave space to his thoughts, so that one thing led perilously to another, his grievance mounting, until at last and inevitably came the comparisons with the past. For once, when he was just married, he had had the offer of a comfortable billet – command of a regiment of yeomanry. An exceptionally good billet, indeed, with a fine house and even the advowson of a well- tithed parish. If he had accepted it he would now have been lieutenant-colonel these dozen years – and perhaps much greater rank, for it was not unknown for officers of the lieutenancies (the lord-lieutenants of the counties conferred the commissions in the militia and the yeomanry) to be taken back by the King. His father and mother might have had a comfortable rectory roof over their heads, rather than the hand-to-mouth parish at Horningsham; his sister might have had the pleasure of greater society than that into which she had entered in Wiltshire (though he knew he ought to forget all reservations about her intended bridegroom); Armstrong might now have been quartermaster. Caithlin Armstrong might still have been his wife. And – he could not stop himself – Henrietta would be with him now (and Georgiana with them both).

As the frozen miles passed, he wondered how the warmth of those years had turned to such unremitting cold. He felt suddenly so sick that he reached for the window strap.

VII

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS

That evening

Hervey reached the United Service Club just after six. It was no distance from Walden – not thirty miles – but for most of the way the roads were deep with snow, and he and the postboy had to change a wheel when the chaise skidded hard against the bank on Watling Street out of St Albans (though the exercise had helped restore his spirits).

Fairbrother was writing yet another letter with great speed and fluency in the empty library. ‘A cold and arduous coming of it, it would seem you had,’ he said, looking up from the desk to see a coat which bore the signs. ‘I trust you had an agreeable morning before your forced march?’

Hervey was not inclined to rise to the fly. ‘I left just after first light. We had to change a wheel, and it was the devil’s job to get the pin out. I was minded to take one of the post horses instead, but the boy would never have managed on his own.’

‘Noblesse oblige.’

‘You may say so; though had there been a saddle I might have disobliged.’

The welcome at Walden had evidently not been rapturous, Fairbrother concluded, just as he had predicted, if to himself. There was no denying it; he did not like Kezia. He did not like her strange indifference towards his friend. He did not like her hauteur. He did not much like her fortepiano playing (though what did he know about it?). But he did concede that she was a strikingly good-looking woman, though he, unlike Shakespeare’s African prince, was not in thrall to fairest creatures northward born – Where Phoebus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles. For that was the point exactly: she was a creature of cold climes.

‘I spent the midday buying camp furniture. It will be delivered to Craig’s Court by the close of business tomorrow. I went thence to Leicester Street to take delivery of the pair of travelling pistols duly modified, and, too, a single Deringer pistol which Forsyth’s had found – though at a premium. I have sent expresses this way and that, obtained gold coin, had Johnson hasten the boot-makers to effect the repairs to our hessians, collected our passeports and the letters of diplomatic authority – all in fact that is requisite to proceed on His Majesty’s service. Your friend Colonel Youell showed me every consideration. Really, we might set out tomorrow evening,’ he declared, with some satisfaction.

‘I am all gratitude,’ Hervey assured him. ‘I’m only sorry to have occasioned you so much effort, while I was … at my ease in Hertfordshire.’

Fairbrother smiled wistfully. ‘It was by no means all effort. After I had sent the express last evening, and made what dispositions I thought apt, I supped in Covent Garden.’

‘Indeed?’ replied Hervey, almost absently, as he perused Durham’s invoice for the furniture. ‘You were not at too much of a loss for company?’

‘Not at all. I met with the flower seller. We had a most agreeable time.’

Hervey eyed his friend cautiously. ‘Indeed?’

‘Indeed. And you have to call on an under secretary at the Foreign Office.’

‘Why?’

‘Youell said he looked after the Secret Vote.’

‘And you will tell me you have no idea what is the Secret Vote, I imagine.’

‘Just so.’

Hervey cleared his throat. ‘Well, doubtless I shall discover it. I … I thank you again for everything so expeditiously arranged. I have myself been writing letters. I must have the porter send them on for me.’

‘And I sent an express to Wiltshire. It was the only point on which I was uncertain how to act, but it seemed to me you would wish your people to know at once, in case they were able to come to London. I hope I did right.’ Fairbrother seemed not anxious but genuinely uncertain.

‘Ah, well … that is very good indeed of you. Yes, indeed it is. They will not be able to come up, I feel sure, but they will be glad I have shown sufficient forethought.’

‘Your sister might, might she not?’

‘Oh … yes; she might. That would be … most welcome.’ It occurred to him only then that she might even be in London at this time, at Major Heinrici’s townhouse. He thought he ought to call. ‘I’m only sorry that we shan’t be