Man Of War

‘I like it very much, Captain Peto. Thank you, Mr Flowerdew, I will have some more,’ replied Rebecca sweetly. She helped herself to two good-size spoons full. Then her countenance turned earnest again. ‘Do you truly believe it will come to a fight with the Turks, Captain Peto?’

Peto was annoyed with himself. He had dug a hole, so to speak, and now he was going to fall into it. But he could scarcely dissemble. ‘I do,’ he answered gravely, nodding. ‘I do. But it does not follow that the fight need be . . .’ (he checked himself) ‘very bloody. Your father’s squadron is vastly stronger, and the Caliph knows full well that the Royal Navy’s habit is of unrivalled success.’

‘I am relieved to hear it is so,’ said Rebecca. And she looked, undeniably, relieved. ‘I do most sincerely wish, however, that I could see my father dismay the Turks, so that those poor people of Greece might have peace.’

‘Coffee, ma’am?’ asked Flowerdew, in no doubt now of the real status of their guest.

XII

A MARRIAGE KNOT

Hertfordshire, 2 May 1828

‘Hervey, I am ever more delighted by your English countryside,’ declared Fairbrother, looking out of the chaise window at the rippling fields of barley. ‘I did not think I should see scenes more pleasing to the eye than those from the Rochester mail, and yet in whichever direction we travel there are prospects to rival those before. And such houses!’

‘It is a green and pleasant land.’

Hervey still sounded . . . distracted, despite the conversation of several hours. Fairbrother thought he would tempt him one last time. ‘The house of your affianced’s people is, I imagine, a handsome one?’

Hervey too was gazing from the window, but not at the country. ‘It is.’

Fairbrother sighed. ‘You are still at Hounslow, I suppose.’

Hervey turned to him. ‘I should have remained with them. At least until Lord Holderness was entirely fit. You saw him: he was not himself.’

Fairbrother had indeed seen him: he looked like a spectre. ‘But the surgeon said he was recovered from the seizure, and you yourself said that the adjutant and the captains were perfectly able to carry on.’

‘So they are.’

‘And the manoeuvres were declared complete.’

So they had been. And Hervey had been as glad of it as he had been surprised. But, as the general had pronounced, the regiment had demonstrated its capability in spectacular measure, and his recognition of it was an early return to barracks. ‘Indeed.’

Fairbrother sighed again, this time audibly. ‘You know, Hervey – I will say it once more – I am at a loss to understand your thoughts in the matter. You concealed the colonel’s indisposition most effectively, and that, I acknowledge, was an admirable instinct, but if in doing so you deny yourself the laurels which are rightfully yours, and a man who is incapable, however fine a fellow he is, remains in his place – and mistake me not: Lord Holderness is the finest of men – how does that serve? How does it serve the regiment? How does it serve the King?’

It was indeed old ground over which Fairbrother picked, and Hervey was no more moved by it than before. ‘You make the case compellingly, except that you discount the injury that would be done when it were known, both inside and out, that a regiment had not remained true to its colonel. I do not wish to debate with you the theoretical limits of loyalty, my friend’ (no, indeed: there was a rawness to that particular wound still – the affair of Lord Towcester) ‘for if we do not admit it to be absolute, then there is no foundation to discipline but the lash.’

Fairbrother was momentarily distracted by the distant sight of rooks harrying a kite, which somehow seemed apt. He turned back to his friend. ‘The lash? What? See, Hervey – and then I will speak no more of it, for the time being at least: it matters only in part that you succeed in preserving Lord Holderness’s reputation with the general; there will not be a man in the regiment who is not speaking of what happened that night. And with the most decided opinions. Think on it.’

His friend turned in silence to the passing acres, and for a good while the only sound was the rumbling of the wheels.

Hervey had engaged a chaise for the journey down to St Paul’s Walden, the seat of Sir Delaval Rumsey, ninth baronet, father of Kezia, and squire of extensive acres in the rich arable between Saxon St Albans and the Templars’ Baldock. Only the Lankesters, he had heard say, rivalled the Rumseys in Hertfordshire antiquity.

‘Lady Lankester has a daughter, you say. To whom therefore did the Lankester baronetcy pass when Sir Ivo died?’

Hervey shook his head. ‘There was no male relative, I believe, so it must therefore have lapsed.’

‘Would a male child of hers then succeed to it?’

Hervey laughed. ‘I am uncertain, but I believe the answer to be no.’ In truth, he had given no thought to the fecundity of the coming marriage, even if he had thought a good deal about the actual process. A very good deal indeed.