‘Ducos! You’re monopolizing Major Sharpe.’ Dubreton cut in between them.
‘I thought Sharpe the most interesting of your guests.’ Ducos did not bother to say ‘sir’.
Dubreton’s dislike of the Major was obvious. ‘You should talk to Sir Augustus, Ducos. He’s written a book so he must be fascinating.’ Dubreton’s scorn of Sir Augustus was equally evident.
Ducos did not move. ‘Sir Augustus Farthingdale? A functionary only. Large parts of his book were drawn from Major Chamberlin’s of the 24th.’ He sipped his punch and looked about the room. ‘You have officers of the Fusiliers, one man from the South Essex, and one Rifleman, excluding yourself, Major Sharpe. Let me see now. One full Battalion? The Fusiliers. One Company of the 6oth, and your own Company. You were hoping to make us think you had more men?’
Sharpe smiled. ‘One Battalion of French infantry, one hundred and twenty Lancers, and one hundred and fifty Dragoons. And one functionary, Major. Yourself. We’re well matched.’
Dubreton laughed, Ducos scowled, and then the French Colonel took Sharpe’s elbow and led him away from the small man. ‘He is a functionary, but more dangerous than your Sir Augustus.’
Sharpe looked back at Ducos. ‘What is he?’
‘What he wills. He’s from Paris. He used to be one of Fouche’s right hand men.’
‘Fouché?’
‘How fortunate you are not to know the name.’ Dubreton took another glass of punch from a passing tray. ‘A policeman, Sharpe, working behind the scenes. He is periodically disgraced and loses the Emperor’s favour, but these men always come back.’ He jerked his head at Ducos. ‘Another fanatic, spying on his own side. For him today is not Christmas Day, it is the 5th of Nivose, year 20, and it does not matter to him that the Emperor abolished the Revolutionary Calendar. He bums with the passion.’
‘Why did you bring him?’
‘What choice do I have? He decides where he will go, who he speaks to.’
Sharpe turned to look at Ducos. The small Major smiled at Sharpe, revealing teeth stained red by the punch.
Dubreton ordered more wine for Sharpe. ‘You leave tomorrow?’
‘You must ask Sir Augustus. He’s in command.’
‘Really?’ Dubreton smiled, then turned as a door opened. ‘Ah! The ladies!’
New introductions were made all round, introductions that seemed to last five minutes, and hand after hand was ‘kissed, elaborate courtesies made, and then, with equal elaboration, Dubreton seated his guests. He himself had reserved a chair in the centre of the table, facing the door, and he steered Sir Augustus to a place beside him with exquisite grace. Ducos immediately took the chair on Farthingdale’s other side, and Sir Augustus looked in alarm for Josefina. Dubreton saw the look. ’Now, now, Sir Augustus! We have talking to do, much talking, and your beautiful wife is ever with you, whereas we only have the pleasure of your company for such short time.‘ He gestured with his hand to Josefina. ’Can I persuade you to sit opposite your husband, Lady Farthingdale? I trust there is no draught from the door. It is well curtained, but perhaps Major Sharpe would consent to sit beside you to protect you from the winter?‘
It had been neatly done. The French had Farthingdale where they wanted him. They planned to negotiate and were giving him no place to turn. Dubreton sat next to his own wife, rubbing salt into Sir Augustus’ wound, and Sharpe saw Sir Augustus looking painfully at Josefina. He wanted her close, he hated to see her away from him, and it seemed pathetic to Sharpe that a man should be so bereft because his whore was seven feet away.
Madame Dubreton smiled at Sharpe. ‘We meet under happier circumstances, Major.’
‘Indeed we do, Ma’am.‘
‘The last time I saw Major Sharpe,’ she addressed the table at large and conveniently forgot the meetings they had had in the Convent since her rescue, ‘he was bespattered with blood, holding a very large sword, and was extremely frightening.’ She smiled at him.
‘I apologize for that, Ma’am.‘
‘Please don’t. In retrospect it was a wonderful sight.’
‘It was your remembrance of Alexander Pope that made it possible, Ma’am.‘
She smiled. The tiredness had gone, her face seemed to be smoother, and she and Dubreton radiated a happiness in each other. ‘I always said poetry would be useful one day. Alexandre never believed me.’
Dubreton laughed, shrugged off the embarrassment of his name, and then conversation died away as a soup was served. Sharpe tasted it. It was a soup so delicious that he feared the second mouthful could not possibly live up to the promise of the first, yet it did, and seemed better, and he took more and then saw Dubreton was watching him with amusement. ‘Good?’
‘Magnificent.’
‘Chestnuts. It’s very simple, Major. Some vegetable stock, crushed chestnuts, butter and parsley. Cooking is so simple! The most difficult thing is to peel the chestnuts, but we have so many prisoners. Voila!’
‘Is that all there is in it?’
A French Dragoon Captain insisted there was cream in the soup, and a German Lancer protested that cooking was never simple because he had never managed to cook anything other than a boiled egg and even then it came out hard as a Cuirasseur’s breastplate, and a Fusilier Captain insisted he had seen men boil eggs by whirling them round and round in a cloth sling, taking forever, and Harold Price insisted on giving the recipe for a ‘tommy’, the British Army pancake, which consisted of nothing but flour and water, but still took Price two minutes to describe. Sir Augustus, feeling left out, said how astonished he was that the Portuguese ate only the leaves of the turnip and Josefina, feeling her country slighted, delicately insulted him by suggesting that only a heathen would eat any other part of a turnip, and then the soup was gone and Sharpe looked wistfully into the empty bowl.
A foot touched his, pressed, and he looked to Josefina on his left. She was speaking to a French Dragoon on her other side, a man who was leaning far forward to eat his soup so he could take glimpses into the neckline of her Empire dress. It had not been what she was wearing when Sharpe had rescued her and he stole a glance at Sir Augustus and realized that he must have brought the dress in his baggage. No wonder he hated any other man sitting next to her. The foot still pressed on his and then she turned to him, gave that hint of a wink. ‘Enjoy it?’
‘Delicious.’
An orderly poured him more wine, and Sharpe saw where the man’s fingernails were torn and stained by loading powder and pulling back flints.
Sir Augustus leaned forward. ‘My dear?’
‘Augustus?’
‘Are you not cold? The draught? May I have your shawl fetched?’
‘Cold, my dear? Not at all.’ She smiled at him, and her foot pushed up and down Sharpe’s ankle.
The door from the kitchen banged open and orderlies seemed to run to the table, each man with a tray of dishes, and on each dish a single bowl. The plates were steaming hot and Dubreton clapped his hands at the table. ‘Eat them quickly! They’re so much better eaten fast from the oven!’
Sharpe adjusted the plate and it scorched him. The bird was sitting on a slice of fried bread, golden beneath the dark brown glaze of the roasted skin.
‘Major! Eat!’
Josefina’s right foot pressed hard against Sharpe’s and he peeled a strip of the bird’s flesh away, tried it, and the meat seemed to dissolve in his mouth. It was impossible that anything could taste better than the soup, yet this was far better.
Dubreton smiled. ‘Good? Yes?’
‘Quite magnificent!’
Josefina looked at him. Most of the men at the table were looking at her and in the candlelight she was extraordinarily beautiful, her lips slightly parted, the smallest worry on her face. Her foot pressed almost to the point of hurting. ‘Are you sure you like it, Major?’
‘I’m sure.’ He pressed back, turned to Dubreton. ‘Partridge?’
‘Of course.’ Dubreton spoke between mouthfuls. ‘Butter, salt and pepper i
nside the bird, two vine leaves on the outside with some pork fat. You see? Simple!’
Sir Augustus, still smarting from the rebuke over turnips, cheered up. ‘You should try fat bacon, Colonel! Much better than pork fat. My dear Mother always insisted on fat bacon.’
Josefina’s foot was now hooked round Sharpe’s ankle, pulling his leg closer. An orderly served her other neighbour wine and she moved her chair, seemingly to give him room, and then her knee was touching Sharpe’s.
‘Fat bacon!’ Dubreton had sucked a bone clean and discarded it. ‘My dear Sir Augustus! It fights the juice of the bird! And bacon burns!’ He smiled at Josefina. ‘You must change his habits, Milady, and insist on nothing but pork fat.’
She nodded, her mouth full, then dabbed at his lips. ‘No herbs, Colonel?’
‘Beautiful lady.’ Dubreton smile. ‘A young bird needs no herbs. An older bird? Yes, perhaps. A little thyme, parsley, perhaps a bay leaf.’
She paused with a forkful of breast-meat an inch from her mouth. ‘I shall always remember to have young birds, Colonel.’ Her knee rubbed Sharpe.
An orderly put more logs on the fire and somewhere in the village mens’ voices sang together, while other orderlies moved round the table and gave everyone a second glass of wine, lighter red than the first, and when Sharpe moved to pick up the new glass Dubreton stopped him. ‘Wait, Major! That’s for your main dish. Stay with your, what do you call it, claret! Stay with your claret for the moment.’
Josefina’s other neighbour had shifted his chair closer so that his view was not impaired. Sir Augustus pushed half of his partridge away, uneaten, and stared unhappily across the table. Josefina was dazzling the Dragoon Captain, fingering the silver wire of his epaulette, and asking him how he cleaned it. Sharpe smiled to himself. She was superb. As untrustworthy as a cheap sword in battle, but the years had not palled her excitement or her mischief. He saw Ducos’ eyes on him, the spectacles flashing on and off with candle- light as the Major chewed, and it seemed to Sharpe that Ducos smiled because he knew what was happening.
Harry Price was explaining cricket to one of the Frenchwomen, using a blend of English and outrageous French. ‘He bowls la balle, oui? And he frappes it avec le baton! Comme ca!’ Price made a stroke with his knife that rang loud on the edge of a wineglass. His flushed face smiled an apology at the senior officers who turned to look.
A French major egged Price on. ‘The same man? He throws and hits?’
‘Non, non, non!’ Price drank from the wineglass. ‘Onze hommes, oui? Une homme bowls et une homme frappes. Dix catch. Une homme from autre side frappes comme le man bowls. Simple!’
The French Major explained cricket to the rest of the table, making much of ‘une homme’ and ’le frapping‘, and the laughter was unforced, the room warm, and the wine good. Christmas evening with the French? Sharpe leaned back in his chair and it seemed so strange, no, more than strange, unnatural that tomorrow these same men might be trying to kill each other. Price was offering to teach the French cricket in the morning, but Sharpe’s instincts warned him of a different game.
Josefina’s foot was still for the moment, hooked about his ankle while she listened to the Dragoon tell a long story about a ball in Paris. That would be tojosefina’s liking. Paris would be heaven to her, a mythical city where a beautiful woman could walk for ever on soft carpets beneath crystal lights receiving the homage of dazzling uniforms. He thought to remove his foot, knowing he did not want her, but he could not summon the energy or desire to move. He looked at Farthingdale, unhappily defending his book against Ducos’ surprising knowledge, and Sharpe supposed that he was flirting with Josefina because he disliked Sir Augustus so much. He did it, too, because he was weak. If Sir Augustus was not guarding her tonight Sharpe knew he would not resist the temptation. He shifted his foot a fraction and she tightened the pressure fiercely.
Dubreton leaned forward as the orderlies removed the remains of the partridges. ‘You’re looking warm, Lady Farthingdale. Would you like a window opened?’
‘No, Colonel.’ She smiled at him, her black hair curled about her face, her mastery of the men at the table absolute. There was something satisfying in having her attention, albeit hidden, though Sharpe guessed she might have extended it to any neighbour.
The kitchen doors opened again and this time a variety of dishes appeared, all hot, and orderlies put new plates before each diner. The smell was tantalizing. Dubreton clapped his hands. ‘Lady’Farthingdale! Sir Augustus! Ladies and gentlemen. You will have to forgive us. No goose this Christmas, no hog’s head, not even a roasted swan. Alas! I tried for beef in our guests’ honour, but nothing. You will have to put up with this humble dish. Major Sharpe? You will assist Lady Farthingdale? Sir Augustus? Allow me.‘
There were three kinds of meat on one set of plates, next to dishes of beans that seemed to be topped with breadcrumbs, and then there were bowls of crisp, brown, roasted potatoes. Sharpe had a passion for roasted potatoes and he worked out in his head how many bowls were on the table, how many potatoes in each, and how many guests had to share them. He offered some to Josefina. ‘Milady?’
‘No thank you, Major.’ Her knee rubbed his. Sharpe was sure that Sir Augustus must see what was happening, Josefina was so close to him now that their elbows rubbed whenever they ate. There had been a time when he had murdered for this woman and back then he would never have believed that such a grand passion could fade into mere affection.
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ Sharpe helped himself to her share of the potatoes as well as his own. He would hide the excess under the beans.
Dubreton helped himself last, then looked to see that everyone had a full plate. ‘This should cheer your English hearts. Your Lord Wellington’s favourite dish, mutton!’ But mutton as Sharpe had never seen it, nothing like the yellow-brown, greasy meat that the Peer ate with such relish. Dubreton’s thin face was full of pleasure. ‘You roast the mutton, but only a little, and then you add the garlic sausage and the half roasted duck. Alas, it should be goose, but we have none. You cook them in the beans, then separate them.’ The beans were delicious, white and swollen, and there were tiny squares of crisp, roasted pork rind among them. Dubreton speared a single bean. ‘You cook the beans in water and you must throw the water away, you know that?’
The British shook their heads, looking puzzled, and Dubreton continued. ‘The water of flageolots is stinking, horrid. You can tell a slattern because she does not throw it far enough from the house. However!’ He held the bean up, smiled. ‘You can bottle the water, yes? Then you will have a substance that will take the most stubborn stains from linen. You see how much you have to learn from us? Now eat!’
Dubreton had apologized for the main course, but the apology was needless for the food, once more, exceeded Sharpe’s experience and the potatoes, to his secret delight, were so crisp that each threatened to explode like a small shell and skid across the white table-cloth. He drank the lighter wine and he understood why Dubreton had insisted that they save it for this course, and he felt wonderfully good, relaxed, and he laughed as Harry Price complained that beans always gave him flatulence and solemnly speared each one to release the hidden gas he insisted was within. The mention of gas prompted a question from Dubreton whether it was true that London already had gas lighting, and Sharpe said it was, and Madame Dubreton wanted to know exactly where and then she sighed at the answer. ‘Pall Mall! I haven’t seen the Mall for nine years.’
‘You will, Ma’am, again.‘
Josefina leaned close to Sharpe, her hair brushing his own. ‘Will you take me to London?’
‘Whenever you like.’
‘Tonight?’ She was smiling at him, teasing him, her thigh. pressing rhythmically against his.
‘I didn’t hear your words, my dear?’ Sir Augustus, unable to contain his anger, leaned forward.
She smiled at him prettily. ‘I was counting the potatoes on Major Sharpe’s plate. I think he is very
greedy.’
‘A man needs his strength.’ Ducos said, his eyes going back and forth between Sharpe and Josefina.
‘Which is why you eat so little, Major?’ She smiled at Ducos and it was true that the small, plain-dressed man picked fussily at his food and ate little. She leaned back towards Sharpe and put her fork over his plate. ‘One, two, three, four, five, you’ve eaten part of that one, six.’ Her knee and thigh were hard against him. She lowered her voice. ‘He sleeps like the dead. Three o’clock?‘
‘Qui vive?’ The shout was from outside the inn, the French challenge.
Josefina’s fork was in her left hand, her right hand was beneath the table, its fingers running up the junction of green cloth and leather of his French overalls. ‘Eight, nine. Ten potatoes, Major? Yes?’
‘Three and a half would be better.’ He said. He could smell her hair. She was hovering over his plate with the fork, deciding which potato to prong. She picked one, leaned away from him, and held the potato to his mouth. ‘For your strength, Major.’
He opened his mouth, the fork came forward, and then the challenge was repeated, the door was hammered, opened, and the thick curtain was swept aside letting in a flurry of freezing air.
The diners stopped, forks halfway to their mouths, Josefina’s fork an inch from Sharpe’s lips, and there in the doorway stood Patrick Harper, grinning, and beside him, much smaller, her eyes dark, her hair black inside her hood, was Teresa. Sharpe’s wife.
‘Hello, husband.’
Chapter 17
She would not enter the inn, not Teresa, not while French officers were there. She hated the French with all the passion of her passionate soul. They had raped and killed her mother, she repaid them by killing as many as she could find and ambush in the border hills. Sharpe walked with her down the village street, towards the Convent, and she looked up at him. ‘Forgotten how to eat, Richard?’
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy Page 77