Man Of War

The evening passed agreeably enough, however, although Kezia was unable to spend any time with her betrothed or his friend. Hervey managed a little conversation, principally with a radical member of parliament on the question of Catholic emancipation; Fairbrother had considerably more (he was, indeed, a centre of much attention). There was an excellent cold table and some fine hock. They were bidden to take their seats at about nine, and entertainment followed for a full two hours: poetry reading, Shakespearean soliloquies – and music. The music was not, though, the popular sort with which he was familiar – no hunting songs like that the Somerviles had sung so roisteringly at Sezincote. It was the sort that delighted the serious-minded – string quartets, piano sonatas by Beethoven, lieder. Hervey sat dutifully through it all, nodding only moderately, until Kezia at last took the floor. She sang three songs by Schubert, accompanying herself. And Hervey saw – as perhaps he had sensed only distantly at Sezincote – that Kezia was more than a mere proficient. Even to his untutored and unmusical ear there was, indeed, something in her voice and playing that surely stood comparison with what he might hear in London.

And yet, as much as he might esteem her sweetness of tone, and dexterity at the keyboard, he found himself more taken by the swell of her breast in the lieder’s challenging dynamics. He understood very plainly, now, that he desired her at least as much as he admired her.

The next five days passed quietly, but without any real resolution of the marriage arrangements. In this they were not helped by the absence of Kezia’s father, who would, naturally, have to be consulted in the matter of the wedding and the subsequent marital establishment. Kezia largely spent the mornings practising at her fortepiano, and in the afternoons she and Hervey walked for an hour or so. Once, the three of them rode to Luton Hoo, but it was not a form of exercise that evidently delighted Kezia, and they made the journey there and back at never more than a gentle trot. In the early evening she spent half an hour in the nursery, they dined at seven-thirty, and afterwards she played for them. Twice there were guests (not greatly diverting to Hervey), and on Sunday they attended divine worship in the village. This was the least agreeable part of their stay, for although the Rumsey pew was comfortable, the sermon was interminable, a litany of the dire consequences of sin, and addressed so much to the patron’s pew that Hervey began wondering if indeed the rector had some particular knowledge.

Fairbrother, throughout, was more generally at his ease than his friend had feared, which was some consolation, but Hervey found himself possessed of an increasing desire not so much to be back at the Cape as back in the purposeful saddle – anywhere. Over and over in his mind he turned the question of command. He had been all but promised the Sixth ten years ago (how he would have relished that with a young man’s address!), yet now its prospect seemed only to be receding. Lord Holderness was the finest of men, though; the regiment would be well treated – cherished even – by a man with more than adequate means and the patrician’s disdain of ambition. What right had he, Hervey, to wish his colonel gone, so that he himself might wear the crown? Only that he had held the reins on so many occasions now, and held them well (he would not shy from the fact with false modesty). And if the Sixth were ever to face the King’s enemies, then he knew there was no one better than he to lead them. Was there no one (other than he, and Fairbrother) who recognized that – no one in a position of authority?

It had indeed been a pleasant stay. But glorious though he found the country thereabout, and comfortable as Walden Park was, he saw no usefulness in the life of a country squire. It was time to return to London – even to the London of his court of inquiry. He had, however, resolved on one thing: he knew with certainty, now, the present he would make to Kezia on their marriage.

XIII

AN ILL WIND

HMS Prince Rupert, 4 October 1827,

the sixth morningat sea

The wind had begun freshening not long after the capture of the slaver, veering steadily the rest of the day until by morning a strong north-westerly blew, the sea heaping up, chalk-white spume trailing from the crests like streamers. By midday it was a full-blown gale, the waves prodigiously high, the crests overhanging and then tumbling with the greatest force, so that even in the seclusion of his cabin Peto could feel the shock. Not that he sought his cabin’s shelter much during those days and nights: there was the example to be set by his presence on deck, his duty to discharge in the safety of his ship. And there was his curiosity to satisfy: how did Rupert handle in heavy weather?