He quickened his pace, as he did, one way or another, when an intractable problem touched him. He began wondering if he should go to Golden Square, to see how were the arrangements for the pianoforte. So that he might salve his conscience a little? He shook his head. He must not deceive himself, no matter who else he might. Not that he wished to deceive anyone at all, except that he was ever uncertain who had title to a man’s inner thoughts. The secret things belong unto the Lord our God: he troubled over that verse of Scripture as much as he did over any other.
His thoughts returned to Peto, however. His friend had no family – none to speak of: if he did not recover sufficiently for the Admiralty to employ him, in however sedentary an appointment, how was he to be attended? He had wealth enough, Hervey was sure: he would be able to engage such help as was necessary. But how might his mind be occupied? That was the material question. How might such a man as Peto, whose life had been spent at sea and in the habit of command – and, it had to be said, who had received the cruellest rejection from the woman who would have been his wife – how might such a man be kept from despair? Did his old friend, as did he, harbour hopes that Elizabeth, even at this hour, would have a change of heart?
He had not seen his sister since putting her into the chaise at Greenwich; she had not written to him, or communicated with him in any way. Nor he with her. Neither would he, indeed. It was unthinkable now. And yet in not many weeks’ time she would bring Georgiana to Hanover Square and see her brother married to the woman who would thereafter supplant her in the role of guardian.
In this, too, there lay a concern: he had not spoken with Georgiana of his intentions, where they would live, how things were to be arranged. He had left the explanations to Elizabeth, as he had so much, and yet he had given his sister little enough information with which to allay the anxiety that Georgiana might have – must have, indeed, at least in some small measure. Why did he see these things only now? He had not, in truth, discussed any arrangements with Kezia. He had thought vaguely of engaging a governess to accompany them to the Cape, but more he had not been able to turn his mind to.
That evening he and Fairbrother dined at Holland Park. Kat had pressed him hard to do so before the week was out, pleading imminent necessity of leaving for Warwickshire to visit with her sister. And she was – she insisted – determined to meet Fairbrother properly, ‘for he is evidently of singular virtue to have secured your friendship’.
The only other guest was a dowager Irish countess, a near-neighbour in Connaught, who had known Kat’s mother since childhood, and who now lived in semi-seclusion at Portland Place. She greeted Fairbrother with a most quizzical look, Hervey too, until after a while she appeared suddenly at ease. ‘So you are Captain Hervey.’
Hervey was puzzled; they had been introduced, and for some time – for a whole glass of champagne indeed (and Kat had distinctly pronounced his rank). ‘I am, Lady Ballindine, though in point of fact it is “Colonel”.’
‘But you were “Captain”, were you not, these many years past, when you wrote to Lady Katherine from India?’
Hervey stopped himself from clearing his throat; the Countess of Ballindine evidently knew something of their acquaintance, and he hoped she did not intend revealing all of it. ‘Yes, I was, your ladyship. I received my majority but a year ago, and acting rank at the Cape Colony.’
‘Whither he returns in but a few months, Aunt,’ explained Kat, raising her voice very slightly.
Hervey had surmised that Lady Ballindine’s hearing was faulty, but it did not entirely explain her expression of surprise. He was certain she must know of their . . . friendship.
‘And with a new wife!’ added Kat (and with exaggerated pleasure, thought Hervey).
Lady Ballindine eyed him most particularly. Hervey braced himself for an infelicitous question, but, having imperilled him in the first instant, Kat came to his aid. ‘When is the happy event to be, Colonel Hervey? Is a date resolved upon?’
Hervey swallowed hard, and hoped no one – Fairbrother especially – noticed. ‘The eighteenth of next month,’ he near-stammered, adding, for no reason he would be able to recall, ‘a Wednesday.’
‘In London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you able to be more particular?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Hanover-square.’
‘Oh, that is most agreeable – think you not, Aunt?’ She turned to Lady Ballindine with a distinctly conspiratorial smile, and then back to Hervey. ‘I shall be returned from Warwickshire then;’ (she paused) ‘I may take it that I shall be invited?’
Hervey now saw the net into which he had so obligingly stepped. In the company of an ‘aunt’, and Fairbrother, and the conversation heavy with overtone, like a huge rain-bearing cloud threatening to burst, there was not a thing he could do but concede the game. ‘Yes, indeed, of course . . . I would deem it a true blessing were you to attend, though it will be a very small wedding.’
‘Then I shall suspend all other engagements, my dear Colonel Hervey.’
He could not but admire, even as he despaired of it, Kat’s consummate skill in persuading a man of a course he would otherwise not choose to take, yet in a way that appeared his free choice alone. And so swiftly, so deftly, before even they were sat down to dine. It was, of course, the same skill that she had exercised so well to his advantage these several years; but he had never seen it played to Kat’s own advantage at his expense. A very little expense, it was true, for Kat’s presence at Hanover Square would be no occasion for concern (except, of course, that his sister believed she knew of their association), though it might be considered faintly distasteful – Kat’s sharing a ‘secret’ with the bridegroom. He sighed inwardly: these were the consequences of the life, the unwholesome life, he had drifted into – descended into, indeed.
But it would soon be put to rights by Holy Matrimony. For, as the Prayer Book proclaimed, was it not ‘ordained as a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as may not have the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ’s body’? And if he was not entirely certain any longer of the claims of the Church, there were some practices which were proven by time. Of course, there were other causes for which Matrimony was ordained, said the Prayer Book, and these were by no means disagreeable to him; quite the contrary, indeed – in due season. But chiefly he sought, and confidently, the promises of the remedy, not so much against sin as its wretched consequences. He sought a simpler life in ‘the honourable estate’, and a better one for the child he neglected.
And he had no doubts, none at all, that Kezia Lankester was that remedy. A delightful remedy too, in the wait for which he could barely contain himself.
XXI
THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
London, 17 June 1828