Man Of War

Somervile: it reminded him – he must present his compliments at the office of the Secretary for War and the Colonies before too long in case there was anything in the lieutenant-governor’s despatch that required, as Somervile himself had said, not elucidation but elaboration. But all that could wait a day or two, probably more, knowing how distracted was that office at present. No, there was indeed a more pressing concern, one which no amount of good-humoured banter with his friend could quite put from his mind. The court of inquiry was no longer a nuisance to him; it threatened his all.

‘Fairbrother, I beg you would forgive me, but something has come up and I must needs attend to it at once.’

‘By all means. It is not serious, I hope. May I be of help?’

Hervey smiled thinly and shook his head. ‘It is something requiring urgent attention, else . . . but no, thank you. I fear it is lonely business. You will be content to see the sights?’

‘I am no more strange to London than were you on first visiting.’

Hervey’s smile grew broader. ‘A very philosophical answer. The generality of advice is, I understand, not to venture the other side of the river on foot, though I think that extreme counsel. I shall be back in time for us to dine together, but if for any reason I am delayed – the streets can become nigh impassable of an early evening – then you must call for dinner yourself. You will be quite at your liberty to do so.’

‘I think I shall first visit with your parliament,’ said Fairbrother brightly.

‘Your parliament too,’ said Hervey, with mock reproach. ‘She is just yonder, as you see. Now, if you will excuse me, I must find a hackney cab.’

It then occurred to him that he would most likely find one outside parliament itself, so they walked there together through St Margaret’s churchyard. No fewer than six cabs were drawn up outside, as well as a good many private carriages. Fairbrother insisted on seeing his friend into one.

Hervey hesitated to give his destination to the driver. ‘Hyde Park,’ he said, sounding uncertain.

‘Which end, sir?’

‘Kensington Palace.’

Fairbrother raised his hat as the cab rolled away.

At Holland Park, Hervey dismissed the cabman for an hour. It was the deucedest expense, engaging a hackney for such a time, but he needed some independent means of getting back to the United Service Club, and he did not suppose that these new-found conveniences ranged very far west of the Piccadilly bar.

A familiar face answered the door. ‘Good afternoon, George,’ said Hervey.

The footman admitted him and showed him into the library. ‘Lady Katherine is engaged at the present, Colonel. Shall I bring you tea, sir?’

Hervey shook his head. ‘No, George, thank you. I fear I have not a great deal of time.’

‘The Standard is there at the table, sir, new-arrived.’

Hervey thanked him again, took up the newspaper and sought to divert himself for as long as Kat was engaged.

In the pages of the Standard he found much gossip, which might as a rule have served, but in the circumstances it merely aggravated his own misgivings about the inquiry. Only news that the Duke of Wellington was appointing a committee to consider raising a police force for London diverted him sufficiently to have the half-hour pass moderately quickly.

The doors of Kat’s drawing room opened. Hervey heard, and rose unseen. Kat was all smiles, and her caller likewise, an officer in the uniform of the Second Foot Guards, some half-dozen years Hervey’s junior.

Kat now saw him in the library: ‘Matthew!’ She advanced on him unselfconsciously and kissed his cheek. ‘Do you know Captain Darbishire?’

‘I do not.’ He trusted that he hid his wholly unreasonable – indeed, inexplicable – resentment at finding another officer calling.

‘Colonel Hervey,’ said Kat to her caller.

‘Sir!’ Captain Darbishire braced, and bowed.

Hervey returned the bow, but Kat disobliged him from the duty of conversation. ‘Captain Darbishire has brought me an invitation from his general, to attend a ball at Almack’s.’

Hervey nodded. ‘Let me not detain you, Captain Darbishire,’ he said, a shade brusquely.

Captain Darbishire’s confident air was fast changing. He knew very well who was Colonel Hervey: a man who had seen off revolutionaries on a dark night at Waltham Abbey, and who had worsted African warriors on their own ground. He imagined that an aide-de-camp from the London District headquarters would be given no quarter, stuttered his apologies and took his leave.

When he was gone, Kat led Hervey into the drawing room. ‘I am delighted you are come, Matthew. When did you arrive in London?’

‘This morning. I—’

Kat was overjoyed by this evidence of her lover’s eagerness, and when the footman had closed the doors, she embraced him. ‘How long shall you stay?’

Hervey was dismayed by how rapidly he was losing command of things (as always seemed the case when he came to Holland Park, no matter how resolutely). ‘Kat, there is something urgent I must speak with you about.’