Читать книгу Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 25

Captain Peter d’Alembord sat in the drawing-room of the Cork Street house and felt acutely uncomfortable. It was not that d’Alembord was unused to luxury, indeed he had been raised in an affluent family of the most exquisite tastes, but his very familiarity with civilized living told him that there was something exceedingly vulgar about this high-ceilinged room. There was, he considered, simply too much of everything. A great chandelier, much too large for the room, hung from a plaster finial, while a dozen crystal sconces crowded the walls. The sconces, like the chandelier, dripped with candle wax that should long have been scraped away. The furniture was mostly lacquered black in the fake Egyptian style that had been fashionable ten years earlier. There were three chaise-longues, two footstools, and a scattering of small lion-footed tables. The gilt-framed pictures seemed to have been bought as a job lot; they all showed rather unlikely shepherdesses dallying with very ethereal young men. A box of candied cherries lay gathering dust on one table, and a bowl of almonds on another.

Dust was everywhere and d’Alembord doubted whether the room had been cleaned for days, perhaps even weeks. The grate was piled with ashes, and the room smelt overwhelmingly of powder and stale perfume. A maid had curtseyed when d’Alembord had handed in his card at the door, but there was little evidence that the girl did any cleaning. D’Alembord could only suppose that Jane Sharpe was merely lodging in the house, for he could not believe that she would allow such slovenliness in her own home.

D’Alembord waited patiently. He could find only one book in the room. It was the first of a three volume romance which told the story of a clergyman’s daughter who, snatched from the bosom of her family by brigands in Italy, was sold to the Barbary pirates of Algiers where she became the plaything of a terrible Muslim chief. By the last page of the book, to which d’Alembord had hastily turned, she was still preserving her maidenly virtue, which seemed a most unlikely outcome considering the reputed behaviour of the Barbary pirates, but then unlikely things properly belonged in books. D’Alembord doubted if he would seek out the remaining volumes.

A black and gilt clock on the mantel whirred, then sounded midday. D’Alembord wondered if he dared pull aside the carefully looped velvet curtains and open a window, then decided that such an act might be thought presumptuous. Instead he watched a spider spin a delicate web between the tassels of a table-cloth on which a vase of flowers wilted.

The clock struck the quarter, then the half, then the hour’s third quarter. D’Alembord had come unannounced to the house, and had thus expected to wait, but he had never anticipated being kept waiting as long as this. If he was ignored till one o’clock, he promised himself, he would leave.

He watched the filigreed minute hand jerk from five minutes to four minutes to one. He decided it would be prudent to leave a message in writing and was about to tug the bell-pull and demand paper and pen from the maid, when the drawing-room door suddenly opened and he turned to see the smiling face of Mrs Jane Sharpe.

‘It’s Captain d’Alembord!’ Jane said with feigned surprise, as though she had not known who had been waiting for her for so long. ‘What a pleasure!’ She held out a hand to be kissed. ‘Were you offered tea? Or something more potent, perhaps?’

‘No, Ma’am.’

‘The girl is perverse,’ Jane said, though d’Alembord noted that she did not ring the bell to correct the perversity. ‘I didn’t know the battalion had reached England?’

‘Two weeks ago, Ma’am. They’re now in Chelmsford, but I’m on leave.’

‘A well deserved leave, I’m sure. Would you like to draw a curtain, Captain? We must not sit here in Stygian gloom.’

D’Alembord pulled back the heavy velvet, then, when Jane had arranged herself on a chaise-longue, he sat opposite her. They exchanged news, complimented London on its current fine weather, and agreed how welcome the coming of peace was. And all the time, as this small-talk tinkled between them, d’Alembord tried to hide the astonishment he was feeling at the change in Jane. When she had been with the army she had seemed a very sweet-natured and rather shy girl, but now, scarce six months later, she was a woman dressed in the very height of fashion. Her green satin gown fell in simple pleats from its high waist to her ankles. The neckline was cut embarrassingly low so that d’Alembord was treated to an ample view of powdered breasts; very pretty breasts, he decided, but somehow it seemed inappropriate for the wife of a man he liked and admired so to display herself. The shoulders of Jane’s dress were puffed and the sleeves very long, very tight and trimmed at their wrists with lace frills. She wore no stockings, instead displaying bare ankles that somehow suggested the vulnerability of innocence. Her shoes were silver slippers tied with silver thongs in the quasi-Greek fashion. Her golden hair was drawn up above her ears, thus displaying her long and slender neck about which was a necklace of rubies which d’Alembord supposed must have been plundered from the French baggage at Vitoria. The rubies suited her, d’Alembord decided. They were rare jewels for an undoubtedly beautiful woman. He saw her smiling at his inspection, and realized with embarrassment that Jane had perceived his admiration and was relishing it.

He quickly changed the subject to the reason for his visit. He had brought her, d’Alembord said, a message from Major Sharpe. He apologized that he had brought no letter, but explained the hurried circumstances of his meeting with Sharpe in Bordeaux.

‘So you don’t know where the Major is now?’ Jane asked eagerly.

‘Alas no, Ma’am, except that he’s gone to find a French officer who can attest to his innocence.’

The eagerness seemed to ebb from Jane who stood, walked to the window, and stared down the sunlit street. She told d’Alembord that she already knew something of her husband’s predicament, and explained how the two men from the Judge Advocate General’s office had visited her with their outrageous demands. ‘I’ve heard nothing since then,’ Jane said, ‘and until your visit, Captain, I did not even know whether my husband was alive.’

‘Then I’m glad to be the bearer of good news, Ma’am.’

‘Is it good news?’ Jane turned from the window. ‘Of course it is,’ she added hurriedly, ‘but it all seems extremely strange to me. Do you think my husband did steal the Emperor’s gold?’

‘No, Ma’am!’ D’Alembord protested. ‘The accusations against him are monstrous!’

Jane resumed her seat, thus letting d’Alembord sit again. She plucked the folds of her dress, then frowned. ‘What I do not understand, Captain, is that if my husband is innocent, which of course he is, then why did he not allow the army to discover that innocence? An innocent man does not run away from a fair trial, does he?’

‘He does, Ma’am, if the only evidence against him is false. Major Sharpe is attempting to prove those falsities. And he needs our help.’

Jane said nothing. Instead she just smiled and indicated that d’Alembord should continue speaking.

‘What we have to do, Ma’am, is harness what influence we can to prevent the machinery of accusation going farther. And should the Major fail to find the truth in France, then he will need the help of influential friends.’

‘Very influential,’ Jane said drily.

‘He mentioned a Lord Rossendale, Ma’am?’ D’Alembord wondered why Jane was so unresponsive, but ploughed on anyway. ‘Lord Rossendale is an aide to His Royal Highness, the Prince …’

‘I know Lord John Rossendale,’ Jane said hurriedly, ‘and I have already spoken with him.’

D’Alembord felt a surge of relief. He had been unsettled by this interview, both by Jane’s new and languid sophistication, and by her apparent lack of concern about her husband’s fate, yet now it seemed as if she had already done her duty by Sharpe. ‘May I ask, Ma’am, whether Lord Rossendale expressed a willingness to help the Major?’ D’Alembord pressed.

‘His Lordship assured me that he will do all that is within his power,’ Jane said very primly.

‘Would that include presenting Major Sharpe’s problem to the Prince Regent, Ma’am?’

‘I really couldn’t say, Captain, but I’m sure Lord Rossendale will be assiduous.’

‘Would it help, Ma’am, if I was to add my voice to yours?’

Jane seemed to consider the offer, then frowned. ‘Of course I cannot prevent you from trying to see his Lordship, though I’m sure he is a most busy man.’

‘Of course, Ma’am.’ D’Alembord was again puzzled by Jane’s impenetrable decorum.

Jane turned to look at the clock. ‘Of course we will all do everything we can, Captain, though I rather suspect that the best thing to do is to allow my husband to disentangle himself.’ She gave a small unamused laugh. ‘He’s rather good at that, is he not?’

‘Indeed he is, Ma’am. Very good, but …’

‘And in the meanwhile,’ Jane ignored whatever d’Alembord had been about to say, ‘my duty is to make everything ready for his return.’ She waved a hand about the room. ‘Do you like my new house, Captain?’

‘Extremely, Ma’am.’ D’Alembord concealed his surprise along with his true opinion. He had imagined that Jane was merely staying in the house, now he discovered that she owned it.

‘The Major wished to buy a home in the country,’ Jane said, ‘but once I had returned to England I could not endure the thought of burying myself in rustic ignorance. Besides, it is more convenient to look after the Major’s affairs in London than from the country.’

‘Indeed, Ma’am.’ D’Alembord wanted more details of how Jane was looking after Sharpe’s affairs, but he sensed that further enquiries would reveal nothing. There was something unsettling in the situation, and d’Alembord did not want to provoke it.

‘So I bought this house instead,’ Jane went on. ‘Do you think the Major will like it?’

D’Alembord was convinced that Sharpe would detest it, but it was not his place to say so. ‘It seems a very good house, Ma’am,’ he said with as much diplomacy as he could muster.

‘Of course I share the house at the moment,’ Jane was eager to stress the propriety of her situation, ‘with a widow. It would hardly be proper otherwise, would it?’

‘I’m sure you would do nothing improper, Ma’am.’

‘It’s such a pity that the Lady Spindacre is still abed, but dear Juliet’s health is not of the best. You must visit us, Captain, one evening at eight. We usually receive downstairs at that hour, but if no link is lit outside, then you will know that we are not at home. If a lamp is lit then you must announce yourself, though I should warn you that London is sadly bored with soldiers’ tales!’ Jane smiled as though she knew her charms would ameliorate the rudeness of her words.

‘I would not dream of inflicting soldiers’ tales on you, Ma’am.’ D’Alembord spoke stiffly.

‘London has so many other fascinations to indulge besides the late wars. It will be good for the Major to come here, I think. Especially as he made some very high connections on his last visit, and it would be impossible to preserve those connections if he buries himself in Dorsetshire.’

‘You refer to the Prince?’ D’Alembord said in the hope that he would learn more of Jane’s conversation with Lord Rossendale.

‘But none of those connections, I think, will care to travel into the remote parts of the country to hear stories of war,’ was Jane’s only response. She looked at the clock again, then held out her hand to indicate that the conversation was over. ‘Thank you for visiting me, Captain.’

‘It was my pleasure, Ma’am.’ D’Alembord bowed over the offered hand. ‘Your servant, Ma’am.’

Once outside the house d’Alembord leaned for an instant on the black railings, then shook his head. He had a suspicion that he had achieved nothing, but he could not quite pin down the reasons for that suspicion. Yet there was one thing for which he was supremely grateful, which was that he had no address by which he could reach Sharpe. What in hell could he have written? He sighed, wondered if there was anyone else he could approach for help, then walked away.

The horse-pistol had been loaded with three small pistol bullets. The first had entered the upper part of Sharpe’s left arm where it first shattered his shoulder joint, then ricocheted to crack the blade of the big bone behind. The second bullet tore off the top half of his left ear and gouged a deep cut in his scalp that bled horrifically, though the wound itself was slight enough. The impact of that second bullet had plunged Sharpe into an instant and merciful unconsciousness. The third bullet fractured Sharpe’s right thigh-bone just above the knee and tore the leg’s big artery. The blood puddled about the kitchen’s threshold.

Lucille Castineau, once the shot was fired, had lowered the big smoking pistol and stared defiantly at Frederickson who was picking himself up from the mud outside the door. ‘Now shoot me,’ she said, and though her words sounded dramatic even to herself, she nevertheless felt at that moment as if her defiance embodied a prostrated and defeated France. Indeed, though she never admitted it to anyone but herself, at that proud instant she felt exactly like Joan of Arc herself.

‘We don’t even have weapons!’ Frederickson snapped the words in French, then shouted for water and rags. ‘Quick, woman!’ He tore his snake-buckled belt free and twisted it as a tourniquet round Sharpe’s right thigh. ‘Come on, woman! Help me, damn you!’

‘Why should we help you?’ Lucille was finding it hard to keep her Joan of Arc poise, but she managed to put a superb scorn into her voice. ‘You killed my brother!’

Frederickson twisted the tourniquet as tight as it could go, then stared in shock at the tall and oddly calm woman. ‘Your brother’s dead?’

‘You killed him! Out there!’ She pointed to the yard.

‘Madame, I have never been here before.’ Frederickson turned and snapped at the boy, who had plucked up courage to creep close to the door, then turned again to Lucille. ‘You have my word of honour, Madame, as a British officer, that none of us has been here before, nor did any of us kill your brother whose death, believe me, I regret to the very depths of my soul. Now, Madame, will you please give me bandages and water. We need a doctor. Hurry!’ He twisted back to the door. ‘Sergeant Harper!’ He bellowed hugely into the night. ‘Sergeant Harper! Come here! Quick!’

‘Sweet Jesus.’ Lucille crossed herself, stared at the great pool of blood, and at last suspected that her certainty of who had murdered her family might be wrong. Then, because she was a practical woman, and because recriminations would have to wait, she tore a linen cloth into strips and sent the boy to fetch the doctor.

While Sharpe, pale-faced and with a fluttering pulse, just groaned.

Lord John Rossendale thought of himself as an honourable man; a decent, privileged and fair man. His greatest regret was that he had never been permitted to leave the Prince’s service to fight in the wars, for he suspected that in peace-time there would be an enviable reputation attached to those men who had brought their scars and swords back from Spain and France. He had asked to be allowed to join Wellington’s army often enough, but the Prince of Wales, Regent of England during his father’s bouts of madness, declared that he needed Rossendale’s company. ‘Johnny amuses me,’ the Prince would explain, and he tried to compensate for Rossendale’s disappointment by offering the young cavalryman promotion. Rossendale was now a full Colonel, though he was required to perform no military duties other than the elegant wearing of his dazzling uniform, which duty he could carry off to perfection.

Rossendale was, indeed, privileged, but he was not unmindful of those less exalted officers who had carried the brunt of the war against Napoleon, which was why, when Jane Sharpe’s letter had first come to his attention, he had felt a pang of guilt and a start of compassion. He had also admired the snuff-box, though the gift was quite unnecessary, for Rossendale well remembered Major Sharpe and had preserved a great admiration for the Rifleman. Rossendale had therefore returned the snuff-box to Jane, and with it he had sent a charming note which asked Mrs Sharpe to do the honour of calling on Lord Rossendale at her leisure.

Although Lord John remembered Sharpe very well, he had no exact recollection of Sharpe’s wife. He did dimly recall meeting a fair-haired girl for one evening, but Rossendale met many fair-haired girls and he could not be expected to remember each of them. He fully expected to find Mrs Jane Sharpe dull, for the woman came as a petitioner which would mean that Lord Rossendale must be forced to endure the tedium of her pathetic appeal, yet, for her husband’s sake, Lord Rossendale would do his decent best to oblige.

Mrs Sharpe demonstrated an ominous desperation by calling on Lord Rossendale the very morning after he had returned the jewelled snuff-box. Lord Rossendale had been at the tables the night before and had lost heavily. He could not afford to lose heavily, and so he had drowned his disappointments in drink which meant he was very late in rising, and thus kept the importunate Mrs Sharpe waiting a full two hours. He muttered an apology as he entered his drawing-room and, having apologised, he stood quite still.

Because the importunate Mrs Sharpe was undeniably lovely.

‘It is Mrs Sharpe? I do have that honour?’ Lord Rossendale could not imagine how he might have forgotten meeting this woman.

She curtseyed. ‘It is, my Lord.’

And thereafter, like the decent fair man he perceived himself to be, Rossendale attempted to help Mrs Sharpe out of her troubles. He did it most successfully, extracting a promise that the government would take no further interest in Mrs Jane Sharpe’s finances. In the performance of that decent and fair duty, he found himself attracted to her, which was hardly surprising for she was a girl of the most provoking looks, and if she seemed to reciprocate that attraction, then that was also hardly surprising, for Lord John Rossendale was a most elegant, handsome and amusing young man, though admittedly somewhat heavily in debt. Jane, acknowledging her own debt of gratitude to his Lordship, was only too delighted to pay his gambling debts, though each of them insisted that her payments were merely loans.

There was gossip, of course, but the gossip did not hurt Rossendale. The conquest of Mrs Sharpe, if conquest it was, was seen by society as an act of great bravery, for surely the husband would exact a terrible revenge. London knew that a certain Naval officer still found it impossible to sit in comfort, and London wondered how many weeks Lord Rossendale would live once Major Sharpe returned from the wars. The wager book at Lord Rossendale’s club did not give his Lordship more than three months before he was forced to eat grass before breakfast. ‘And that’ll be the finish of him,’ a friend said, ‘and more’s the pity, for Johnny’s an amusing fellow.’

Yet, despite the threat, neither Jane nor Lord John tried to dull the edge of the gossip by circumspection. And, as her popularity in society increased, so did people feel a growing sympathy for Jane Sharpe. Her husband, it was said, was a thief. He had deserted the army. The man was clearly no good, and Jane was plainly justified if she sought consolation elsewhere.

Jane herself never complained that Major Sharpe was a bad man. She did tell Lord Rossendale that her husband was unambitious, and proved that contention by saying he would mire her in a country village where her silks and satins must be surrendered to the moths. She allowed that he had been a magnificent soldier, but alas, he was also a dull man, and in the society amongst which Jane now moved with such assurance, dullness was a greater sin than murder. Lord Rossendale, though frequently penniless, was never dull, but instead seemed to move in a glittering whirl of crystal bright opportunities.

Yet still, like an awkward bastion that resists the surge of a victorious army, there remained the inconvenient fact of Major Sharpe’s continuing dull existence, and Peter d’Alembord’s visit to Jane’s house was an abrupt and unwelcome reminder of that existence. It was no longer possible, after that meeting, for Jane to pretend that Sharpe had simply disappeared to leave Jane with his money and Rossendale with Jane.

So, that same evening, Jane sent a servant to fetch a carriage and, with a cloak about her bare shoulders, she was conveyed the short distance to Lord Rossendale’s town house which overlooked St James’s Park. The servants bowed her inside, then brought her a light supper and a glass of champagne. His Lordship, they told her, was expected home soon from his Royal duties.

Lord Rossendale, coming into the candle-lit room an hour later, thought he had never seen Jane looking so beautiful. Perturbation, he thought, made her seem so very frail and vulnerable.

‘John!’ She stood up to greet him.

‘I’ve heard, my dearest, I’ve heard.’ Lord Rossendale hurried across the room, she met him halfway, and they embraced. Jane clung to him, and Lord Rossendale held her very tight. ‘I’ve heard the awful news,’ he said, ‘and I’m so very sorry.’

‘He came this morning,’ Jane’s voice came in a breathless rush. ‘I hardly credited he would ask for your help! When he said your name I almost blushed! He says he will try to see you, and I could not dissuade him. He wants you to see the Prince about it!’

‘Who came?’ Lord John feared the answer. He held Jane at arm’s length and there was a look of real fear on his face. ‘Your husband has returned?’

‘No, John!’ There was a note of asperity in Jane’s voice at Lord Rossendale’s misapprehension, though his Lordship showed no displeasure at her tone. ‘It was an officer who was a friend of Richard’s,’ she explained, ‘a Captain d’Alembord. He says he met Richard in Bordeaux, and Richard sent him to London to seek your help! Richard expects you to plead with the Prince.’

‘My God, so you haven’t heard?’ Lord John dismissed Jane’s news of d’Alembord’s visit and instead, very gently, led her to a settle beside the open window. A warm breeze shivered the candle-flames that lit her face so prettily. ‘I have some other news for you,’ Rossendale said, ‘and I fear it is distressing news.’

Jane looked up at his Lordship. ‘Well?’

Lord John first poured her a glass of white wine, then sat beside her. He held one of her hands in both of his. ‘We have heard from Paris today, my dearest one, and it seems that there was a French officer who could prove your husband’s guilt. Or innocence, of course.’ He added the last hastily. ‘That officer was murdered,’ Rossendale paused for a heartbeat, ‘and it seems most probable that your husband committed the murder. The French have formally requested our assistance in finding Major Sharpe.’

‘No.’ Jane breathed the word.

‘I pray the allegations are not true.’ Lord John, like Jane, knew just what was proper to say at such moments.

Jane took her hand from his, stood, and walked to the room’s far end where she stared vacantly into the empty grate. Lord John watched her and, as ever, marvelled at her looks. Finally she turned. ‘We should not be too astonished at such news, John. I fear that Richard is a very brutal man.’

‘He is a soldier,’ Rossendale said in apparent agreement.

Jane took a deep breath. ‘I should not be here, my Lord,’ she said with a sudden formality.

‘My dearest …’ Lord John stood.

Jane held up a hand to check his protest. ‘No, my Lord. I must think of your reputation.’ It was very properly and very prettily said, and the inference of noble suffering touched Lord John’s heart, just as it was meant to do.

He crossed the room and took a temporarily unwilling Jane into his arms. She insisted that her married name was now tainted, and that Lord John must protect himself by preserving his own good name. Lord John hushed her. ‘You don’t understand, my dear one.’

‘I understand that my husband is a murderer,’ she said into his uniform coat.

He held her very close. ‘And when he is captured, my dear one, as he will be captured, what then?’

Jane said nothing.

‘You will be alone,’ Lord John said, then, just in case she had not worked out for herself the fate that would attend a convicted murderer, ‘and you will be a widow.’

‘No,’ she murmured the proper protest.

‘So I think it can only reflect on my reputation,’ Lord John said nobly, ‘if I was to offer you my protection.’ And he tilted her pretty, tear-stained face to his and kissed her on the mouth.

Jane closed her eyes. She was not a bad woman, though she knew well enough that what she now did was wrong in the world’s eyes. She also knew that she had behaved very ill when Peter d’Alembord had visited her at Cork Street, but she had been frightened to be thus reminded of her husband’s existence and, at the same time, she had so wanted to impress d’Alembord with her new sophistication. She knew, too, that her husband was not the brutal, dull man she depicted, but her behaviour demanded an excuse beyond the excuse of her own appetites, and so she must blame Sharpe for the fact that she now loved another man.

And Jane was in love, as was Lord Rossendale. They were not just simply in love, but consumed by love, driven by it, drenched in it, and oblivious to the rest of the world in their obsession with it. And Major Sharpe, by murdering a Frenchman, had seemingly removed their last obstacle to it. And thus, in a warm and candle-shivering night, the lovers could at last anticipate their happiness.

There had been no sentry on the tower, Lucille explained to Frederickson, because the roof timbers were rotten. So, a week after their drastic arrival at the château, Harper and Frederickson repaired the tower’s roof with weathered oak that they took from the disused stalls in the château’s stables. They adzed the timber to size, pegged it tight into the masonry, then spread layers of tar-soaked sacking over the planks. ‘You should have lead up there, Ma’am,’ Frederickson said.

‘Lead is expensive,’ Lucille sighed.

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ But Harper delved among the generations of debris that had piled up in the barns and discovered an old lead water-tank that bore the de Lassan coat-of-arms, and he and Frederickson melted it down and made thin sheets of the metal which they fixed between the courses of stone so that the tower at last had a watertight roof.

‘I don’t know why you God-damned well bother,’ Sharpe grumbled that night.

‘I’ve nothing better to do,’ Frederickson said mildly, ‘so I might as well help Madame about the place. Besides, I like working with my hands.’

‘Let the bloody place fall down.’ Sharpe lay swathed in stiff flax sheets on the goosedown mattress of a massive wooden bed. His right leg was encased in plaster beneath which the flesh throbbed and itched, his head hurt, and his left shoulder was a nagging viper’s nest of pain. The doctor had opined that Sharpe should have the whole arm off, for he doubted if he could otherwise keep the damaged flesh clean, but Harper had performed his old trick of putting maggots into the wound. The maggots had eaten the rotten flesh, but would not touch the clean, and so the arm had been saved. The doctor visited each day, cupping Sharpe with candle-flames and glasses, bleeding him with leeches, and distastefully sniffing the maggot-writhing wounds for any sign of putrefaction. There were none. Sharpe, the doctor said, might be walking again by the summer, though he doubted if the Englishman would ever again have full use of his left arm.

‘Bloody God-damned French bitch,’ Sharpe now said of Lucille. ‘I hope her bloody house falls down around her ears.’

‘Drink your soup,’ Frederickson said, ‘and shut up.’

Sharpe obediently drank some soup.

‘It’s good soup, isn’t it?’ Frederickson asked.

Sharpe said nothing, just scowled.

‘You’re very ungrateful,’ Sweet William sighed. ‘That soup is delicious. Madame made it specially for you.’

‘Then it’s probably bloody poisoned.’ Sharpe pushed the bowl away.

Frederickson shook his head. ‘You should be kinder to Madame Castineau. She feels very guilty about what she did.’

‘She bloody well should feel guilty! She’s a murderous bloody bitch. She should be hanged, except hanging’s too good for her.’

Frederickson paused, then blushed. ‘I would be deeply obliged, my friend, if you would refrain from insulting Madame Castineau in my presence.’

Sharpe stared aghast at his friend.

Frederickson straightened his shoulders as though bracing himself to make a very shameful confession. ‘I have to confess that I feel a most strong attachment towards Madame.’

‘Good God.’ Sharpe could say nothing else. This misogynist, this hater of marriage, this despiser of all things female, was in love?

‘I understand how you feel about Madame Castineau, of course,’ Frederickson hurried on, ‘and I cannot blame you, but I think you should know that I have the warmest of feelings towards her. Towards,’ he paused, tried to meet Sharpe’s gaze, failed, but then, with the coyness of a lover, said the widow’s Christian name fondly, ‘towards Lucille.’

‘Bloody hellfire!’

‘I know she isn’t a great beauty like Jane,’ Frederickson said with an immense but fragile dignity, ‘but she has a great calmness in her soul. She’s a very sensible woman, too. And she has a sense of humour. If I had not met her I would scarcely have believed that so many excellent qualities could have been combined in one woman.’

Sharpe blew on a spoonful of soup and tried to accustom himself to the thought of Sweet William in love. It was like discovering a wolf purring, or learning that Napoleon Bonaparte’s favourite occupation was embroidery. ‘But she’s French!’ Sharpe finally blurted out.

‘Of course she’s French!’ Frederickson said irritably. ‘What possible objection can that be?’

‘We’ve been killing the buggers for twenty years!’

‘And now we’re at peace.’ Frederickson smiled. ‘We might even make an alliance to mark that peace.’

‘You mean you want to marry her?’ Sharpe stared at his friend. ‘I seem to remember that you thought marriage was a waste of money. Can’t you hire its pleasures by the hour? Isn’t that what you said? And do I remember you telling me that marriage is an appetite and that once you’ve enjoyed the flesh you’re left with nothing but a dry carcass?’

‘I might have questioned the validity of marriage once,’ Frederickson said airily, ‘but a man is permitted to reconsider his opinions, is he not?’

‘Good God Almighty. You are in love!’ Sharpe was flabbergasted. ‘Does Madame Castineau know how you feel?’

‘Of course not!’ Frederickson was profoundly shocked at the thought.

‘Why ever not?’

‘I have no wish to embarrass her by a precipitate declaration of my feelings.’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘Love is like war, my friend. Victory goes to those who pounce first and pounce hardest.’

‘I can hardly imagine myself pouncing,’ Frederickson said huffily, but then, because he had a desperate need to share his feelings with a friend, he coyly asked Sharpe whether his looks would be a barrier to his suit. ‘I know myself to be ugly,’ Frederickson touched his eye-patch, ‘and fear it will be an insuperable difficulty.’

‘Remember the pig-woman,’ Sharpe advised.

‘My feelings in no way resemble the transactions of that squalid tale,’ Frederickson said sternly.

‘But if you don’t confess your feelings,’ Sharpe said, ‘then you’ll get nowhere! Do you sense her feelings in this matter?’

‘Madame behaves very properly towards me.’

Sharpe reflected that proper behaviour was not what his friend sought, but thought it best not to say as much. Instead he wondered aloud whether Frederickson would take a letter to the carrier who risked the dangers of the country roads by travelling once a week to Caen.

‘Of course,’ Frederickson agreed, ‘but may I ask why?’

‘It’s a letter for Jane,’ Sharpe explained.

‘Of course.’ Frederickson sought to turn the subject back to Lucille Castineau, but did so in such a roundabout way that Sharpe might not suspect the deliberate machination. ‘It occurs to me, my friend, that there have been times when I might have been a trifle unsympathetic towards your marriage?’

‘Really?’ Sharpe flinched as a stab of pain went from his shoulder down to his ribs.

Frederickson did not notice Sharpe’s discomfort. ‘I assure you that I jested. I see now that marriage is a very fortunate state for mankind.’

‘Indeed.’ Sharpe resisted discussing Frederickson’s new devotion to the married state. ‘Which is why I would like Jane to travel here.’

‘Is that safe for her?’ Frederickson asked.

‘I thought you and Patrick might meet her at Cherbourg and escort her here.’ Sharpe had resumed drinking the soup which, despite his earlier boorish verdict, was quite delicious. ‘And once she’s here we can all rent a house while I recover? Maybe in Caen?’

‘Maybe.’ It was clear that Frederickson had no wish to leave the château, yet he agreed to deliver Sharpe’s letter to the village carrier.

But, as it happened, there was no need for the letter to go to the postal office in Caen, for the very next night Patrick Harper offered to carry the letter clean into London itself. ‘You’re not going to be fighting fit, sir, not for a month or two, and I’m worried about Isabella, so I am.’

‘She’s not in London,’ Sharpe said.

‘Mr Frederickson thinks it’ll be quicker to get a ship for Spain out of England, sir, than it will be from France. So I’ll go to England, see Mrs Sharpe, then fetch my own lass back from Spain. Then I’ll take her to Ireland.’ Harper smiled and suddenly there were tears in his eyes. ‘My God, sir, but I’ll be going home at last. Can you believe it?’

Sharpe felt a moment’s panic at losing this strong man. ‘Are you going home for ever?’

‘I’ll be back here, so I will.’ Harper tossed the seven-barrelled gun on to Sharpe’s bed. ‘I’ll leave that here, and my uniform too. It’s probably best not to travel in uniform.’

‘But you will be back?’ Sharpe eagerly sought the reassurance. ‘Because if I’m going to find Ducos I’ll need you.’

‘So you are going to find him, sir?’

‘If I have to go to the end of the bloody earth, Patrick, I’ll find that bastard.’ It was obvious now, from the evidence of the two fingers that had been hacked off Lassan’s dead body, that it must have been Pierre Ducos who had killed Madame Castineau’s brother. Lucille herself had accepted that verdict, and her acceptance had only increased the remorse she felt for her precipitate shooting of the Rifleman. Sharpe did not care whether she felt remorse or not, nor did he much care that her brother was dead, but he did care that he should find Ducos. ‘I’ll get well first,’ he now told Harper, ‘then I’ll hunt the bugger down.’

Harper smiled. ‘I’ll be back here to help you, sir, I promise.’

‘It would be harder without you,’ Sharpe said, which was his way of saying that he could not bear it if Harper deserted him now. Sharpe had always known that peace might separate their friendship, but the immediate prospect of that separation was astonishingly hard to bear.

‘I’ll be back by the summer, sir.’

‘So long as the provosts don’t catch you, Patrick.’

‘I’ll murder the bastards before they lay a hand on me.’

Harper left the next morning. It seemed strange not to hear his tuneless whistle or his loud cheerful voice about the château. On the other hand Sharpe was pleased that the Irishman was carrying the letter to Jane for she had always liked Harper and Sharpe was certain she would respond to the big man’s plea that she travel quickly into Normandy where her husband lay ill.

A week after Harper had left, Frederickson carried Sharpe downstairs so he could eat at a table which had been placed in the château’s yard. Madame Castineau, knowing that Sharpe disliked her, had kept a very politic distance from the Rifleman since the night when she had shot him. This night, though, she smiled a nervous welcome and said she hoped he would eat well. There was wine, bread, cheese, and a small piece of ham that Frederickson unobtrusively placed on Sharpe’s plate.

Sharpe looked at Frederickson’s plate, then at Madame Castineau’s. ‘Where’s yours, William?’

‘Madame doesn’t like ham.’ Frederickson cut himself some cheese.

‘But you like it. I’ve seen you kill for it.’

‘You need the nourishment,’ Frederickson insisted, ‘I don’t.’

Sharpe frowned. ‘Is this place short of money?’ He knew that Madame Castineau spoke no English, so had no qualms about talking thus in front of her.

‘They’re poor as church mice, sir. Rich in land, of course, but that doesn’t help much these days, and they rather emptied the coffers on Henri’s betrothal party.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Sharpe sliced the ham into three ludicrously small portions. His actions were very clumsy for he could still not use his left arm. He distributed the meat evenly between the three plates. Madame Castineau began to protest, but Sharpe growled her to silence. ‘Tell her my wife will bring some money from England,’ he said.

Frederickson translated, then offered Lucille’s reply which was to the effect that she would accept no charity.

‘Tell the bloody woman to take what’s offered.’

‘I’ll hardly tell her that,’ Frederickson protested.

‘Damn her pride, anyway.’

Lucille blanched at the anger in Sharpe’s voice, then hurried into a long conversation in French with Frederickson. Sharpe scowled and picked at his food. Frederickson tried to include him in the conversation, but as it was about the château’s history, and the styles of architecture that history reflected, Sharpe had nothing to offer. He leaned his chair back and prayed that Jane would come soon. Surely, he persuaded himself, her previous silence had been an accident of the uncertain delivery of mail to the army. She would have already spoken to d’Alembord, and would doubtless welcome Harper’s arrival. Indeed, it was probable that Harper was already in London and Sharpe felt a welcome and warm hope that Jane herself might arrive at the château in less than a week.

Sharpe was suddenly aware that Frederickson had asked him a question. He let the chair fall forward and was rewarded with an agonizing stab of pain down his plastered right leg. ‘Jesus bloody Christ!’ he cursed, then, with a resentful glance at the widow, ‘I’m sorry. What is it, William?’

‘Madame Castineau is concerned because she told the Paris lawyer that we murdered her brother.’

‘So she damn well should be.’

Frederickson ignored Sharpe’s surly tone. ‘She wonders whether she should now write to Monsieur Roland and tell him that we are innocent.’

Sharpe glanced at the Frenchwoman and was caught by her very clear, very calm gaze. ‘No,’ he said decisively.

‘Non?’ Lucille frowned.

‘I think it best,’ Sharpe suddenly felt awkward under her scrutiny, ‘if the French authorities do not know where to find us. They still believe we stole their gold.’

Frederickson translated, listened to Lucille’s response, then looked at Sharpe. ‘Madame says her letter will surely persuade the authorities of our innocence.’

‘No!’ Sharpe insisted a little too loudly.

‘Why not?’ Frederickson asked.

‘Because the damned French have already faked evidence against us, so why should we trust them now? Tell Madame I have no faith in the honesty of her countrymen so I would be most grateful if, for so long as we are in her house, she would keep our presence a secret from Paris.’

Frederickson made a tactful translation, then offered Sharpe Lucille’s reply. ‘Madame says she would like to inform the authorities who was responsible for the murder of her mother and brother. She wants Major Ducos punished.’

‘Tell her I will punish Ducos. Tell her it will be my pleasure to punish Ducos.’

The tone of Sharpe’s voice made any translation unnecessary. Lucille looked at Sharpe’s face with its slashing scar that gave him such a mocking look, and she tried to imagine her brother, her gentle and kind brother, facing this awful man in battle, and then she tried to imagine what kind of woman would marry such a man. Frederickson began to interpret Sharpe’s reply, but Lucille shook her head. ‘I understood, Captain. Tell the Major that I will be for ever grateful if he can bring Major Ducos to justice.’

‘I’m not doing it for her,’ Sharpe said in curt dismissal, ‘but for me.’

There was an embarrassed pause, then Frederickson studiedly returned the conversation to the château’s history. Within minutes he and Lucille were again absorbed, while Sharpe, warm in the evening sun, dreamed his soldier’s dreams that were of home and love and happiness and revenge.