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Sharpe kept up a brisk pace to the end of the street to discourage Pat from following him and didn’t look back as he turned the corner out of sight. Then he slowed to something more manageable in his current state of depletion and walked towards the river, where he took a seat in a sheltered corner of the quay.
He watched a pair of urchins fighting over a pile of stinking fish scraps while others tried to prise a tarred lump of rope fender off a boat tied near the bridge before scattering at the approach of the owner. If he’d grown up here he’d probably have been a fisherman too, and ended up pressed into the Navy. He turned his face up to the sun and closed his eyes, welcoming the warmth, and tried to think through the conversation that was coming. Gisela’s letter had given him no clues, only asked him to call at his earliest convenience should he be well enough, and at this point it seemed just as likely that she was going to insist on fixing an early date for their wedding as that she was going to call the whole thing off.
His own position was clear: committing himself to a woman who had never been his first choice no longer seemed any basis for a marriage, and he had no wish to spend the rest of his life wondering what could have been if he’d only had the nerve to pursue what he really wanted. Whatever happened between him and Pat after this - and that was another conversation he didn't know how to start - he would start his life anew today.
The only question remaining was how to get out of the betrothal without Gisela bringing a breach of promise suit against him.
She would obviously be completely within her rights to do so, though he was sure he would be able to demonstrate that, financially and socially at least, she had lost nothing, nor would she, from having been betrothed to a man who had significantly lower social and financial capital than she did. Indeed in those areas she was more likely to benefit from him calling it off.
His trump card would be to threaten to expose that she had done nothing to care for him during his illness. He knew he was on sandy ground with that one - no-one of her own class would expect her to care for him personally, and she had witnesses to the fact that she had offered to have him brought to her house where she would hire doctors to care for him - but he thought she might be persuaded that it didn’t make her look good.
His best hope, he knew, was that she would decide to call the wedding off herself, but again it would depend on her reasons. If it was because of his relationship with Pat - whatever it may turn out to be - then that would be another matter altogether. He brooded on that for a few minutes then realised he really couldn’t put the meeting off any longer. He hauled himself to his feet.
Turning his back on the river he headed for the quiet streets where the rich had their town houses. Again he fell automatically into a fast marching pace, but by the time he reached the house, he was struggling to maintain it. He paused for a moment fifty yards short, telling himself he was merely checking the lie of the land before approaching.
The fine archway and elegant frontage with its many windows looked exactly as it had last time he was here. It still seemed strange to him that although his entire life had changed the moment Pat had told him how he felt, the rest of the world was still carrying on just as it had before.
As he approached the gateway, the usual guard stepped forward and greeted him politely. Sharpe had often wondered why Gisela felt she needed a guard, but had assumed that as she knew the town better than he did, she must have her reasons. He stopped suddenly at the realisation that he'd simply taken it as none of his concern, then shook his head dismissively. It definitely wasn’t his concern now.
"Morning Brant, Lady Brockman in?"
"Of course, Colonel Sharpe, sir, her ladyship gave orders that you were to be admitted immediately, whatever hour you arrived."
Sharpe followed the butler through the richly panelled hallway, his heels clicking on the polished floor. The air was still and heavy because Gisela liked the windows closed to keep out the sounds and smells of the rougher areas of town only a few streets away and he wondered how he had ever thought he could live here.
He’d never quite admitted it to himself before, but the place had always reminded him of the worst kind of officers’ mess, the ones where everyone else somehow knew how to use heavy silver cutlery on fine china without making a sound and they all looked sideways at each other when he couldn’t stop his knife scraping and clattering on his plate.
Sharpe passed the ancient clock still ticking in its old oak case, smiling wryly at the impressive pile of calling cards in the large mahogany tray under it, while all along the hall, the sun streaming through the end window illuminated the roses brought every day from the country, glowing ivory and peach in their fine Venetian vases.
He wondered if he would ever have a garden with flowers in it. There was no garden at Mrs Macklin’s house, and on the farm every inch of land was necessarily given over to crops that could be either eaten or sold, but after the years of fighting he thought he’d like to make a small space for himself somewhere that could be about colour and happiness and not just survival.
The scent of the roses along with hints of beeswax and lavender were reminding him of the many contented evenings he’d spent in this house, but it hadn’t escaped his notice that Roberts was leading him past Gisela's small parlour that she generally preferred when they weren’t expecting company, towards the amber room, a large salon so called because of the collection of exotic amber artefacts the late Lord Brockman had gathered during his long and distinguished career around the world in the British diplomatic service and had placed on display around the room on a wide variety of intricately carved shelves and cabinets.
The hallway turned to the left and now Sharpe walked past familiar portraits, ancestors of his late lordship. Gisela’s own ancestors glared down from the walls in the grand country house he'd grown to quite like during the six months since she'd accepted his proposal of marriage, though he couldn't quite understand now what had possessed him to do such a thing.
Gisela was a very beautiful woman, no doubt about that, and congenial and intelligent company, but a woman who would abandon him in illness to the likes of Frederickson was not fit to call Sharpe her husband, not in a thousand years. He felt himself growing angry again and slowed down to give himself more time.
Roberts turned to wait for him.
“Do you need any help, sir? We heard you’d been ill.”
“No, it’s all right, Roberts, I’d just forgotten how unfriendly some of these portraits are. Feel like that one’s going to jump right out of his frame and stab me in the back.”
“I believe that one was his late lordship’s grandfather, sir. My father was under-butler in his day and said he was a bit of a...”
The butler suddenly remembered who he was speaking to and cut himself off abruptly as they reached the salon.
“Here we are sir, if you’ll just wait there I’ll announce you.”
When Sharpe walked into the room Gisela was standing at the far end, silhouetted in the light from the window. She turned and took a few steps towards him.
“Richard, my dear, thank you for coming. Do sit down. Will you take some sherry?”
So there was to be at least the pretence of civility.
“It’s a little early for me but... thank you, I will, if it’s the one you had last time I was here? I liked that one.”
It had been very good sherry and Sharpe, who didn’t give much mind to the so-called finer things in life, had almost been tempted to buy some for himself until he’d learned the price, so he thought he might as well make the most of this last visit.
“Of course. Roberts?”
“I will ensure that it is, madam.” The butler bowed and left.
Gisela came slightly closer. She looked almost nervous, this woman who enjoyed making grand entrances at the Assembly Rooms, who had inherited all the confidence that uncounted generations of gentry and minor aristocracy could bestow.
Sharpe never had quite understood what she’d seen in him.
“Thank you so much for coming so promptly, Richard. Though I confess, I had expected to hear from you rather sooner."
“I sent notes as soon as I was able, did you not receive them?”
“I did, but...”
“I have been ill, as you will have observed. Ill unto death, they tell me now, not that I knew it at the time, but with Patrick Harper's help...”
“Ah yes, Mr Harper.”
“...I've come through it. As you see.”
She spoke quietly. “I saw the way you looked at Mr Harper.”
Sharpe felt a shiver in his belly. He hoped Gisela hadn't really understood what she was seeing, because the merest suspicion of acting inappropriately with a man would probably qualify as bringing the Regiment into disrepute and lose him his pension, and unlike Lord Pumphrey Sharpe had no private fortune and Foreign Office sinecure to cushion the blow, nor fine title to protect him. His pension and the minimal rent from Lucille’s farm were all that prevented him starving in the street and that, he suspected, was the main reason he’d fooled himself he felt enough for this woman to marry her.
He decided to call her bluff. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, Richard, that your Mr Harper is naught but an ignorant Irishman, impertinent and disrespectful to his betters, but you looked at him as if he were your life and salvation.”
Sharpe mentally wiped his brow in relief. Perhaps his face hadn’t been as open as he’d feared. But if Gisela despised Pat simply for being Irish that only strengthened his resolve to finish this today, to make a clean break of it. In truth, of course, the marriage had been doomed from the moment Pat had made his confession, though Sharpe had been too shocked to realise that at the time.
He brought himself back to the present and spoke firmly.
“That's because in some ways he is my life and salvation. Has been several times - a good Sergeant is worth twice his weight in gold, well you know this, I’ve told you before - but this last time I’m informed I truly would have died were it not for Pat turning up in the nick of time and looking after me. Which reminds me...”
Gisela looked uncomfortable.
“Richard, would you please come and sit down? It will make it easier to talk.”
He took the seat indicated, opposite hers in the light from the window overlooking the lavender garden, and sat back comfortably. Her letter, couched as it was in formal words that gave nothing away, had left everything unstated and he was determined to appear at ease as he waited to hear what she had to say.
“Colonel. Richard. I... I am not sure where to start.”
The butler entered with two glasses of sherry on the silver tray Sharpe had given Gisela for her birthday. It had cost him three months’ pension and he suspected that she only ever used it when he visited.
He lifted his glass as Roberts bowed his way back towards the door. “Will the Colonel be staying for lunch, my lady?”
Gisela looked towards Sharpe and he met her gaze blandly. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to prolong this, but in her world politeness was all, and there was really no point causing more unpleasantness than was already inevitable. Besides, the cook here was excellent. He sipped his sherry.
Gisela nodded. “Yes, have lunch for two served in half an hour. That will be all for now.”
After Roberts had gone, they sat and looked at each other in silence. Sharpe hadn’t troubled himself to dress up for this meeting, though luckily he had at least shaved before sitting down to breakfast. Gisela, however, was dressed in her customary expensive style - discreet gold jewellery heavy with emeralds and lustrous pearls, her dress in the latest London mode, hair already up in intricate curls despite the informal occasion - and she tapped her fan on the table as she collected her thoughts.
“As I mentioned, I saw the way you looked at Mr Harper.”
Sharpe kept his face blank.
“And I... I realised that though he is but a soldier, and an Irishman, he has done more for you these past weeks than I could have done. Had I the caring of you in your illness I would - as I offered - have hired doctors, apothecaries, the best possible care, but it would have been...”
She hesitated, looking away from Sharpe towards the window.
“It would have been my money, not my heart, caring for you. Richard, it is very difficult to say this, but..."
Sharpe was now almost certain that she was going to terminate their betrothal. It would suit him very well to be the injured party rather than a despicable cad who was suspiciously fond of his former sergeant, and he held his breath hopefully.
“But I do not feel...” She finally looked directly at him and said firmly, “I do not feel we are suited.”
She held up a hand to stop him speaking, and he did his best to look shocked and upset.
“I am so sorry, Richard. My... my feelings for you are... not as strong as I had thought. It pains me to say this and I am not proud of myself, but I wish to call off the wedding.”
“What, just like that? Because I was ill?”
“No, not because you were ill, but - as I have tried to explain - because of my reaction to that illness. My reaction was not that of a loving wife. You deserve better. I am so sorry, my dear.”
Sharpe sat silent for a moment, working out how he should react. He looked down at the table, hoping she would take his silence for disappointment. He decided to say as little as possible, which was after all his normal style. He looked up.
“I... I see. Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”
She looked unhappy, but to his cynical eye she looked as if she was getting over it already.
“I think not. I am so sorry.” She picked up her glass and he did the same, draining it quickly so as not to waste it if the situation called for him to storm out suddenly.
He put the glass down and made to stand up.
“Well, if there’s nothing more to say, I’ll be on my way.” He smiled slightly. “It was nice knowing you.”
As he’d expected she put out a hand to stop him.
“Richard, wait.” He sat back and did as she asked.
“My position in this town demands that an announcement be made.”
He nodded. “I suppose.”
“I informed the newspaper of your illness when the wedding was first postponed, but obviously at that time I expected to announce a new date once you were recovered.”
She looked almost uncertain for a moment, and Sharpe was struck by the realisation that he no longer believed that her beautiful face mirrored her feelings. He saw now that it was simply the means by which she showed the world what she wanted it to believe she was feeling.
“Well, it’s simple enough,” he said, as neutrally as he could manage. “Just tell them it’s off. It’s no-one else’s business why.”
“Richard, I live in this town. I shall continue to live in this town and in the fullness of time I may wish to contract a marriage with some other gentleman of this town. At the very least, I wish to continue to participate in the life of this town.”
“So?”
She put down the fan she had been using to cover the lower half of her face and looked at him very directly.
“So, I have no desire to be known as a woman who will jilt a perfectly adequate suitor simply because he falls ill.”
Bloody hell, “perfectly adequate”? Was that all he was? He sat up straighter, holding determinedly onto his manners.
“My lady, I am dizzied by so fine an accolade,” he said dryly. “I had no idea I stood so high in your estimation.” All this time he’d wondered how she thought he was good enough for the levels of society she moved in and it turned out the answer was “only just”. Well, fuck her. Or not, as it happened, he’d known from the beginning there’d be no liberties offered nor taken in that direction until they were wed.
“I am sorry, I merely meant...”
“I know what you meant. But what do you expect me to do about it?”
“I would be grateful if you were to announce that it is you that has called off the wedding.”
“No chance,” he said immediately. “Not going to happen. This is your doing, you own it.” He sat back to wait for her riposte.
“I could, of course, inform the world that I found you in the worst part of town in... suspicious circumstances... with a rough Irish soldier.”
“Christ, and I thought you were a lady.” He stared at her in disgust and she looked back calmly.
“You will see that it is in both our interests to reach some kind of accommodation on this.”
He thought about it for a few moments, for the look of it rather than any uncertainty about the outcome. He was still fairly sure that she suspected nothing and was merely using the threat of a scandal to get her own way, but if matters should ever come about that he had some kind of future with Pat, any talk, however untrue, about the specifics of their relationship to date would make things much more difficult. And Gisela knew too many people for him to believe that the story wouldn’t get around if she wanted it to.
“What kind of accommodation did you have in mind? I’m willing to go along with it being a mutual decision, if that’s what you want, but I’m not making any statements about it being my fault or my decision.”
She looked at him, lifting the fan to her face again, then nodded.
“Very well. I will have something drawn up. No reason will be given, only that it was mutually agreed and we wish each other well. I shall undertake to say nothing in public as to my reasons, and I would be grateful for your promise to do the same.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good, then we are agreed. Now, if that is all, I will have you shown out.” She rang the bell for Roberts and stood up.
Sharpe was slightly annoyed not to be getting the fine lunch he’d been rather looking forward to, but on the whole he thought he’d got off lightly. He followed her towards the door where she turned and offered him her hand to bow over as they waited.
“What will you do, Richard?”
“Do?”
“I imagine you will not stay here in town? You will return to London?”
“I think so, yes. It is more convenient for the Regiment.” Not that he had any intention of visiting the Regiment, but if she didn’t know that by now she’d been paying no attention to anything he’d told her in the past year.
In truth it wasn’t likely to be that simple. Pat spent a fair amount of time in London nowadays, but he still had a life and a business back in Dublin, while Sharpe had the farm in Normandy and the polite fiction in Chelmsford of consulting on promotions within the Regiment.
At this stage he didn’t even know whether, never mind how, he and Pat might combine their lives in the future, and only after that was resolved could he decide where to live.
As he followed Roberts back past the ancestors he reflected that it all depended on Pat now.
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