Sharpe's Revenge s-19

by Бернард Корнуэлл

  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’Alem-bord 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 suspe
cted that in peacetime 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 ofTto 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 Rossendaie. 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.