He went up to her as tea was brought in. ‘Lady Lankester, your singing was delightful.’
She smiled a little, as if tired (Hervey realized that singing of such refinement as hers was not without prodigious effort, whatever the appearance to the contrary). ‘Thank you, Major Hervey.’ And then, seemingly as an afterthought, she asked, ‘You are fond of music?’
Hervey cleared his throat. It was true to say that he liked the noise that music made, especially if it were played by a military band (the Sixth had always kept a good band), and he had liked what he had just heard of hers, but … ‘Indeed yes, madam.’
‘“The man that hath no music in himself, nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.”’
It was familiar, but … ‘Just so.’
She smiled a little broader, as if taking pity on him. ‘Do you know the rest, Major Hervey?’
Hervey returned the smile, but he was suddenly determined that Kezia Lankester, at ten years his junior, should not get away entirely with her tease. ‘It is some time, I confess, since I opened a book of Shakespeare, madam, but I hazard a recall of something about the man’s dull nature?’
‘You recall very commendably, Major Hervey. “The motions of his spirit are dull as night, and his affections dark as Erebus: let no such man be trusted.”’
Hervey inclined his head. His guess had indeed been apt. ‘Then I must take up the violin, ma’am, like the Duke of Wellington.’
She frowned. ‘Then I would that you practised at a good distance from me, Major Hervey!’
It was strange, he thought: there were moments when Kezia Lankester seemed to be sporting with him, and with a distinct coyness – and then there would come a remark whose edge was decidedly cutting. But these were surroundings unfamiliar to her, and she had been widowed but a year …
Their hostess joined them, full of praise for Kezia’s singing, and Hervey was able to content himself with the odd nod and word of agreement for a quarter of an hour. Then, as the first of the squires’ ladies began gathering herself to depart, Kezia took a rather formal leave of her hostess, and withdrew.
The following day, Saturday, there was no hunting; or rather, the Fitzhardinge hounds were meeting with Lord Croome’s, too far distant to drive. Instead the party spent the morning at archery. Hervey had not held a bow since his youth, and it took him a good deal of practice before attaining any consistent accuracy. Both Emma and her husband were capable – they had practised regularly in India – but the true proficient was Kezia Lankester, which was evident the instant she picked an arrow. Without the slightest ostentation she first examined the fletch, then held it to her right eye to look down the shaft. She took up one of the bows, flexed it and drew back the string twice, fitted the arrow, raised it to the aim at fifty yards (ignoring the nearer target positioned for the novices) and loosed it. The arrow flew straight, striking high on the straw roundel. She took another, corrected her point of aim and then loosed again. It struck in the centre of the bull’s-eye, and with greater force than the first.
Hervey was at once impressed. Kezia Lankester had not merely corrected with a view to making a second and final correction, she had made the one adjustment and then loosed with certainty. Arrow after arrow of hers now struck firm, all within the six-inch white circle. Hervey was now captivated, for not only was the proficiency evidence of much application (as well as of a ‘martial’ side which stood in pleasing balance with the cultivated), the archer’s posture and the drawing of the bow were admirably suited to displaying the female figure to advantage, its tautness of abdomen and prominence of breast. In Kezia Lankester’s profile there was nothing of the mystery of the Bengal beauties (of Vaneeta, indeed), nor of the allure of Isabella Delgado, nor even of the statuary of Kat dressed for the Court, elegant but sensuous; yet he found the constrained grace powerfully attractive – reinforcing, strongly reinforcing, his resolve to make her an offer of marriage sooner rather than later.
Indeed, he was now resolved to do so before leaving Sezincote. He was certain he must, for he could have little opportunity to press his suit later; she would return to Hertfordshire and he to Hounslow, and thence…? He could only hope that he had at least established his worth in her estimation, engaged her respect and interest. He would not, of course, expect an answer at once (let alone acceptance), but he would, in the parlance of the colony to which his great friends were bound, at least have staked a claim. She would have ample time to consider it, see its merits, come to believe that it was seemly (he was not without position and prospects, after all, even if he was perennially short of means). First, however, he would have to find the favourable moment to acquaint her with his proposal.
* * *
That afternoon the ladies of the party went visiting to the almshouses and with a new curate. Hervey and Somervile rode out together towards Evesham.
‘I’ve been thinking over the Waltham Abbey business,’ began Somervile as they started climbing the steep, wooded slopes beyond the house. ‘I confess to being doubtful of your conclusions when first you told me last night, but I’m inclined now to think you may have something. There’s a deal of resentment regarding the Catholic Association. I hear it frequently. Peel stays his hand as far as the suppression law’s concerned, but he’d not be able to resist the clamour following an outrage on English soil.’
‘That was the basis of my supposition,’ replied Hervey, rather surprised that Somervile seemed not to have appreciated his own sensibility.
‘But I hadn’t myself come to any conclusions hitherto; it’s one thing knowing the price of corn is high and quite another to judge the true political consequences. The point is, the business in Portugal may not be entirely unconnected.’
Hervey was intrigued. ‘How so?’
‘The government gives every impression of dither over the intervention, perhaps fearful of drawing the sword there with a discontented Ireland by our side.’
‘I had not considered that.’
‘You should dine more in St James’s; or even Bloomsbury.’
‘No doubt I should. So the import of what you are saying is that both Whig and Tory would have an interest in prosecutions against the Catholic Association? I am glad to avoid imputations of party in that case!’ He smiled wryly.
‘Do you have any Catholic friends?’
‘Not since poor Strickland died.’
‘That may be as well.’
‘Great heavens! Don’t say—’
‘I say nothing at all, Hervey. And recollect that it is of complete indifference to me whether a man prays in English or Latin, so long as whoever hears him understands.’
Hervey was never fond of debating religion with Somervile at the best of times, and this morning was far from the best. He leaned forward along his mare’s neck to avoid a low branch; it gave him the opportunity to return to the material subject. ‘And so how do you suppose my submission to the Horse Guards will be received?’
‘Pray you have a friend who keeps it in a drawer!’
Somervile gasped; his cob, chosen by the Cockerells’ groom, supposing kindly but in error that this man of affairs had need of a schoolmaster, was taking a deal of urging up the slope, so that its rider was already short of breath a mile from the house. ‘Great snakes, this screw!’ he spluttered again, finally touching with his whip.
The horse picked up its feet a little, but still it plodded, so that Hervey had to keep checking his own hunter so as not to pull ahead. As for the friend and the drawer, he rather supposed he had no hope there – if holding back the submission was the right course. ‘We may as well let them take it at a trot,’ he sighed, conceding to poor practice rather than continuing the discomposure.
‘If you haven’t a friend at the Horse Guards, then you’d better come to the Cape with me! Have you given it any consideration?’
Hervey thought there was no need to reveal quite how much. ‘I have,’ he said, and with something of a
rueful smile. ‘But would I not need a friend at the Horse Guards in that case too? Or do you have plenipotentiary powers in that connection?’
Somervile did not see the tease. ‘Oh, I think such things are easily arranged.’
Hervey was far from sure, but since he had reached no firm conclusion – or rather, he could not do so until he knew the Horse Guards’ pleasure regarding the lieutenant-colonelcy – he was not inclined to argue. And so they continued their ride in a generality of conversation: the present state of legislative turmoil, the Corn Laws, the Greek war and the threats to the peace in His Majesty’s possessions overseas. It was, as Somervile pointed out, and as Hervey sensed only too well, a difficult time for the War Office: it had been one thing calculating the number of men required to see off Bonaparte – every last one who could be found a red coat – and quite another to determine the size of that repugnant thing, a standing army.
‘Soldiers in peace, Hervey,’ Somervile reminded him. ‘They are like chimneys in summer. You had better be done with it and come with me to the Cape!’
* * *
When they were back, and the ladies too, Hervey took a turn about the formal gardens with Emma. The talk was at first inconsequential, until at last Hervey stopped, and cleared his throat.
‘Emma, I believe I should tell you that I intend making Kezia Lankester an offer of marriage.’
Emma looked astonished. She tried hard to recover her countenance nevertheless. ‘Why Matthew, this is so very … sudden.’ She rallied a little. ‘If I say more by way of congratulations it would seem premature—’
‘And tempt fate?’
‘I do not believe in such a danger, as well you know. I meant … well, I had heard that there was an amour in Lisbon.’
Hervey became anxious at what exactly she had heard.
‘A Portuguese lady of noble birth, whom you had first met there some years ago?’
‘Ah.’ His relief was palpable: she did not mean Kat. He lowered his eyes, and cleared his throat again. ‘Isabella Delgado. She is engaged to another.’
Had he been on the point of making Isabella an offer of marriage? He had thought of it. He had certainly thought of the congress (rather too often). But there had been so many … difficulties. The matter of her religion, for one thing: what would the parsonage at Horningsham have made of it? But he recalled that he had not much cared what they would think. Isabella had saved – if not his life – then certainly his military honour. And if Laming had not sent him the note declaring his intention to marry her, would he not have ridden that night to Belem and proposed? Why hadn’t he anyway? Why had he not followed his true desire? Perhaps he had come to mistrust his own judgement (a cell in Badajoz was a powerful rebuke to self-esteem). And had he not thought that Laming was five times the better prospect for Isabella? But why had he presumed? Why had he not allowed Isabella the choice of which of them she would accept? Arrogant presumption indeed! But, in truth, had it not been because of obligation, obligation to the man who had just risked his own life and reputation to bring him out of Badajoz? Rather unhappiness than dishonour! But was that how a man of real flesh and blood acted? Was there not, truly, more honour in the breach than in the observance of such a desiccated code? He all but shrugged his shoulders: he, himself, could never judge it.
Emma looked excessively thoughtful. ‘And there is issue of the marriage – of Kezia Lankester’s, I mean. You have considered it?’
‘I have. I think it entirely felicitous, indeed … in the circumstances.’
Emma knew very well what he meant. And she admired him for his proper paternal instincts. She was not to be turned, however. ‘Matthew, I will speak plainly. Kezia Lankester … she is so very different from Henrietta.’
Hervey smiled in a mildly mocking way. ‘Every woman is very different from Henrietta.’
‘Do not be obtuse with me, Matthew; you know precisely what I mean.’
Hervey’s brow furrowed. ‘No, Emma, I do not believe that I do.’
Emma steeled herself. Their acquaintance went back a dozen years, to before Hervey and Henrietta Lindsay had wed. They had braved a good deal together in India. At one time she and Henrietta had been close, before Emma had given up society in London to join her brother in Madras. ‘Matthew, as I remember her and as you have told me, albeit indirectly, Henrietta was … a passionate woman.’ She reddened a little. ‘Kezia Lankester is undoubtedly a very fine woman; she will make you a very proper wife, and no doubt be a very acceptable mother to Georgiana, but … I believe her to be—’
Hervey took pity on her, and himself. ‘Emma, you are very good. I do not in the least degree mind what you have said, but Kezia Lankester is still, to all intents and purposes, in mourning. I do not suppose for one moment that we see her former self. Ivo Lankester was the very best of men.’
Emma sighed to herself. ‘Matthew, I think you do not always allow for men being so very different from each other. Women too.’
Hervey was astonished. He knew men well enough, and he fancied he had not lived an entirely cloistered life. ‘My dear Emma, I believe that these past twenty years have made me see entirely otherwise!’
Emma said nothing. She perceived that her difficulties lay not merely in having her fond friend see his intended for her true nature, but himself too. Instead she took his arm and deflected the conversation to the planting at the Moghul pools, thinking it altogether better to leave the matter until they were gone from Sezincote – for the long drive back to London, perhaps.
In the evening the party dined at Adlestrop. Hervey had opportunity again to speak with Kezia Lankester at dinner, but not so as to have any chance to advance his suit. Kezia herself was attentive, even at times almost talkative, but Hervey could gain no impression of what her answer might be were he at that moment able to propose. But, he reflected, the dinner table was hardly the place … though it had been at the table, those seven years ago, that Kat had first played him, quite without compunction.
The next day, Sunday, the party attended morning prayer at the Reverend Mr Castle’s church. It was not an enlivening interlude, for Hervey at least, brought up as he had been in a less severe school of church-manship, and it was at least half an hour too long (and that principally the sermon), but it did afford him a pleasant drive in the same carriage as Kezia, together with Somervile and Emma, who both talked prodigiously and warmly, thereby better disposing the atmosphere (he supposed) to his purposes.
In the afternoon, the four house guests were left to their own devices, and Somervile and Emma said they would take books to the orangery. Hervey asked Kezia if she would accompany him around the water garden (she had seen a part of it; he had not). She agreed at once, and evidently with some pleasure.
It was a warm, springlike day – abundant greenness, crocus and primrose everywhere, the birds full-throated. They strolled first through the ‘Indian’ garden and then on towards the thornery, with its thick planting of trees, many of which Hervey had not seen in England before. Kezia’s Italian greyhound accompanied them. Hervey rather liked her – a pretty little dog, supple, alert, if somewhat aloof. She kept close to her mistress (Hervey was unsure whether by inclination or training) making not a sound. He thought to ask of her provenance, then thought it better to wait: he did not wish his interest to be misconstrued. Instead they walked for the most part in silence around the upper pool, with its temple to Surya (the sun god, he explained), then began following the stream, with Hervey selecting his line of advance as if they were in the forests of Chintal, for much of the daylight was shut out by a dense canopy of oriental maple, hornbeam and rowan, and Persian ironwoods already showing promise of vivid colour.
‘I understand Mr Repton was responsible for the park,’ said his companion at last as they came to one of the little pools halfway to the Indian bridge. ‘But that one of the Daniells laid it out.’
Hervey knew of Repton well enough, but he was more familiar with the work of the Daniell brothers, for they ha
d painted India from Rajasthan to Mysore, and when he saw one of their paintings he was at once transported. ‘I understand that is so. The Daniells are fine painters. There’s one of theirs in the house. I imagine when you were in India you were not able to see the Taj Mahal?’
Kezia showed no sign of painful memory. ‘No, I was not. And I know that to be a particular deprivation. I should have liked to see it very much. You have, I take it?’
Hervey nodded. ‘A little before we laid siege to Bhurtpore. It is a wondrous sight, and not merely the domes and towers: the gardens are a delight, and in truth, these here are not so very different. At least, they put one in mind of it by their singularity, by their not being so English, I mean.’
A rabbit, caught napping perhaps, darted from under a rose bush. Kezia’s greyhound lurched.
‘Perdi!’ snapped her mistress, and the little dog froze.
Hervey marvelled at the command. Bringing a spaniel to a halt would have been impressive; stopping a greyhound, even the Italian sort, with a rabbit within reach was a remarkable achievement.
They continued, unspeaking, past hydrangeas and Plume Poppy, Honey Locust and bamboo. The place had grown quite silent but for their own footsteps. There was less birdsong now, the quiet time, nor sound of sheep or cattle in distant pasture. Hervey glanced at his companion – his intended. She looked content.
They rounded a big juniper bush to see the Indian bridge with its statuary of Brahmin bulls, the pride of the lower park.
‘Nandi,’ said Hervey, pointing to the balustrade above. ‘The happy one, Shiva’s favourite.’
Kezia smiled. ‘They are very handsome. And they can certainly transport one back to that dust and heat, even though I was there so short a time.’
They walked on, into the dark shade under the bridge, towards the pool beyond. Suddenly she stopped. ‘Gracious! What a very … arresting thing!’
Hervey thought the same. Quite arresting enough to stop him too in his tracks.
Hervey 08 - Company Of Spears Page 16