“My husband is a poor sailor,” Lady Grace said calmly.
“And you, my lady, are not?” Pohlmann asked.
“I like the sea,” she said, almost indignantly. “I have always liked the sea.”
Cromwell laughed. “They say, my lady, that those who would go to sea for pleasure would visit hell as a pastime.”
She shrugged, as if what others said made no difference to her. Major Dalton took up the burden of the conversation. “Have you ever been seasick, Sharpe?”
“No, sir, I’ve been lucky.”
“Me neither,” Dalton said. “My mother always believed beefsteak was a specific against the condition.”
“Beefsteak, fiddlesticks,” Cromwell growled. “Only rum and oil will serve.”
“Rum and oil?” Pohlmann asked with a grimace.
“You force a pint of rum down the patient’s throat and follow it with a pint of oil. Any oil will do, even lamp oil, for the patient will void it utterly, but next day he’ll feel lively as a trivet.” Cromwell turned a jaundiced eye on Lady Grace. “Should I send the rum and oil to your cabin, my lady?”
Lady Grace did not even bother to reply. She gazed at the paneling where a small oil painting of an English country church swayed to the ship’s motion.
“So how long will this storm last?” Mathilde asked in her accented English.
“Storm?” Cromwell cried. “You think this is a storm? This, ma’am, is nothing but a blow. Nothing but a morsel of wind and rain that will do no harm to man or ship. A storm, ma’am, is violent, violent! This is gentle to what we might meet off the Cape.”
No one had the stomach for a dessert of suet and currants, so instead Pohlmann suggested a hand of whist in his cabin. “I have some fine brandy, Captain,” he said, “and if Major Dalton is willing to play we can make a foursome? I know Sharpe won’t play.” He indicated himself and Mathilde as the other players, then smiled at Lady Grace. “Unless I could persuade you to play, my lady?”
“I don’t,” she said in a tone suggesting that Pohlmann had invited her to wallow in his vomit. She stood, somehow managing to stay graceful despite the lurching of the ship, and the men immediately pushed their chairs back and stepped aside to let her leave the cabin.
“Stay and finish your wine, Sharpe,” Pohlmann said, leading his whist players out.
Sharpe was left alone in the cuddy. He finished his wine, then fetched the decanter from its metal frame on the sideboard, and poured himself another glass. Night had fallen and the frigate, anxious that the convoy should not scatter in the darkness, was firing a gun every ten minutes. Sharpe told himself he would stay for three guns, then make his way into the fetid hold and try to sleep.
Then the door opened and Lady Grace came back into the cuddy.
She had a scarf about her neck, hiding the pearls and the smooth white skin of her shoulders. She gave Sharpe an unfriendly glance and ignored his awkward greeting. Sharpe expected her to leave straightaway, assuming she had merely come to fetch something she had left in the cuddy, but to his surprise she sat in Cromwell’s chair and frowned at him. “Sit down, Mister Sharpe.”
“Some wine, my lady?”
“Sit down,” she said firmly.
Sharpe sat at the opposite end of the table. The empty brass chandelier swung from the beam, reflecting flashes of the candlelight that came from the two shielded lanterns on the bulkheads. The nickering flames accentuated the high bones of Lady Grace’s face. “How well do you know the Baron von Dornberg?” she asked abruptly.
Sharpe blinked, surprised by the question. “Not well, my lady.”
“You met him in India?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where?” she demanded peremptorily. “How?”
Sharpe frowned. He had promised not to give away Pohlmann’s identity, so he would need to treat Lady Grace’s insistence tactfully. “I served with a Company exploring officer for a while, ma’am,” he said, “and he frequently rode behind enemy lines. That’s when I met P-the baron.” He thought for a second or two. “I maybe met him four times, perhaps five?”
“Which enemy?”