‘I think, very probably, yes.’ But he had not yet read Lord George’s letter; and there was Peto’s to reply to … and Kat’s. ‘There again … I’ve work to do, and it was a hard drive. Come back at five with tea, would you? I’ll decide then.’
It was ten minutes before Johnson was satisfied that the fire had taken a good hold and the lamps were properly trimmed. He opened a bottle of claret, decanted it, poured a glass and set it down on the wine table beside the fire. He cleared a space on the writing table, muttered something about hot water, made to leave, and then remembered something. ‘Oh, ah’m sorry, sir. This express came for thee about an ’our ago.’
Hervey stifled a curse. But he was easier when he saw the hand: Somervile’s – most welcome. He nodded. ‘You might fetch me cake, or some such?’
When Johnson was gone, Hervey sat in the leather armchair by the fire, took a long draught of the claret, and broke the express’s seal.
That settled the business of the mess. He would go to Bedford Square; indeed he would spend the night there, or at the United Service, and call on Lord George or the Horse Guards in the morning – whichever seemed most expedient. His decision regarding the quarantine would be all the better for measured thought in the regimental chariot. And as to Gloucestershire and the presence of Kezia Lankester, he might have detected the hand of the Almighty Himself.
It remained only for him to open the letter from his colonel.
He noted the form of address again, as if it might reveal the letter’s contents:
It revealed nothing, however. It was the correct form; he would have expected no other. There was nothing for it but to break the seal and read.
He opened it hoping to see not too many words, for many words would assuredly be of explanation, and the only explanation needed would be of a negative. He was relieved: there were but a dozen lines.