with a look of bemusement. ‘I fancy it’s rather happy music, contented peasants making merry in the fields’ (he almost said making ‘hay’).
She arched an eyebrow. ‘It is because, Colonel Hervey, the Krakowiak imitates the movement of the horse.’
‘Ah,’ he said, sounding deliberately deflated. ‘You think me minded only of horses, ma’am?’
‘Horses with dragoons astride,’ she replied, quite determined to drive home the jest – if jest it was.
But Hervey was not inclined to take offence, even mock. ‘The dragoon dismounts to do his work. The horse is merely his servant.’
‘Come now, Colonel Hervey; you think me ignorant of soldiery.’ She went to the chimney piece and gave the bell-pull a tug. ‘I am most reliably informed that nowadays a dragoon thinks himself no less a cavalryman than does a hussar. And a light dragoon was dressed as a jockey from the beginning, was he not?’
Hervey had to concede (with a polite bow) – and in some admiration, for she had taken her instruction (somewhere) well. Did it portend a zeal for becoming the colonel’s lady? He thought it improbable. Whatever the reason, however, his spirits were much lifted: here was nothing like the froideur of the days before he had left for the Cape.
But then, he was no longer contemplating a command in Canada, so disagreeable a prospect to her: his letter just before embarking for home had told of his good news, that he was after all to have command of the Sixth. There would now have to be some qualification of that news, of course, although he knew it would scarcely be of moment to her what the precise establishment of the Sixth would be: Kezia would be content if they could take a house at Hounslow in which the six-octave Broadwood might be played to advantage. Need he mention anything, now, of that dim possibility, Gibraltar?
A footman came. ‘Charles, would you bring coffee?’
She remained at the chimney piece with a hand just touching the mantel, and Hervey was as taken by her poise as he was the first time he saw her. Her self-possession was every bit as alluring as when he had observed it at Lady George (Irvine)’s dinner, when poor Strickland had been there, not so very long before the mortal smash. And in appearance she was, if anything, even more tempting. She wore a dark-green velvet dress with high, close neckline, cut generously at the shoulders but otherwise following very faithfully the curve of her breast and waist. It was irony indeed that such was called ‘undress’ – with covered arms and neck – while ‘full dress’ meant scarcely any covering at all. And yet perhaps there was method in it, since what was not shown but otherwise so expertly intimated might drive the imagination more vividly. He smiled to himself at the artifice of female fashion.
The footman left, and Hervey resumed his engagement with Kezia’s music, since it was quite evidently a happy medium for intercourse where otherwise there might be some awkwardness. ‘Are you practising for a particular occasion?’
A look of both satisfaction and keen anticipation overcame her. ‘I am to play before Herr Mendelssohn when he comes to London.’
Hervey felt suddenly and peculiarly estranged. He had heard of Mendelssohn (another young man; he had heard his music at the theatre), and if Kezia was to play before such a person then her accomplishment must be great indeed. He had not the acquaintance of a single other who could thus lay claim to talent of (he supposed) the first rank; and it gave him much cause for thought. ‘I, I am all admiration. I had not … Forgive me; it had not occurred to me that you were so well … received in your art. My ear would never be able to tell me.’ He smiled rather hopelessly.
‘It might have, my dear Matthew, had you enquired of those with an ear that could.’
‘I stand rebuked, ma’am.’
And there he did indeed stand, cuttingly rebuked and wholly at a loss for words with which to
She arched an eyebrow. ‘It is because, Colonel Hervey, the Krakowiak imitates the movement of the horse.’
‘Ah,’ he said, sounding deliberately deflated. ‘You think me minded only of horses, ma’am?’
‘Horses with dragoons astride,’ she replied, quite determined to drive home the jest – if jest it was.
But Hervey was not inclined to take offence, even mock. ‘The dragoon dismounts to do his work. The horse is merely his servant.’
‘Come now, Colonel Hervey; you think me ignorant of soldiery.’ She went to the chimney piece and gave the bell-pull a tug. ‘I am most reliably informed that nowadays a dragoon thinks himself no less a cavalryman than does a hussar. And a light dragoon was dressed as a jockey from the beginning, was he not?’
Hervey had to concede (with a polite bow) – and in some admiration, for she had taken her instruction (somewhere) well. Did it portend a zeal for becoming the colonel’s lady? He thought it improbable. Whatever the reason, however, his spirits were much lifted: here was nothing like the froideur of the days before he had left for the Cape.
But then, he was no longer contemplating a command in Canada, so disagreeable a prospect to her: his letter just before embarking for home had told of his good news, that he was after all to have command of the Sixth. There would now have to be some qualification of that news, of course, although he knew it would scarcely be of moment to her what the precise establishment of the Sixth would be: Kezia would be content if they could take a house at Hounslow in which the six-octave Broadwood might be played to advantage. Need he mention anything, now, of that dim possibility, Gibraltar?
A footman came. ‘Charles, would you bring coffee?’
She remained at the chimney piece with a hand just touching the mantel, and Hervey was as taken by her poise as he was the first time he saw her. Her self-possession was every bit as alluring as when he had observed it at Lady George (Irvine)’s dinner, when poor Strickland had been there, not so very long before the mortal smash. And in appearance she was, if anything, even more tempting. She wore a dark-green velvet dress with high, close neckline, cut generously at the shoulders but otherwise following very faithfully the curve of her breast and waist. It was irony indeed that such was called ‘undress’ – with covered arms and neck – while ‘full dress’ meant scarcely any covering at all. And yet perhaps there was method in it, since what was not shown but otherwise so expertly intimated might drive the imagination more vividly. He smiled to himself at the artifice of female fashion.
The footman left, and Hervey resumed his engagement with Kezia’s music, since it was quite evidently a happy medium for intercourse where otherwise there might be some awkwardness. ‘Are you practising for a particular occasion?’
A look of both satisfaction and keen anticipation overcame her. ‘I am to play before Herr Mendelssohn when he comes to London.’
Hervey felt suddenly and peculiarly estranged. He had heard of Mendelssohn (another young man; he had heard his music at the theatre), and if Kezia was to play before such a person then her accomplishment must be great indeed. He had not the acquaintance of a single other who could thus lay claim to talent of (he supposed) the first rank; and it gave him much cause for thought. ‘I, I am all admiration. I had not … Forgive me; it had not occurred to me that you were so well … received in your art. My ear would never be able to tell me.’ He smiled rather hopelessly.
‘It might have, my dear Matthew, had you enquired of those with an ear that could.’
‘I stand rebuked, ma’am.’
And there he did indeed stand, cuttingly rebuked and wholly at a loss for words with which to
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