Hervey 11 - On His Majesty's Service (12 page)

He stood listening, not sure what to do. The music sounded not so …
severe
as it sometimes did. Indeed, he listened with increasing pleasure, for poor ear though some might say he had (his sister, for one), his taste was not confined, as Elizabeth teased, to marches. What Kezia played this morning was not music to dance to – or rather, he could not imagine her lowering herself to play jigs – but dance was exactly what the music invited. And it was strange, for as a rule Kezia would spend an age in scales, chords, arpeggios and all the other exercises of the keyboard which he knew of from his sister’s practice, but rarely anything to which the exercises were a prelude. It was almost as if her music were to be kept, so to speak, in a vault, to be taken out only on some special occasion, and under strict guard. He was fully conscious of the need for drill, of course – for constant practice was the foundation of execution, whether before an audience or the enemy. But to practise to exhaustion, as frequently it seemed to him was Kezia’s intent – to subdue, as it were, the keyboard, like a rough-rider with an unbroken colt – these things he could not understand. Not that their time together had been long – not at all; but it had been long enough for him to perceive that for a part of every day that they lived together they did so in what might be, to all intents and purposes, separate worlds.

He was at first reluctant to disturb her; she had ill disguised her annoyance once when he had interrupted her playing, so that she miskeyed and had to begin again the sequence of scales, but he thought it poor form for a husband returned from months away to have to wait on a perfect cadence. He went into the music room as quietly as he might, though when Kezia looked up from the Broadwood which had been his wedding present to her, she smiled as she continued with the lively tune. It was not the smile of a Henrietta, or a Kat, but it registered a certain happiness, perhaps even pleasure.

When the music was finished – or it seemed to him that it was finished (there was a rather fine descending passage which ended with a final-sounding chord) – she smiled even broader. ‘There, Matthew, is it not the most charming piece?’

‘Charming indeed.’

‘In point of fact it is quite astonishing,’ she declared, and then frowning ever so slightly, added: ‘I had your letter last evening, but did not expect you until tomorrow.’

Hervey raised his hands as if a supplicant, but self-mocking. ‘What is the music? I shall not guess who is the composer. You would only despair of me.’

‘
Rondo à la Krakowiak
,’ replied Kezia, soberly, closing the sheet music with something of a flourish. ‘You can have no idea how difficult it is to play –
rubato
and strict rhythm at one and the same time.’

Hervey had little idea of what she spoke, but would readily concede that it sounded difficult. ‘The composer – Russian, evidently?’

‘Polish. A prodigy of but eighteen called Chopin. They say his left hand plays as a metronome while his right is all liberty. I confess I am far from mastering it myself; the syncopation is extraordinary.’

Hervey still had only the faintest comprehension, but the music plainly enlivened her – as it had him. ‘Chopin. Polish.’ He had had cause to fear the Polish lancers at Waterloo –
le Régiment de Chevaux-Légers Polonais de la Garde Impériale
… He would not mention it.

‘Yes, Polish,’ said Kezia, as if she was herself intrigued by the fact. ‘The
Krakowiak
is a peasant dance.’

‘Well, I liked it very much indeed,’ said Hervey, advancing to the piano to kiss her, which she allowed rather than welcomed, rising and gathering up the music in the same motion as the touch of lips.

‘And do you know why you like it so?’ she asked, with a sort of frown that was both playful and yet somehow disapproving.

Hervey, not allowing himself to be put off, feeling that the smile could not be wholly unconnected with his homecoming, returned it with a look of bemusement. ‘I fancy it’s rather happy music, contented peasants making merry in the fields’ (he almost said making ‘hay’).

She arched an eyebrow. ‘It is because, Colonel Hervey, the
Krakowiak
imitates the movement of the horse.’

‘Ah,’ he said, sounding deliberately deflated. ‘You think me minded only of horses, ma’am?’

‘Horses with dragoons astride,’ she replied, quite determined to drive home the jest – if jest it was.

But Hervey was not inclined to take offence, even mock. ‘The dragoon dismounts to do his work. The horse is merely his servant.’

‘Come now, Colonel Hervey; you think me ignorant of soldiery.’ She went to the chimney piece and gave the bell-pull a tug. ‘I am most reliably informed that nowadays a dragoon thinks himself no less a cavalryman than does a hussar. And a light dragoon was dressed as a jockey from the beginning, was he not?’

Hervey had to concede (with a polite bow) – and in some admiration, for she had taken her instruction (somewhere) well. Did it portend a zeal for becoming the colonel’s lady? He thought it improbable. Whatever the reason, however, his spirits were much lifted: here was nothing like the
froideur
of the days before he had left for the Cape.

But then, he was no longer contemplating a command in Canada, so disagreeable a prospect to her: his letter just before embarking for home had told of his good news, that he was after all to have command of the Sixth. There would now have to be some qualification of that news, of course, although he knew it would scarcely be of moment to her what the precise establishment of the Sixth would be: Kezia would be content if they could take a house at Hounslow in which the six-octave Broadwood might be played to advantage. Need he mention anything, now, of that dim possibility, Gibraltar?

A footman came. ‘Charles, would you bring coffee?’

She remained at the chimney piece with a hand just touching the mantel, and Hervey was as taken by her poise as he was the first time he saw her. Her self-possession was every bit as alluring as when he had observed it at Lady George (Irvine)’s dinner, when poor Strickland had been there, not so very long before the mortal smash. And in appearance she was, if anything, even more tempting. She wore a dark-green velvet dress with high, close neckline, cut generously at the shoulders but otherwise following very faithfully the curve of her breast and waist. It was irony indeed that such was called ‘undress’ – with covered arms and neck – while ‘full dress’ meant scarcely any covering at all. And yet perhaps there was method in it, since what was not shown but otherwise so expertly intimated might drive the imagination more vividly. He smiled to himself at the artifice of female fashion.

The footman left, and Hervey resumed his engagement with Kezia’s music, since it was quite evidently a happy medium for intercourse where otherwise there might be some awkwardness. ‘Are you practising for a particular occasion?’

A look of both satisfaction and keen anticipation overcame her. ‘I am to play before Herr Mendelssohn when he comes to London.’

Hervey felt suddenly and peculiarly estranged. He had heard of Mendelssohn (another young man; he had heard his music at the theatre), and if Kezia was to play before such a person then her accomplishment must be great indeed. He had not the acquaintance of a single other who could thus lay claim to talent of (he supposed) the first rank; and it gave him much cause for thought. ‘I, I am all admiration. I had not … Forgive me; it had not occurred to me that you were so well … received in your art. My ear would never be able to tell me.’ He smiled rather hopelessly.

‘It might have, my dear Matthew, had you enquired of those with an ear that could.’

‘I stand rebuked, ma’am.’

And there he did indeed stand, cuttingly rebuked and wholly at a loss for words with which to banter further, not knowing how to move the conversation to the next level, or even what that next level was, yet seeing how grotesque was the predicament in a new-wed couple.

Charles saved him prolonged anguish, however. The coffee was very fast brought, as if the servants were waiting, ready, for the end of the exercises. Hervey took his up and stood by the fireplace, wondering if he might put on another log – and troubling himself the more at his want of self-assurance. ‘Your people are well?’

‘They are very well,’ replied Kezia, stepping aside to allow the footman to attend to the fire, and taking up a thick silk shawl.

Hervey moved to help her with it, but too late, so that he had to withdraw again awkwardly. ‘They are at home?’ (The house was large enough for all to be secreted in comfort.)

‘They are in London – unseasonably so, it must be said, but my father has business in connection with the Catholic Act.’

‘Indeed?’

He was not expecting any explanation of what that business was, but Kezia took him more exactly. ‘Yes. He has written to the government to enquire how it may be that Catholics, who refuse to submit to our laws and who deny parliament’s authority over their church, might yet be admitted to parliament to make laws for the Church of England.’

Sometimes Hervey found it trying to be a Tory (even if he knew the alternative to be insupportable), and wondered how it was that the squire of Walden, albeit with the parliamentary borough in his pocket, might claim the attention of the government on this or any other matter. He fancied he knew how the Duke of Wellington would receive him, Tory or no – if he would receive him at all. ‘I recall that that was the very question which the Duke of York himself put when the bill was last before parliament.’

Kezia looked surprised. ‘You are well informed,’ she replied, more with curiosity than approval.

‘Well informed, but, I confess, scarcely by my own efforts. Captain Fairbrother told me of it. He takes a keen interest in affairs of state. He’s been to see Wilberforce on abolition matters.’

‘And you would support the Relief bill?’

‘If the Duke of Wellington does, I could scarcely gainsay him. Even Peel is now for it.’

Kezia smiled ironically. ‘
Oh! Member for Oxford, you shuffle and wheel/ You have altered your name from R. Peel to Repeal!
’

Hervey smiled too. ‘That is very droll.’

‘He’s said by one and all to have ratted on his oath of allegiance.’

‘And do you yourself believe it? I’ve always taken you to possess a broad and enquiring mind.’

Kezia put her coffee cup down on a side table and pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders. ‘I confess I have never to my knowledge met a Catholic, and so I have no prejudice in their favour or otherwise, but my father is of firm conviction in the matter.’

That seemed to be that. The conversation had taken a decidedly darker turn, and Hervey was relieved when Kezia then enquired almost breezily after his friend. ‘Where
is
Captain Fairbrother, by the way? Does he return with you from the Cape?’

‘He does indeed. I left him to savour the delights of London – at his own request, that is, for he had little chance before to see the sights. He’s to come with me to the East, and I hope very much to … to the regiment when I take command.’

The hesitation was not lost on her, and she looked at him quizzically enough to throw him from his stride. He had wished to choose his moment; but there could be no dissembling now.

‘I very much fear we are facing the same situation as before. Hol’ness is relinquishing command, and I am to have it, but it will likely be a hollow one, for the Horse Guards – or, rather, the War Office – is intent on reducing the regiment to a troop. Such is the parlous state of the army estimates. Lord Hill wants me to have command of his own regiment, the Fifty-third.’

Kezia looked at him with a degree of suspicion. ‘And where are the Fifty-third?’

Hervey tried hard to make his reply sound as if here were not the rub. ‘Gibraltar. Lord Hill says that it is a coming station.’

There was no immediate reply.

‘The climate is most agreeable.’

Kezia pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders again, which Hervey thought might induce her to think of the benefits of balmier weather – but not for long. ‘I should not wish to quit this country, Matthew. I … I have no desire to live a solitary life. India, though but a short time, was enough to persuade me that contentment is not to be had elsewhere.’

Hervey had more than half-expected this opinion of Gibraltar, but he was nevertheless disconcerted by Kezia’s reasoning. ‘It would hardly be solitary, my love. Gibraltar is a considerable garrison, and my duties would not take me more than a mile or so from you. Indeed, in many respects it is the most confined of postings.’

But as he said the word ‘confined’ he knew he was lost.

Next morning, before he had taken his bath, an express arrived. Kezia had risen before dawn, saying she must speak with the nursery maid (Hervey had woken with her, but she bid him stay abed), and had drawn the bolts of the doors herself to admit the letter. A footman who had come scurrying was put to looking after the expressman while she took the letter upstairs to see if it needed reply.

Hervey was shaving by very moderate candlelight as she came into the dressing room, and it was all he could do to read it without scorching the paper. Fortunately its contents were brief: