A Close Run Thing (30 page)

Before his altercation with the Ballinhassig magistrate had brought an abrupt end to his hunting, Hervey had managed no less than thirty days out, over half of them with the Scarteen. And on his release into open arrest (Slade having found the Duke of Devonshire’s appeal more than compelling) his spirits were once again restored – at least outwardly – by some of the longest and fastest points he had ever known, and in the company of the two women for whom his admiration and affection knew no equal. Beyond what was necessary, however, the three had no conversation on the matter of his arrest, for if the outcome of the due process of military law were favourable, then there
would
be time enough to talk of it, and with the necessary dispassion. But if the outcome were
un
favourable, then it were better that he had at least some happy memories of carefree sport and good company to sustain him in the darker times to come. Throughout these weeks he enjoyed the generous and civilized hospitality of Lismore, or of the duke’s hunting box in Tipperary, but not the company of the duke himself; for, on the pretext of business in connection with his estates, the duke was working assiduously towards Hervey’s thorough acquittal. Indeed, his acquittal was to the duke an utmost imperative.

By the end of November, Hervey and Henrietta had spent the greater part of every week in each other’s company, only the occasional field day or picket duty requiring his presence in Cork. Yet Elizabeth would confide to her journal that their association seemed no further advanced in those precious weeks than it had been on their parting at Horningsham. Hervey, had he kept a journal, would have confided the same: in general company Henrietta was easy, full of laughter and game, but each time there was any opportunity for intimacy she became perceptibly distant – distant enough, in any event, to daunt any affirmation of his true feeling. It was not that his heart had faltered, but the arrest had sapped at his surety, as a worm in an oak, and he supposed Henrietta’s certainty to be likewise diminished. With each day he felt the initiative slipping yet further away, and he could conceive of no stratagem by which to recover it.

Then one morning, as the Black and Tans were drawing covert in some of their best country, near the southern end of the Golden Vale, Henrietta took him by surprise. ‘Matthew, this is heaven, but I hear tell that the Muskerry are not to be missed. May we have a day with them, perhaps when next they hunt west of Cork?’

‘We may, of course,’ he replied, ‘but it is poor hunting compared with this.’

‘In truth,’ she returned, ‘I would see the country in which you made so gallant a stand with the magistrate. Believe me, Matthew, a woman might admire such courage.’

And Hervey had been nothing but encouraged by this apparent resolution of doubt on Henrietta’s part, taking no note of the conditional in her assertion of admiration.

The arrangements were made easily enough, and the following week he, Elizabeth and Henrietta were to be found with the sky-blue collar of Mr Samuel Hawkes, the Muskerry’s master, drawing the south bank of the River Lee from the meet at the artillery barracks in Ballincollig. By midday they were near Kilcrea, as Henrietta hoped they would be, and when Hervey disclosed this fact she asked if they might see the village. They left the field – and Elizabeth – and rode to the little settlement which he had not seen since the day of his arrest over a month before.

Peat smoke rose from the holes in the thatch-roofs and from the chimneys of the more substantial
cottages
, but there was not a soul to be seen. Scarcely had they turned into the single muddy street, however, than the occupants of the dismal dwellings began to emerge, and as Hervey passed each door he returned their greetings in the same tongue. But, wary though the greetings were, and ignorant of the tongue that Henrietta was, there was no doubting their benevolence. One face at least bore him a smile, however, and he could not but reflect it. As he reached the cottage where first he had begun his precipitous friendships, he sprang from the saddle to hold out his hand to Caithlin O’Mahoney, but she dismissed his formality and instead put both hands firmly on his shoulders to kiss him on each cheek.

Scarce a dozen words (of Irish) passed between them before Hervey turned to Henrietta, yet in the space of those seconds of vocal intimacy Henrietta’s doubts seemed confirmed: all her instincts were to turn her horse for Cork. Only pride kept her hands still.

The fine cloth and colours of his uniform had thrown the village and its people into drab contrast, and his black coat for once made him almost a part of that scene, but the golden-yellow velvet of Henrietta’s riding habit was in stark contrariety. Caithlin knew that the cash-crops of the entire village would not in one year be enough to buy such clothes. And, for certain, all that there was inside their cottage, into which Henrietta now stepped at her invitation (and with perfect graciousness), would buy neither scent nor gloves for such a lady. Caithlin was at ease, however,
for
if she had no need of such a habit, or scent or gloves, then the want of them was no deprivation. Whether such a costume would make her as desirable as Henrietta was a question which might later stir her, but it was one to which Hervey at least had never given the slightest consideration (unlikely that it may have seemed to Henrietta). Or, to be precise, he had never until that moment: Caithlin’s copper-red hair and dark eyes were not without their effect after so many weeks.

The meanest of the Longleat tenants was better-housed and better-dressed than the O’Mahoneys, and Henrietta’s self-possession was not so great that she did not notice. There was, in consequence, some warming towards this girl to whom, to her mind, Hervey had lost his reason (though she would be the first to own that he did not himself know it). And Caithlin for her part placed not a foot awry in the perilous mire that passed for conversation. Time and again she faithfully led their talk back from exclusively mutual matters, though Hervey blithely pressed question after question on her. But there was not any mention of arrest or the action he faced – though all the village knew of it.

‘How have the regiment’s patrols been behaving?’ he asked at length with a smile.

‘Oh, we’re right thankful for them always, sor,’ Michael O’Mahoney interjected. ‘And pleasing it is always to see that Serjeant Armstrong.’

‘Yes,
dear
Serjeant Armstrong,’ added Caithlin emphatically, ‘I so much enjoy his company!’

Her eagerness seemed to generate further unease.
Michael
O’Mahoney looked away; and his wife, who had said next to nothing throughout, began poking the contents of the fire-pot in a purposeful fashion. Caithlin looked down at her lap as silence descended.

‘Well,’ said Henrietta, never content with such pauses, ‘we have a long ride back to Cork. Matthew, do you not think we should take our leave of these good people?’

Taking their leave was a protracted affair, however, since the rest of the village was intent on shaking the hand of the man in whom, quite simply, they had seen both their deliverance (the eviction warrants had been cancelled on grounds of public order) and a promise of equitable treatment in the future by the military. But, if a handshake was one thing, it seemed scarcely appropriate for Caithlin after her welcoming embrace. Indeed, Hervey judged it to be wholly inadequate. So as she, the better judge of prudence, held out her hand, he took her by the shoulders to kiss her cheek, and so innocent and natural a gesture might have passed unremarkably had not Caithlin’s own unease suddenly manifested itself in coyness. And in that instant Hervey finally, though with chill confusion, sensed the delicacy.

As they left the village Henrietta was mute, and she continued thus as they took the road to Ballincollig, the chill now beginning to numb his faculties. Yet something from deep within told him what he must do to explain his former insensibility, to lay to rest what had blighted their time together these past weeks, to put an end to any concerns she might have about
Caithlin
. ‘I should like to show you a special place near here,’ he said after what seemed an age of silence.

‘Is that not where we have just been?’ she replied with a hurt that left him in no doubt what he faced.

They rode to the ruins of Kilcrea friary. The place had lost nothing of its peacefulness, though the wind now whistled constantly through the lancets. As he helped Henrietta down from the saddle she would not meet his eyes. She seemed almost lifeless, like one of Elizabeth’s childhood dolls whose horsehair filling had been lost. There was no sign of the self-possession which had drained him of his own confidence so many times that summer in Wiltshire.

They walked round the ruins, he recalling their history as it had been told to him by Father O’Gavan, though she showed scant attention and even less enthusiasm. He pointed to the stones and their inscriptions, and he told her how Caithlin had taught him Irish there.

‘And what did she want from
you
, Matthew?’ she asked with a directness he had never imagined of her.

He could give her no answer. In truth he had never supposed Caithlin had wanted anything but an increase in learning. And had they not always been chaperoned by Father O’Gavan? No, they had not of late. But nothing had ever passed between them, had it? Hervey found himself quite unable to think clearly, and even began to shake his head as if to deny the doubt. But, if he had anything in his heart for which to beg
forgiveness
, there were no
deeds
for confession. ‘I taught her a little Greek,’ he replied, and even as he said it he knew it sounded absurd.

‘Greek!’ exclaimed Henrietta.

Hervey took fright, losing all remaining perspective. ‘Yes,’ he replied, in panic almost, ‘she already has some Latin.’

Henrietta began to laugh. She covered her mouth, so loud was her laughter, yet it scattered the starlings beginning to roost in the lintels. ‘Greek!’ she exclaimed in another peal of giggling.

Hervey looked at her hopelessly.

‘Oh, Matthew, you are so … That girl adores you: it is as plain as can be. What do you really suppose has passed between you?’

He opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. At last, though, his instincts began to speak, for he saw at once quite clearly – indeed with
absolute
clarity – that the resolution of their separate months of confusion and despair lay within his grasp in this moment. He took her shoulders gently in his hands. ‘Marry me, Henrietta,’ he said, and he was surprised by his own words, for he had been trying to formulate the proposal with what he considered due refinement.

She looked up at him and shook her head, and it seemed as if a cold blade were piercing him. But then a look of absolute contentment came about her: ‘I want nothing else,’ she said clearly. ‘I do not think I have at heart wanted anything else since the schoolroom!’

* * *

‘So, my dear Henrietta, you are to marry a man of no fortune, a man very likely to be cashiered, disgraced and cast out from society. You will be dishonoured. And all this for
love
?’ asked the duke with so grave an air of dismay that Henrietta was almost abashed.

‘Yes,’ she replied defiantly.

The duke smiled. ‘What great things might I do if I had such a wife!’

Henrietta smiled, too, a smile of relief, and with it sprang back her spirit. ‘Then take unto yourself some Hervey blood. Do not you have any feeling for Elizabeth?’

‘Permit me, Henrietta, but I know a woman’s heart well enough. Miss Hervey’s would not open itself to me – of that you may be assured. No, not even for a coronet!’

‘William,
that
—’ But the duke bade her stop.

‘There are more felicitous matters to discuss, madam,’ he began. ‘Your affianced’s court martial – I think I may have news that will be pleasing.’

‘Truly, I am all ears, sir,’ replied Henrietta intently.

The duke rested an arm on the chimney piece in his voluminous library and began the news that he supposed must bring her such happiness: ‘It seems to me too risky to let this case proceed to trial. What must needs be is that proceedings are abandoned.’

Henrietta looked dismayed. ‘Forgive me, William, but is not that what everyone has been trying to do? You said the news was
felicitous
.’

‘Felicitous – yes. But, on the contrary, it is
not
what
Mr
Hervey’s attorney has been about. What he has quite properly been doing is addressing the issues – the case for the defence – in anticipation of its coming to trial. And it is a clever case, too, turning on a most elegant point of law. But
so
elegant, I fear, and so momentous in its implications, that it runs the gravest danger of defeat – though I for one would take it to the House of Lords come what may.’

‘Then, why seem you so sanguine?’ she asked, perplexed.

‘Because, dearest Henrietta, these several past weeks I have been canvassing my fellow landlords and have secured a remarkable concordance so far as this case is concerned. What do you suppose would be the implication if your Mr Hervey were to be acquitted in open court – remote though the chance may be?’

‘I cannot think,’ she replied, more perplexed.

‘Well, let me suggest to you, as I have to my fellow landlords, that the whole question of forcible evictions might subsequently be adjudged dubious in law. Every landlord in the country would then be in the very devil of a position.’

‘But,’ began Henrietta, grasping well enough the proposition but remaining unconvinced, ‘you have said that there seemed but little chance of Matthew’s being acquitted?’

‘Indeed,’ smiled the duke wickedly, ‘but in the question of rights of eviction none of them would wish to wager, even against such long odds. None would ever want to see it subjected to a judicial ruling. I think it is
time
that I wrote to Sir Dearnley Lambert and went to see Mr Magistrate Gould, and perhaps the agent, too.’

‘Oh, William, you are cleverness personified!’ gasped Henrietta as she threw her arms round him.