Sir Peregrine, he knew, would not be at home. Indeed, he would not be in London, nor even England. He would be in the governor's residence on Alderney, which position he had occupied largely unaccompanied but with the greatest satisfaction for many years. The fishing off Alderney, and indeed Sark, which island was also within his commandery, was infinitely diverting to him, and now that all threat of hostile landing from France was gone, the appointment allowed him a life of complete ease.
There were many years between Sir Peregrine and his wife. Kat was forty, or there about, yet she possessed the blush of a much younger woman. Her many admirers, of whom the Duke of Wellington was merely the most elevated (not counting the King himself, whom Kat had never found herself able to flatter with much conviction), admitted her one of the handsomest females in London. Hervey, though several years her junior, shared their opinion. Although now he would place Kezia alongside her. Their looks, their whole demeanour, were, however, so unalike as to puzzle him: the attraction of two women so markedly different.
Kat. He had, perhaps, treated her ill. He had courted Kezia (if 'courted' were the right word for something so . . . extemporary) without first speaking with her of it. And then he had gone to Holland Park to tell her the news of his engagement, and she had been hurt (without doubt hurt) by the manner of his telling her as much as the news itself. And then he had not returned that night to the United Service Club; he had stayed at Holland Park, as he so often had.
He shook his head, for what had followed, on the eve of his wedding, was too shameful to contemplate. And afterwards Kat had been so understanding. She had maintained every expression of cordiality, she had come to his wedding, she had troubled herself no little over the convalescence of his great friend Peto.What a woman she was! He could not regret what they had been to each other, for all that he had broken the Seventh Commandment (as Elizabeth had reminded him with such devastating effect). Except perhaps that last time. For that had been unworthy.
The chariot turned into the little forecourt, and Hervey woke from his thoughts. 'Well, George . . .' He had insisted the footman travel inside with him.
George descended from the offside door and went round to lower the carriage step, but an under-footman came out to attend, so that he was able instead to assume the position due to him at the door of the house.
Hervey got down, straightened his neck cloth, and went inside.
'Colonel Hervey, m'lady,' George announced at the door of Kat's sitting room.
Kat did not come out to greet him, however, as invariably she had. Hervey thought perhaps it was the more appropriate to their new respective situations.
He entered the sitting room, and smiled. 'Kat, how very agreeable it is to see you.'
But Kat did not return the smile, nor move to kiss him. 'Matthew, thank you for coming so promptly.'
Hervey's brow furrowed. 'Kat?'
She made no reply, turning instead to the window, distinctly uneasy.
He moved to her side. 'Kat, what is it?'
'How was Brighton?' she asked, distantly.
He shook his head rather dismissively. 'It was . . . very agreeable.'
She seemed not to hear. She did not, at least, make any response.
'Kat, what is it? What were you not able to say in the letter?'
She turned back to him, and with a look quite cast down. 'I am with child, Matthew.'
The shock – the horror indeed – upon her lover's face was too much for her. She turned back to the window, her eyes moist.
He stumbled with his words. 'Kat . . . I . . . who . . .?'
She turned again, blazing. 'Who? Who, do you say! Matthew, how could you ask such a question?'
Hervey now felt a rising panic. 'I . . . that is . . . how . . .'
Kat looked more astonished still. 'How, Matthew? You ask how? Or do you suggest my years make it impossible?'
That was not what he meant. He knew well enough how. Indeed, he knew when. He struggled not to take her hand, and then gave way. 'What are you to do?'
She sighed deeply, and gave him a sort of resigned, pitying smile. 'Do not worry, Matthew; it is taken care of.'
He looked at her, puzzled.
'Sir Peregrine.'
He looked at her quite horrified.
'He was in London when I learned of it. He . . . he has no reason to suppose he is not the father.'
'But you said he was incapable of . . .'
'And so he is. But the dear, kind old booby had no memory of his incapability after two bottles.'
Hervey shuddered.
'The child is yours, Matthew, and although Sir Peregrine shall be the proud father – and I shall tell no one to the contrary, not even my sister – I must have you know.'
Thoughts raced in Hervey's mind as if from a legion of criers. Who might he tell of it? What should be his duty to Kat? What might he say to Kezia . . . 'Kat, I am so very sorry.'
'And so am I, Matthew.' Tears filled her eyes again. 'And yet . . .'
He looked about, as if for salvation.
There was no salvation, however. Kat was now sobbing.
He embraced her. But when Henrietta had told him she was with child, and he had taken her in his arms, he had felt such a warming in his vitals. Now only rats scrambled in the pit of his stomach.
He pulled her closer, yet with a distance that came from the horror of the very wretchedness he was trying to allay.
But Kat's dejection was too much to be tempered by what she knew was transient. She knew she would no more enjoy his attention. Her place in society would be gone, too. There would be no more beaux to flatter her. Motherhood would not at all become her. Her tears were many-coloured.
He left Holland Park much later than he had intended, so late as to conclude that returning to Hanover Square would be inconvenient to the occupants. And in truth he had no desire to. Not in his own state of wretchedness. He went instead to the United Service, arriving a little after midnight, and in the smoking room, to his surprise, he found the commander-in-chief still, and a little gathering of officers, all in plain clothes but some of whom he recognized.
His inclination was to bow and then retire, but Lord Hill saw him first.
'Hervey!'
'My lord,' he replied, with a less formal bow than he would have made had it not been in his club, where notions of a certain gentlemanly egality applied.
'Come, join us. We were talking of affairs in the Levant.'
Hervey nodded.
'Now, you may know, I imagine, Generals Burt and Richardson, Colonel Cowan and Major Hawtrey.' Lord Hill indicated each in turn.
It was a gracious way of introduction, for Hervey knew only the two generals, and those by name alone.
'Gentlemen, this is Colonel Hervey, lately returned from the Cape, where he has been raising a corps of mounted rifles.'
There was no shaking of hands, merely the usual bows of acknowledgement.
'And also lately of the gunpowder mills at Waltham Abbey, do I not recall?' said General Richardson.
'Yes, General,' replied Hervey, somewhat indifferently since attitudes to the action at the mills were, he knew, mixed.
'Sit you down,' commanded Lord Hill, but benignly, as befitted his nickname among the troops – 'Daddy'.
Hervey took the remaining tub chair gratefully. The evening, the whole day, had drained him of resource to an extent he would not have imagined.
'Colonel Hervey is to have command of the Eighty-first in Canada next year,' Lord Hill told his party.
There was a general murmur of approval. Hervey shifted awkwardly in his chair, the matter yet undecided in his own mind.
'When do you return to the Cape?' asked Lord Hill.
'I have just had a letter from the lieutenant-governor hastening it, my lord. I believe I shall sail within the fortnight.' He realised too late that by mentioning haste he might be inviting the commanderin- chief to enquire into the necessity for it, and since Somervile's position was somewhat preca
rious, and the expedition to the territory of the Zulu doubtless an enterprise without sanction from the Secretary for War, he might well have jeopardized his old friend's initiative.
But Lord Hill's concerns were not with so distant a place about which the Horse Guards knew very little. The situation in the Eastern Mediterranean was what occupied His Majesty's ministers, and was consequently the concern of the commander-in-chief. 'And when do you relinquish the commission with the Rifles?'
'The date is uncertain, my lord, but I believe it will be before the end of the year.'
'Mm.' Lord Hill appeared to be turning something over in his mind.
The smoking-room waiter brought Hervey his brandy and soda.
'How is your French, Hervey?'
'I fancy it is very adequate, sir,' he replied, rather startled by the turn of questioning. His French was entirely fluent, as was his German.
'You have no Russian, I imagine?'
Hervey's brow furrowed, curious. 'No-o, General.'
'Well, French would be perfectly serviceable. What say you to an attachment to Prince Worontzov's headquarters?'
Hervey had no very precise idea who was Prince Worontzov, or where his headquarters might be, but with the Russians now at war with the Turks it could be supposed that it was in the Levant (anything more precise was hardly necessary at this stage of enquiry). 'I am all enthusiasm, my lord, but I believe I must return to the Cape, at least for a month or so – to make proper arrangements for the corps, and indeed for the return of my detachment of dragoons.'
Lord Hill nodded. 'That is understood. Indeed, it works to advantage. George Bingham is to go at once, but he will have to return by the year's end to take command of the Seventeenth.'
Hervey had to check his instinct to agree to the commission at once.
'Think on it a while,' said Lord Hill, rising to leave. 'Let my military secretary know before you embark for sunnier climes.'
Hervey rose with him, and smiled. 'I will indeed, sir.'
'And, by the bye, I should have mentioned it before. I saw the notice of your marriage. Hearty congratulations, my boy! Ivo Lankester's widow, is she not?'
Hervey shifted a little awkwardly, forcing something of a smile. 'I suppose it will be some years before she is referred to as wife rather than widow, my lord.'
Lord Hill returned the smile. 'Just so, Hervey, just so. I stand rebuked. Mind you don't make her a widow again in that uncivilized colony of yours. The Eighty-first will be looking to welcome you both in due course.'
'Thank you for your sentiment, my lord.'
The commander-in-chief and his party took their leave, and Hervey sank down gratefully into his tub chair again. He now felt sicker in his stomach than he had even at Holland Park.
Another brandy and soda settled him somewhat, but it required a considerable act of will to rouse and make to leave. He really could not in all decency stay a second night at the United Service; especially when he had sent no communication to Kezia to say even that he might return late to Hanover Square.
He went out into the hall and asked the porter to hail him a cab.
Alone, now, he had the sudden and profoundest desire to speak to someone. But who? Fairbrother? Fairbrother was the only one of his military companions that he could possibly conceive of speaking to. And it was strange, because Fairbrother was not as the others: he neither wore the 'VI' on his shako plate, nor was he even an Englishman. Not in the usual sense. For much of the time Hervey had no notion that Fairbrother was any different in birth or upbringing from any in the Sixth, for his manners were entirely those of the gentleman, his speech likewise, with but the faintest accent of the plantation. Nor was the colour of his skin so markedly different, especially in the summer months, when the sun in Spain and India had made of the Sixth a fraternity of half-castes.
But he could not speak to Fairbrother, for even had his friend been at hand, these were waters too deep. The Reverend Mr Keble, perhaps, would have given steadfast counsel, but could he face such a man as John Keble? Would that admirable, saintly curate truly be able to understand his situation? Elizabeth should have been his confidante, but although his sister had for so many years been his support (without her, indeed, he did not know what would have become of him after Henrietta had died), he had never spoken his innermost thoughts. And now that there was this . . . estrangement between the two of them, any such course was out of the question. He was not certain, even, if she were in London or in Wiltshire (this improvident engagement with her German widower had made her lose all sense of judgement).
One person only did he imagine might help him: Sister Maria. For a few short weeks in 1814 they had been intimate in the easy manner of their conversation, touching on things spiritual that were never the subject of discourse with any other of his acquaintance. It had been helped no little by her calling, the otherworldliness of her habit. And yet, though she had not worn the habit that morning (the law forbade it in public), he was certain that if she were here now he would be able to tell her all.
He sighed, giving way for the moment to the greatest sense of hopelessness.Which would occasion the greater alarm at two in the morning: pulling on the doorbell at the Hammersmith Convent, or at Kezia's aunt's in Hanover Square?
He woke to the sound of piano scales. He looked at his watch; it was not yet seven. He sat up and looked about: a good-size room, with fine hangings and paintings; he had not taken it in by the light of the candle when the manservant had brought him to it in the early hours (he hoped he had not woken too many of the household, for there had been a noisy drawing of bolts). He rose and poured water from the decanter by his bed into a washing bowl, supposing it a little early for hot water to be brought, even though there was piano practice. He shaved, then dressed.
He went downstairs to the music room. Kezia was now begun on her arpeggios. He bent and kissed her forehead. 'Good morning, my love,' he said boldly.
'Good morning,' she replied, without interruption to her practice. 'Evidently priests are not easy to find these days in London.'
He smiled. 'I'm sorry. I was detained by all manner of things yesterday. And some I must speak with you about as a matter of urgency. I saw Lord Hill, and he has proposed I go to the seat of the Turkish war for six months – not immediately, but in the new year. And Eyre Somervile wants me to return forthwith to the Cape. And I have been offered command of the Eighty-first.'
Kezia continued playing, if perhaps less complex chords. 'On what particular do you seek my attention?'
Hervey's brow furrowed. 'On all of them! We might begin with the Turkish war.'
She threw him an indulgent smile. 'I am perfectly aware that the wife of a soldier must bear such absences.'
'And the early return to the Cape?'
'I cannot think but that the lieutenant-governor has good reason.'
Hervey was finding the easy acceptance a shade disconcerting. 'And the Eighty-first?'
She smiled indulgently again. 'I cannot know the reputation of every regiment of the army. Where are they stationed?'
'Canada.'
'Canada?' She mis-keyed, and looked vexed with herself. 'I cannot be expected to go with you to Canada!'
His mouth fell open. If she had gone to India with her late husband, what possible objection could there be to Canada?
'Are you inclined to accept the command?' she asked, taking up the exercises again, speaking in an indifferent manner, not that of wife to husband.
He put a hand to her shoulder. 'I am not strongly minded to, no; and your disapproval reinforces me in that position.'
She stopped playing, momentarily. 'I thank you for consulting me in the matter.'
'The fact is, my love, I may not get a better offer. It is without purchase too. Lord Hol'ness shows no sign of selling out, and when he does, the price may be too high. John Howard told me the Seventeenth went for twenty-five thousand!'
'To whom? Who would pay such a sum just to sit in front of five hundred other m
en on horses?'
Hervey was rather put out by this dismissal of the honour of command, even though he supposed she spoke with irony. 'Lord Bingham.'
'Oh, then that explains it. George Bingham will merely rack-rent his miserable tenants in Mayo all the more.'
Hervey frowned again. 'I don't know George Bingham in that particular – or, indeed, any – except that he is to go to the Russians meanwhile. Lord Hill wishes me to take his place when he goes to his regiment.'
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