Man Of War

They strolled on a while before Kezia answered. ‘I would rather they not.’

Hervey tried to put himself in her mind: would the sight of blue, and sabres, be of too painful memory?

‘Besides,’ she added, ‘are not your non-commissioned officers at the Cape still?’

She was right. The men he would have wished to stand at the door of the church were several thousand miles away. Not all of them: there was Collins for one. But if Armstrong and Wainwright could not be there . . . He cleared his throat. ‘Indeed they are. And it would be a pale imitation of a guard without them. There will be no ceremony.’ He squeezed her arm.

She made no move by return, but expressed herself grateful for his understanding. ‘And I have asked a cousin to give the address. He is a canon of St Paul’s – the cathedral, I mean.’

‘Ah.’

‘You object?’

He frowned, and sighed. ‘I have already asked someone, a family friend. He was at Oxford with my late brother.’

‘That was a little presumptuous, Matthew.’

She was right: it was the bride’s prerogative to arrange her own wedding. ‘I could, I suppose, write and tell him—’

‘I should be glad of it, yes,’ said Kezia, almost absently. And then more decidedly: ‘My cousin is a most ardent preacher, of a very proper evangelical temper.’

Hervey groaned inwardly. He knew well the sort of clergyman. It was to counter such a possibility, in part, that he had asked John Keble to preach. ‘Indeed. Of course.’

They strolled on further, Kezia stooping to pick an anemone, and twirling it between her hands as they walked. ‘Did you find your people well in Wiltshire? How is Georgiana, and your sister?’

Hervey had known it must come, and he had not resolved on what he would say. He ought, he knew, to say everything, without hesitation; but he wished in some way to spare Elizabeth (the whole family indeed, and not least himself) the ignominy that would inevitably follow from the breaking off of an engagement to such a man as Peto. ‘They are all in good health, thank you.’

‘Is there yet a date for Elizabeth’s wedding?’

He cleared his throat. ‘No,’ he answered, truthfully but unhelpfully.

‘Perhaps I should invite her here, and Georgiana?’

‘That would be very civil. My parents keep little company.’

‘You surprise me; I did not think them unsocial.’ Hervey smiled. ‘In this their taste and means coincide.’

‘Happy thought indeed.’

‘And, forgive me, I had meant to ask earlier, how is Allegra?’

‘She walks very strongly since you saw her last, and she speaks much. We may see her before we leave this evening.’

He wanted to broach the question of ‘arrangements’, where they would live, what staff they would need, but Kezia seemed somehow preoccupied.

She stooped and picked another anemone, and gave it to him.

He threaded the stem through a button hole of the double-notched lapel of his coat, his favourite, dark green, the yellow of the anemone a felicitous match. ‘I did not say, but I fancy I shall be detained in London rather, for the next month or so.’

‘Oh? How so?’ She sounded curious rather than disappointed.

‘There’s to be a court of inquiry over the affair at Waltham Abbey.’

‘Ah.’

‘Perhaps you will come and stay in Hanover-square the while?’ he said, thinking how to make the business more agreeable.

‘I fear it would be inopportune. Mrs Bulwer Lytton is giving a grande fête in June, and there will be much preparation.’

‘And you must assist in this?’

She looked quite taken aback. ‘I am to sing in the opera.’

‘Oh . . . of course, the opera.’

But in truth, now that he thought more precisely of it, it might not do for Kezia to be in London during the inquiry; she might learn of . . . ‘I hope I may be allowed to propose myself to attend the fête.’

The question – if question he had made it – was to his mind rhetorical; but not to Kezia’s. ‘I shall ask Mrs Bulwer Lytton. I’m sure she will issue an invitation, in the circumstances,’ she answered solemnly.

He wondered if she teased . . . ‘Well, I hope I may propose my supporter to visit with’ (he hesitated at presuming on the plural), ‘us here before the event.’

‘By all means. But there is a concert at Hanover-square in two weeks’ time which my aunt has arranged for me to attend. Perhaps it would be convenient that we meet then?’

Hervey was beginning to wonder if Kezia thought of anything but her music, for both the months ahead seemed wholly regulated by it. ‘Perhaps.’

As an afterthought (it appeared), she turned to him and added, ‘I believe my aunt may be able to secure an extra ticket. Would you wish to attend?’

Hervey reeled somewhat. ‘Of course I should wish to attend. I should wish to escort you!’

‘And you do not wish to know first what is the music?’

He cared not in the least what was the music. He knew he would have to steel himself to it (as he had on several occasions with Elizabeth), whatever the band or the composer. He took her hand. ‘Kezia, I shall be accompanying you. That is sufficient to engage me.’