Kat. He had, perhaps, treated her ill. He had courted Kezia (if 'courted' were the right word for something so . . . extemporary) without first speaking with her of it. And then he had gone to Holland Park to tell her the news of his engagement, and she had been hurt (without doubt hurt) by the manner of his telling her as much as the news itself. And then he had not returned that night to the United Service Club; he had stayed at Holland Park, as he so often had.
He shook his head, for what had followed, on the eve of his wedding, was too shameful to contemplate. And afterwards Kat had been so understanding. She had maintained every expression of cordiality, she had come to his wedding, she had troubled herself no little over the convalescence of his great friend Peto.What a woman she was! He could not regret what they had been to each other, for all that he had broken the Seventh Commandment (as Elizabeth had reminded him with such devastating effect). Except perhaps that last time. For that had been unworthy.
The chariot turned into the little forecourt, and Hervey woke from his thoughts. 'Well, George . . .' He had insisted the footman travel inside with him.
George descended from the offside door and went round to lower the carriage step, but an under-footman came out to attend, so that he was able instead to assume the position due to him at the door of the house.
Hervey got down, straightened his neck cloth, and went inside.
'Colonel Hervey, m'lady,' George announced at the door of Kat's sitting room.
Kat did not come out to greet him, however, as invariably she had. Hervey thought perhaps it was the more appropriate to their new respective situations.
He entered the sitting room, and smiled. 'Kat, how very agreeable it is to see you.'
But Kat did not return the smile, nor move to kiss him. 'Matthew, thank you for coming so promptly.'
Hervey's brow furrowed. 'Kat?'
She made no reply, turning instead to the window, distinctly uneasy.
He moved to her side. 'Kat, what is it?'
'How was Brighton?' she asked, distantly.
He shook his head rather dismissively. 'It was . . . very agreeable.'
She seemed not to hear. She did not, at least, make any response.
'Kat, what is it? What were you not able to say in the letter?'
She turned back to him, and with a look quite cast down. 'I am with child, Matthew.'
The shock – the horror indeed – upon her lover's face was too much for her. She turned back to the window, her eyes moist.
He stumbled with his words. 'Kat . . . I . . . who . . .?'
She turned again, blazing. 'Who? Who, do you say! Matthew, how could you ask such a question?'
Hervey now felt a rising panic. 'I . . . that is . . . how . . .'
Kat looked more astonished still. 'How, Matthew? You ask how? Or do you suggest my years make it impossible?'
That was not what he meant. He knew well enough how. Indeed, he knew when. He struggled not to take her hand, and then gave way. 'What are you to do?'
She sighed deeply, and gave him a sort of resigned, pitying smile. 'Do not worry, Matthew; it is taken care of.'
He looked at her, puzzled.
'Sir Peregrine.'
He looked at her quite horrified.
'He was in London when I learned of it. He . . . he has no reason to suppose he is not the father.'
'But you said he was incapable of . . .'
'And so he is. But the dear, kind old booby had no memory of his incapability after two bottles.'
Hervey shuddered.
'The child is yours, Matthew, and although Sir Peregrine shall be the proud father – and I shall tell no one to the contrary, not even my sister – I must have you know.'
Thoughts raced in Hervey's mind as if from a legion of criers. Who might he tell of it? What should be his duty to Kat? What might he say to Kezia . . . 'Kat, I am so very sorry.'
'And so am I, Matthew.' Tears filled her eyes again. 'And yet . . .'
He looked about, as if for salvation.
There was no salvation, however. Kat was now sobbing.
He embraced her. But when Henrietta had told him she was with child, and he had taken her in his arms, he had felt such a warming in his vitals. Now only rats scrambled in the pit of his stomach.
He pulled her closer, yet with a distance that came from the horror of the very wretchedness he was trying to allay.
But Kat's dejection was too much to be tempered by what she knew was transient. She knew she would no more enjoy his attention. Her place in society would be gone, too. There would be no more beaux to flatter her. Motherhood would not at all become her. Her tears were many-coloured.
He left Holland Park much later than he had intended, so late as to conclude that returning to Hanover Square would be inconvenient to the occupants. And in truth he had no desire to. Not in his own state of wretchedness. He went instead to the United Service, arriving a little after midnight, and in the smoking room, to his surprise, he found the commander-in-chief still, and a little gathering of officers, all in plain clothes but some of whom he recognized.
His inclination was to bow and then retire, but Lord Hill saw him first.
'Hervey!'
'My lord,' he replied, with a less formal bow than he would have made had it not been in his club, where notions of a certain gentlemanly egality applied.
'Come, join us. We were talking of affairs in the Levant.'
Hervey nodded.
'Now, you may know, I imagine, Generals Burt and Richardson, Colonel Cowan and Major Hawtrey.' Lord Hill indicated each in turn.
It was a gracious way of introduction, for Hervey knew only the two generals, and those by name alone.
'Gentlemen, this is Colonel Hervey, lately returned from the Cape, where he has been raising a corps of mounted rifles.'
There was no shaking of hands, merely the usual bows of acknowledgement.
'And also lately of the gunpowder mills at Waltham Abbey, do I not recall?' said General Richardson.
'Yes, General,' replied Hervey, somewhat indifferently since attitudes to the action at the mills were, he knew, mixed.
'Sit you down,' commanded Lord Hill, but benignly, as befitted his nickname among the troops – 'Daddy'.
Hervey took the remaining tub chair gratefully. The evening, the whole day, had drained him of resource to an extent he would not have imagined.
'Colonel Hervey is to have command of the Eighty-first in Canada next year,' Lord Hill told his party.
There was a general murmur of approval. Hervey shifted awkwardly in his chair, the matter yet undecided in his own mind.
'When do you return to the Cape?' asked Lord Hill.