'Hah!' Somervile stepped aside to let Emma lead them to the dining room. 'You make the same mistake as those in council who seem capable of looking in only one direction at a time. In India, Hervey, as you must surely know, one must be Janus-like with regard to whence the next blow shall come. Let me tell you what has been happening among the country powers while our eyes have been diverted eastwards . . .'
Next morning, Hervey rode out for the first time since returning to Calcutta. Private Johnson had brought Gilbert to his bungalow just before dawn, as Hervey took his chota hazree - sweet tea and figs. He had never, as a rule, taken anything but tea before morning exercise, even in the cold season, but he had felt weaker than he supposed he would on rising. He cursed the time it was taking for him to regain his full strength. The shoulder had, to all appearances, knitted together well enough, but the fever had left him like a woman in the first gravid months - dizzy, puking, listless. It had come and gone, and each time seemed worse, but in the last weeks he had felt himself recovering his proper spirits with each day. It was just the mornings, now, that reminded him there was still a course to run.
'Is tha sure tha's all right, sir?’ enquired Johnson, watching him, curious.
Gilbert's manners were not as he would have wanted, and Hervey seemed unable to stop the jogging.
'To tell the truth, Johnson, I'd as soon be listening to one of the chaplain's sermons.'
'That bad, sir.'
'Perhaps not. But it can't go on.' He tried once more to sit easy, to persuade the gelding to get off its toes, but it made no difference. 'What have you been doing with him all these months?'
'Swap 'orses, sir?'
'Don't be impertinent.'
Johnson smiled. Ten years they had been together now - more, almost eleven - longer than any officer and groom in the Sixth, or in memory indeed. He had no pleasure in his captain's infirmity, but he could at least take satisfaction in the tables being turned just a little. "As tha 'eard t'RSM's to be wed?'
The dodge worked. Hervey looked astonished. 'You would as well persuade me that the sar'nt-major is to take the cloth.' He flicked his long schooling whip at Gilbert's quarters in mounting exasperation.
There was little reason why he should believe it. Mr Lincoln had been regimental serjeant-major for fifteen years. It was generally imagined that he was the senior in the whole of the cavalry. Why should he suddenly feel the need of a wife? Except that Johnson's canteen intelligence was almost invariably accurate . . .
'I'd put any money on it, sir.'
'Who is she?' demanded Hervey, sounding almost vexed.
'Widder o' one o' t'Footy's quartermasters.'
Hervey, for all his nausea and discomposure, managed an approving smile. ‘She must be a redoubtable woman. How is it known? Has there been any announcement?'
Johnson became circumspect; there were canteen confidences to safeguard. ‘Mr Lincoln saw Major Joynson yesterday an' asked 'is leave to marry.'
Hervey smiled again. A clerk with an ear to the door, and a thirst to be quenched by selling tattle in the wet canteen. Things hadn't changed. Not that Johnson would have paid for his information. Hervey had learned long ago that Johnson received word from many a source because the canteen attributed to him considerable powers of prophecy and intercession. 'What a tamasha that will be, then. And colonel and RSM wed in the same year.' Then he frowned. 'Oh, I do hope this doesn't mean Mr Lincoln intends his discharge.'
It was a curious thing, and Hervey knew as well as the next man, and better than most, that 'new blood' was as necessary in the officers and senior ranks of a cavalry regiment as it was in its horses. And yet with Mr Lincoln it was different. It was scarcely conceivable that there could be any want in the performance of his duties, and his grey hairs served only to add distinction to his appearance. In any case, the RSM would yield to no one in the jumping lane at the end of a field day. To many, indeed, Mr Lincoln was the regiment. No one in the Sixth had served longer, though his actual record of service, with its attestation date, had been conveniently lost years ago.
CI bet that's not what Serjeant-Major Deedes thinks,' said Johnson, screwing up his face.
That was the problem. There could only be the one crown, and for as long as the admirable Lincoln wore it above his stripes no other could. Deedes was next in seniority, and had been for five years or more, and behind him were others wondering if the crown would ever be theirs to wear before they were obliged to leave the colours. One of those, indeed, was Armstrong. Hervey had never given it much thought before. Could he imagine Geordie Armstrong filling Lincoln's boots? It was pointless his making any comparison, for so different were the two men. Except, perhaps, that Armstrong's formation had been at Lincoln's hands as much as anyone's.
There was, of course, one man who would by now have been the acknowledged heir. Serjeant Strange could have worn the crown, a worthy successor in every respect, except that by now another regiment might have made a claim on him, or even a field commission might have come his way. It was nigh on ten years ago, in a corner of the battlefield at Waterloo, that Strange had demonstrated his singular worth - and had lost his life doing so. Hervey still thought about that day, and his own part in Strange's fall. He asked himself the same questions, and the answers were always as uncertain.
'Still, dead men's boots are a sight easier to come by 'ere than at 'ome,' chirped Johnson. He did not actually nod to the garrison cemetery, and its growing regimental plot, but the timing of their passing could not have been more apt.
'For heaven's sake, Johnson, have a little compassion!'
Johnson mistook Hervey's meaning. 'Sorry sir, I didn't mean as I thought tha were—'
'Oh, thank you. You'll be sure to let me know when the canteen shortens the odds on my getting to the end of this posting, won't you?'
Johnson looked only very slightly abashed.
'Come then,' said Hervey, sighing. 'Let's shorten the reins instead and see what we can do.'
Gilbert broke into a trot a fraction before the - aids applied, leaving Hervey to curse his own lack of handiness as well as his horse's. It was going to be a long business, this getting back to condition.
When they returned to the bungalow the best part of an hour later, for he had wanted to ride right out of the lines onto the plain, Hervey slid from the saddle in better spirits and health, and said that he would attend morning stables. Then he went inside for hazree and an hour with his pen. There was correspondence long overdue and he meant to make a start today, just as he intended taking back the charge of his troop.
On his desk were five letters. Two were from Horningsham, one from Elizabeth, the other from his father. They had been written a fortnight apart but had arrived together. That from his father contained the same warm paternal sentiment as that sent to Shrewsbury when first he had gone up, on his fourteenth birthday. Indeed, it was in essence the same letter, except for a line or two on diocesan affairs (which hitherto Archdeacon Hervey had rarely mentioned) and the news that his monograph on Archbishop Laud was at last nearing completion.
The letter from Elizabeth was not greatly longer but contained altogether more information - about the village, their part of Wiltshire, the country as a whole (garnered, she admitted, from the newspapers), about their parents and relatives, and last, but at greatest length, about his daughter. Georgiana was six months older than when Elizabeth had last written, and it seemed she was a favourite at both Longleat and the vicarage. She showed all the signs of a fine intelligence, was able to read, and she could sit a pony well. She laughed a great deal. It was a letter to reassure an absent father that he should have no concerns for the well-being of his child. And yet this agreeable report had the effect of making Hervey want to be with his daughter as keenly as would an unhappy one, for Georgiana was Henrietta's offspring.