Fairbrother sat beside her (at Elizabeth’s insistence, for the occasional seat facing rear was not a comfortable one). He remained silent, however, allowing her to recollect herself. What thoughts he imagined there must be: the relief of speaking face-to-face at last with the man to whom she was formally betrothed; the compassion which any of her sex and upbringing must have for a man whose body was sacrificed in the service of his country; above all, though, the freedom now to follow her heart. How he envied her! How he wished he could tell her of the object of his longing. But it would not do: his friend’s sister, whom he admired more each day, did not merit the burden of another’s sorrows.
‘Mr Fairbrother,’ said Elizabeth at length, still gazing out of the window at the crowded Thames. ‘You must not judge my brother harshly, if that is your inclination. Forgive me, but I could not but notice your manner this morning and at the hospital. He means nothing but well. It is only that he sees his course, and others’, in terms of duty. He was ever thus, even as a boy, though he was not then so . . . unbending. I believe that came later, on account of the death of his wife. I believe he is convinced there can be no contentment on this earth for him; hence his embrace of duty – duty as he perceives it. And I believe he has extended that conviction to me, without in truth thinking on it deeply, only that by some strange device we are conjoined in the natural affections of the mind. I care for him very much, but I am entirely resolved now upon my own happiness. I love Major Heinrici in a way I had never before understood, and I wish Matthew, who has known what I now know, would simply yield to that.’
Fairbrother had to clear his throat, such was his surprise (if not quite embarrassment) at being admitted to such sentiment. ‘Miss Hervey . . . your expression . . . I have never heard its like.’
She turned to him, and smiled. ‘Have you not, Mr Fairbrother? I had understood you to have moved in far more elevated and cultured society than mine!’
‘Evidently not, madam.’
Elizabeth smiled the more, and turned back to the Thames. ‘You know,’ she resumed, ‘I am quite certain that if my brother were to shake hands with Major Heinrici they could be friends within a very short time.’
Fairbrother almost laughed. ‘I don’t doubt it for a moment, Miss Hervey. I am certain your brother is incapable of disliking any who answers to the description of good soldier, and I am disposed to thinking, from my study in the matter, that any officer of the King’s German Legion would serve in that description!’
Elizabeth smiled and nodded.
‘I feel bound to say, however, that I doubt he will leave Greenwich with that intention.’
She sighed. ‘I am certain of it.’
The wheels growled over a particularly rough stretch of cobble. After a few minutes, when they were back again on metalled going, Fairbrother brightened. ‘Your brother goes to his regiment at Hounslow the day after tomorrow. That is sure to restore his spirits, and his good sense. I go with him too.’
Elizabeth was encouraged by this modest glimmer of hope. She would pray with all her heart that she and her brother might be restored to their former happy state. Did she not deserve, now, some happiness for herself, after all these years of . . . (no, she could not scorn familial duty thus). If only he knew, if only he could understand, he would surely not deny her a contentment she had long ceased to have any expectation of?
The chaise rolled on. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘But poor Captain Peto: it should never be so!’
Hervey returned to the United Service Club a little before eight o’clock, having taken a steam-paddle as far as London Bridge and then a hackney cab which had made slow progress on account of the May fairs in the City.
‘Lord John Howard is here to see you, sir,’ said the hall porter as he collected the key to his room. ‘He came half an hour ago. He is in the coffee room, sir.’
Hervey went at once to find him, curious – a shade anxious, indeed – as to why he should visit without prior notice. He found him talking to a man in his late fifties, a tall, handsome, vigorous-looking man whom he did not recognize, and he hesitated for the moment to intrude, until Howard saw him, and rose.
‘My dear Hervey, you have come at last!’ He turned to his interlocutor. ‘Sir George, may I present Colonel Hervey,’ and then back to his friend: ‘Hervey, the First Sea Lord.’
Hervey bowed. But the First Sea Lord rose and took his hand. ‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, sir. You are become quite celebrated.’
Hervey groaned inwardly. It was a celebrity he could well do without. ‘The honour is mine, sir.’
The admiral sat down. ‘Will you take a little wine with us, Colonel?’
Admiral Sir George Cockburn was not long appointed. Indeed, it was only this very year that the senior naval member of the Board of Admiralty had been designated ‘First Sea Lord’. Until then, the distinction had been the Duke of Clarence’s, as Lord High Admiral. Hervey, though not entirely certain of these facts, was content nevertheless to be in the company again of his old Guardee friend, and an admiral of no little fighting reputation.
‘I should be honoured to take wine, Sir George, if you will forgive my appearance. I have been out all day. Indeed, I have been to Greenwich.’
‘To Greenwich? How so?’
‘To see a very particular friend, recovering from his wounds.’
The First Sea Lord looked intrigued. ‘Do I know his name?’
‘Laughton Peto, Sir George.’
‘Indeed, of course. I was myself at his bedside not two days ago, though he was so dosed with laudanum he little knew it.’
Lord John Howard looked perplexed. ‘Peto . . . wounded? But—’
The First Sea Lord knew the story well. ‘The stubborn devil refused to let his lieutenant report him hors de combat, insisting he was as capable of commanding from the orlop as any other was from the quarterdeck. He was probably right, too. His lieutenant risked court martial, damn him, though I have this very week promoted him commander. These frigate men!’
The three smiled knowingly, if each for his own reason.
‘What shall happen to Peto, Sir George?’ asked Hervey, sombrely.
The First Sea Lord shook his head. ‘I’m not at all sure. You will know well enough the trouble the so-called “untoward event” at Navarino has brought: the government – Goderich’s government, at least – got in highest dudgeon. The King himself was all of a dither.’
Hervey was intrigued that the First Sea Lord made no attempt to lower his voice at this latter charge.
‘And now that the Russians have declared war on the Turks, there’ll be no end of it.’
‘I did not know that, Sir George.’
‘The news is lately come,’ explained Howard.
‘But what was Codrington meant to do? He had to winkle out the Turks from Navarino, and once there was shooting . . . I tell you, frankly, I have the greatest difficulty keeping Codrington in his command, let alone look after his officers.’
‘I understand, Sir George. But if—’
‘If Peto can get himself to his feet, or even whole and into a wheelchair, I might find him something. Scarcely a week goes by without the same request from Codrington – and not least his daughter!’
Hervey looked puzzled.
‘Ah, you would not know of course. Codrington’s daughter, his younger daughter, girl of fourteen, she was aboard the Rupert. Did sterling service with the surgeon. She nursed Peto back to Malta. Then wrote the most astonishing letter to Clarence! Told him everything he’d done in the fighting.’
Hervey felt like saying ‘we are ever grateful for the intervention of female supporters’, but thought the better of it. He nodded instead.
The First Sea Lord smiled ruefully. ‘And not just to Clarence. She wrote to the French ambassador, and the Russian too. Did you see all the ribbons at Greenwich? Most fetching. He’ll have something from the King, too, without a doubt.’
‘I saw the ribbons, yes, but Peto made no me
ntion of Miss Codrington.’
The First Sea Lord shook his head. ‘I doubt he recalls much of those weeks. And certainly no one would have told him of her intervention on his behalf.’ He rose. ‘But Codrington himself has the very devil of it still, the affair being picked over as if it were a game of cricket! And by men who’d quake at the first discharge of a musket.’
Hervey and Howard rose to acknowledge the First Sea Lord’s leaving, but Fairbrother had by now come in. He bowed, and Hervey made the introductions.
‘I am most particularly honoured to make your acquaintance, Sir George.’
The First Sea Lord smiled indulgently. ‘Indeed, sir? Upon what account? You do not, I trust, hold against me the burning of Washington still?’
Fairbrother returned the smile. ‘No, indeed not, Sir George. I am not an American. But I have long admired your action there in recruiting a corps of marines.’
The First Sea Lord’s face became rather tired. ‘Oh, the marines.’ He shook his head, and turned to Hervey and Howard. ‘From the emigrant slaves. That was Cochrane’s idea. Another of his outlandish schemes!’
‘Outlandish, Sir George? How so?’ asked Fairbrother, looking disappointed.
‘Oh, mistake me not: they were fine men we took in service. Excellent men, for the most part. But the Americans exacted a heavy penalty from their relatives, poor devils. And those they took prisoner they shot out of hand. You’re not by any chance a descendant of one of these, Mr Fairbrother? No, of course you cannot be; are you related in some way?’
Fairbrother shook his head. ‘No, Sir George. My father was – is – a planter in Jamaica.’
The First Sea Lord had served on the West India station; he understood at once.
Hervey thought he must declare his friend’s naval credentials. ‘Fairbrother’s father’s godfather was Admiral Holmes, Sir George.’
‘Indeed? They still spoke of him when I was there. Well, I must go back down the hill for an hour or so. I am pleased to have met you, Captain Fairbrother; and you, Colonel Hervey. Do not trouble yourself too much in the matter of Peto. He will have a pension at least. He shan’t be forgotten.’ He turned to Howard. ‘Well, Lord John, thank you for your intelligence of the War Office. We were favourably met this evening. It’s as well to know Hardinge’s thoughts so soon.’
‘A pleasure, Sir George.’
The First Sea Lord left for evening office (the Russian news was occasioning some dismay).
‘May we sit once more?’ asked Howard, observing the courtesies punctiliously (the United Service was not his club).
‘Of course, of course,’ replied Hervey, absently, thinking still of Greenwich. And then he recalled himself wholly to the coffee room. ‘Wine?’
Fairbrother, sensing that Howard had business with his friend, declined. He wished, he said, to consult with some periodicals in the library, and so took his leave.
Hervey leaned back in his chair, the exertions of the day finally telling. ‘Did I hear you rightly? Sir Henry Hardinge?’
Howard smiled. ‘Palmerston’s resigned over Retford, and the duke has appointed Hardinge in his place.’
Hervey nodded. ‘Then the War Office will be in the greatest state of efficiency – if it was not already.’ Sir Henry Hardinge’s reputation in the Peninsula was matchless.
‘Oh, great efficiency indeed. He went there yesterday morning, by all accounts, and worked without interruption until he rose for dinner not two hours ago. He took all his meals at his desk, and they had to send out for more ink and paper.’
‘Hill and Hardinge: the army is fortunate in the extreme.’
Howard smiled the more. ‘As are you, my friend. He has rescinded the order for the court of inquiry!’
Hervey sat bolt upright. ‘You mean . . . into Waltham Abbey?’
‘I do.’
Hervey sank back into the deep comfort of the leather chair, to savour the sense of total release, to be free of that feeling that others were in command of the future, in a way that he could not influence by any meritorious service. It was sweet indeed. There could be no last-minute objection now to a marriage to which (he was well aware) some believed him impertinent to aspire. At one stroke of the Hardinge pen he had been liberated.
In a month he would have a fine wife, and his daughter a proper mother. These were blessings of a degree he had scarcely been able to imagine these late years. Only the Sixth’s lieutenant-colonelcy eluded him now. But his fortunes were in large measure restored to his own hands: his happiness and professional fulfilment ought now to be but a matter of the correct application of manifold advantages.
XX
PORTRAIT OF A LADY
London, two days later
Hervey stared at the canvas with scarcely less wonder than the first time. The studio pupil had followed his directions admirably, and with great despatch: the blue riding habit had long been lost (it was still, for all he knew, in some press in the snowy wastes of North America) but he had remembered it well enough. The effect, indeed, was of seeing his sweetheart, his wife, as if she stood at Longleat, and he an observer unobserved. He said nothing for some time, until, turning to Sir Thomas Lawrence’s agent, he smiled. ‘I am most content. The likeness is in every detail perfect.’
‘I am greatly pleased, Colonel Hervey,’ replied the agent, and with every appearance of it. ‘Sir Thomas has been vastly busy these many months, and though he desired to complete it himself he would not have been able in the time you specified.’
It was the greatest irony. The painting had lain unfinished, anonymous, for a dozen years, and now he perceived he had need of it within weeks. But if Georgiana was to see her mother thus, he judged it imperative, for a reason he could not, or did not want to, put form to, that she did so before she acquired a stepmother. ‘I understand, Mr Keightley.’
‘The usual procedure is to allow one month in order that the paint should dry thoroughly, and we should be pleased thereafter to have it delivered to whichever address you choose. It should then be varnished, of course, but in a year’s time.’
Hervey nodded. ‘I will let you have a note of the address directly. And in the meantime, if you would let me have an invoice, at the United Service Club . . .’
‘Of course, Colonel.’
The address to which the portrait (and in due course, the copy) was to be despatched was indeed something that had occupied him a good deal. As he took his leave of Russell Square, he began once more to cast his mind over the options. In his heart, however, he knew there was none that recommended itself above the others, save perhaps Longleat; but then that would be to consign the image to a place with which yearly his connection diminished. The parsonage at Horningsham did not have walls for such a portrait; and his new wife could not be expected to welcome to their home the presence, even in likeness, of his former wife as well as daughter. In fact, he was already beginning to think his conduct somehow improper: was it not an act of infidelity to be engaged with Henrietta’s memory in this way? He could not convince himself that he did it for Georgiana alone; and Kezia might not therefore herself be convinced.
He quickened his pace, as he did, one way or another, when an intractable problem touched him. He began wondering if he should go to Golden Square, to see how were the arrangements for the pianoforte. So that he might salve his conscience a little? He shook his head. He must not deceive himself, no matter who else he might. Not that he wished to deceive anyone at all, except that he was ever uncertain who had title to a man’s inner thoughts. The secret things belong unto the Lord our God: he troubled over that verse of Scripture as much as he did over any other.
His thoughts returned to Peto, however. His friend had no family – none to speak of: if he did not recover sufficiently for the Admiralty to employ him, in however sedentary an appointment, how was he to be attended? He had wealth enough, Hervey was sure: he would be able to engage such help as was necessary. But how might his mind be occupied? That was the material question. How m
ight such a man as Peto, whose life had been spent at sea and in the habit of command – and, it had to be said, who had received the cruellest rejection from the woman who would have been his wife – how might such a man be kept from despair? Did his old friend, as did he, harbour hopes that Elizabeth, even at this hour, would have a change of heart?
He had not seen his sister since putting her into the chaise at Greenwich; she had not written to him, or communicated with him in any way. Nor he with her. Neither would he, indeed. It was unthinkable now. And yet in not many weeks’ time she would bring Georgiana to Hanover Square and see her brother married to the woman who would thereafter supplant her in the role of guardian.
In this, too, there lay a concern: he had not spoken with Georgiana of his intentions, where they would live, how things were to be arranged. He had left the explanations to Elizabeth, as he had so much, and yet he had given his sister little enough information with which to allay the anxiety that Georgiana might have – must have, indeed, at least in some small measure. Why did he see these things only now? He had not, in truth, discussed any arrangements with Kezia. He had thought vaguely of engaging a governess to accompany them to the Cape, but more he had not been able to turn his mind to.
That evening he and Fairbrother dined at Holland Park. Kat had pressed him hard to do so before the week was out, pleading imminent necessity of leaving for Warwickshire to visit with her sister. And she was – she insisted – determined to meet Fairbrother properly, ‘for he is evidently of singular virtue to have secured your friendship’.
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