Hervey would not have conceived it otherwise had there not been the imperative of Somervile's mission. He began to resent this – to his mind – inversion of the usual order of things. It was simple enough, was it not? He was a soldier, a soldier was under discipline, and he had received orders. Or, if not exactly orders, then a request; and a request from a senior officer was always to be considered an order (even though Somervile was not a senior officer). 'It is a deprivation that we shall all have to bear, Lady Marjoribanks, and it will be the easier in knowing that it is on His Majesty's business that I am bent.'
'Mm.' Lady Marjoribanks raised her head again, sounding unconvinced.
Hervey was wondering, too, if Kezia herself might not make some intervention on his behalf. He had after all withdrawn his objection to her remaining in England, and that was surely no little thing. He had likewise put in abeyance (in his mind at least) command of the Eighty-first: if a wife had objection to so great a thing as command of a particular regiment (or, more expressly, a particular station), then a man must take very careful account of it. And she knew, did she not, that he did so? He was at something of a loss, therefore, to know why she did not speak up for him now.
He looked at her.
'Shall you bring Georgiana here tomorrow?' was all that Kezia asked.
He was glad nevertheless of the change of subject. 'I shall have to go to Hounslow tomorrow. The day after, perhaps.'
'Where does she stay?' asked Lady Marjoribanks.
'At Grillon's hotel, in Albemarle-street.'
'Ah, Grillon's,' she replied, somewhat enigmatically, so that Hervey was tempted to ask if there was something he ought to know of it.
But instead he would be blithe. 'My family stayed there for the wedding. It appears a very agreeable place. It is convenient, also, for my sister.'
'Mm.'
The dinner continued in much the same fashion for a full hour. Lady Marjoribanks asked a good many questions but gave little by reply to any which Hervey was able to put to her in return. Kezia said next to nothing other than in direct response to an enquiry from her aunt. The proceedings were, indeed, so laboured that Hervey believed he had sufficient of the language to translate them simultaneously into Hindoostani or even Portuguese. Just after nine they rose, and Lady Marjoribanks announced that she would retire.
Hervey and Kezia took their coffee on the garden terrace. The evening was warm, the light only now beginning to fail.
'You said little at dinner, my love. Is all well?'
Kezia smiled thinly. 'All is perfectly well, yes, thank you. I am sorry if I was dull.'
Hervey frowned. 'I did not mean to imply . . . I merely remarked that you seemed a little . . . Perhaps you are tired. This heat . . .'
Kezia put down her coffee cup. 'I am a little tired, yes. And this weather brings on my headaches so. I think, if you will permit me, I shall retire, too.'
Hervey put down his own cup. A confusion of dismay and anger welled up within. He had to fight hard to suppress it, for the wine was freeing the reins. A contrary image of Kat then danced into his mind. He did not summon it, nor even wish it; he pushed hard against it, in fact, for together with the wine it only served to aggravate his frustration.
Kezia turned. For all the distance in her manner, she was as striking in the perfection of her form and features as that day at Sezincote when he had first understood how much he desired her. She threw him a parting smile; but it spoke of sadness.
Hervey's confusion was now the greater, to the point of despair, almost; but some instinct to protect overtook him, so that his frustration gave way instead to gentleness. 'I am happy to retire early,' he said, quietly. 'For I must be at Hounslow by ten.'
Kezia smiled thinly again. 'You must do as you will, my dear. But please try not to wake me when you come up.'
She kissed his cheek before he could find her lips, and left him to the tray of brandy and water.
Hounslow did not, in the event, detain him long, for Lord Holderness was returned to muster, and there had been no regimental defaulters in the brief hiatus of command. Hervey made his farewells before midday, certain that taking lunch in the officers' house would protract his stay overlong, there being old friends at duty. But he did not intend returning directly to London. He had resolved to call on Sister Maria, and although he did not know anything about conventual routine, he supposed that the early afternoon, as with any household, was the appropriate time to visit without appointment.
He therefore made his way to Hammersmith, enquiring of several passers-by where was the convent, until a drayman was able to give him authoritative directions. To his surprise, he found that he had passed it each time he had come and gone from Hounslow, but so high was the wall that there was no clue to what lay beyond.
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.