Man Of War

Hervey hoped that whatever the deliberations were, they would not inconvenience Lord John Howard, who was to stand supporter at Hanover Square in the morning. ‘Well and good. Let us go to Gieve’s together, then.’ It was but the shortest of walks: he would in truth have preferred to take a turn about the park, but he had arranged to call at Russell Square with Georgiana at ten-thirty, and it was already twenty after nine. ‘You are certain there is nothing more I can do regarding Devon?’

Fairbrother had written to his father before leaving the Cape, informing him of his sojourn in England, and his father had secured an invitation to visit the relicts of his family in the West Country. He was at once delighted and apprehensive, but he had been determined to detach himself from his friend – and his friend’s new wife – for a decent period following the wedding. ‘Everything is arranged: the mail to Exeter, and from there I shall be conveyed to Crediton by my aunt’s carriage.’

‘I must hope you will not be too pleasantly detained there: I shall count on your arriving at Walden on the fifteenth.’

‘On the ides proximo: depend upon it.’

‘I shall. And . . . may I say again, my good friend, how prodigiously grateful I am that you will escort my people tomorrow.’

‘There is no cause for gratitude. I am honoured.’

But there was most particular cause. Hervey knew full well that Elizabeth wished Baron Heinrici to be invited, for, as she had insisted ‘he is soon to be your brother-inlaw, Matthew’. The idea was, however, unsupportable. He had no clear notion of what had passed between Elizabeth and Peto at Greenwich, but he was certain yet that she would come to her senses before it was too late. Which was why he must make sure there was no impediment to her doing so, and Heinrici’s attending at Hanover Square would undoubtedly be such an impediment. Fairbrother had, without doubt, been the very model of tact in this: Hervey knew that he owed much to the good offices of his friend in ensuring sufficient harmony for the wedding to be celebrated with all due decorum . . . and happiness. He squeezed Fairbrother’s arm.

* * *

The Hervey family was, indeed, much engaged this morning. The archdeacon was to call on his old Oxford friend (and as sometime vicar of Bradford Peverell, fellow Sarum priest), the Bishop of London. Dr Howley was soon to be translated to Canterbury, and Archdeacon Hervey wished to present him with a copy of his new-published (at last) monograph on Laudian decorum, as well as his felicitations. Mrs Hervey was still of a mind that such a thing was perilous: ten years before, her husband had been threatened with the consistory court on account of ‘popish practices’, and she saw no occasion for raising suspicions once more. She had decided to forgo accompanying the archdeacon to Aldersgate on account of the necessity of finding a milliner selling ribbon appropriate to her needs, for which neither Warminster nor even Bath had apparently been satisfactory. Elizabeth had her own calls to pay. And so Hervey was able to take his daughter from their charge with universal contentment.

‘I thought that we would walk,’ he said as they left Grillon’s. ‘It’s a fine morning, and but a mile or so to our destination.’

‘Oh yes, Papa,’ replied Georgiana, taking his hand. ‘I would see all there is to see!’ It was her first time in London proper. ‘Where do we go?’

He had thought carefully how he might broach the matter. He did not know quite why he was so determined that she should see the painting before the wedding, before she would have a new mother (have a mother, indeed, for she had never known one). It was, he supposed, some sort of desire for – as Kezia herself might put it – an appropriate ‘cadence’.

They crossed Piccadilly at a brisk walk, Hervey tipping the sweeper a penny, thence propelling Georgiana to his left, inside, hand. ‘We are going to see a portrait of your late mama. It was begun before you were born, and I learned of it but a month ago. It is by Sir Thomas Lawrence, who is a very great painter.’

‘Oh Papa! Have you seen it? Is it like her?’

He felt Georgiana’s hand squeeze his, and knew the keenest relief at her evident joy. ‘I have, and it is the very image of her, just as she was before . . . before we were wed.’

Georgiana bubbled with questions – how large was the portrait, where had it been all these years, what did her mother wear, did she stand or sit? And then, as if the thought came suddenly to her, she paused for a moment, and her voice changed. ‘But Papa, does it make you sad to see her?’

He had never imagined such a question of her, for he had never imagined her grown to such sensibility. It fair took him aback, and he was momentarily at a loss to make any reply. ‘I am very glad that it is discovered,’ he said, resolutely.

Georgiana knew that her father’s answer was an evasion of sorts, but she would not press him, for the evasion answered for itself.