Company Of Spears

The noise in the room was as great as for the bequest to the workhouse. Hervey, though both astonished and exhilarated by the scale of the generosity, was nevertheless equally discomfited by its proclamation.

His father laid a hand to his arm.

The attorney again had to hold up a hand to restore silence. ‘“And I appoint the aforesaid Mr Thomas Hervey the executor of this my last Will and Testament, and to him the appointment of said trustees. Signed Daniel Coates, November 27, 1826.”’

IV

IN THE MIDST OF LIFE

Later

The shivering began on their way back to Horningsham. Hervey pulled his coat tighter about him, turning up the collar.

‘You are unwell, Matthew? It is not so cold.’

Hervey knew it was not cold. ‘It will be nothing, Father. The beginnings of a spring chill, perhaps.’

‘I wonder you are scarce able to reason. I confess I am not. I had never imagined Daniel Coates planned such beneficence towards us. Indeed, I am wholly astonished that his fortune should permit of what we heard.’

Hervey hid his hands in his pockets to conceal the trembling. ‘The attorney said there was twenty thousand in bonds alone.’

‘He asked me, of course, if I would be his executor, but I had no idea it might require so much in judgement.’

‘He evidently trusted you more than any man, Father, and with reason, I might say.’ He braced himself to master a vigorous spasm. ‘But you had best appoint the trustees and let the board of guardians propose their plans for the workhouse. If I were you I’d make Elizabeth their chairman!’

Archdeacon Hervey looked at his son warily. ‘That is by no means an idle suggestion.’

‘I did not intend it to be so, Father, I assure you.’

‘But I may remind you, Matthew, that Elizabeth’s duties in regard to Georgiana allow her little time already for her charity. You would not see her neglect the one for the other.’

Hervey, huddled in the corner of the hack barouche as if it were midwinter, though he could feel his temperature rising by the minute, was certain of his reply. ‘I do not intend that Elizabeth has those duties for much longer, Father.’

Archdeacon Hervey did not seem to hear; or if he did he did not question the intriguing notion that someone other than Elizabeth should have charge of Georgiana. ‘Matthew, are you sure you are not sickening for something? Perhaps we should see Dr Birch?’

‘No, Father; it will not be necessary. A chill, that is all. I’ll take a powder when we’re home.’

By the time they reached Horningsham, however, the ‘chill’ had revealed itself unequivocally: fever, violent headache and muscular tiredness which, even transplanted from their tropical origins, were quite unmistakable. Hervey excused himself, explained that he would have to take his ease for several hours, and went to his room. There he scrambled in his small-pack, though he was sure there would be no quinine, for he had become careless of late since the remittent fever had not visited him these six months and more. There was not even any powder. He did not suffer from headaches as a rule, unless the wine had been bad, and he had become careless of this too. He took off his shoes, then his coat; he loosened his stock but took off no more, wrapped a travelling blanket around himself and got into his bed.

The old long-case clock in the hall was striking six as he came to. He heard each chime distinctly, and then counted them back to be sure of the hour. But was it morning or evening? There was no other noise. He felt better, much better. The headache was gone, he was no longer shivering, and the pain in his chest was no more. He felt the sheets either side of him and thought it odd, for he did not remember … They were damp, as they had been in India. He did not mind, beyond the inconvenience to the household, for he had evidently sweated out the fever and what caused it. And the recurrence was by no means as frequent as that first year, when the foul air of the Avan jungle had poisoned his blood, and the bouts themselves were not as long (though they were little less violent). Perhaps his restoration to full health would be faster than the doctors in Calcutta had told him? He had always believed it would be.

He sat up. His head swam a little. It was not surprising; it swam each time. But otherwise he felt in hale enough condition. He got up, swaying slightly, even having to steady himself on a bed post for an instant, then went to his window to see where the sun was. The day was overcast, however. He felt at his face: the stubble was thicker than an evening’s. He decided to put on his dressing gown and go to bring hot water from the kitchen.

At the foot of the stairs he saw his sister.

‘Matthew! You are better. I thought you would sleep for ever!’

He knew at once. It was as it had been in India in the early months: sleep, or delirium, a full cycle of day and night, without any sense of time’s passing. ‘I … I was thinking it only morning.’