Man Of War

The letter from the Reverend John Keble expressed delight at the news of his betrothal, and hearty agreement to preach at the wedding, as he had done on the first instance of his friend’s marriage. In truth Hervey was not greatly troubled by the question of a sermon, nor, indeed, about the wedding arrangements in general, for the situation was vastly different from that first; but it had somehow seemed meet that it should be Keble, and, as he well recalled, the curate of Coln St Aldwin’s possessed the gift of brevity in these things. Keble’s letter also referred to his book of devotional poetry recently published, a copy of which he was sending under separate cover – which Hervey saw was the package. This he opened, more out of curiosity than zeal for poetry. The title page proclaimed The Christian Year. It did not urgently command his attention, though he was touched by the sentiment expressed in such a gift, the continuing kindness of this fine scholar-churchman towards him, especially since they had hardly been intimates. ‘See you, Fairbrother,’ he said, breaking his companion’s intense study of the Edinburgh Review: ‘a book of poetry by the man who’s to preach at my wedding. I fancy it will be good, but more to your taste than mine at the present.’

Fairbrother took it with a somewhat wry look.

Last, Hervey opened Kezia’s letter. It was written from Hertfordshire, her father’s house, on the fifteenth, and it began, as had those he had received at the Cape, ‘My dear Colonel Hervey’. The salutation was beginning to vex him rather. He knew well enough that it was entirely correct, but Henrietta had always been so . . . unrestrained in her correspondence (Kat too, though that was different). But, as he frequently reminded himself, the circumstances of his engagement to Lady Lankester were by no means the same as those of his marriage to Henrietta – nor even, truly, similar. They had been so much younger (it was all of thirteen years ago); except, by his reckoning, Kezia Lankester could not be more than a year or so older than had been Henrietta then . . .

The rest of his affianced’s letter, in the substance of its contents, was encouraging. Kezia looked forward to his coming to Hertfordshire, and she was content to be married in the summer from her aunt’s house in Mayfair. There were other details, and Hervey read over the letter again to be certain of them; and, too, for some intimation of sentiment. Just as in the earlier letters, though, he found none. His own to her, he would admit, could claim not a deal more (how might he write of the desire he increasingly felt?), but it pained him nevertheless. Did she not at least admire him enough for there to be some intimation of her expectation? Yes, for his part he had proposed to her after a very reasoned deliberation; it was neither romance nor passion in the conventional sense. And he supposed she had accepted him on the same terms, for she had had but a moment or two for reflection before doing so (he could hardly imagine that she had, before, entertained hopes, since they had met so infrequently). But even so . . .

There was no letter from Elizabeth, which surprised him, for his sister was a most dutiful correspondent. But he had no cause for anxiety at this lack of intelligence from Wiltshire: if necessary, evil news could ride post from Horningsham to London in a day, and the absence of an assurance that all was well did not trouble him therefore. All the same, he had expected some news, even if only an inconsequential report of his daughter’s progress in the schoolroom. He would be down to see them in a fortnight, though, or perhaps three weeks . . . These things could wait; especially now that he had made proper arrangements for the future.

III

FRIENDS AT COURT

Later

After a lunch of veal pie and hock, Hervey set out for the Horse Guards with Fairbrother, leaving him at the arch to walk to Westminster Abbey to see Nelson’s tomb. At the commander-in-chief ’s headquarters he found the assistant quartermaster-general writing with particular concentration.

‘I trust I do not disturb urgent business?’

Lord John Howard looked up with some surprise. ‘My dear fellow!’

They shook hands.

‘I said I trust I don’t disturb urgent business.’

Howard shook his head. ‘Not so urgent as to detain me on such an occasion – the arrangements for Clinton’s force: the duke’s recalled them.’

‘I did not know it,’ said Hervey, with some caution: mention of the expeditionary force in Portugal, which was supposed to keep the peace between the rival factions for the throne, made him feel awkward still, for his own sojourn there in advance of the force’s arrival had almost been the end of him – the death of him, even. ‘Affairs there have evidently quietened?’