Two and a half hours after leaving the legation, he reached the Rua Vieira Portuense, where the white house with its porticoed doors was at once familiar. He saw that the courtyard was all activity, as he might have expected on this day, but instead of the carriage there setting down visitors, servants were carrying port-manteaux to the boot, and others were stowing blankets inside. Two brindle pointers stood close by, their tails wagging as one, spaniels were running free, and an old perdeguerra lay in the sun in a corner, watching the bustle with a wistful look as if he imagined there would be sport today, and he long past it. There had always been dogs at Belem, just as in the best of houses in England. Laming warmed to the recollection of his days here.
A footman opened the door of the coche and unfolded the step. Laming replaced his bicorn as he stepped down, straightening the sash of his frockcoat and pulling at his gloves to have them taut for the salute. Even so, he was not quite ready when Isabella came out of the house in travelling cloak and hat. A glove button came away in his hand as he pulled too urgently, disconcerting him for the moment.
‘Senhor?’
Laming brought his right hand sharply to the point of his hat, awkwardly conscious of its unfastened glove. ‘Dona Delgado?’
‘Yes? Are you come with news of Major Hervey?’
He was surprised, despite what Wainwright had told him, that she assumed the connection. ‘No, ma’am. I have only just learned of his situation, and came here at once, believing you perhaps to have intelligence . . . from the government. I am Colonel Laming, of General Clinton’s staff, the general commanding the army of assistance. We have met before, ma’am. Major Hervey and I were officers in the same regiment.’
Isabella smiled, politely rather than full. ‘Indeed? That is very agreeable, Colonel Laming. Forgive my not recalling it. It was some years ago.’
Laming had removed his hat. His thick brown hair belied the passing of so much time, and to his mind those years were now rapidly falling away, for it did not appear to him that Isabella Delgado herself had greatly changed. There was the raven hair, the big, dark eyes – like pools of port-wine, the cornets used to say – the proud set of the head, the figure for a fine gown, which not even the travelling cloak disguised. ‘And we were many, too,’ he added quickly, for his own sake as well as hers. ‘Forgive me, ma’am, you are evidently to take a drive. Do you have news?’
Isabella shook her head. ‘None. I am travelling to Elvas directly, therefore. My uncle is bishop there, and he will have ways of communicating with Badajoz, I feel sure.’ She looked at her carriage and then back at the house. ‘You had better come inside, Colonel. Perhaps, too, I may present you to my father?’
‘It would be a pleasure to make his acquaintance again, ma’am. Have you time to speak of the situation at Elvas before you must leave? I am in the dark respecting everything, and I fear there may be some here who will view Major Hervey’s actions unfavourably.’
Isabella nodded. ‘I understand perfectly, Colonel. And I will tell you all I know in that regard, although I am uncertain what is to be done. It is Colonel Norris who will view Major Hervey’s actions unfavourably, is it not?’
‘It is, ma’am.’
Isabella began walking back to the house. ‘Are you acquainted with Lady Katherine Greville, Colonel?’
Laming braced himself to the reply, and what he imagined would follow. ‘Very slightly, ma’am.’
Isabella acknowledged the footmen as they held open the doors of the house. ‘In that case it will be the easier to explain, I believe. Come,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Let us resume our conversation after you meet my father.’
In Badajoz, Hervey was now convinced that Dr Sanchez was his man, though he could not entirely fathom why. When he had picked up the coffee pot and poured the black liquid into the big china basin, and found it strong, not merely bitter as in the days before, he was sure it was not just a good man’s courtesy. He had thought the same when he tried the bread, for it was not coarse or black as hitherto. And the eggs – they were a true comfort (Daniel Coates had always told him to fill his pockets with hard-boiled eggs).
His spirits began to rise again with the certainty that Sanchez would be the agent of his escape, so that as he put a knife to one of the oranges, he was able to smile at last in happy recollection of his cornet days. He took the fruit for granted now, but when he had first come to the Peninsula he had never seen one but on a canvas. His dragoons had positively babbled at the first sight of oranges on a tree, as if they were explorers in unknown parts. And the oranges before him now were sweet; they were not always so. Those at Corunna had been sharp – he fancied he could taste the bite even after so many years. But never had a fruit been more welcome than on that day when they had come out of the icy mountains of Galicia, with Corunna’s temperate plain below them like some vision of the promised land, with sea and salvation beyond.
Salvation it had indeed been, but their respite had not been long. Lord George Irvine had wanted his new regiment to return to the Spanish fray as soon as may be, and he had allowed no obstacle to stand in his way. Those in the regiment who had wished too loud for ease were transferred elsewhere – but kindly, for the most part, and quietly. A few, but only a few, of the officers had gone; and none of the cornets (Laming had told Hervey he would call out any who sent in their papers); the adjutant had transferred to the militia, the regimental serjeant-major left the colours altogether, and a couple of quartermasters did likewise. The consequent promotions and transfers had been welcome: new brooms were rarely liked, but they invariably swept clean. He recalled it well, the exhilaration of not quite knowing what would come next, yet confident it would be better, the pride in being ready before any other regiment to go back to the Peninsula, and having a commanding officer with the influence at the Horse Guards to arrange it all. The Sixth were a veteran corps, that second time in Lisbon, and they intended that all in the city would know it.
CHAPTER SIX
FIRST FLUSH
Belem, Lisbon, April 1809
Hervey tugged at the sheepskin to check it was secure. If he were to play his part in impressing the population of this capital of England’s oldest ally, as Lord George Irvine intended, he wanted to be sure of his seat. It was good to be reunited with Jessye again; he felt it keenly. She had gained her pratique at last after the prolonged quarantine: farcy, that ulcerating virus, which could spread through a stables in a day, had struck in one of the Sixth’s layerages just before they had sailed for Portugal the first time. It had seemed to him nothing short of disastrous, but in truth the outbreak had served Jessye well, for he knew that if she had gone to Portugal she would by now be just whitening bones on a Corunna cliff – and he, Hervey, would have had to put the ball in her brains. The thought was not to be borne.