A Close Run Thing (47 page)

Armstrong, however, did not scruple: ‘Mr Lawrence sir, just tell whichever bastards you pick – and that goes for Preacher Sandbache, too – that they’ll have me to answer to if one of them so much as looks at them lassies!’

Paris, 20 July

Hervey had remained in command a full three weeks. The regiment had arrived in Clichy at the beginning of the second week in July, and he had at once put them to the routine of a garrison, where comforts were bought only at the price of tedious proximity to headquarters. He was not, in most respects, greatly exercised, but one concern in particular was beyond his capability to deal with: the speculation in commissions to which the casualty lists had given rise. Indeed, he
was
convinced that the regiment might soon have officers on paper only, so brisk was the trade purported to be. His relief, therefore, when Lord George Irvine resumed command was palpable. And he welcomed even Adjutant Barrow’s return from his sickbed in Brussels (‘I were getting nicely used to it,’ Barrow lamented. ‘Silk sheets and fine ladies with china teacups. Treated as quite the gentleman, I were’). Lord George would know how best to spike the trade, and all Hervey now hoped was that his conduct during his brief tenure of command might be deemed worthy for the stop on promotion to be removed. Of the army’s prize-money his share as a lieutenant amounted to about thirty-five pounds, of which half, by custom, would go to regimental alms, leaving just enough to replace his losses of uniform and camp-stores. He still had not the means to purchase a captaincy.

But
would
his command be deemed worthy? Who might know that he had led the squadrons in the final hour, that he had brought them to Paris? Vivian and Vandeleur would have seen nothing out of the ordinary; Lord Uxbridge was already invalided home, and replaced once more by Sir Stapleton Cotton. The fortunes of war seemed perverse in the extreme.

The summons to Cotton’s headquarters (or, rather, to Lord Combermere’s, for so he had been ennobled after Spain) came therefore as a harbinger of hope. Yet what might Combermere have to say to him that Lord George Irvine might not? All that Lord George
knew
was that Combermere apparently wished to question him on some aspect or other of the battle.

‘Mr Hervey, how our paths do cross!’ began the general, holding out his hand. The room, in the Place Vendôme, had a more spartan look than Hervey had imagined on entering the building. ‘You have had quite a time these past few weeks, I understand.’

‘I think all would say that they have been momentous weeks, sir,’ he replied guardedly, for there was not enough in Combermere’s proposition from which to infer that he judged
his
time to have been singular.

‘Just so, Mr Hervey; just so. And I may tell you how keenly I feel the want of those weeks: it was by no choice of mine, however, that I remained in England. But that is no matter,’ he continued, handing him several sheets of paper. ‘Here, my boy, I wish you to read this and tell me if in general terms it is accurate. Sit down, if you please.’

Hervey took the papers and began to read. The first paragraph made his heart pound. By the end it was racing, and he struggled hard to maintain an even tone in his reply. ‘It is completely accurate, sir – in its facts, that is. The opinions expressed are, of course, Lord Uxbridge’s.’

‘They may be Lord Uxbridge’s, my dear boy, but I warrant they would be shared by any who knew the facts,’ said Combermere with a smile. ‘Wait here one moment,’ he added, leaving the room by a side door.

Some minutes later he reappeared, still smiling: ‘The duke wishes to have words with you. Come!’

The commander-in-chief’s room was, if anything, even more spartan than his cavalry commander’s; but he, too, smiled readily as Hervey entered, and stood to offer his hand. ‘Sit, if you please, Mr Hervey. Will you have some coffee, or chocolate – or perhaps you would prefer Madeira?’ he asked, gesturing towards an ADC standing by for the purpose.

Hervey saw no reason for restraint: ‘Chocolate, if you please, your Grace.’

‘Now,’ began the duke, after waiting for the ADC to leave. ‘Lord Uxbridge has sent me a long dispatch from his sickbed, and in it he recounts the signal part that you played in bringing the Prussians to the field at Waterloo. And Baron Müffling has acquainted me with the advice you gave to Prince Blücher. It was well judged, Mr Hervey – very well judged, for their opening fire, even at so extreme a range, gave notice of hostile intent and thwarted Bonaparte’s stratagem.’ The duke paused and took a sip of his coffee. ‘What you do
not
know, in all probability, is that the French will to fight appears to have been dealt a mortal blow thereby, for since they believed the firing to be coming from Grouchy’s men the word spread rapidly that Grouchy had turned traitor. Bonaparte was hoist well and truly with his own petard. You may have conceived, on your own account, that the battle was a near-run thing, Mr Hervey. Well, indeed it was – the closest-run thing you ever saw!’ The duke paused again to sip some more. Hervey was transported with pride, scarcely able to contain his anticipation of the
recognition
which this audience must be presaging. ‘
Now
,’ continued the duke, with a cautionary inflection which brought up short Hervey’s flight of fancy, ‘this all amounts to a situation of some delicacy. You may be aware that although Prince Blücher and I share the very best of relations, it is not quite that way with General von Gneisenau. Indeed, in the very highest matters of state things are not as they should be.’

Hervey nodded his understanding.

‘I very much regret, Mr Hervey, that I dare not make any recognition of what transpired with the Prussians at Waterloo, and therefore of your part in it. We must not say anything which in the least part suggests that the Prussians did not make all speed, and of their own volition. And that they fired on debouching from the forest entirely out of their ardour to engage the enemy. I must swear you to absolute confidence in this matter: it is known to but a handful of people.’

‘I understand, sir,’ he replied, almost choking on the words.

‘One more thing, Mr Hervey,’ continued the duke, his expression now as intense as when they had first exchanged those few words at the convent in Toulouse. ‘Your service to the de Chantonnays. I am well pleased to learn that my instructions to protect the civil population have been so punctiliously observed.’

Hervey returned the look quizzically.

‘The de Chantonnays are staunchly Bourbon. My chief of intelligence, Colonel Grant, has much cause to
praise
their assistance these several past years. Am I to understand, too, that you have in your safekeeping a ring for the count?’

‘That is so, sir.’

‘And do you bear it with you, this instant?’

‘I do, sir,’ he replied.

‘Then I think you may soon be able to discharge your obligation in that respect. Colonel Grant will be able to take you to the count: he is here, in Paris. And now, my boy,’ he declared, rising and holding out his hand, the smile once more returned, ‘you have my thanks again, and I wish you good fortune: I am certain you shall have it!’

In Lord Combermere’s office, with more chocolate, Hervey tried to reconcile his exhilaration and disappointment.

‘What precisely did the duke say at the end?’ asked the general.

‘He thanked me – and wished me good fortune, I think, sir.’ He could scarcely remember the flow of things, let alone the exact words.

‘There was no mention of …
reward
?’

‘None that I recall, sir; no, none whatever.’

Lord Combermere looked surprised, though Hervey did not notice. ‘Lord George Irvine tells me he is to send you back to England with papers for your colonel. I should be very much obliged if you would deliver this to the adjutant-general at the Horse Guards: it is of a routine but sensitive nature, as I
understand
,’ he said, holding up a sealed dispatch, ‘and this other to Lord George, please. I will apprise you generally of its contents: it commends your service at Waterloo, without mentioning anything of the Prussians, and expresses the duke’s hope that you might be advanced in regimental seniority or suchlike. I am sure these things augur well for the future, Mr Hervey.’ And with that, and a warm handshake, Lord Combermere bade him farewell.

Hervey rode back to Clichy more thoroughly confounded than he supposed he had ever been. He presumed this express wish of the duke’s must annul all bars to his captaincy, but Combermere had not mentioned anything of field promotion. And, since he was no nearer possessing the amount required for its purchase, the prize looked distinctly hollow. He had never expected garlands for what he had done, but their absence after the promise implied in the duke’s eulogy he felt cruelly.

The Following Day

Colonel Grant was an unlikely-looking spymaster. His features seemed too distinct, his gait too obviously military and his voice too loud. But of his business there was, by all accounts, no greater practitioner, and if the duke had felt himself humbugged by Bonaparte’s essay into Belgium, then not one portion of blame
would
he allow this gallant officer to bear. The colonel arrived at ten o’clock at the billets of the 6th Light Dragoons and, to intense speculation among those officers who recognized him, he and Hervey left by carriage for the house near the Tuileries which was the Paris residence of the comte de Chantonnay. Footmen attended their arrival, and Hervey was at once spellbound by the sumptuousness – the fine paintings, hangings, crystal, and gilded furniture, unaccountable survivors of both the revolution and the recent occupation. And he could not but wonder at Sister Maria de Chantonnay’s willing exchange of all this for her frugal orders. There was champagne, Neapolitan confections – and music.

‘Do you like Soler, monsieur?’ enquired the count in the clearest of English.

‘If this be his music, then, yes, but—’

‘Spanish – he was Spanish, and a Franciscan. Perhaps that is why he writes with such beauty and lightness of touch. Better even than Scarlatti, do you not think? Do you hear those
appogiaturas
?’

Hervey nodded admiringly as the bewigged musician ran breathtakingly up and down the scales of the eight-octave harpsichord in the corner of the
grand salon
.

‘My daughter would approve only of Bach, however,’ added the count with mock despair. ‘His music is
much
more attuned with her Carmelite austerity!’

‘Well, Mr Hervey,’ interrupted Colonel Grant, ‘perhaps it would be appropriate now for you to return the ring to the count?’

Hervey made to take the ring from his pocket, but then paused. He looked at the two men awkwardly and swallowed hard. ‘Forgive me, monsieur,’ he began, ‘but I swore a solemn oath that I would give it only into the hand of the comte de Chantonnay himself.’

The count looked puzzled, and Colonel Grant impatient. ‘Mr Hervey, do you suppose that I, as the duke’s—?’

‘No, sir, I do not suppose anything. And that is why I must not suppose an identity without its first being reasonably established.’

Colonel Grant flushed with anger, but the count stayed him: ‘No, no – it is well that Mr Hervey is so conscientious in the discharge of his oath. I may assure you that my daughter will have placed the heaviest of obligations on him in this respect. What may I do to convince you that I am my daughter’s father, sir?’

Hervey hesitated. ‘I, that is …’

‘Perhaps you might take her own assurance?’ suggested the count.

Hervey looked blank at the notion.

‘Be so good as to ask mademoiselle to join us,’ said the count to his footman.

A clock began chiming the eleventh hour, and, before it had finished, the footman returned.

‘Good morning, Mr Hervey!’ Sister Maria’s voice commanded an end to their polite talk. She smiled full and warm as she strode towards him across the
grand salon
and embraced him unselfconsciously. ‘I am glad
to
see you safe. From all that we have heard your life has been in very great danger.’

He did not suppose that she could have had any notion of the particulars, so he replied with a simple ‘We were fifty thousand in the most grievous danger, Sister’.

She smiled again: that was what she would have supposed him to say. It was a smile he had seen many times in Toulouse. And at first, indeed, there seemed nothing about her appearance different from that morning at the Convent of St Mary Magdalen when they had said their farewells. She wore the same habit of black homespun. There was the same stark white wimple that framed her face at their every meeting, and the veil that fell around her shoulders, in the way that Caithlin O’Mahoney’s hair fell about hers. And yet there was about her a different sort of composure from that which he had formerly admired.

‘
Ma fille
,’ the count interrupted, ‘perhaps Mr Hervey would like to see the garden.’

The garden, or gardens (for there were three distinct ones: an Italian – geometric, with elegant little fountains; another owing something to the south of the country, with terracotta pots everywhere; and one decidedly English), was uncommonly quiet. The noise of the street was excluded and, at this time, with the sun high and its heat growing, there were few birds with any inclination for singing. Hervey and Sister Maria walked for a quarter of an hour, first in the
Italian
and then in the Provençal garden, she pointing to some feature and then he to another. They spoke little of the year that had passed. There was so much that might be said, yet Hervey sensed their time together was short, and for his part he could not thus aspire to relate anything of substance. When they reached the English garden he thought it time they should return to the house, conscious that Colonel Grant remained there waiting.

‘Well, Sister,’ he began, ‘I am gratified that I have been able to discharge my obligation to you, and to find you in such manifest good spirits. I believe, however, that I must now take my leave of you: you will understand that there are pressing matters to be about.’