Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage (46 page)

Hervey pulled at the bell, resolutely. He was grateful that he did not have to knock, for it would have sounded all too much like the fateful summons.

He had to wait several minutes, which he did with perfect patience, if not ease, before a footman opened the door (it was morning, after all, when footmen had other duties but to wait to receive visitors). But the delay proved a happy one, for when he was at last admitted, Lord George Irvine was standing at the door of his library, and the warm delight in his expression told him at once that whatever might be required of him it would be with the greatest civility.

‘My dear Hervey! How very good it is to see you!’ he called, advancing with his hand held out.

Hervey bowed as he took it. ‘Good morning, Colonel.’

A footman removed his surcoat, and Lord George ushered him into his library. ‘It’s deuced cold, Hervey; as bad as anything I recall in Spain. Sit ye down by that fire. We shall have coffee directly.’

The bookshelves were extensive, there were portraits of Lord George’s long ancestry on the fashionably striped walls, and the furniture was both practical and elegant. Here, Hervey saw, was the library of a man of affairs and of society, a senior lieutenant-general, and a member of parliament. Above all, however, Lord George was paterfamilias of the 6th Light Dragoons, and he still looked the active cavalryman – lean, vigorous, strong. Hervey was warmed as much by his hale manner as by the fire beneath the graceful carrera chimneypiece – as if he were at home in Wiltshire. It had been quite five times colder in Spain on more occasions than he cared to remember, but Lord George’s cheery dismissal of the memory of those days seemed to speak volumes for his disposition towards him now. Nevertheless, he took his seat near the flames with some apprehension, as well as gratitude: it was still deuced cold out (exactly as he had told Johnson that it would be).

‘Now, I am glad you are come so soon. I know you arrived only yesterday, so there is no need of explanation. I expected to receive your card today, but I wanted to see you at the first opportunity. I’ve to leave for the north in a day or so.’

The footman brought coffee.

Lord George did not wait for him to retire. ‘Now, I have it all, I believe, from that admirable John Howard, and I have had occasion to visit with Bathurst, who is always a staunch ally in such matters, and he has shown me what the ambassador in Lisbon has written. And, of course, we have
The Times
to give us a faithful and full account.’ He smiled. ‘It appears to me that you did everything I would have expected of an officer, especially one who finds himself under an ass of a staff colonel.’

Hervey breathed a deep sigh of relief, as much surprised as gratified by the candour. Lord George had relinquished executive command of the regiment soon after Waterloo, and had only lately assumed the colonelcy; their dealings hitherto had been those of commanding officer and cornet. ‘Thank you, Colonel. I learned but last night that there was a notice of my detention at Badajoz in
The Times
.’

Lord George huffed. ‘A notice of little consequence! It was without the usual rhetoric. But I
am
assured that no ill came to any man?’

Hervey steeled himself to the explanation. ‘John Howard would, I’m sure, have spoken from the deposition I made in Lisbon. A Spanish officer was killed during the escape, and a loyal Portuguese officer. I believe it was reported – and by the Spanish authorities too – that one other of our number was killed, by which I presume was meant my covering corporal.’

Lord George’s ears pricked.

‘He leapt his horse from the bridge across the Guadiana. We managed to cut our way through the Spaniards – they were not the best of men – but it was soon dark and we were unable to find him. The Spaniards turned out the garrison to search up and down the bank, and the Miguelites as well. We had the devil of a job evading them. But he was unhurt, and the horse too, and they made their way back to Elvas the day following. He’s the most excellent fellow – as fine, I think, as was Serjeant Strange.’ He presumed Lord George would need no reminding.

‘Hareph Strange? Excellent man indeed.’ Lord George needed no reminding. Nor that the death of Hervey’s covering corporal would have mirrored the circumstances of Serjeant Strange’s. ‘What happened to his widow? Something of a gentlewoman, was she not? You made arrangements in that regard, as I recollect.’

‘She is mistress of my father’s school in Wiltshire, Colonel.’

‘Ah yes, admirable.’ He lapsed into thought again. ‘
Hareph
: queer name. I don’t believe I ever heard its like. Abraham’s tribe, I suppose? Strange was a preacher, was he not?’

‘The descendants of Judah, Colonel,’ replied Hervey, only grateful that the long hours in his father’s pews could have such practical benefit. ‘Strange’s people were Baptists. It was Mrs Strange’s father who was the minister.’

‘I compliment you on your recall.’ Lord George looked into his coffee cup, which was empty. ‘But we digress. I hear you met Palmerston last night.’

‘I did, Colonel. He told me he would rescind the court martial order.’

‘Capital! Capital indeed! It had been my intention to call on Wellington today.’ The footman returned and began refilling their cups. Lord George took another sip, and then placed his down very decidedly. ‘Hervey, I may say that I would be obliged if you rejoined the regiment at Hounslow as soon as may be. There’s no lieutenant-colonel appointed yet, as doubtless you know. Neither do I see any prospect this side of three months, for even if Wellington is in the Horse Guards the day after the funeral, he won’t have opportunity to approve the command lists for weeks. Strickland holds the reins meanwhile, and damned fine he holds them too.’

It was of the greatest moment to Hervey who would be the next lieutenant-colonel, yet warm though the interview was, he did not think it apt to press Lord George to an opinion. ‘I shall go there this day, Colonel.’

Lord George shook his head. ‘No, no, there is no cause for that. I should want you to take your ease in London for the week. Give the regiment time to learn that all is well.’

Hervey saw how the business must have preoccupied him, despite his air of unconcern. ‘Very good, Colonel.’

Lord George brightened. ‘And I would have you join us this evening at dinner if you are not engaged.’

‘I am not engaged, Colonel.’

‘Capital!’ he replied, rising. ‘Strickland will be dining, too. It will be an admirable opportunity for the two of you.’

Hervey was entirely diverted by the prospect. ‘Indeed, Colonel.’

‘Then I shall take my leave, since Mr Canning addresses the House at midday, and I would hear him.’

Hervey prayed that Lord George would hear nothing that might incline him to a change of mind. He could scarcely credit the rapid improvement in his fortunes, and it was all down to the influence of men of rank and position. True, they would not have been inclined to angle in his favour had they no regard for him – his stock had stood high in the regiment for a long time – but it served to remind how precarious was the matter of advancement when there was no enemy to decide these things.

As he left Berkeley Square, he felt the clouds of the past month rolling back. Now he would be able to turn his attention to the promises and resolutions he had made in Badajoz.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A FAMILY REGIMENT

That evening

Dinner was at eight, on account of the late sitting of parliament. Hervey arrived promptly at seven forty-five, the first of the Irvines’ guests. Lady George greeted him as cordially as had her husband that morning, as an old friend, without the circumspection imposed by rank, and very slightly maternal. She had not seen him in half a dozen years – or was it more, she asked – but in the regiment these things did not matter: the years fell away, allowing the fellowship to be renewed immediately, as if there had been no interruption. Hervey felt the comfortable sense of permanence, a distinct homecoming. There was champagne, well chilled despite the bitter cold outside, and a hot punch. He was at once in exceptional spirits.

‘So tell me, Major Hervey, how is your daughter?’

Cheery though the enquiry was, Hervey felt awkward addressing it. ‘I confess I have not seen her in some months, Lady George, though I know her to be generally in good health. My sister has charge of her. I don’t think you ever met.’

‘No, I don’t believe we did. How old is your daughter now – what is her name?’

‘Georgiana, ma’am. She is . . . she will be nine years in but a few weeks.’

‘She is very fortunate, then, in having an aunt as governess.’

‘I think so too, ma’am.’ But he was less certain that his sister might be counted fortunate, though doubtless to someone of Lady George’s age and circle Elizabeth was as perfectly engaged as may be in the event of not having secured a husband.

His hostess’s eye was caught by the arrival of the second guest. ‘Ah, Lady Lankester it must be!’

Hervey turned. It was almost a year exactly since he had last seen her. Then she had been in mourning weeds, the newly married, newly widowed wife of Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Ivo Lankester, lately commanding officer of the 6th Light Dragoons, killed in the assault on the fortress of Bhurtpore. It had been a painful meeting, Eustace Joynson, acting in command, and the squadron leaders calling at the Governor-General’s residence in Calcutta, where Lady Lankester lodged, to pay their respects.
More
than to pay respects, indeed: it had been to make her acquaintance, for Sir Ivo had returned with his bride after the regiment had marched for Bhurtpore.
Salve et salvete
: could anything be more cruel? And Lady Lankester had been with child, Sir Ivo’s heir. Or was the child female? He ought perhaps to have known. He was not sure, even, if an unborn male
was
the heir. To whom did the baronetcy descend? He chided himself. What did these things matter? What mattered was the health of mother and child. The thought was suddenly painful, but then he braced himself for the formalities, allowing his mouth to describe a smile.

‘Lady Lankester, do you know Major Hervey?’

Lady Lankester did not so much smile as maintain the pleasant countenance she had had for her hostess. ‘We have met, Lady George, briefly, in India.’ She lowered her head, the merest bow.

Hervey was grateful for no more formal a greeting (it would have placed them back in the Calcutta drawing room). Sir Ivo’s widow looked very much as he remembered her, but in a dress of dark blue watered silk instead of widow’s lace. She was a woman of considerable, if aloof, beauty, and marked self-possession. He bowed by return. ‘I am very glad to be reacquainted, ma’am.’

Lady George laid a hand to Lady Lankester’s arm. ‘My dear, I would know your name, if you please,’ she said, in an even more maternal fashion.

Lady Lankester smiled, not full, but appreciative nevertheless. ‘It is Kezia, ma’am.’

‘Oh, how delightful! And unusual. Is it family?’

‘The Bible, Lady George.’

‘Major Hervey would be able to say precisely where,’ Lord George suggested.

‘Indeed, Major Hervey?’

Hervey smiled, almost apologetic. ‘I have sat beneath my father’s pulpit these many years, ma’am.’

‘And do you know precisely where is this singular name to be found?’

He glanced at its bearer. ‘I believe . . . in the Book of Job.’

‘Is he correct, my dear?’ asked Lady George, reflecting Hervey’s smile.

‘He is.’ Lady Lankester smiled, although not with her eyes.

Hervey supposed she was not completely out of mourning, despite the blue silk. How
could
she be, indeed?

He observed that she had attended to her appearance carefully, nevertheless. Her skin was fair, she had applied a blushing rouge, and her lips, though thinner than Kat’s, shone in the way that hers did. Her hair did not look as full as Kat’s, either, but he thought it might just appear so on account of its colour, which was as fair as he had seen in many a year (in Calcutta her hair had been concealed under a mourning cap).

Lady George’s interrogation was halted by the arrival of two members of parliament and their ladies, then the general officer commanding the London District and his lady, the Bishop of Oxford, the dowager Lady — (Hervey did not catch her name) and her niece, a plain-looking girl, and diffident, whom Hervey supposed he would have to sit next to at dinner. Then finally, at ten minutes past eight, came Major Benedict Strickland, acting commanding officer of the 6th Light Dragoons.

‘I am most fearfully sorry, Colonel,’ he began. ‘And
Lady
George. I was not let go from Windsor until past five. We fairly had to gallop for it, and there was a deuce of a fog.’

‘I am sorry the regiment’s officers are detained in the afternoon,’ replied Lord George. ‘Even on such matters.’ He turned to the general officer commanding the London District. ‘Is the date now fixed?’

‘It is: the twentieth.’

He turned back to Strickland. ‘And what duties shall the regiment have?’