Hervey 09 - Man Of War (30 page)

Hervey was not greatly concerned – if concerned at all – with the welfare of Lord Palmerston’s fingers. He only wished he would pull them from the Waltham Abbey pie. ‘Indeed, General.’

Sir Francis Evans removed his monocle, polished it, and re-fixed it to his eye with a distinct sense of purpose. ‘Now, Hervey, what’s all this about manoeuvres at Windsor?’

Hervey supposed there must be some resentment at the headquarters of the foot guards. But that could no more be his concern than Lord Palmerston’s fingers. ‘The regiment acquitted itself well, I understand, Sir Francis. The GOC sent them home early.’

‘Mm.’

‘You heard other, Sir Francis?’

‘Of course I heard other, Hervey. What do you take me for? What was the matter with Hol’ness?’

‘Matter, General? His plan, dare I say it, routed the Grenadiers.’

Sir Francis screwed up his eyes. ‘Hervey, do not think me feeble!’

‘I trust I never have for a moment, General.’

‘Colonel Denroche says Hol’ness was nowhere to be seen.’

‘An admirable accomplishment in scouting cavalry, surely, General?’ Hervey smiled the merest touch.

‘Damn me, sir, you are the most impudent officer!’

Fairbrother shifted ever so slightly in his chair.

Hervey’s countenance did not change. ‘I trust, Sir Francis, that you are in no doubt whatever of the esteem in which you are held.’

‘Bah! Have you had your coffee?’

‘We have, General.’

‘Mm. Well, since you are evidently in no mood for conversation, I shall repair to the library for mine!’ Sir Francis rose. ‘I see that old fool Greville’s to preside at your inquiry.
The Porcupine
’ll have a field day!’

The Porcupine
had been bust these twenty years, but Hervey understood full well the import of the aside. Or rather, he
thought
he did: Sir Francis could surely not have heard of . . .

The general was gone before there was any opportunity for enlightenment.

A porter came up. ‘Sir, here are your letters.’

Hervey noted the postage to be charged to his account, thanked him and took the ten days’ accumulation of mail. ‘Permit me, Fairbrother. I would just see if there is anything urgent to be attended to.’

His friend nodded, and re-raised his
Standard
.

There were a dozen or so letters: from the regimental agents, his bank, his tailor and sundry others, from Kat, Elizabeth, Lord George Irvine, from Hounslow, from Lord John Howard, and one in a hand he did not recognize. He opened first that which he judged the most imperative.

The Horse Guards
6th May

My dear Hervey,

The U/Secrty for War and the Colonies wishes to speak with you in connection with matters raised bySir E.S. in his despatch. Would you be so good as to call on him when you will?

I am also now reliably informed by the Adjt-Gnl’s staff that the Crt of Inquiry will be convened in the middle of June, previous to which sworn statements shall be taken down. The Presidt of the Ct shall be Genl Greville, his name given by convening order, which shall appear in due course in the Gazette.

Ever your good friend &c,
John Howard

Hervey tried hard to look entirely collected. He had supposed Sir Francis Evans’s information to have been simply that of the coffee room, mere speculation. To receive such confirmation from Lord John Howard . . .

He sighed deeply to himself; it could no more be helped (surely Kat could not now persuade her husband to withdraw, not now a convening order named him?). He opened a second letter, from the colonel of the Sixth, Lieutenant-General Lord George Irvine. It acknowledged his own, thanking him for his information that he was returned to London temporarily, and expressed the strongest wish to see him when Lord George returned from his tour of inspection of the northern command in June.

Hervey laid it aside, heartened, as letters from Lord George almost invariably made him, and opened a third, with the stamp of the Hounslow orderly room.

My dear Hervey,

I have been acquainted with the facts following from my indisposition at Windsor, of your own exemplary conduct in the matter, and indeed that of Captain Fairbrother. I would that you call on me, when your duties both military and domestic permit, so that I may properly commend your address, and also that of Captain Fairbrother.

Believe me &c
Holderness

A handsome communication, thought Hervey, and no easy thing for a proud man to write. What, however, did it change? What
ought
it to change? He had done his duty, just as he would expect of any man (even unto death . . .). Did he now look to reward for doing his duty? What was become of him . . .? But what manner of system was it that could not promote ability unless it were allied to interest? Why did these things have to be redressed too late, at the price of brave men’s breasts? It had been so in the Peninsula; and ever since peace had come to Europe it had been even more so. He would, of course, call on the lieutenant-colonel, as bidden, but he would not do so with any haste, for it were better that more time elapsed, that sentiments be tempered.

He next read Kat’s, and with some trepidation. He hoped against hope for a line that would overturn Howard’s final intelligence, a sudden announcement of Sir Peregrine’s ‘indisposition’, but the letter was merely an invitation for him and Fairbrother – whom she wished very much to meet – to dine with her as soon as they were able.

He then pondered a moment on which of the remaining letters to open next. Fancying he knew what Elizabeth’s would say at last (and he would wish the time to savour it), he chose that in the unfamiliar hand.

‘Hear this, Fairbrother – the deucedest thing,’ he said, taking in its contents at a glance, a single sentence. ‘
My dear Sir, if you would call at the rooms of Sir Thomas Lawrence P.R.A. of Russell-square, you might learn something to your advantage.
’ He lowered the letter. ‘The stuff of theatre, eh?’

Fairbrother’s brow furrowed. ‘
The
Sir Thomas Lawrence?’

‘Just so. I wonder if Somervile did indeed sit for him before we left for the Cape. He certainly had ambitions in that direction. He said nothing of it, though.’

‘Mystery indeed,’ said Fairbrother, raising his
Standard
again.

Hervey was wrong in his imagining what were the contents of Elizabeth’s letter, however. Indeed, he had wholly misjudged it. Far from acknowledging her fault and reaffirming her acceptance of Peto’s proposal, she wrote that she was travelling to London soon in the company of Major Heinrici to attend a levee at St James’s Palace, which the King was giving for the former officers of The King’s German Legion. ‘My God, there’s no end to it,’ he groaned. ‘She’s lost all sense of decency!’

Fairbrother lowered his paper, looking pained. ‘You are not speaking of your sister?’

‘I am. She’s coming to London with . . . with this German.’

‘Well, I’m sure she will do so decorously.’

Hervey seemed not to hear. He shook his head. ‘I cannot believe it. I simply cannot believe it.’

They engaged a hackney cab to Russell Square. It was Fairbrother’s idea – to take his friend out of the huff and puff of the United Service’s smoking room so that he might stop his most unfraternal invective against Elizabeth. The letter from Sir Thomas Lawrence’s agent had admirably served his purpose.

‘It really would have been better to send word that we would call tomorrow,’ said Hervey as they turned into Bedford Square, where the Somerviles had taken a house when Sir Eyre Somervile had been at the Company’s headquarters in Leadenhall Street: was it that Sir Thomas Lawrence’s rooms were so near that he had been able to prevail on the illustrious painter?

‘I rather imagined you’d be detained at the Colonial Office – don’t you think?’

Hervey nodded. He ought perhaps to have gone that day, but the summons had carried no particular urgency. And in any case, he did not suppose that the under secretary would be at office of a May afternoon.

When they arrived at Russell Square they were admitted promptly and received by a Mr Archibald Keightley, who had sent the note. ‘I am sorry that Sir Thomas himself is not at home today, but I am his confidential agent.’

Hervey had abandoned his earlier distemper, and was now thoroughly intrigued. ‘How did you learn of my address?’

The agent showed them into a sitting room, and asked the footman to bring tea. ‘It has, I admit, been a considerable labour.’ He went on to explain how he had consulted the Army List, had written to the Horse Guards, then the Regiment at Hounslow, and then to the Cape Colony, but had lately read in
The Times
that there was to be an inquiry into the events at Waltham Abbey and that Colonel Hervey was returned to London to give evidence to the court. ‘It was then but a morning’s work to locate you at the United Service Club.’

Tea was brought.

Hervey inferred that the matter could not be in connection with Somervile’s aspiring commission, but could see little point in proceeding as if it were a game. ‘Well, sir, perhaps you will be good enough to inform me of the reason for such a prodigious effort to find me.’

‘Ah yes, indeed; forgive me.’ He glanced at Fairbrother. ‘It is . . . a very
delicate
matter.’

Hervey smiled indulgently. ‘I assure you Captain Fairbrother is capable of the utmost delicacy.’

‘What I meant to say was that it is of a very . . .
personal
nature.’

Hervey had a sudden, and ghastly, premonition of an outrageous jape of Kat’s. But having expressed his confidence in Fairbrother he could hardly exclude him now. ‘Proceed, sir,’ he said, cautiously.

Mr Archibald Keightley cleared his throat. ‘Very well. For some years past I have been making a catalogue of Sir Thomas’s work. You will understand that a painter of Sir Thomas’s eminence is much in demand, and has been so for two decades and more. By the very nature of portraiture individual commissions proceed at different rates, depending as much on the sitter’s availability as the artist’s. Some canvases remain only very partially finished for years.’

‘I did not know it, but I perfectly understand,’ replied Hervey, laying down his cup. ‘There is, I take it, such a canvas that is of interest to me?’

Keightley cleared his throat again. ‘I believe there may be, yes.’

The footman and another returned carrying a full-length canvas covered with a dust sheet.

‘Ah, here we have it. Colonel Hervey, rather than prolong this with explanations, I would that you first saw this uncompleted work.’ He nodded to the footman, who let drop the sheet.

Hervey gasped. He stood up, his mouth open, the colour gone from his face. ‘My God!’

Fairbrother took his arm in support, knowing instinctively who was the artist’s subject.

Keightley sighed. ‘I am sorry that it should come as so great a shock, Colonel; but I am gratified that my enquiries have not been in vain. It is, then, a true likeness?’

Hervey shook his head slowly. ‘It is the most astonishing likeness I ever saw.’

Fairbrother saw that his eyes were filled with tears.

Hervey sat down again, still transfixed by the canvas. ‘In all these years I never had her true likeness – not a miniature, not even a pencil drawing.’ (The posthumous miniature he had had done in Bath had been a poor substitute.)

In a while, when he had composed himself, he asked what was known of the commission.

Keightley opened his notebook, but scarcely needed to consult it. ‘Sir Thomas keeps very particular records of his work. The portrait was commissioned in 1816 – while Sir Thomas was waiting to travel to Vienna to paint the Congress – and there were four sittings, the fourth in February of 1817, which is why the face and hands are complete. For the rest of the portrait, as you see, there is a very serviceable drawing: Lady Henrietta was, apparently, most particular that it should be a blue riding habit of hers, which she was either unwilling or unable to leave with Sir Thomas. Which, I imagine, is the reason it was unfinished before . . . before . . .’He cleared his throat again.

‘Just so,’ said Hervey softly, nodding.

1816
: it was while he was in India the first time, the year before their marriage. Henrietta intended it – evidently – as a present for him, which his return to England the following year, and the wedding, and then . . . had stood in the way of completing.

He swallowed hard. ‘But I am astonished it has remained for so long thus.’

Keightley inclined his head, with a sigh that spoke of his own regret. ‘Sir Thomas travelled to Vienna in 1818 and stayed there, and in Rome, two years. You may imagine the work awaiting his return.’

Indeed he could, and if the sitter were not pressing him . . . He shook his head once more. ‘Well, it is the most extraordinary thing I ever knew. Tell me, Mr Keightley, what is to be done now?’

Sir Thomas’s agent consulted his notebook. ‘Forgive me, Colonel, but I assume you mean the pecuniary arrangements?’

Hervey was thinking more of the completion of the portrait. ‘Go on.’

‘The fee was four hundred pounds, and Lady Henrietta paid two hundred on account.’

‘Naturally I will pay the balance. Do the terms remain the same; or is there increase? It
can
be completed, can it not?’

‘There is no increase, Colonel. In the circumstances Sir Thomas would not hear of it.’ (Hervey would learn later that the President of the Royal Academy’s fee was now seven hundred guineas.) ‘And yes, it can be completed by a pupil. I do not suppose that the particular blue riding habit is to hand, but—’