'I have just had a letter from the lieutenant-governor hastening it, my lord. I believe I shall sail within the fortnight.' He realised too late that by mentioning haste he might be inviting the commanderin- chief to enquire into the necessity for it, and since Somervile's position was somewhat precarious, and the expedition to the territory of the Zulu doubtless an enterprise without sanction from the Secretary for War, he might well have jeopardized his old friend's initiative.
But Lord Hill's concerns were not with so distant a place about which the Horse Guards knew very little. The situation in the Eastern Mediterranean was what occupied His Majesty's ministers, and was consequently the concern of the commander-in-chief. 'And when do you relinquish the commission with the Rifles?'
'The date is uncertain, my lord, but I believe it will be before the end of the year.'
'Mm.' Lord Hill appeared to be turning something over in his mind.
The smoking-room waiter brought Hervey his brandy and soda.
'How is your French, Hervey?'
'I fancy it is very adequate, sir,' he replied, rather startled by the turn of questioning. His French was entirely fluent, as was his German.
'You have no Russian, I imagine?'
Hervey's brow furrowed, curious. 'No-o, General.'
'Well, French would be perfectly serviceable. What say you to an attachment to Prince Worontzov's headquarters?'
Hervey had no very precise idea who was Prince Worontzov, or where his headquarters might be, but with the Russians now at war with the Turks it could be supposed that it was in the Levant (anything more precise was hardly necessary at this stage of enquiry). 'I am all enthusiasm, my lord, but I believe I must return to the Cape, at least for a month or so – to make proper arrangements for the corps, and indeed for the return of my detachment of dragoons.'
Lord Hill nodded. 'That is understood. Indeed, it works to advantage. George Bingham is to go at once, but he will have to return by the year's end to take command of the Seventeenth.'
Hervey had to check his instinct to agree to the commission at once.
'Think on it a while,' said Lord Hill, rising to leave. 'Let my military secretary know before you embark for sunnier climes.'
Hervey rose with him, and smiled. 'I will indeed, sir.'
'And, by the bye, I should have mentioned it before. I saw the notice of your marriage. Hearty congratulations, my boy! Ivo Lankester's widow, is she not?'
Hervey shifted a little awkwardly, forcing something of a smile. 'I suppose it will be some years before she is referred to as wife rather than widow, my lord.'
Lord Hill returned the smile. 'Just so, Hervey, just so. I stand rebuked. Mind you don't make her a widow again in that uncivilized colony of yours. The Eighty-first will be looking to welcome you both in due course.'
'Thank you for your sentiment, my lord.'
The commander-in-chief and his party took their leave, and Hervey sank down gratefully into his tub chair again. He now felt sicker in his stomach than he had even at Holland Park.
Another brandy and soda settled him somewhat, but it required a considerable act of will to rouse and make to leave. He really could not in all decency stay a second night at the United Service; especially when he had sent no communication to Kezia to say even that he might return late to Hanover Square.
He went out into the hall and asked the porter to hail him a cab.
Alone, now, he had the sudden and profoundest desire to speak to someone. But who? Fairbrother? Fairbrother was the only one of his military companions that he could possibly conceive of speaking to. And it was strange, because Fairbrother was not as the others: he neither wore the 'VI' on his shako plate, nor was he even an Englishman. Not in the usual sense. For much of the time Hervey had no notion that Fairbrother was any different in birth or upbringing from any in the Sixth, for his manners were entirely those of the gentleman, his speech likewise, with but the faintest accent of the plantation. Nor was the colour of his skin so markedly different, especially in the summer months, when the sun in Spain and India had made of the Sixth a fraternity of half-castes.
But he could not speak to Fairbrother, for even had his friend been at hand, these were waters too deep. The Reverend Mr Keble, perhaps, would have given steadfast counsel, but could he face such a man as John Keble? Would that admirable, saintly curate truly be able to understand his situation? Elizabeth should have been his confidante, but although his sister had for so many years been his support (without her, indeed, he did not know what would have become of him after Henrietta had died), he had never spoken his innermost thoughts. And now that there was this . . . estrangement between the two of them, any such course was out of the question. He was not certain, even, if she were in London or in Wiltshire (this improvident engagement with her German widower had made her lose all sense of judgement).
One person only did he imagine might help him: Sister Maria. For a few short weeks in 1814 they had been intimate in the easy manner of their conversation, touching on things spiritual that were never the subject of discourse with any other of his acquaintance. It had been helped no little by her calling, the otherworldliness of her habit. And yet, though she had not worn the habit that morning (the law forbade it in public), he was certain that if she were here now he would be able to tell her all.
He sighed, giving way for the moment to the greatest sense of hopelessness.Which would occasion the greater alarm at two in the morning: pulling on the doorbell at the Hammersmith Convent, or at Kezia's aunt's in Hanover Square?
He woke to the sound of piano scales. He looked at his watch; it was not yet seven. He sat up and looked about: a good-size room, with fine hangings and paintings; he had not taken it in by the light of the candle when the manservant had brought him to it in the early hours (he hoped he had not woken too many of the household, for there had been a noisy drawing of bolts). He rose and poured water from the decanter by his bed into a washing bowl, supposing it a little early for hot water to be brought, even though there was piano practice. He shaved, then dressed.
He went downstairs to the music room. Kezia was now begun on her arpeggios. He bent and kissed her forehead. 'Good morning, my love,' he said boldly.
'Good morning,' she replied, without interruption to her practice. 'Evidently priests are not easy to find these days in London.'
He smiled. 'I'm sorry. I was detained by all manner of things yesterday. And some I must speak with you about as a matter of urgency. I saw Lord Hill, and he has proposed I go to the seat of the Turkish war for six months – not immediately, but in the new year. And Eyre Somervile wants me to return forthwith to the Cape. And I have been offered command of the Eighty-first.'
Kezia continued playing, if perhaps less complex chords. 'On what particular do you seek my attention?'
Hervey's brow furrowed. 'On all of them! We might begin with the Turkish war.'
She threw him an indulgent smile. 'I am perfectly aware that the wife of a soldier must bear such absences.'
'And the early return to the Cape?'
'I cannot think but that the lieutenant-governor has good reason.'