Hervey 08 - Company Of Spears by Allan Mallinson Page A

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.’
    Elizabeth’s apparition was somehow troubling. The candles were not yet lit, but he could see well enough, and he saw a different Elizabeth. He had never thought of her in other than capable terms, his sister, always there, always knowing what to do, and never for herself. He had not observed the passing of the years, though he had been all too conscious of standing in the way of her prospects. But now he noticed how … grown to maturity she was. Gone were the ringlets; her face was that of a woman – not a young woman, by which he meant girlish, but a woman of consequence, handsome, secure, as if possessed of title or family. He wished for all his heart that it were so, for none was more deserving of it than she.
    By the same light, too, Elizabeth could see her brother’s pallor. ‘I’m not sure you should be up even now,’ she said, though without the tone that commanded him to return to bed. She knew her brother well enough to judge these things prudentially. ‘In any case, we’re not to dine until late; father is gone to Longleat. I’ll have Hannah draw your bath.’
    Hervey did not object to that.
    ‘And I shall fetch you tea. Go and sit by the fire.’
    He had no objection to sitting by the fire either, but the prospect of tea was somehow unappealing. ‘I think I shall have a glass of claret, Elizabeth. Is there any bread?’
    She nodded. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll bring it.’
    ‘Where is mother, and Georgiana?’
    ‘They’re both gone to Longleat too, though they went on foot. Lady Bath generally sees them of a Thursday if she’s at home. She sends them back in a carriage towards now.’
    Hervey inclined his head approvingly. It was good that Lady Bath saw fit to receive Georgiana, for although Henrietta had lived as one with the family, there were three Bath daughters, of whom one still was at Longleat.
    He sat by the fire. Whitehead had made it up well. It gave off a good heat