'May I ask why you come 'ere, Mr 'Ervey? Vous voulez devenir Catholique . . . enfin?'
Hervey returned the smile. 'No, ma'am. I am come to arrange a funeral for the wife of one of my non-commissioned officers. Indeed, you may recall my serjeant at Toulouse?'
'I recall him; and your servant.'
'He is with me still.'
The bishop made to close what he imagined might become a prolonged conversation. 'The reverend mother is here on matters touching on the convent at Hammersmith, Colonel Hervey.'
'Ah, yes indeed. Forgive me, sir. I will take my leave at once.'
He was, however, most reluctant to. Much water had flowed under the bridge since he had last seen Sister Maria de Chantonnay, in her father's house in Paris, not long after Waterloo.
He braced himself. 'I thank you again, My Lord – and you, reverend sir,' he added, bowing to the vicar-general.
He took up his hat, caught the eye of Mr Keating, who had waited patiently throughout, and bid good day to the assemblage of priests and religious.
They found a hackney cab, not without a little trouble, and Hervey instructed the cabman to take his companion back to Duke Street, putting him down in Hanover Square en route.
The two had a little more conversation than on the journey out, but in truth Hervey was just as preoccupied as then. So much had happened since Toulouse. Truly, he did not suppose he could begin to recall that time before . . . before Henrietta. Before she had perished (perished on account of his incapability). It had been a vastly simpler age – Bonaparte the enemy, life lived day to day, a distant love; and then a wife, and a colonel not worthy of the name. And then one empty day after another. And the Promethean eagle tearing at his vitals each waking morning.
But that was all over, now. He had a new life, one which he would share with his daughter. For too long he had left her to the care of Elizabeth, gentlest of women though his sister was. Georgiana could not be shut away from him for ever: she had lost a mother; it was not right that her father was lost to her too. And now, of course, she would have a mother – and a practised one – and a sister. And there would be the novelty of Cape Town for several months, with its pleasing climate and easy ways. And then, perhaps, Canada.
One thing was certain, however: Elizabeth's most improvident intentions – her breaking off the engagement to his old friend Laughton Peto, and instead her purpose to marry this baron of hers – made continued guardianship of Georgiana impossible.
''Anover-square, gen'l'men!'
The cab came to a halt close by St George's church, where but a fortnight ago his own nuptials had been concluded. Hervey got down, thanked Mr Keating profusely for his time, and professed sincerely his hope they would meet again, before paying the cabman and waving them off.
He turned and looked at the steps of St George's, where he had waited to greet the congregants, and he marvelled once more at the pace of events in his life of late. It was but eighteen months since he had sat next to Kezia that night at dinner at Lord George Irvine's. He had just returned from Portugal, much chastened by the incarceration at Badajoz, and was resolved on putting his life in order. That very evening, indeed, marriage with Lady Lankester suggested itself (he saw that, now). And there had been so little time for courtship. What hand of Providence could it have been that placed him in a position, only a few months later, to propose marriage to her – and to have her accept? Why, indeed, had she accepted?
Kat had asked him the very same. The question had first seemed impertinent, even for a lover. Except that, riding together in the green lanes of Chelsea after he had spent the night with her, the question seemed entirely reasonable. He had not been able to answer. As Kat herself had concluded, le Coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point. Did it matter, indeed, what reasons must Kezia have? Were his own reasons so very . . . reasonable?
He had concluded that he must marry because he knew there was no health in him in the condition of widowhood. In the condition of adultery, indeed – in disordered, almost casual liaisons, or in the ultimate cruelty (there was no other word) of 'country marriages' such as he had enjoyed in Bengal. Neither was there honour in absentee fatherhood; nor sense in a life at arms which had no secure base. Were these reasons ignoble? Kezia had freely accepted him. She knew he had no fortune, though his abilities were recognized and he therefore had prospects, and she knew there had been too little time for there to have been true romantic love.
And he had desired her. Everything she said or did had seemed to serve its increase as the day of the wedding approached. He admired so much about her, too – her air, her music, that she had once been the wife of such a hero of the regiment – and he was convinced that this, coupled with desire, would in time become the wedded bliss he had once known. And those who thought otherwise (as he knew they did) were quite mistaken in the matter.
Kezia was not at home. Her aunt told him that she had gone to Mr Novello's to buy some sheet music (Hervey did not know of Mr Novello, but supposed that he ought to have), and that she would then most probably call on a cousin in Regent's Park. He declined the offer of solid refreshment, asking merely for coffee and for pen and paper, explaining that he must leave shortly for Whitehall (not caring to specify the United Service Club).
With coffee, pen and paper he sat for half an hour and wrote a memorandum to Kezia of the various and complicated events of the morning, though he explained that he could give no complete account of the offer of the Eighty-first since he was in so many minds about it, and that he would, of course, wish to consult with her before making any irrevocable decision. He ended by saying that, confident it would meet with her approval, he would today send word to Horningsham – perhaps even express – for Georgiana to join them directly, and not at the end of the month as first they had intended.
'You will join us for dinner, will you not, Colonel Hervey?' asked the aunt, as he made to leave.
Hervey hesitated, not least on hearing his Cape rank, for evidently Kezia had described him to her aunt thus (despite his having presented himself before the wedding as 'Major'). 'I . . . I should like very much to, Lady Marjoribanks. It is possible that I might be detained, however. I have a meeting with the commander-in-chief.'
He knew he stretched the meaning of the word – 'meeting' – but he saw no occasion for a fuller account. And (he would admit) the drive from Brighton had not been all gaiety, which was why he had thought it better not to try Kezia with proposals directly this evening, trusting instead to words on the page. Such a way would not have served with Henrietta (or Kat, for that matter), but it did not follow that there was but the one proper course. He was perfectly aware that women were as different in their natures as were men. And just because he was yet to fathom Kezia's, he would do nothing so crass as to presume there was fault in it.
IV
PRIMIPARALondon, that evening, early
As he entered the United Service Club, Hervey saw one of Kat's footmen conferring with the hall porter.