Man Of War

more in want than peace and quiet at this time, no matter how rattling their morning had been.

Hervey cleared his throat. He wondered how much his own report on the incident at Waltham Abbey – which was meant to be the most confidential of documents – had to do with the general’s invitation. ‘Thank you, Sir Francis.’

The hall porter interrupted. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. Sir Francis, there is a messenger from the Horse Guards for you. Colonel Hervey, sir, these are the letters for you.’

The general rose, complaining. ‘By God, sir, I wait half the day and then the deuced word comes at the least convenient moment. I had more peace when I was in harness. See you, Hervey: when this is done I would speak on the Africa business more – and Waltham Abbey. Lord Hill is displeased with the notion of an inquiry, to say the least.’

‘Lord Hill? How so?’

‘You don’t know? Hill is the new commander-in-chief.’

Hervey was vastly pleased to hear it. Everyone had a high opinion of Lord Hill. ‘I look forward to speaking with you about Waltham Abbey, General.’ (Sir Francis might no longer be serving, but he undoubtedly had the ear of the commander-in-chief.) He bid his old supporter good day.

‘Will you allow me a few minutes?’ he said to Fairbrother as he sat down again, holding up his post.

‘By all means, as long as there is coffee . . . and this most excellent publication.’ Fairbrother in his turn held up a copy of the Edinburgh Review which he had remarked lying by itself on a side table.

Peter brought them each a cup of the strongest bean, and Hervey turned his attention to the little package of letters. The regimental agents, in Craig’s Court, forwarded routine correspondence and that of affairs, but a fortnight before leaving the Cape, Hervey had sent word of his imminent return to a number of addresses, asking that any reply should be made to his club. There were half a dozen letters, three in hands he recognized, and a small package. He read the three in unfamiliar hands – they contained nothing disquieting nor pressing – and then turned to the others.

The first he opened was from Kat – Lady Katherine Greville – who wrote that she would be in Warwickshire until the middle of April (the present month) and that she looked forward to receiving him at Holland Park as soon as she returned. Hervey had fully expected such an invitation, which he would not be able to accept (the circumstances of their former acquaintance, and his betrothal to Kezia Lankester, made it improvident to say the least), but he had felt obliged to write since for Kat to learn that he was in England without his having told her would only occasion . . . difficulty.

The letter from the Reverend John Keble expressed delight at the news of his betrothal, and hearty agreement to preach at the wedding, as he had done on the first instance of his friend’s marriage. In truth Hervey was not greatly troubled by the question of a sermon, nor, indeed, about the wedding arrangements in general, for the situation was vastly different from that first; but it had somehow seemed meet that it should be Keble, and, as he well recalled, the curate of Coln St Aldwin’s possessed the gift of brevity in these things. Keble’s letter also referred to his book of devotional poetry recently published, a copy of which he was sending under separate cover – which Hervey saw was the package. This he opened, more out of curiosity than zeal for poetry. The title page proclaimed The Christian Year. It did not urgently command his attention, though he was touched by the sentiment expressed in such a gift, the continuing kindness of this fine scholar-churchman towards him, especially since they had hardly been intimates. ‘See you, Fairbrother,’ he said, breaking his companion’s intense study of the Edinburgh Review: ‘a book of poetry by the man who’s to preach at my wedding. I fancy it will be good, but more to your taste than mine at the present.’

Fairbrother took it with a somewhat wry look.

Last, Hervey opened Kezia’s letter. It was written from Hertfordshire, her father’s house, on the fifteenth, and it began, as had those he had received at the Cape, ‘My dear Colonel Hervey’. The salutation was beginning to vex him rather. He knew well enough that it was entirely correct, but Henrietta had always been so . . . unrestrained in her correspondence (Kat too, though that was different). But, as he frequently reminded himself, the circumstances of his engagement to Lady Lankester were by no means the same as those of his marriage to Henrietta – nor even, truly, similar. They had been so much younger (it was all of thirteen years ago); except, by his reckoning, Kezia Lankester could not be more than a year or so older than had been Henrietta then . . .

The rest of his affianced’s letter, in the substance of its contents, was encouraging. Kezia looked forward to his coming to Hertfordshire, and she was content to be married in the summer from her aunt’s house in Mayfair. There were other details, and Hervey read over the letter again to be certain of them; and, too, for some intimation of sentiment. Just as in the earlier letters, though, he found none. His own to her, he would admit, could claim not a deal more (how might he write of the desire he increasingly felt?), but it pained him nevertheless. Did she not at least admire him enough for there to be some intimation of her expectation? Yes, for his part he had proposed to her after a very reasoned deliberation; it was neither romance nor passion in the conventional sense. And he supposed she had accepted him on the same terms, for she had had but a moment or two for reflection before doing so (he could hardly imagine that she had, before, entertained hopes, since they had met so infrequently). But even so . . .

There was no letter from Elizabeth, which surprised him, for his sister was a most dutiful correspondent. But he had no cause for anxiety at this lack of intelligence from Wiltshire: if necessary, evil news could ride post from Horningsham to London in a day, and the absence of an assurance that all was well did not trouble him therefore. All the same, he had expected some news, even if only an inconsequential report of his daughter’s progress in the schoolroom. He would be down to see them in a fortnight, though, or perhaps three weeks . . . These things could wait; especially now that he had made proper arrangements for the future.

III

FRIENDS AT COURT

Later

After a lunch of veal pie and hock, Hervey set out for the Horse Guards with Fairbrother, leaving him at the arch to walk to Westminster Abbey to see Nelson’s tomb. At the commander-in-chief ’s headquarters he found the assistant quartermaster-general writing with particular concentration.

‘I trust I do not disturb urgent business?’

Lord John Howard looked up with some surprise. ‘My dear fellow!’

They shook hands.

‘I said I trust I don’t disturb urgent business.’

Howard shook his head. ‘Not so urgent as to detain me on such an occasion – the arrangements for Clinton’s force: the duke’s recalled them.’

‘I did not know it,’ said Hervey, with some caution: mention of the expeditionary force in Portugal, which was supposed to keep the peace between the rival factions for the throne, made him feel awkward still, for his own sojourn there in advance of the force’s arrival had almost been the end of him – the death of him, even. ‘Affairs there have evidently quietened?’

‘A reasonable deduction, but not necessarily true. The duke believes we should not be entangled, especially since now the Spaniards show no appetite to intervene. The duke is of the opinion that these matters are best settled by the Portuguese themselves.’

Hervey was not surprised to hear it: the Duke of Wellington had been opposed to the expedition in the first place, believing it to be another of Mr Canning’s wild adventures in what was the business of other states. He wondered now if his own tribulations – notably his incarceration at Badajoz – had been without point, for withdrawing the force only sixteen months from sending it seemed hardly propitious as far as peace in Portugal was concerned. Except, of course, that at Badajoz he had forced himself to consider his condition, and thence to amend it. Without Badajoz there was no betrothal to Lady Lankester, no mother for his daughter.