Hervey 09 - Man Of War (13 page)

His exasperation – which Mrs Hervey took to be a very proper alarm – did the trick. She took a deep and expressive breath. ‘Elizabeth says she will not marry Captain Peto.’

‘What? But she has
said
so. She wrote and accepted his proposal.’

‘I mean that she has changed her mind. She no longer wishes to marry him.’

Hervey was all but dumbstruck. How could it be so? ‘But she has accepted his proposal.’

‘Matthew, I know she has accepted, but now she intends . . . renouncing her acceptance. That is why I wrote to you. I have tried everything with her but she will not have a word of it.’ She produced a second handkerchief, and pitiable sobs.

Hervey’s brow was more thoroughly furrowed than ever his mother had seen it – had she but the capacity to notice. ‘What reason does she give? What reason
can
she give?’

Mrs Hervey looked out of the window. It was still daylight enough to see the distant elms, and the rooks settling to the nest – in just the manner, it had seemed to her, that at last
both
her offspring were about to settle. ‘She says’ (sob) ‘she does not love him.’ She began shaking her head again, as if asserting that there was no future to be had for Elizabeth or, indeed, for herself.

Hervey was reduced to uncomprehending silence. A few moments ago he had thought his sister the most wonderful of women, about to become wife to the most wonderful of men. But now . . . And what, indeed, of Peto? He had still no news of his situation: he might be in a chaise from Portsmouth this very minute, returning from battle – that second Trafalgar – in the expectation of the loyal greeting which was rightfully his.
It is not a matter that can bide without grave consequence to our reputation and position
, his mother had written. He had been inclined to imagine her mistaken in whatever it was. But not now.

‘What is Father’s opinion in this? Has he forbidden it?’

Mrs Hervey’s look was of even more abject despair. ‘I have not had occasion to tell him. He has not been at all well this past month.’

‘And Elizabeth has not told him?’

‘I begged she would not.’

They sat for some time in a state of incapability, Mrs Hervey’s sobs subdued but continuing, until her son found himself able to ask, ‘Has anything . . .
particular
induced this determination on Elizabeth’s part?’

Mrs Hervey let out such a sigh, as if she might wholly expire. When she spoke it was almost in a whisper. ‘I wish I could say there was not. It is all on account of . . . a certain person.’

Hervey’s frustration with this most disconnected way of proceeding almost got the better of him. ‘Mama, you really must compose yourself and tell me all there is to know, for how otherwise am I to prevail on Elizabeth to change her mind?’

Mrs Hervey began searching about her pockets for smelling salts, but to no avail. She sighed deeply once more, and waved her hands as if in submission. ‘It is all on account of . . . a Mr Heinrici. She met him not two months ago . . . and now she believes she is in love with him and intends marrying him.’

‘
Heinrici?
’ Hervey could scarcely credit it, not least that Elizabeth should have her head turned by someone with so outlandish a name.

His mother nodded. ‘Or
Baron
Heinrici, I should call him.’

‘He is German then? Or Dutch?’

‘Yes. He took the lease on the Heytesbury estate last year. Elizabeth went to the house to buy hangings or some such, which he did not wish for.’

His mother’s concern for precise domestic detail, while she remained indifferent to that of real significance, almost deflected Hervey from a right judgement: not only was his sister’s inclination to break off the engagement deeply dismaying, he now saw that she acted in it quite recklessly. It was not in the least like her, and he concluded that there must be some strange imbalance in her humours – not in the old sense, of course (that was so much quackery), but something must very definitely have disturbed her equilibrium. To throw over his old friend, the very finest of men, for . . . who? A new-come German? (Hervey was sure, now, the name was not Dutch.) Who, indeed, was this Baron Heinrici, with his new lease on the agreeable Heytesbury estate? Why, indeed, was he come to Wiltshire at all? What could possibly have turned Elizabeth’s head so, for in everything he had known her undertake she had shown matchless judgement (better, even, than his own)? He must observe her closely at dinner for some sign of what disturbed her.

No
, that would not do; it smacked of deceit. He must speak with her
before
dinner. Let them have it out, and then if she did not see where sense and duty lay (he could hardly conceive that possible, but then in her present state of evident . . . derangement,
anything
was possible) – if she could not see the proper course, then she would have the whole of their dinner to reflect on the situation, the whole unhappy, untoward business!

In consequence of the shocking family news, Hervey was able to afford Georgiana only a brief interview, promising to spend the morning with her instead. She told him of her pony – the one he had bought her when he had come back from India – and the Broadwood piano (which he had sent her for her . . . he did not remember quite
which
birthday). She wanted to play for him there and then. But he had to protest that it was a pleasure he must suspend until the morning too.

Georgiana was disappointed, but not excessively so, for she understood that her father had travelled a very great distance and would wish to rest. And there was his friend Captain Fairbrother to be looked after, and Aunt Elizabeth too . . .

Hervey professed himself grateful to Georgiana for her patience, and accompanied her to her bedroom, where he saw that the housemaid had already brought a bowl of hot water. ‘I retire myself without assistance, Papa,’ she said, matter of fact rather than proud.

‘Very well,’ he replied, kissing her forehead. ‘Until the morning.’

Elizabeth was in their father’s book room when Hervey sought her out. She had put on an evening dress, quite formal, and she looked perfectly composed when he entered.

‘Well, brother, you have spoken with Mama and will know my news. That is why you are come, is it not? Mama sent for you?’

Hervey was thrown disconcerted on to the defensive. ‘I should anyway have come at the first opportunity.’

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows challengingly.

‘But Elizabeth, this is a sorry affair. I—’

‘Sorry?
Sorry
, Matthew? I see no cause for sorrow. I had hoped you might take pleasure in my happiness!’

Hervey now raised
his
eyebrows. ‘I did. I most certainly did – last year when you accepted Peto’s offer of marriage.’

Elizabeth looked away momentarily. ‘I am very sorry, of course, to disappoint so good a man as Captain Peto.’ She looked directly at him again. ‘But I took advantage of that same good nature. I should never have accepted the offer, for I did not love him.’

Hervey looked at her, astonished, incredulous. ‘But you would have come to love him. He is so fine a man. What else could you wish for?’

Elizabeth smiled benignly, almost indulgently. ‘I cannot marry a man I do not love, Matthew, no matter how much I admire him.’

Hervey shook his head, lowered his voice and spoke slowly. ‘How can you go back on your promise? And why was I not to know until now, and from Mama?’

Elizabeth returned the challenge in his eyes, calmly defiant. ‘I did not promise. That would have been for the marriage ceremony itself.’

Hervey bridled at what he perceived as casuistry. ‘Elizabeth! You gave your answer to a man who was sailing to face the King’s enemies. Is that not of some moment?’

Elizabeth almost smiled in her exasperation. ‘You mean it mightn’t be so bad if he were merely on a guard-ship at Portsmouth?’

Hervey was positively angering. ‘I mean, is Peto not due some especial consideration thereby?’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘He is,
of course
. And I shall write to him in the most considerative terms, I assure you.’

‘You have not written to him?’

‘I have written to him, yes. I have written several letters to him – why would not you think that I had? But . . . I am only lately come to the certainty that I cannot marry him, and therefore to the resolve to write to him in those terms. Do you know how long it takes a letter to reach him?’

Hervey was puzzled by the turn. ‘No?’

‘Well nor do I! I have not received a single letter since he sailed, and that the better part of a year ago. I know, of course, that he will have written, but I don’t suppose the mails are obliging at sea.’

‘Elizabeth, there is an irreverence in your tone which I find incomprehensible. Do you not understand that Peto commands the most powerful of His Majesty’s ships presently at sea, or that he has held that command in the greatest of sea battles since Trafalgar?’

A note of pleading replaced the wholly defiant: ‘But Matthew, I cannot be obliged to marry a man against my inclinations on account of his gallantry . . . or on account of my previous error of judgement.’

Hervey found no answer.

‘Besides, I love Major Heinrici.’

‘I cannot believe it!’

‘That I love someone? Whyever not, Matthew? You knew him once indeed: you must admit that he too is a fine man.’

‘I?
Knew
him once?’

‘In Spain, and at Waterloo.’

Hervey was beginning a very distant recollection . . .

‘In the King’s German Legion.’

Hervey now recalled it – but a
Rittmeister
, a captain of cavalry, a man several years his senior. ‘I don’t understand . . . How . . .’

‘He is a widower. His wife died three years ago. There are three children – three daughters.’ Elizabeth’s face brightened with a happy confidence that even Hervey could not fail to recognize. Indeed, he had never seen her face thus.

He turned away. He must not let such a consideration cloud his judgement.

* * *

Dinner was not a joyful event. Hervey had told Fairbrother what had transpired between Elizabeth and him, as much as anything to save his friend from any innocent but uncomfortable remark at table. Fairbrother, however, had registered bewilderment at Hervey’s vehemence, and the following morning, while his friend walked with Georgiana and her pony in Longleat Park, he offered to accompany Elizabeth on an errand towards Warminster.

‘I am sorry you have met us in these less than concordant circumstances, Captain Fairbrother,’ Elizabeth began, forthright, before they were long left the parsonage.

Fairbrother was not in the least discomfited. Rather he welcomed the opportunity to address the matter. ‘Do not trouble for my part, Miss Hervey; I am only sorry that there is any occasion for discord in so evidently close a family as yours, about which I have heard much.’

‘You are very gracious, sir,’ replied Elizabeth, and meaning it. ‘I am gratified at least to know that we occupy some part of my brother’s thoughts when he is at his duties.’

Fairbrother sensed the acerbity, for all Elizabeth’s sweetness. ‘Miss Hervey, forgive my interference, but I have spent much time of late in your brother’s company, and I can certainly attest to his thoughts in that regard. He has been more occupied with what he perceives as his familial duty than I have observed in any man.’

Elizabeth smiled, conceding. ‘I am sure it is so, Captain Fairbrother. Indeed, I wish at times he were not so very occupied.’

Fairbrother frowned. ‘You think it ill suited to him in some way?’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘In truth I do, for he cannot think . . . evenly. He is bound still by some sense of guilt in the loss of his wife, and I am sure that it clouds his judgement in all things.’

‘I may certainly attest to the rawness of his feelings in regard to his late wife.’

Elizabeth’s expression became pained. ‘She was my good friend too, sir.’

She did not add ‘Matthew forgets that’, but there was no need. And Fairbrother began to perceive the extent of her solitude – only daughter of a poor country living, unwed, no longer on calling terms at Longleat. It was all too clear why she had been content – happy, even – to accept an offer of marriage from one as sure as Captain Sir Laughton Peto; and then so decided when that most extraordinary, unexpected, unlooked-for, disconcerting thing –
true
love – should befall her. At this very moment he wished to put a protecting, brotherly arm around her – as her own brother ought – and to assure her of his strenuous support. ‘Miss Hervey, in this I would hope to be your good friend as well as your brother’s too. I am gratified – forgive me – to see you are so solicitous of his well-being. May I ask you a question?’

‘You may ask whatever you please, Captain Fairbrother, but I beg you would not try to divert me from the course I have chosen, for it would be both fruitless and disagreeable.’

‘Miss Hervey, I would not dream of it. I wished only to ask of your brother’s intended. I will be frank: he has not spoken of her in any terms but the most matter-of-fact – where they are to live and such like. Do you know the lady?’

Elizabeth again quickened her pace, as much as to say she was on safer ground and could proceed without circumspection. ‘I have met Lady Lankester the once but could form no opinion of her. If Matthew has concluded that she will make him a good wife then I can have nothing more to do with it.’

Fairbrother noted the return of acerbity. He wondered if Elizabeth were making the point that in denying her brother the right to interfere in her own choice of partner in the marriage stakes, she must likewise forfeit that right. But he was inclined to proceed with a certain blitheness, if only to bring the matter to an amicable close. ‘Well, I may judge for myself, for I believe we shall go to Hertfordshire soon.’

Elizabeth stopped suddenly, her ears pricked. The call of the cuckoo came again, clearly and not so very distant. ‘The cuckoo, Captain Fairbrother.’ She smiled, happily – the first he had seen her smile thus. ‘I walk these lanes every day, and it is the first cuckoo I have heard this spring.’