Hervey 10 - Warrior (14 page)

He dismounted from the roadster, one of Kezia's aunt's, and rang the bell at the great double gates which fronted what he could now see was an establishment of some size. After not too long a time, an oldish man answered. He held a trowel in one hand, and he stooped, but he evidently possessed the authority to admit callers, since Hervey had given but his rank and name before one of the gates was opened to him. The man was at home with horses too, taking the reins willingly, and nodding to the gravel path between trimmed box, which led to the door of the convent.

Hervey advanced cautiously in these hallows, more so than ever he had in Spain. And he knew why, for in the Peninsula the convent was an entirely native thing; here, if not exactly in London then close enough to be counted a suburb, it was altogether alien. The high walls did not help, of course: doubtless they were supposed to make for seclusion, but they spoke also of secrecy. And the whole appearance – purporting to be a sort of gentleman's residence,
incognito,
so to speak, whereas in Spain and Portugal a convent
looked
like a religious house . . .

He came to the door, which was at least arched like a church's. He took a deep breath, and pulled at the bell. He heard it ring, distantly. There was now no going back.

One of the sisters answered. She wore a black habit, like many of the Spanish and Portuguese nuns. Hervey was a little surprised, though, for having seen Sister Maria (the Reverend Mother Maria, as he must remember she now was) in a day dress at the bishop's house, he had assumed that the sisters kept the custom at home. It was, after all, the law of the land. But then, why should an Englishwoman not wear what she pleased in her home? And in truth, alien though the habit was, he was strangely pleased to see it, for at once it ordered, and therefore made easier, their intercourse – exactly as did the soldier's uniform.

He took off his hat and cleared his throat. 'Good afternoon, Sister. Might I speak with the reverend mother?'

The nun, not quite as old as the gardener-gatekeeper, peered at him through ivory-framed spectacles. 'Which?'

Hervey cleared his throat again. 'The reverend mother, ma'am.'

'
Which
reverend mother?' she repeated, and somewhat testily.

He should have known, for he had not supposed that Sister Maria was likely to be superior of
this
convent. He smiled, he hoped pleasantly. 'Reverend Mother Maria,' he answered. And then, to be absolutely certain (for Maria could not be an unusual name for a nun), he added 'de Chantonnay.'

'Come,' she replied, briskly and with no flicker of curiosity.

Hervey assumed it to be an extension of the confidentiality of the confessional, except that he was not come to make his confession. Well, not in the strict sense. Nor, he knew for sure, could a nun pronounce absolution.

The floor of the inner hall was flagstone, the hall itself rising to the third storey by a broad, scrubbed oak staircase. There were pictures of male and female religious on the walls, a niche with a crucifix, and another with a statue of the Virgin, but other than a tall long-case clock, there was no furniture of any kind. It was cool despite the heat of the afternoon, and silent but for the movement of the pendulum. Although the paintings were not those that would grace the walls of the gentry, the place might have been a friendly old manor house in Queen Anne's day.

He was shown into a small receiving room.

'Please wait.'

The sister had been of few words, but he thought he detected an accent of the Low Countries. That was nothing surprising; so many priests and religious had taken refuge in England during the late war. Indeed, Parliament had paid many a stipend to foreign Catholics in holy orders. He smiled. The irony of it: Parliament, fount of the penal laws and yet paymaster to the clergy of Rome!

In the receiving room there was a crucifix on the wall, three chairs, and nothing else. He thought he might as well sit down since he expected that Sister Maria would be at prayer or study or some such, and therefore not immediately to be disturbed.

In this he was wrong, however, for scarcely had he sat but he was on his feet again, and bowing.

'Colonel 'Ervey, this is a most pleasant surprise!'

Sister Maria wore a habit the colour of the day dress she had worn at the bishop's house – brown, like some of the Franciscan friars he had seen in Spain. Evidently the other nun and she were of different orders, unless her position required her to wear a different colour (in France she had worn white, but, as he recollected, it was an overmantle). He did not suppose it was of importance.

Her manner was not in the least like that of the other sister, however. Here was the same easy welcome of the bishop's house, and of all those years ago at Toulouse (though he did recall that at first their meeting had been stiff).

'Sister Maria, it is very good of you to receive me. I should have sent notice, but . . .'

'That would only be necessary if you wished to be certain that I was here. But it is so very rare that I am not. Please, take a seat, Colonel. Oh, may I bring you water?'

It intrigued him how much of her pleasant disposition was revealed in her general air, for the wimple exposed so little of her features. Perhaps the severe framing of the face drew attention more directly to the eyes, which were ice blue and had lost none of the ability to pierce. And the years since Toulouse had been kind to her (kinder than to him). There, he had thought she was his senior; now, he thought it the other way round.

He shook his head. 'No, thank you, Sister. Or – forgive me – do I call you "Reverend Mother"?'

She sat down. 'That is the more correct. I am prioress of my carmel.'

'And you are here . . . temporarily?'

'I am.'

Since she did not volunteer any more information, and since it was no part of the reason he was here, Hervey curbed his curiosity. 'Colonel Holderness has written to you thanking you for your assistance with Mrs Armstrong's funeral. You may have received it already?'

'I have, and I was most touched by it, for I did but a very little.'

'I regret I did not see you that day; there was much to be about.'

'Of course. I did, however, see you, with, I imagine, your wife. And I should most certainly have presented myself had I not been in attendance on the bishop.'

Hervey nodded. 'The bishop's presence was a considerable honour. It ought to go well with Serjeant-Major Armstrong when I am able to tell him of it. Some little comfort, at least. You know that he is at the Cape of Good Hope, and that I return there shortly with the ill news.'

'I understood that, yes.'

He fell silent.

'And so, Colonel, what is it further that I may do for you?'

He shifted a little in his chair, clenched his fists and cleared his throat. 'Reverend Mother, I am troubled by a particular . . . event, and I seek your counsel.'

Sister Maria smiled beatifically. 'Colonel 'Ervey, would that counsel not be better had from a priest?'

'I cannot judge, Reverend Mother, but I recall your good counsel in Toulouse.'

'I recall that I gave you a
vade mecum,
the Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius.'

'You did indeed. And they were of use.'

'Are they of use still?'

If he had followed the Spiritual Exercises still with any degree of faithfulness, there would be no cause for his coming to Hammersmith. But he could not frame his reply thus. 'I regret that it is some years . . .'

'Well, you are here now.'

He nodded, gratefully. 'I am.'

'Then let me help you begin. Perhaps it would serve if you told me, as much or as little as pleases you, of your life since that day in Paris, after Waterloo, when last I knew anything of you?'

Hervey was a little surprised at Sister Maria's wishing to reach so far back, when quite evidently the event to which he alluded must be recent. Nevertheless he was also curiously relieved, however daunting was the prospect of recounting his life thus. Had he been content with mere pardon, as a man who, in the words of the Prayer Book, 'cannot quiet his own conscience herein, but requireth further comfort or counsel', he might have gone instead to some chaplain, 'or to some other discreet and learned Minister of God's Word, and open his grief; that . . . he may receive the benefit of absolution, together with ghostly counsel and advice'. And but a hundred yards from the house of Kezia's aunt, at St George's church, he would have found a willing curate for 'the quieting of his conscience, and avoiding of all scruple and doubtfulness'.

That indeed would have been the way of his own church. But he feared that its ghostly counsel and advice would be more by formula than true understanding of his predicament. Not that he expected other than dismay in Sister Maria when he told her of his cause for unquietness. Yet in her counsel he felt certain there would be some understanding of his conscience, and that without such understanding the counsel might not be . . . complete. He expected no undue allowance, but he was sure he would be better able somehow to do what was commanded by Scripture if the counsel came from so particular a sister of Carmel.

And so he told her everything. He told her of his marriage with Henrietta, and he spared not her blushes in describing their shortlived bliss (though she did not in the least blush on learning of it), and of Georgiana. He told her of his own part in his wife's death, his guilt, the subsequent resignation of his commission, his time in Rome, his reinstatement, his time in India, his feelings there for Vaneeta, how he and Kat had become lovers, his ill-starred sojourn in Portugal and his resolution to put right his life, not least his neglect of Georgiana and his trespassing on the infinite good nature of his sister (and, indeed, his unreasonable treatment of her of late), of his courtship and marriage with Kezia (which Sister Maria could not fail to recognize was couched in greatly less animated form than that for his first marriage), his indecision over command of another regiment, his return to the Cape alone . . .

So long was his account that the bell began tolling for the afternoon office. Hervey looked at his watch – a quarter to three – and then at Sister Maria, anxiously: he had yet to say what was the urgent cause of his disquiet.

She nodded encouragingly. 'God calls me to hear you, Colonel 'Ervey. Please continue.'

He steeled himself. 'Reverend Mother, Lady Katherine Greville is with child, by me. And her husband believes that the child is his.'

Having braced himself, he sank back into his chair – or so he felt, for the chair was entirely upright and to an observer he barely moved a muscle.

But the look of horror in his confessor's face, in expectation of which he had so resolutely screwed his courage to the sticking post, was entirely absent. There remained the same aspect of benevolence, infinitely patient, wholly serene. For a moment he wondered if he had explained himself clearly enough.

After some considerable measure of silence, Sister Maria spoke. 'Colonel 'Ervey, there is a great deal in what you have told me which calls for remark, not solely that which you suppose is the present cause of your troubled mind. But let us address that which you perceive is the greatest sin. I mean, of course, the adultery with Lady Katherine Greville.'

Hervey shifted slightly, but continued to look his confidante in the eye, as if not to do so were somehow a sign of evasion.

Sister Maria remained perfectly still, her hands clasped. 'Your sin is a matter for reconciliation with God. You are Protestant, and you are therefore minded to speak directly to Him. If you were Catholic you would know that in such circumstances the offices of a priest would be the most efficacious.'

His father had never called himself Protestant, but this was not a thing to be debated now. Hervey nodded to acknowledge the point.

'The teaching of the Church is plain in this regard, following as it does from the unequivocal commandment against adultery, and so you cannot have need of words from me. The question now is what is the right course in the matter of truth.'

He nodded again. It was precisely the question, and that to which the examination of his life for the better part of an hour had been prelude.

'Since you are not Catholic, Colonel 'Ervey, I am – ironically, as you say – at liberty to give what counsel I will.'

Not for the first time in that hour, Hervey marvelled at Sister Maria's command of English. She had once told him that she had learned it from an English governess, but such precision (and indeed elegance) of phrase must have been perfected by much reading – the advantage, perhaps, of an eremitical life?

'I am grateful, Sister.'

'Colonel 'Ervey, in addressing the right course in the matter of truth we leave the realm of moral teaching and enter that of prudence. And since I know you to be a
prud'homme,
it will not be a realm unknown to you.'

He nodded again, doubly grateful for the accolade.

'Prudence, Colonel 'Ervey, is one of the cardinal virtues. It does not itself perform any actions, concerned as it is solely with knowledge, yet all other virtues must be regulated by it. As a prud'homme, you will understand perfectly, for example, that to distinguish when an act is courageous, instead of merely reckless, or cowardly, is an act of prudence.'