Hervey 08 - Company Of Spears (21 page)

‘Whom do you think shall be prime minister?’

He woke sharply. He had heard the question plainly but evidently not what had preceded it. Desperately, he used one of the devices Kat had taught him. ‘Whom do
you
think shall be prime minister?’

She smiled (did she recognize the trick?). ‘I asked first, Major Hervey!’

Great heavens, he thought, and with admiration: this woman was assured! And her protest was not without a certain teasing – which these days he recognized as encouragement rather than the opposite. ‘Sir Eyre Somervile believes it might be the Duke of Wellington.’

She frowned purposefully. ‘Surely not, Major Hervey. Would the duke fit that office?’

‘You mean, ma’am, may a soldier do ought but bark orders?’

She smiled again. ‘Would you imagine the duke to be given to discussion?’

‘I know him but a little, but I know him to take counsel, and even his time in the Peninsula required a good deal of diplomacy.’ He tapped the table. ‘Now, ma’am, perhaps
you
will tell
me
your opinion.’

She gave it freely and in such a manner as to command his considerable attention. He could not help but think that although Kat would have been able to say as much, it would have been hearsay and the whispered opinion of high-placed confidants. With Kezia Lankester it was very evidently her own thinking. And he liked what he saw of her serious mind.

At length came Monsieur Anton’s
desserts
– baskets of glacé fruit and plates of
croquembouche,
charlotte
russe,
Nesselrode pudding, moulded jellies, coffee custard, praline and orange ices, chocolate
gâteaux.
Kezia Lankester was not greatly tempted, nor seemingly very impressed. Hervey had noticed how sparingly she ate throughout (neither had she drunk more than half a glass of hock), and wondered if it were yet a feature somehow of her mourning. But when their conversation resumed, he found himself more and more attracted by both her appearance and spirit, and encouraged by her complete ease of manner. He was disappointed when the conversation opened up to the table: it was, besides anything else, much the duller, despite the wit of a dozen more. And then once the table as a whole was engaged she made no attempt at further vocal contact with him, nor with her eyes – not even when they rose to let the ladies retire. He was suddenly anxious once more. Was it true indifference on her part? He was sure it could not have been shyness. Or perhaps she had thought that she – or he – had spoken
too
freely? As he sat down again he was wholly uncertain of whether she had in fact dismissed him.

When the gentlemen were all done with cigars and the price of corn – close on half an hour – they rejoined the ladies. Chairs had been arranged meanwhile so that the drawing room was now an auditorium, with a forte-piano and a harp at one end. Lady Cockerell at once began ushering her guests to their seats. After announcing that her house guests would provide a little diversion, she herself – very gamely, thought Hervey – began the entertainment, playing two rondos (which he had heard before but could not put a name to) and then a composition of her own incorporating several popular songs that he knew quite well. She played skilfully, earning vigorous applause, and hearty appreciation from the squires. Next came her husband in a worthy, if reedy, rendering of two Neapolitan songs sung in Italian to Lady Cockerell’s accompaniment. There was again hearty applause, perhaps more in appreciation of hearing something so apparently out of character in their host as for any true appreciation of his voice; but there was no encore. Then it was the turn of the Reverend and the Honourable Mrs Castle (the advowson being Sir Charles’s, Mr Castle was deemed a permanent house guest). Mrs Castle played accompanying harp, and her husband sang something about virtue, and then about perseverance, and in a voice that Hervey recognized was capable though not to his mind attractive.

Next was Lady Lankester. An older man in a powdered wig and round spectacles came into the room, bowed and sat at the forte-piano.

‘Must have stayed from last night,’ said Somervile to Hervey, more or less
sotto voce.
‘There was a regular band.’

Lady Lankester bowed to her hostess and announced: ‘“
Se mai senti spirarti sul volto”,
from
La Clemenza di Tito,
by Christoph Gluck.’

Hervey was at once all attention. He had heard of Gluck. He had no idea that Kezia Lankester possessed a voice that encompassed opera.

The forte-pianist began the introduction, a gentle melody in simple time, and Kezia Lankester entered confidently and with one of the clearest, sweetest voices Hervey thought he had ever heard. It was a slow aria, but with considerable range, and she sang it expressively. Hervey was charmed. He led the applause.

‘She’s been rehearsing all day,’ said Somervile, as if he thought it mildly bad form.

Hervey frowned. ‘I thought it enchanting.’

‘My dear Lady Lankester, we must press you to an encore,’ said their host.

Lady Lankester smiled indulgently. ‘Very well, Sir Charles.’ She turned to the forte-pianist.

He had already placed a new sheet of music on the rest.

She turned back to her audience. ‘“
Di questa cetra in seno
”, from
Il Parnaso confuso,
again by Christoph Gluck.’

It was, once more, a slow melody, but in triple time and with a range perhaps even greater than the first. As before she sang with real expression, and Hervey wished very much that he had been able to understand the Italian.

The applause was even stronger. ‘She can sing, I grant you that,’ said Somervile.

Hervey was now inclined to ascribe her earlier sudden indifference to nerves, in anticipation of these choice pieces – except that she sang so effortlessly he could see no reason for them. Perhaps it was mere … preoccupation?

The forte-pianist took his bow, Kezia Lankester took another, and they left the ‘stage’ to the final diversion.

‘Well,
a cavallo,
’ said Somervile, in a resigned but by no means apprehensive way, taking his wife’s hand and leading her forward.

Emma took her place at the forte-piano, while from behind a curtain her husband took a hunting whip and horn, sounding the latter to the immediate acclamation of the two squires.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ began Somervile, stentor-like. ‘From the sublime heights of Italian opera I take you to the English countryside, and Mr Henry Fielding’s “A Hunting We Will Go”, with music by … I forget whom.’

There were appreciative
Yoicks!
from the squirearchy.

Emma began the jaunting little 6/8 introduction, Somervile sounded the off, slapped his thigh with the whip and took up the boisterous verse:

The dusky night rides do-own the sky,
And ushers in the morn:
The hounds all join in glorious cry,
The hounds all join in glorious cry,
The hu-untsman wi-inds his ho-o-o-orn,
The huntsman winds his horn.

Emma joined in the refrain:

And a-hunting we will go,
A-hunting we will go,
A-hu-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-unt,
A-hu-unting we will go!

Somervile sounded the off again, and Emma took up the second verse:

The wife around her hu-usband throws
Her arms, to make him stay;
My dear, it rains, it hai-ils, it blows;
My dear, it rains, it hai-ils, it blows;
You ca-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-not,
You cannot hunt today.

Somervile resumed the refrain:

Yet a-hunting we will go.
A-hunting we will go,
A-hu-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-unt,
A-hu-unting we will go!

And then the next verses:

The uncaverned fox like li-ightning flies,
His cunning’s all awake,
To gain the race he e-eager tries,
To gain the race he e-eager tries,
His fo-orfeit li-ife the sta-a-a-ake,
His fo-orfeit life the stake.

Yet a-hunting we will go.
A-hunting we will go,
A-hu-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-unt,
A-hu-unting we will go!

At last his strength to faintness worn,
Poor Reynard ceases flight;

He stopped dramatically and sounded the kill – and then Emma joined for the finale:

Then hungry, homeward we-e return,
Then hungry, homeward we-e return,
To fe-east awa-ay the ni-i-i-ight,
To feast away the night!

And a-hunting we do go.
A-hunting we do go,
A-hu-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-unt,
A-hu-unting we do go!

The applause was long and vigorous. Hervey beamed with sheer pleasure at so uninhibited a performance. Here was a couple as perfectly matched as may be, full of refinement in the purlieus of the Court, dazzling in learning and conversation at Fort William, and yet as lusty as Fielding’s best in the shires. At that moment he would have thrown in everything to go with them to the Cape.

Only Kezia Lankester seemed not to share the ebullience of the chase, though she applauded politely, smiling. No doubt it was a proper sensibility, thought Hervey, for the others were in familiar company, and of spouses, whereas she was not.

He went up to her as tea was brought in. ‘Lady Lankester, your singing was delightful.’

She smiled a little, as if tired (Hervey realized that singing of such refinement as hers was not without prodigious effort, whatever the appearance to the contrary). ‘Thank you, Major Hervey.’ And then, seemingly as an afterthought, she asked, ‘You are fond of music?’

Hervey cleared his throat. It was true to say that he liked the noise that music made, especially if it were played by a military band (the Sixth had always kept a good band), and he had liked what he had just heard of hers, but … ‘Indeed yes, madam.’

‘“The man that hath no music in himself, nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.”’

It was familiar, but … ‘Just so.’

She smiled a little broader, as if taking pity on him. ‘Do you know the rest, Major Hervey?’

Hervey returned the smile, but he was suddenly determined that Kezia Lankester, at ten years his junior, should not get away entirely with her tease. ‘It is some time, I confess, since I opened a book of Shakespeare, madam, but I hazard a recall of something about the man’s dull nature?’

‘You recall very commendably, Major Hervey. “The motions of his spirit are dull as night, and his affections dark as Erebus: let no such man be trusted.”’

Hervey inclined his head. His guess had indeed been apt. ‘Then I must take up the violin, ma’am, like the Duke of Wellington.’

She frowned. ‘Then I would that you practised at a good distance from me, Major Hervey!’

It was strange, he thought: there were moments when Kezia Lankester seemed to be sporting with him, and with a distinct coyness – and then there would come a remark whose edge was decidedly cutting. But these were surroundings unfamiliar to her, and she had been widowed but a year …

Their hostess joined them, full of praise for Kezia’s singing, and Hervey was able to content himself with the odd nod and word of agreement for a quarter of an hour. Then, as the first of the squires’ ladies began gathering herself to depart, Kezia took a rather formal leave of her hostess, and withdrew.

The following day, Saturday, there was no hunting; or rather, the Fitzhardinge hounds were meeting with Lord Croome’s, too far distant to drive. Instead the party spent the morning at archery. Hervey had not held a bow since his youth, and it took him a good deal of practice before attaining any consistent accuracy. Both Emma and her husband were capable – they had practised regularly in India – but the true proficient was Kezia Lankester, which was evident the instant she picked an arrow. Without the slightest ostentation she first examined the fletch, then held it to her right eye to look down the shaft. She took up one of the bows, flexed it and drew back the string twice, fitted the arrow, raised it to the aim at fifty yards (ignoring the nearer target positioned for the novices) and loosed it. The arrow flew straight, striking high on the straw roundel. She took another, corrected her point of aim and then loosed again. It struck in the centre of the bull’s-eye, and with greater force than the first.

Hervey was at once impressed. Kezia Lankester had not merely corrected with a view to making a second and final correction, she had made the one adjustment and then loosed with certainty. Arrow after arrow of hers now struck firm, all within the six-inch white circle. Hervey was now captivated, for not only was the proficiency evidence of much application (as well as of a ‘martial’ side which stood in pleasing balance with the cultivated), the archer’s posture and the drawing of the bow were admirably suited to displaying the female figure to advantage, its tautness of abdomen and prominence of breast. In Kezia Lankester’s profile there was nothing of the mystery of the Bengal beauties (of Vaneeta, indeed), nor of the allure of Isabella Delgado, nor even of the statuary of Kat dressed for the Court, elegant but sensuous; yet he found the constrained grace powerfully attractive – reinforcing,
strongly
reinforcing, his resolve to make her an offer of marriage sooner rather than later.

Indeed, he was now resolved to do so before leaving Sezincote. He was certain he must, for he could have little opportunity to press his suit later; she would return to Hertfordshire and he to Hounslow, and thence…? He could only hope that he had at least established his worth in her estimation, engaged her respect and interest. He would not, of course, expect an answer at once (let alone acceptance), but he would, in the parlance of the colony to which his great friends were bound, at least have staked a claim. She would have ample time to consider it, see its merits, come to believe that it was seemly (he was not without position and prospects, after all, even if he was perennially short of means). First, however, he would have to find the favourable moment to acquaint her with his proposal.