“He would send a message,” Kate protested. “I’m sure he’s on his way.”
“Are you?” Sharpe asked.
She sat on a gilt chair, staring out of the window. “He must come back,” she said softly and Sharpe could tell from her tone that she had virtually given up hope.
“If you think he’s coming back,” he said, “then you must wait for him. But I’m taking my men south.” He would leave the next night, he decided. March in the dark, go south, find the river and search its bank for a boat, any boat. Even a tree trunk would do, anything that could float them across the Douro.
“Do you know why I married him?” Kate suddenly asked.
Sharpe was so astounded by the question that he did not answer. He just gazed at her.
“I married him,” Kate said, “because life in Oporto is so dull. My mother and I live in the big house on the hill and the lawyers tell us what happens in the vineyards and the lodge, and the other ladies come to tea, and we go to the English church on Sundays and that is all that ever happens.”
Sharpe still said nothing. He was embarrassed.
“You think he married me for the money, don’t you?” Kate demanded.
“Don’t you?” Sharpe responded.
She stared at him in silence and he half expected her to be angry, but instead she shook her head and sighed. “I dare not believe that,” she said, “though I do believe marriage is a gamble and we don’t know how it will turn out, but we still just hope. We marry in hope, Mister Sharpe, and sometimes we’re lucky. Don’t you think that’s true?”
“I’ve never married,” Sharpe evaded the answer.
“Have you wanted to?” Kate asked.
“Yes,” Sharpe said, thinking of Grace.
“What happened?”
“She was a widow,” Sharpe said, “and the lawyers were making hay with her husband’s will, and we thought that if she married me it would only complicate things. Her lawyers said so. I hate lawyers.” He stopped talking, hurt as he always was by the memory. He drank the port to cover his feelings, then walked to the window and stared down the moonlit drive to where the smoke of the village fires smeared the stars above the northern hills. “In the end she died,” he finished abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” Kate said in a small voice.
“And I hope it turns out well for you,” Sharpe said.
“Do you?”
“Of course,” he said, then he turned to her and he was so close that she had to tilt her head back to see him. “What I really hope,” he said, “is this,” and he bent and kissed her very tenderly on the lips, and for a half-second she stiffened and then she let him kiss her and when he straightened she lowered her head and he knew she was crying. “I hope you’re lucky,” he said to her.
Kate did not look up. “I must lock the house,” she said, and Sharpe knew he was dismissed.
He gave his men the next day to get ready. There were boots to be repaired and packs and haversacks to be filled with food for the march. Sharpe made sure every rifle was clean, that the flints were new and that the cartridge boxes were filled. Harper shot two of the captured dragoon horses and butchered them down into cuts of meat that could be carried, then he put Hagman on another of the horses to make certain he would be able to ride it without too much pain and Sharpe told Kate she must ride another and she protested, saying she could not travel without a chaperone and Sharpe told her she could make up her own mind. “Stay or leave, ma’am, but we’re going tonight.”
“You can’t leave me!” Kate said, angry, as if Sharpe had not kissed her and she had not allowed the kiss.
“I’m a soldier, ma’am,” Sharpe said, “and I’m going.”
And then he did not go because that evening, at dusk, Colonel Christopher returned.
The Colonel was mounted on his black horse and dressed all in black. Dodd and Pendleton were the picquets on the Quinta’s driveway and when they saluted him Christopher just touched the ivory heel of his riding crop to one of the tasseled peaks of his bicorne hat. Luis, the servant, followed and the dust from their horses’ hooves drifted across the rills of fallen wisteria blossoms that lined either side of the driveway. “It looks like lavender, don’t it?” Christopher remarked to Sharpe. “They should try growing lavender here,” he went on as he slid from the horse. “It would do well, don’t you think?” He did not wait for an answer, but instead ran up the Quinta’s steps and held his hands wide for Kate. “My sweetest one!”
Sharpe, left on the terrace, found himself staring at Luis. The servant raised an eyebrow as if in exasperation, then led the horses round to the back of the house. Sharpe stared across the darkening fields. Now that the sun was gone there was a bite in the air, a tendril of winter lingering into spring. “Sharpe!” the Colonel’s voice called from inside the house. “Sharpe!”
“Sir?” Sharpe pushed through the half-open door.
Christopher stood in front of the hall fire, the tails of his coat lifted to the heat. “Kate tells me you behaved yourself. Thank you for that.” He saw the thunder on Sharpe’s face. “It is a jest, man, a jest. Have you no sense of humor? Kate, dearest, a glass of decent port would be more than welcome. I’m parched, fair parched. So, Sharpe, no French activity?”
“They came close,” Sharpe said curtly, “but not close enough.”
“Not close enough? You’re fortunate in that, I should think. Kate tells me you are leaving.”
“Tonight, sir.”
“No, you’re not.” Christopher took the glass of port from Kate and downed it in one. “That is delicious,” he said, staring at the empty glass, “one of ours?”
“Our best,” Kate said.
“Not too sweet. That’s the trick of a fine port, wouldn’t you agree, Sharpe? And I must say I’ve been surprised by the white port. More than drinkable! I always thought the stuff was execrable, a woman’s tipple at best, but Savages’ white is really very good. We must make more of it in the piping days of peace, don’t you think, dearest?”
“If you say so,” Kate said, smiling at her husband.
“That was rather good, Sharpe, don’t you think? Pipes of port? Piping days of peace? A piping pun, I’d say.” Christopher waited for Sharpe’s comment and, when none came, he scowled. “You’ll stay here, Lieutenant.”
“Why’s that, sir?” Sharpe asked.
The question surprised Christopher. He had been expecting a more surly response and was not ready for a mildly voiced query. He frowned, thinking how to phrase his answer. “I am expecting developments, Sharpe,” he said after a few heartbeats.
“Developments, sir?”
“It is by no means certain,” Christopher went on, “that the war will be prolonged. We could, indeed, be on the very cusp of peace.”
“That’s good, sir,” Sharpe said in an even voice, “and that’s why we’re to stay here?”
“You’re to stay here, Sharpe.” There was asperity in Christopher’s voice now as he realized Sharpe’s neutral tone had been impudence. “And that applies to you too, Lieutenant.” He spoke to Vicente who had come into the room with a small bow to Kate. “Things are poised,” the Colonel went on, “precariously. If the French find British troops wandering around north of the Douro they’ll think we are breaking our word.”
“My troops are not British,” Vicente observed quietly.
“The principle is the same!” Christopher snapped. “We do not rock the boat. We do not jeopardize weeks of negotiation. If the thing can be resolved without more bloodshed then we must do all that we can to ensure that it is so resolved, and your contribution to that process is to stay here. And who the devil are those rogues down in the village?”
“Rogues?” Sharpe asked.
“A score of men, armed to the teeth, staring at me as I rode through. So who the devil are they?”
“Partisans,” Sharpe said, “otherwise known as our allies.”
Christopher did not like that jibe. “Idiots, more like,” he snarled,
“ready to upset the apple cart.”
“And they’re led by a man you know,” Sharpe went on, “Manuel Lopes.”
“Lopes? Lopes?” Christopher frowned, trying to remember. “Oh yes! The fellow who ran a flogging school for the few sons of the gentry in Bragança. Blustery sort of fellow, eh? Well, I’ll have a word with him in the morning. Tell him not to upset matters, and the same goes for you two. And that”—he looked from Sharpe to Vicente—“is an order.”
Sharpe did not argue. “Did you bring an answer from Captain Hogan?” he asked instead.
“I didn’t see Hogan. Left your letter at Cradock’s headquarters.”
“And General Wellesley’s not here?” Sharpe asked.
“He is not,” Christopher said, “but General Cradock is, and he commands, and he concurs with my decision that you stay here.” The Colonel saw the frown on Sharpe’s face and opened a pouch at his belt from which he took a piece of paper that he handed to Sharpe. “There, Lieutenant,” he said silkily, “in case you’re worried.”
Sharpe unfolded the paper, which proved to be an order signed by General Cradock and addressed to Lieutenant Sharpe that placed him under Colonel Christopher’s command. Christopher had gulled the order from Cradock who had believed the Colonel’s assurance that he needed protection, though in truth it simply amused Christopher to have Sharpe put under his command. The order ended with the words “pro tem,” which puzzled Sharpe. “Pro tem, sir?” he asked.
“You never learned Latin, Sharpe?”
“No, sir.”
“Good God, where did you go to school? It means for the time being. Until, indeed, I am through with you, but you do agree, Lieutenant, that you are now strictly under my orders?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Keep the paper, Sharpe,” Christopher said irritably when Sharpe tried to hand back General Cradock’s order, “it’s addressed to you, for God’s sake, and looking at it once in a while might remind you of your duty. Which is to obey my orders and stay here. If there is a truce then it won’t hurt our bargaining position to say we have troops established well north of the Douro, so you dig your heels in here and you stay very quiet. Now, if you’ll pardon me, gentlemen, I’d like some time with my wife.”
Vicente bowed again and left, but Sharpe did not move. “You’ll be staying here with us, sir?”
“No.” Christopher seemed uncomfortable with the question, but forced a smile. “You and I, my darling”—he turned to Kate—“will be going back to House Beautiful.”
“You’re going to Oporto!” Sharpe was astonished.
“I told you, Sharpe, things are changing. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ So good night to you, Lieutenant.”
Sharpe went out onto the driveway where Vicente was standing by the low wall that overlooked the valley. The Portuguese lieutenant was gazing at the half-dark sky which was punctured by the first stars. He offered Sharpe a rough cigar and then his own to light it from. “I talked to Luis,” Vicente said.
“And?” Sharpe rarely indulged and almost choked on the harsh smoke.
“Christopher has been back north of the Douro for five days. He’s been in Porto talking to the French.”
“But he did go south?”
Vicente nodded. “They went to Coimbra, met General Cradock, then came back. Captain Argenton returned to Porto with him.”
“So what the hell is going on?”
Vicente blew smoke at the moon. “Maybe they do make peace. Luis does not know what they talked about.”
So maybe it was peace. There had been just such a treaty after the battles at Rolica and Vimeiro and the defeated French had been taken home on British ships. So was a new treaty being made? Sharpe was at least reassured that Christopher had seen Cradock, and now Sharpe had definitive orders that took away much of the uncertainty.
The Colonel left shortly after dawn. At sunrise there had been a stuttering crackle of musketry somewhere to the north and Christopher had joined Sharpe on the driveway and stared into the valley’s mist. Sharpe could see nothing with his telescope, but Christopher was impressed by the glass. “Who is AW?” he asked Sharpe, reading the inscription.
“Just someone I knew, sir.”
“Not Arthur Wellesley?” Christopher sounded amused.
“Just someone I knew,” Sharpe repeated stubbornly.
“Fellow must have liked you,” Christopher said, “because it’s a damned generous gift. Mind if I take it to the rooftop? I might see more from there and my own telescope’s an evil little thing.”
Sharpe did not like relinquishing the glass, but Christopher gave him no chance to refuse, and just walked away. He evidently saw nothing to worry him for he ordered the gig harnessed and told Luis to collect the remaining cavalry horses that Sharpe had captured at Barca d’Avintas. “You can’t be bothered with horses, Sharpe,” he said, “so I’ll take them off your hands. Tell me, what do your fellows do during the day?”
“There isn’t much to do,” Sharpe said. “We’re training Vicente’s men.”
“Need it, do they?”
“They could be quicker with their muskets, sir.”
Christopher had brought a cup of coffee out of the house and now blew on it to cool the liquid. “If there’s peace,” he said, “then they can go back to being cobblers or whatever it is they do when they ain’t shambling about the place in ill-fitting uniforms.” He sipped his coffee. “Speaking of which, Sharpe, it’s time you got yourself a new one.”
“I’ll talk to my tailor,” Sharpe said and then, before Christopher could react to his insolence, asked a serious question. “You think there will be peace, sir?”
“Quite a few of the Frogs think Bonaparte’s bitten off more than he can chew,” Christopher said airily, “and Spain, certainly, is probably indigestible.”
“Portugal isn’t?”
“Portugal’s a mess,” Christopher said dismissively, “but France can’t hold Portugal if she can’t hold Spain.” He turned to watch Luis leading the gig from the stable. “I think there’s the real prospect of radical change in the air,” he said. “And you, Sharpe, won’t jeopardize it. Lie low here for a week or so and I’ll send word when you can take your fellows south. With a little luck you’ll be home by June.”
“You mean back with the army?”
“I mean home in England, of course,” Christopher said, “proper ale, Sharpe, thatched roofs, cricket on the Artillery Ground, church bells, fat sheep, plump parsons, pliant women, good beef, England. Something to look forward to, eh, Sharpe?”
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said and wondered why he mistrusted Christopher most when the Colonel was trying to be pleasant.
“There’s no point in you trying to leave anyway,” Christopher said, “the French have burned every boat on the Douro, so keep your lads out of trouble and I’ll see you in a week or two”—Christopher threw away the rest of his coffee and held his hand out to Sharpe—“and if not me, I shall send a message. I left your telescope on the hall table, by the way. You’ve got a key to the house, haven’t you? Keep your fellows out of it, there’s a good chap. Good day to you, Sharpe.”
“And to you, sir,” Sharpe said, and after he had shaken the Colonel’s hand he wiped his own on his French breeches. Luis locked the house, Kate smiled shyly at Sharpe and the Colonel took the gig’s reins. Luis collected the dragoons’ horses then followed the gig down the drive toward Vila Real de Zedes.
Harper strolled over to Sharpe. “We’re to stay here while they make peace?” The Irishman had evidently been eavesdropping.
“That’s what the man said.”
“And is that what you think?”
Sharpe stared into the east, toward Spain. The sky there was white, not with cloud, but heat, and there was a thumping in that eastern distance, an irregular heartbeat, so far off as to be barely heard. It was cannon fire, proof that the French and the Portuguese were still fighting over the
bridge at Amarante. “It doesn’t smell like peace to me, Pat.”
“The folk here hate the French, sir. So do the Dons.”
“Which doesn’t mean the politicians won’t make peace,” Sharpe said.
“Those slimy bastards will do anything that makes them rich,” Harper agreed.
“But Captain Hogan never smelt peace in the wind.”
“And there ain’t much passes him by, sir.”
“But we’ve got orders,” Sharpe said, “directly from General Cradock.”
Harper grimaced. “You’re a great man for obeying orders, sir, so you are.”
“And the General wants us to stay here. God knows why. There’s something funny in the wind, Pat. Maybe it is peace. God knows what you and I will do then.” He shrugged, then went to the house to fetch his telescope and it was not there. The hall table held nothing except a silver letter holder.
Christopher had stolen the glass. The bastard, Sharpe thought, the utter goddamn bloody misbegotten bastard. Because the telescope was gone.
“I NEVER liked the name,” Colonel Christopher said. “It isn’t even a beautiful house!”
“My father chose it,” Kate said, “it’s from The Pilgrim’s Progress.”
“A tedious read, my God, how tedious!” They were back in Oporto where Colonel Christopher had opened the neglected cellars of the House Beautiful to discover dusty bottles of aging port and more of vinho verde, a white wine that was almost golden in color. He drank some now as he strolled about the garden. The flowers were coming into bloom, the lawn was newly scythed and the only thing that spoiled the day was the smell of burned houses. It was almost a month since the fall of the city and smoke still drifted from some of the ruins in the lower town where the stench was much worse because of the bodies among the ashes. There were tales of drowned bodies turning up on every tide.
Colonel Christopher sat under a cypress tree and watched Kate. She was beautiful, he thought, so very beautiful, and that morning he had summoned a French tailor, Marshal Soult’s personal tailor, and to Kate’s embarrassment he had made the man measure her for a French hussar uniform. “Why would I want to wear such a thing?” Kate had asked, and Christopher had not told her that he had seen a Frenchwoman dressed in just such a uniform, the breeches skintight and the short jacket cut high to reveal a perfect bum, and Kate’s legs were longer and better shaped, and Christopher, who was feeling rich because of the funds released to him by General Cradock, funds Christopher claimed were necessary to encourage Argenton’s mutineers, had paid the tailor an outrageous fee to have the uniform stitched quickly.