Elizabeth smiled patiently. ‘No, Mama, not I.’
‘You travel home in my carriage, Mother,’ said Hervey, replacing his hat. ‘I will go with father in his.’
The reading of Daniel Coates’s will was to be at two o’clock in the offices of Mr Simeon Tegg and Partners in the high-street, but when Hervey and his father arrived they were greeted by the clerk with instructions to repair across the road to the upper room of the Bell inn since a larger number than hitherto was now expected.
Archdeacon Hervey nodded benignly at the intelligence. ‘He had favoured a great many during his life. I imagine that it will be so in death.’
His son thought him probably right, although he was of a mind that Daniel Coates’s charity had never been of the sentimental kind. Coates had brought the Speenhamland system to this corner of West Wiltshire, but he had been a vigorous advocate of public works on which the destitute might labour in return for parish relief, and not everyone of the needy or the poor-ratepayers thought him laudable.
But when they entered the upper room they were taken aback by the number already gathered – four dozen by Hervey’s rapid reckoning, and more still arriving.
‘The entire board of guardians, I think,’ said Archdeacon Hervey, taking a glass of warm punch from another of Mr Tegg’s clerks.
That much did not surprise his son; Elizabeth had told him often enough of Daniel Coates’s generosity to the workhouse.
Before they were too much drawn into greetings and further speculation on the prospects of those assembled, the attorney called the proceedings to order.
‘Gentlemen, I would beg your indulgence: there is a deal to attend to this afternoon. I propose to move at once to a formal reading of the will, thereafter to make some supplementary remarks arising from the late Mr Daniel Coates’s instructions to me, whereupon I shall be at liberty to answer any questions. I should add that as soon as the will is read a copy shall be taken to the offices of the Warminster Miscellany for publication in tomorrow’s edition.’
There were now, by Hervey’s more considered reckoning, upwards of five dozen people in the room, of various degrees and of both sexes. He found himself wondering if Daniel Coates’s estate could truly bear the evident expectations.
‘Very well.’ The attorney opened his portfolio and took out a single sheet of foolscap. ‘“I, Daniel Peter Coates of the Parish of Upton Scudamore, do by this my last Will and Testament give and bequeath to each man and woman in my employ the sum of twenty-five pounds, to my foreman William Costessey three hundred pounds and also to my housekeeper Anne Evans the same sum of three hundred pounds.”’
There was a considerable buzz of surprise and appreciation. Hervey calculated that this munificence towards Daniel Coates’s labourers, servants and two most trusted employees amounted to at least two thousand pounds.
‘“The remainder of my estate, saving the items specified hereunder, and subject to the payment of my funeral expenses, and to fees for the due management of said estate, I leave in trust to the principal benefit of the Warminster workhouse, with the urgent wish that a proper school and infirmary be established therein.”’
The acclamation was loud and long.
At length Mr Simeon Tegg held up a hand. ‘“And I do further leave under the terms of said trust an annuity of five hundred pounds to the Reverend Mr Thomas Hervey and Mrs Hervey of Horningsham, for as long as one or other of them shall live.”’
The buzz of surprise returned, but respectful.
Mr Tegg paused only a moment. ‘“And to Major Matthew Hervey of His Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons I leave the sum of ten thousand pounds in trust for the purchase of a lieutenant-colonelcy in any of His Majesty’s corps, and to him also my horses and all their appurtenances, and all military chattels of which I die possessed, this being my most certain act of service to His Majesty, so confident as I am in the loyalty and capability of this officer.”’
The noise in the room was as great as for the bequest to the workhouse. Hervey, though both astonished and exhilarated by the scale of the generosity, was nevertheless equally discomfited by its proclamation.
His father laid a hand to his arm.
The attorney again had to hold up a hand to restore silence. ‘“And I appoint the aforesaid Mr Thomas Hervey the executor of this my last Will and Testament, and to him the appointment of said trustees. Signed Daniel Coates, November 27, 1826.”’
IV
IN THE MIDST OF LIFE
Later
The shivering began on their way back to Horningsham. Hervey pulled his coat tighter about him, turning up the collar.
‘You are unwell, Matthew? It is not so cold.’
Hervey knew it was not cold. ‘It will be nothing, Father. The beginnings of a spring chill, perhaps.’
‘I wonder you are scarce able to reason. I confess I am not. I had never imagined Daniel Coates planned such beneficence towards us. Indeed, I am wholly astonished that his fortune should permit of what we heard.’
Hervey hid his hands in his pockets to conceal the trembling. ‘The attorney said there was twenty thousand in bonds alone.’
‘He asked me, of course, if I would be his executor, but I had no idea it might require so much in judgement.’
‘He evidently trusted you more than any man, Father, and with reason, I might say.’ He braced himself to master a vigorous spasm. ‘But you had best appoint the trustees and let the board of guardians propose their plans for the workhouse. If I were you I’d make Elizabeth their chairman!’
Archdeacon Hervey looked at his son warily. ‘That is by no means an idle suggestion.’
‘I did not intend it to be so, Father, I assure you.’
‘But I may remind you, Matthew, that Elizabeth’s duties in regard to Georgiana allow her little time already for her charity. You would not see her neglect the one for the other.’
Hervey, huddled in the corner of the hack barouche as if it were midwinter, though he could feel his temperature rising by the minute, was certain of his reply. ‘I do not intend that Elizabeth has those duties for much longer, Father.’
Archdeacon Hervey did not seem to hear; or if he did he did not question the intriguing notion that someone other than Elizabeth should have charge of Georgiana. ‘Matthew, are you sure you are not sickening for something? Perhaps we should see Dr Birch?’
‘No, Father; it will not be necessary. A chill, that is all. I’ll take a powder when we’re home.’
By the time they reached Horningsham, however, the ‘chill’ had revealed itself unequivocally: fever, violent headache and muscular tiredness which, even transplanted from their tropical origins, were quite unmistakable. Hervey excused himself, explained that he would have to take his ease for several hours, and went to his room. There he scrambled in his small-pack, though he was sure there would be no quinine, for he had become careless of late since the remittent fever had not visited him these six months and more. There was not even any powder. He did not suffer from headaches as a rule, unless the wine had been bad, and he had become careless of this too. He took off his shoes, then his coat; he loosened his stock but took off no more, wrapped a travelling blanket around himself and got into his bed.
The old long-case clock in the hall was striking six as he came to. He heard each chime distinctly, and then counted them back to be sure of the hour. But was it morning or evening? There was no other noise. He felt better, much better. The headache was gone, he was no longer shivering, and the pain in his chest was no more. He felt the sheets either side of him and thought it odd, for he did not remember … They were damp, as they had been in India. He did not mind, beyond the inconvenience to the household, for he had evidently sweated out the fever and what caused it. And the recurrence was by no means as frequent as that first year, when the foul air of the Avan jungle had poisoned his blood, and the bouts themselves were not as long (though they were little less violent). Perhaps his restoration to full health would be faster than the
doctors in Calcutta had told him? He had always believed it would be.
He sat up. His head swam a little. It was not surprising; it swam each time. But otherwise he felt in hale enough condition. He got up, swaying slightly, even having to steady himself on a bed post for an instant, then went to his window to see where the sun was. The day was overcast, however. He felt at his face: the stubble was thicker than an evening’s. He decided to put on his dressing gown and go to bring hot water from the kitchen.
At the foot of the stairs he saw his sister.
‘Matthew! You are better. I thought you would sleep for ever!’
He knew at once. It was as it had been in India in the early months: sleep, or delirium, a full cycle of day and night, without any sense of time’s passing. ‘I … I was thinking it only morning.’
Elizabeth’s apparition was somehow troubling. The candles were not yet lit, but he could see well enough, and he saw a different Elizabeth. He had never thought of her in other than capable terms, his sister, always there, always knowing what to do, and never for herself. He had not observed the passing of the years, though he had been all too conscious of standing in the way of her prospects. But now he noticed how … grown to maturity she was. Gone were the ringlets; her face was that of a woman – not a young woman, by which he meant girlish, but a woman of consequence, handsome, secure, as if possessed of title or family. He wished for all his heart that it were so, for none was more deserving of it than she.
By the same light, too, Elizabeth could see her brother’s pallor. ‘I’m not sure you should be up even now,’ she said, though without the tone that commanded him to return to bed. She knew her brother well enough to judge these things prudentially. ‘In any case, we’re not to dine until late; father is gone to Longleat. I’ll have Hannah draw your bath.’
Hervey did not object to that.
‘And I shall fetch you tea. Go and sit by the fire.’
He had no objection to sitting by the fire either, but the prospect of tea was somehow unappealing. ‘I think I shall have a glass of claret, Elizabeth. Is there any bread?’
She nodded. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll bring it.’
‘Where is mother, and Georgiana?’
‘They’re both gone to Longleat too, though they went on foot. Lady Bath generally sees them of a Thursday if she’s at home. She sends them back in a carriage towards now.’
Hervey inclined his head approvingly. It was good that Lady Bath saw fit to receive Georgiana, for although Henrietta had lived as one with the family, there were three Bath daughters, of whom one still was at Longleat.
He sat by the fire. Whitehead had made it up well. It gave off a good heat and he was grateful of it, for he ran a temperature yet, and he knew that the shivers could come on again easily. In his condition he reacted excessively to cold air which as a rule would not trouble him.
Elizabeth returned with a decanter, a loaf of bread and a jar of pork dripping. ‘The wine is very possibly fine, for I hadn’t the time to search for the everyday.’
Hervey took a good taste, and smiled. ‘Very possibly. You had better not tell father!’
‘He’ll know right enough: Whitehead’s entering it in the cellar book this moment.’
‘Whitehead reads and writes, does he? I don’t ever recall it.’
‘Father had Mrs Strange instruct him. She said she never saw a man take to it so.’
He took another good taste, and helped himself to bread and dripping.
‘He may not have Francis’s ways,’ explained Elizabeth, ‘but he’s a fine manservant. Papa is very fortunate.’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt it, and I never said ought about his ways. I’ve always found him obliging in the extreme.’
‘And Georgiana likes him too. He’s very good with her.’
‘I am glad to hear it. But see, you’ll have heard of the annuity that Daniel Coates bequeathed? Father ought now to be able to employ a lady’s maid.’
Elizabeth looked uncertain. ‘He is very exercised by the size of Daniel Coates’s fortune. When he agreed to be executor he had no idea it would be to such an estate. The responsibility troubles him.’
‘I told him he should appoint you to be chairman of the trustees.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘He told me. And I replied that I should have no objection. He also said that you had told him that you did not intend leaving Georgiana in our care for much longer.’
Hervey looked awkward. ‘Ah. I had not meant it to sound so decided.’
‘How had you meant it to sound, Matthew? Either Georgiana remains with me or she goes to Hounslow with you. It is not difficult, is it? You have a governess in mind, I suppose?’
He looked even more awkward. ‘A governess, yes, well … no, not really, not yet; but a governess there may be. I am not certain of the arrangements.’
Elizabeth, who might have been put out, seemed instead vaguely amused by her brother’s faltering thoughts of taking up the paternal reins. ‘Perhaps you intend that Private Johnson does that duty, in between seeing to your uniforms and horses?’
Hervey raised an eyebrow, thinking to add ‘And seeing to whatever it was that concerned the gentlemen from Bow Street!’ He recalled that he might have to exercise himself in that regard when he returned. ‘Georgiana would be happy enough with Johnson!’
Elizabeth ignored the tease. ‘Well, I am ever at your disposal. And, as you say, Daniel Coates’s bequest will enable Mama and Papa to employ a fuller establishment, so there would be no reason why I should not come to Hounslow with Georgiana. I imagine, too, that I might even be of help to you in respect of your duties in command?’
Hervey had not considered this, and he chided himself. Elizabeth was not a woman of fashion, but she was by no means incapable of taking her place in any drawing room. She would indeed be of help; with a certain outlay, she would even be an adornment. But, command was temporary; he had no expectations of remaining at the head of the regiment beyond the season. Except, of course, that he now possessed the means of purchasing the lieutenant-colonelcy for himself.
That reminded him. ‘I really must write post-haste to Lord George Irvine.’
Elizabeth knew the business exactly. ‘Shall your colonel approve?’
It was a good question. Hervey had every reason to believe he would. Lord George’s solicitude on his returning from Portugal, his immediate entrusting of acting command to him, spoke volumes. And, indeed, there were very nearly two decades’ association in peace and war. These were no mere things. But the lieutenant-colonelcy of a regiment of cavalry in peacetime was a much coveted prize. There would be no shortage of bidders.
‘I believe he will.’
‘And ten thousand shall be sufficient?’
Hervey was pulled up short again, as ever, by Elizabeth’s percipience. There had been much speculation in the mess about the figure. Over time, officers had found more or less legal means to circumvent the regulations, and the price had crept up, whatever the Horse Guards said. Ten thousand ought to be plenty but rumour was that the Ninth had just gone for sixteen thousand, and if that were so then the Sixth could not cost very much less, and perhaps even more, since they were just returned from India and therefore enjoyed the prospect of long and agreeable service at home.
‘I think so, yes, with my own captaincy taken into account and a little extra.’
‘You don’t then have poor Benedict Strickland’s majority?’ Elizabeth knew the regulations only partially.
Hervey shook his head. ‘If the enemy rather than the Oxford mail had killed him then I should have.’
‘Well, I do not imagine that your amiable Colonel Joynson would wish to sell to anyone else once he knows that you are entering the lists.’
That was a highly questionable proposition. Hervey had not the slightest doubt that if command were in Eustace Joynson’s gift he would have had it by now. But the lieutenant-colonelcy, although it had come to Joynson free on the death of Sir Ivo Lankester at Bhurtpore,
was now the means of his subsistence in retirement. ‘Frankly, Elizabeth, he’d be a fool to part with it for a penny less than the maximum bid.’
‘Entering the lists’ reminded him too: there was a procedure. He was meant to have submitted his name in the quarterly returns – ‘suitable for promotion and willing to purchase’. It was for the general officer commanding the London District, now that Hervey was acting in command, to certify both, and the appropriate financial guarantees, but he himself had to instigate it. And he would have to make sure that the recommendation for promotion was to lieutenant-colonel, for he held the substantive rank of captain; his majority had come by brevet and by temporary assignment as second in command. There must be no bureaucratic slip: he held more than enough service to qualify for promotion to the lieutenant-colonelcy. Except that the deuced rules had changed, had they not? That is what Myles Vanneck had told him.
He made to get up.
‘Sit still, Matthew! What is it you want?’
‘The portfolio by my bed.’
Elizabeth went herself rather than ring for Hannah.
When she returned Hervey began searching the portfolio with a degree of anxiety. Then he found it, an extract from The King’s Regulations, 1824. The adjutant had marked the apposite passage: ‘The quarterly returns certified by Commanding Officers are to be the only communication made on the subject of promotion by purchase, and when a resignation is sent in, it will be considered unconditional and irrevocable and no successor is to be pointed out or recommended.’
He put down the file and cursed to himself. Did anyone take notice of this? In the past when an officer wanted to sell out it was all arranged decorously by the regimental agents: the one would name his price, another would offer to pay, and the colonel of the regiment would approve it. Now it seemed that everything was to be regulated by the Horse Guards. Just when the former system would have favoured him, for a change. It was so novel an idea – the Horse Guards’ interference – he could hardly think how a regiment might properly regulate its officers if its colonel could not have his say in who was to be commissioned or advanced in his own fief.
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