‘That was a little presumptuous, Matthew.’
She was right: it was the bride’s prerogative to arrange her own wedding. ‘I could, I suppose, write and tell him—’
‘I should be glad of it, yes,’ said Kezia, almost absently. And then more decidedly: ‘My cousin is a most ardent preacher, of a very proper evangelical temper.’
Hervey groaned inwardly. He knew well the sort of clergyman. It was to counter such a possibility, in part, that he had asked John Keble to preach. ‘Indeed. Of course.’
They strolled on further, Kezia stooping to pick an anemone, and twirling it between her hands as they walked. ‘Did you find your people well in Wiltshire? How is Georgiana, and your sister?’
Hervey had known it must come, and he had not resolved on what he would say. He ought, he knew, to say everything, without hesitation; but he wished in some way to spare Elizabeth (the whole family indeed, and not least himself) the ignominy that would inevitably follow from the breaking off of an engagement to such a man as Peto. ‘They are all in good health, thank you.’
‘Is there yet a date for Elizabeth’s wedding?’
He cleared his throat. ‘No,’ he answered, truthfully but unhelpfully.
‘Perhaps I should invite her here, and Georgiana?’
‘That would be very civil. My parents keep little company.’
‘You surprise me; I did not think them unsocial.’ Hervey smiled. ‘In this their taste and means coincide.’
‘Happy thought indeed.’
‘And, forgive me, I had meant to ask earlier, how is Allegra?’
‘She walks very strongly since you saw her last, and she speaks much. We may see her before we leave this evening.’
He wanted to broach the question of ‘arrangements’, where they would live, what staff they would need, but Kezia seemed somehow preoccupied.
She stooped and picked another anemone, and gave it to him.
He threaded the stem through a button hole of the double-notched lapel of his coat, his favourite, dark green, the yellow of the anemone a felicitous match. ‘I did not say, but I fancy I shall be detained in London rather, for the next month or so.’
‘Oh? How so?’ She sounded curious rather than disappointed.
‘There’s to be a court of inquiry over the affair at Waltham Abbey.’
‘Ah.’
‘Perhaps you will come and stay in Hanover-square the while?’ he said, thinking how to make the business more agreeable.
‘I fear it would be inopportune. Mrs Bulwer Lytton is giving a grande fête in June, and there will be much preparation.’
‘And you must assist in this?’
She looked quite taken aback. ‘I am to sing in the opera.’
‘Oh . . . of course, the opera.’
But in truth, now that he thought more precisely of it, it might not do for Kezia to be in London during the inquiry; she might learn of . . . ‘I hope I may be allowed to propose myself to attend the fête.’
The question – if question he had made it – was to his mind rhetorical; but not to Kezia’s. ‘I shall ask Mrs Bulwer Lytton. I’m sure she will issue an invitation, in the circumstances,’ she answered solemnly.
He wondered if she teased . . . ‘Well, I hope I may propose my supporter to visit with’ (he hesitated at presuming on the plural), ‘us here before the event.’
‘By all means. But there is a concert at Hanover-square in two weeks’ time which my aunt has arranged for me to attend. Perhaps it would be convenient that we meet then?’
Hervey was beginning to wonder if Kezia thought of anything but her music, for both the months ahead seemed wholly regulated by it. ‘Perhaps.’
As an afterthought (it appeared), she turned to him and added, ‘I believe my aunt may be able to secure an extra ticket. Would you wish to attend?’
Hervey reeled somewhat. ‘Of course I should wish to attend. I should wish to escort you!’
‘And you do not wish to know first what is the music?’
He cared not in the least what was the music. He knew he would have to steel himself to it (as he had on several occasions with Elizabeth), whatever the band or the composer. He took her hand. ‘Kezia, I shall be accompanying you. That is sufficient to engage me.’
She looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I have known some who cannot abide Beethoven, yet call themselves musicians.’
He brightened. ‘I have heard Beethoven, and liked it very much.’
It was true. He had once attended a concert by the Grenadiers’ band, when they had played Wellington’s Victory, and the duke himself had conducted the encore. But he need not burden her with such a detail.
Kezia brightened, too. ‘Then I shall write to my aunt at once.’
They continued their stroll. The birdsong, so intense in the morning, was now diminished. A distant cuckoo called, but neither of them remarked on it.
‘I have found us a very pleasant house at the Cape, and but a short walk from the Somerviles.’
Kezia said nothing for the moment, and then: ‘How are the Somerviles?’
Hervey supposed the domestic details did not trouble her, that she trusted him to make what arrangements were necessary (she was, after all, in no position to make any herself). ‘They are very well. I think Emma especially is glad to be in those climes again – although it is not India, for sure. Somervile himself is rather vexed at finding the administration of the colony keeps him at Cape-town, but there is a good deal for him to do. And it is the most pleasing place, the country and the climate.’
Kezia stopped suddenly, and turned. ‘Matthew, I think I will return to the house. I would speak with Mrs Benn and the nurse before making ready for this evening. And I must practise a little more. We leave at six, you know.’
Hervey was a trifle disconcerted by the abrupt termination of their pleasant stroll, but he understood that Kezia had responsibilities in the absence of her parents. And, too, she had a very proper pride in her music, an admirable sense of obligation to those she would play for. ‘Of course, of course. Let us walk back together.’
Hervey found the prospect of the soirée increasingly unappealing as they drove through Knebworth park. Kezia had no doubt intended the opposite in her picture of the evening, but it sounded to him an affair in which he would find little diversion. Their reception at the house was certainly warm enough: Knebworth’s chatelaine was extravagantly welcoming (Fairbrother, he marked, seemed entirely at his ease), but his immediate impression of the company was of a ménage altogether too studied.
Knebworth was, like Sezincote, a perfectly ordinary English house which had been ‘decorated’ to appear other than it was. Unlike Sezincote, however, which had been turned into something that would have looked entirely natural on the banks of the Hooghly, Knebworth, with its Gothic windows, battlements and turrets, looked as if it had been transported from the Rhine. Kezia explained that Mrs Bulwer Lytton had inherited a dilapidated mansion from her father, and that, in the words he, Hervey, had used, ‘her taste and her means coincided’: she had pulled down three sides of a most uncouth and sombre quadrangle to make a more manageable house out of the fourth. ‘Old General Bulwer being now dead, too, Elizabeth is free at last of a most unhappy marriage,’ she added with some asperity. ‘She is finally able to pursue her true vocation, which is painting and poetry.’
It had not, therefore, been the most consoling of drives. And by the time Kezia had told him that their hostess’s father had brought her up on the principles of Rousseau, which had meant her curtsying to the gardener’s boy, he was in something of a mental lather. Especially since Kezia gave him to expect that there would be a good many more bluestockings than those of either sex with whom he might have easy conversation.
Mrs Bulwer Lytton greeted her guests in a voice so old-fashioned (though she was no great age) that Hervey did not quite know what startled him the more – that or her strangely medieval dress. She smiled and called him ‘darling boy’, then scowled and
(none too teasing, he fancied) said, ‘but you are naught to try to take away this jewel from among us’, tapping Kezia’s arm with her fan.
Try? Despite his wonder at their hostess, it was all he could do to stop himself saying that he did not try: it was already accomplished. But a lifetime’s deference to age and rank stood in his way. ‘I am a fortunate man, ma’am,’ he replied, with an almost exaggerated bow. He hoped Kezia would play her part in this, but he saw that she had become preoccupied, rather in the manner he had observed that evening at Sezincote as the time for singing drew close. He must accustom himself to it, for composed though her manner invariably was, Hervey knew there was such a thing as artistic temperament – what was vulgarly called ‘nerves’.
And then he was introduced, with Fairbrother, to Elizabeth Bulwer Lytton’s third (and favourite, said Kezia) son. Edward Bulwer Lytton’s two elder brothers had inherited estates away, and thus he lived in London and at Knebworth with his adoring mother. Hervey thought him about twenty-five, Kezia’s age, rather dandified in his dress, with a long, intelligent face, and an air which suggested he might be engaging company. Except that (Hervey was certain) his cheeks were rouged.
‘Edward has recently published a second novel, Colonel Hervey,’ said Kezia, as the little party continued with its introductions.
Her lapse into the formality of his rank exasperated him, especially as she used their host’s Christian name (and he ‘Kezzy’), and looked at him with all the appearance of admiration, which Hervey had not so far been favoured with. ‘Indeed, sir?’ He said it a little too curtly, he knew.
Edward Bulwer Lytton maintained his pleasant countenance, however. ‘I must earn a living, Colonel, as you.’
Hervey chided himself. Impatience with a man ten years his junior – and not under his orders – was neither edifying nor necessary. ‘Just so. I confess I have been remiss in respect of my reading of late. I have managed only a very few books new-published. Might I enquire what your novel is about, sir?’
‘Certainly, Colonel Hervey. It is of the intense friendship of two men, which leads the one to save the life of the other.’
Naturally Hervey was intrigued by the subject, but he judged, from the author’s air, that the book would not be exactly to his taste; he would have to be nimble on his feet lest he appear an ungracious guest. ‘The noblest of things,’ he said, nodding.
Fairbrother’s brow furrowed. ‘Is it by some chance called Pelham, Mr Lytton? I do believe I bought it last week in London.’
‘It is.’
‘Then I am sorry that I did not bring it with me to Hertfordshire; I should have liked to take it back to the Cape Colony with me, inscribed.’
‘There will be another occasion, I hope, Mr Fairbrother.’
Kezia took her leave of them, explaining that she must attend to the pianoforte (Knebworth, she had told them, had a concert grand), and shortly afterwards Hervey and Fairbrother bowed and left their host to his other arriving guests.
‘A considerable coincidence, I should say, your buying Lytton’s book,’ said Hervey as they made their way into the banqueting hall.
‘Ye-es.’
‘What recommended it to you?’
They took glasses of champagne from a footman.
‘While you were at Holland-park, before we travelled to Wiltshire, I read in a magazine called The Examiner, which your club most generously provided, an article which rather caught my eye under the title “The Dandy School”. By Mr Hazlitt?’
Hervey nodded. He had certainly heard of Hazlitt – had read him, perhaps. Henrietta used to commend him.
‘This dandy school – or “silver-fork” school it is also, apparently, called – is very much the mode, holding up for admiration, as it does, the lives of the rich and fashionable. Hazlitt was most contemptuous of it; he thought it narrow and superficial, and folly to admire a class whose characteristics were caprice and insolence. Naturally, since I expected to be moving in such society, I thought to buy several of these novels.’
Hervey pulled a face. He was used to Fairbrother’s drollness, and he would not rise to the bait. ‘Quite a coincidence nevertheless. But I do pray that you keep Mr Hazlitt’s strictures to yourself this evening.’
Fairbrother, smiling, took a sip of his champagne as he surveyed the room. ‘Oh, my dear friend, you may count on my good behaviour in such company.’
Hervey was sure of it. He held his glass to his lips as he made his own survey of the room. It scarcely seemed ‘silver-fork’ however. It had its share of dandies, unquestionably, but many more of an ‘artistic’ disposition. There were certainly no uniforms, where ten years ago at such an assembly there would have been at least half a dozen militia pleased to disport themselves. He was doubly glad to have Fairbrother at his side.
The evening passed agreeably enough, however, although Kezia was unable to spend any time with her betrothed or his friend. Hervey managed a little conversation, principally with a radical member of parliament on the question of Catholic emancipation; Fairbrother had considerably more (he was, indeed, a centre of much attention). There was an excellent cold table and some fine hock. They were bidden to take their seats at about nine, and entertainment followed for a full two hours: poetry reading, Shakespearean soliloquies – and music. The music was not, though, the popular sort with which he was familiar – no hunting songs like that the Somerviles had sung so roisteringly at Sezincote. It was the sort that delighted the serious-minded – string quartets, piano sonatas by Beethoven, lieder. Hervey sat dutifully through it all, nodding only moderately, until Kezia at last took the floor. She sang three songs by Schubert, accompanying herself. And Hervey saw – as perhaps he had sensed only distantly at Sezincote – that Kezia was more than a mere proficient. Even to his untutored and unmusical ear there was, indeed, something in her voice and playing that surely stood comparison with what he might hear in London.
And yet, as much as he might esteem her sweetness of tone, and dexterity at the keyboard, he found himself more taken by the swell of her breast in the lieder’s challenging dynamics. He understood very plainly, now, that he desired her at least as much as he admired her.
The next five days passed quietly, but without any real resolution of the marriage arrangements. In this they were not helped by the absence of Kezia’s father, who would, naturally, have to be consulted in the matter of the wedding and the subsequent marital establishment. Kezia largely spent the mornings practising at her fortepiano, and in the afternoons she and Hervey walked for an hour or so. Once, the three of them rode to Luton Hoo, but it was not a form of exercise that evidently delighted Kezia, and they made the journey there and back at never more than a gentle trot. In the early evening she spent half an hour in the nursery, they dined at seven-thirty, and afterwards she played for them. Twice there were guests (not greatly diverting to Hervey), and on Sunday they attended divine worship in the village. This was the least agreeable part of their stay, for although the Rumsey pew was comfortable, the sermon was interminable, a litany of the dire consequences of sin, and addressed so much to the patron’s pew that Hervey began wondering if indeed the rector had some particular knowledge.
Fairbrother, throughout, was more generally at his ease than his friend had feared, which was some consolation, but Hervey found himself possessed of an increasing desire not so much to be back at the Cape as back in the purposeful saddle – anywhere. Over and over in his mind he turned the question of command. He had been all but promised the Sixth ten years ago (how he would have relished that with a young man’s address!), yet now its prospect seemed only to be receding. Lord Holderness was the finest of men, though; the regiment would be well treated – cherished even – by a man with more than adequate means and the patrician’s disdain of ambition. What right had he, Hervey, to wish his colonel gone, so that he himself might wear the crown? Only that he had held the reins on so many occasions now, and held them well (he would not shy from the fact with false modesty). And if the
Sixth were ever to face the King’s enemies, then he knew there was no one better than he to lead them. Was there no one (other than he, and Fairbrother) who recognized that – no one in a position of authority?
It had indeed been a pleasant stay. But glorious though he found the country thereabout, and comfortable as Walden Park was, he saw no usefulness in the life of a country squire. It was time to return to London – even to the London of his court of inquiry. He had, however, resolved on one thing: he knew with certainty, now, the present he would make to Kezia on their marriage.
XIII
AN ILL WIND
HMS Prince Rupert, 4 October 1827,
the sixth morningat sea
The wind had begun freshening not long after the capture of the slaver, veering steadily the rest of the day until by morning a strong north-westerly blew, the sea heaping up, chalk-white spume trailing from the crests like streamers. By midday it was a full-blown gale, the waves prodigiously high, the crests overhanging and then tumbling with the greatest force, so that even in the seclusion of his cabin Peto could feel the shock. Not that he sought his cabin’s shelter much during those days and nights: there was the example to be set by his presence on deck, his duty to discharge in the safety of his ship. And there was his curiosity to satisfy: how did Rupert handle in heavy weather?
He was not, however, in the least anxious. Such weather was but an exigency of the service: His Majesty’s ships had been storm-tossed all about the globe for two centuries, and he himself had encountered typhoons that made a man think he was in the nether regions rather than the Indies. His only disquiet was in the delay the weather imposed, and the difficulty of transferring the women ashore.
At first he had tried to lie to in the storm, with just enough canvas set to keep her head seven points from the wind so that they could enter the Malta Channel, where he hoped the storm would have blown itself out and he could hail a tender from Valetta. But even with the helm well over, she made too much leeway; and with insufficient sea room Peto decided instead to take in canvas, and on reefed topsails to run before the gale to leeward of the island.
Hervey 09 - Man Of War Page 20