Company Of Spears

Old Francis would have been the first to emerge, had he not occupied a corner of Horningsham churchyard these three years gone. Hervey considered that Francis had been as much a part of the household as his own parents. Francis had certainly known his father longer than had he, having been his scout at Oxford, accompanying him to his first parish as servant, and remaining with him thereafter. Now it was a new man, from the village. He had lost an arm tending the fire engine at Longleat, and Lord Bath had given him a good pension, which the Venerable Thomas Hervey now supplemented with the pay of an able-bodied indoor servant.

The heavy iron-studded door opened without its habitual creak, Hervey noted – testament, he imagined, to the single-arm industry of the new Francis. ‘Good morning, Thomas Whitehead!’ he called.

Thomas Whitehead, whom Hervey had known since they had both climbed the chestnut trees in Longleat-park, put down his bucket of ashes and knuckled his forehead in the naval manner. He had never been to sea, but it was the Longleat way, for the marquess’s younger son, Sir Henry Thynne – younger and favoured son ever since the elder and heir had eloped with Harriet Robbins, the turnpike keeper’s daughter – held post rank in the Royal Navy.

‘Good mornin’, Major ‘Ervey,’ he answered, registering respect but no surprise. ‘Reverend said as you’d be ‘ere afore long.’

Hervey smiled back. It seemed strange not to be ‘Master Matthew’ any longer, as Francis had always had it. ‘Is my father about?’

‘’E’s at Upton Scud’more still, sir. Went yesterday to make arrangements, ’e said.’

Hervey started.

‘Thou didn’t know, Major ’Ervey?’

‘I knew that he was gravely ill. Do you say… ‘

‘I’m afeared so, sir,’ replied Thomas Whitehead, suddenly awkward with the responsibility of informing of the death of one of the most prosperous farmers in West Wiltshire, churchwarden, guardian of the workhouse, justice of the peace. ‘‘E died yes’day mornin’, an’ the Rev’rend went straight away.’

The Venerable Thomas Hervey held the living of Upton Scudamore in commendam, as he had periodically for a quarter of a century, for it was not a rich living, and the three incumbents during that time had soon sought more lucrative preferment. Nevertheless, with his archdeacon’s tithes, these days Mr Hervey was able to afford a curate, and so he no longer had to drive the dozen miles there and back each Sunday. But Archdeacon Hervey would not entrust the cure of Daniel Coates’s soul to any but himself. That, Hervey knew full well. He felt a sudden emptiness. He was angry with himself for arriving too late to make proper farewells, but that was nothing compared with the change in the world now that Coates was no longer in it. Dan Coates had been forever there, a sure and certain guide, a man who had exercised wisdom and judgement, in uniform and out, a man whom Hervey had thought of variously as a father, brother and faithful NCO. Trumpeter-Corporal Coates, late of His Majesty’s 16th Light Dragoons, honourably discharged unfit for duty on account of the Flanders fever, had limped penniless into the Reverend Thomas Hervey’s church two-score years ago, and from the depths of indigence had risen to yeoman respectability, to be on gentlemanly terms with the present Lord Bath where once he had watched the first marquess’s sheep. No passing bell could sound loud or long enough for a man like Daniel Coates.

‘Miss Georgiana’s about, sir.’

Whether Whitehead disclosed this as an ameliorative or simply because he imagined it was what the father of a daughter would wish to hear, Hervey did not know, but he was grateful for it: there must be no unhappy introspection in the presence of his child, infrequent that the presence was. And if it were only Georgiana about then he could greet her without restraint (the company of her grandparents – not to mention her aunt and guardian, his sister – would somehow oblige him to maintain a greater reserve).

‘Good! Then I shall go in at once and see her.’

He found Georgiana at the breakfast table, alone, spooning copious honey into a bowl of porridge. The hand stopped midway between pot and bowl as she saw him, her eyes and mouth wide.

‘Beeswax is altogether better for a table than honey, I do believe,’ he said, with teasing crustiness.

She looked at the spreading pool on the white cloth, frowned, placed the spoon down on her plate, and rose decorously to greet him.

He fell to one knee as she extended her arms.

It was never possible for him to see Georgiana without at once thinking of her mother. It was, indeed, like some perpetual penance for his cravenness in the events that had led to Henrietta’s death. It was not merely the close similarity of features – the large, dark eyes, the high, prominent cheekbones, and increasingly the fullness of her raven hair – rather was it the mannerisms, the gestures. Georgiana’s self-possession was uncannily familiar, and yet she had never known her mother.