The chaise returned with but two occupants. Hervey had asked Fairbrother to take Elizabeth back to Berkeley Square, while he stayed behind to satisfy himself with the arrangements for his old friend. Elizabeth had objected very firmly, claiming both a right and a proficiency to be of help, and the unseemliest of quarrels looked like breaking out in the very corridors of the naval hospital, until Fairbrother stepped decisively between them and took his friend into the disciplined sanctity of the magnificent Stuart chapel. Then he had spoken with Elizabeth, and a peace had prevailed in which she agreed to return to Berkeley Square on condition that her brother did not attempt to visit with Peto again that evening.
Fairbrother sat beside her (at Elizabeth’s insistence, for the occasional seat facing rear was not a comfortable one). He remained silent, however, allowing her to recollect herself. What thoughts he imagined there must be: the relief of speaking face-to-face at last with the man to whom she was formally betrothed; the compassion which any of her sex and upbringing must have for a man whose body was sacrificed in the service of his country; above all, though, the freedom now to follow her heart. How he envied her! How he wished he could tell her of the object of his longing. But it would not do: his friend’s sister, whom he admired more each day, did not merit the burden of another’s sorrows.
‘Mr Fairbrother,’ said Elizabeth at length, still gazing out of the window at the crowded Thames. ‘You must not judge my brother harshly, if that is your inclination. Forgive me, but I could not but notice your manner this morning and at the hospital. He means nothing but well. It is only that he sees his course, and others’, in terms of duty. He was ever thus, even as a boy, though he was not then so . . . unbending. I believe that came later, on account of the death of his wife. I believe he is convinced there can be no contentment on this earth for him; hence his embrace of duty – duty as he perceives it. And I believe he has extended that conviction to me, without in truth thinking on it deeply, only that by some strange device we are conjoined in the natural affections of the mind. I care for him very much, but I am entirely resolved now upon my own happiness. I love Major Heinrici in a way I had never before understood, and I wish Matthew, who has known what I now know, would simply yield to that.’
Fairbrother had to clear his throat, such was his surprise (if not quite embarrassment) at being admitted to such sentiment. ‘Miss Hervey . . . your expression . . . I have never heard its like.’
She turned to him, and smiled. ‘Have you not, Mr Fairbrother? I had understood you to have moved in far more elevated and cultured society than mine!’
‘Evidently not, madam.’
Elizabeth smiled the more, and turned back to the Thames. ‘You know,’ she resumed, ‘I am quite certain that if my brother were to shake hands with Major Heinrici they could be friends within a very short time.’
Fairbrother almost laughed. ‘I don’t doubt it for a moment, Miss Hervey. I am certain your brother is incapable of disliking any who answers to the description of good soldier, and I am disposed to thinking, from my study in the matter, that any officer of the King’s German Legion would serve in that description!’
Elizabeth smiled and nodded.
‘I feel bound to say, however, that I doubt he will leave Greenwich with that intention.’
She sighed. ‘I am certain of it.’
The wheels growled over a particularly rough stretch of cobble. After a few minutes, when they were back again on metalled going, Fairbrother brightened. ‘Your brother goes to his regiment at Hounslow the day after tomorrow. That is sure to restore his spirits, and his good sense. I go with him too.’
Elizabeth was encouraged by this modest glimmer of hope. She would pray with all her heart that she and her brother might be restored to their former happy state. Did she not deserve, now, some happiness for herself, after all these years of . . . (no, she could not scorn familial duty thus). If only he knew, if only he could understand, he would surely not deny her a contentment she had long ceased to have any expectation of?
The chaise rolled on. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘But poor Captain Peto: it should never be so!’
Hervey returned to the United Service Club a little before eight o’clock, having taken a steam-paddle as far as London Bridge and then a hackney cab which had made slow progress on account of the May fairs in the City.
‘Lord John Howard is here to see you, sir,’ said the hall porter as he collected the key to his room. ‘He came half an hour ago. He is in the coffee room, sir.’
Hervey went at once to find him, curious – a shade anxious, indeed – as to why he should visit without prior notice. He found him talking to a man in his late fifties, a tall, handsome, vigorous-looking man whom he did not recognize, and he hesitated for the moment to intrude, until Howard saw him, and rose.
‘My dear Hervey, you have come at last!’ He turned to his interlocutor. ‘Sir George, may I present Colonel Hervey,’ and then back to his friend: ‘Hervey, the First Sea Lord.’
Hervey bowed. But the First Sea Lord rose and took his hand. ‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, sir. You are become quite celebrated.’
Hervey groaned inwardly. It was a celebrity he could well do without. ‘The honour is mine, sir.’
The admiral sat down. ‘Will you take a little wine with us, Colonel?’
Admiral Sir George Cockburn was not long appointed. Indeed, it was only this very year that the senior naval member of the Board of Admiralty had been designated ‘First Sea Lord’. Until then, the distinction had been the Duke of Clarence’s, as Lord High Admiral. Hervey, though not entirely certain of these facts, was content nevertheless to be in the company again of his old Guardee friend, and an admiral of no little fighting reputation.
‘I should be honoured to take wine, Sir George, if you will forgive my appearance. I have been out all day. Indeed, I have been to Greenwich.’
‘To Greenwich? How so?’
‘To see a very particular friend, recovering from his wounds.’
The First Sea Lord looked intrigued. ‘Do I know his name?’
‘Laughton Peto, Sir George.’
‘Indeed, of course. I was myself at his bedside not two days ago, though he was so dosed with laudanum he little knew it.’
Lord John Howard looked perplexed. ‘Peto . . . wounded? But—’
The First Sea Lord knew the story well. ‘The stubborn devil refused to let his lieutenant report him hors de combat, insisting he was as capable of commanding from the orlop as any other was from the quarterdeck. He was probably right, too. His lieutenant risked court martial, damn him, though I have this very week promoted him commander. These frigate men!’
The three smiled knowingly, if each for his own reason.
‘What shall happen to Peto, Sir George?’ asked Hervey, sombrely.
The First Sea Lord shook his head. ‘I’m not at all sure. You will know well enough the trouble the so-called “untoward event” at Navarino has brought: the government – Goderich’s government, at least – got in highest dudgeon. The King himself was all of a dither.’
Hervey was intrigued that the First Sea Lord made no attempt to lower his voice at this latter charge.
‘And now that the Russians have declared war on the Turks, there’ll be no end of it.’
‘I did not know that, Sir George.’
‘The news is lately come,’ explained Howard.
‘But what was Codrington meant to do? He had to winkle out the Turks from Navarino, and once there was shooting . . . I tell you, frankly, I have the greatest difficulty keeping Codrington in his command, let alone look after his officers.’
‘I understand, Sir George. But if—’