“It’s just his address,” Sharpe said. “He says I should report to him when I get back.”
“Nonsense,” Lavisser said, though he did not appear offended that Sharpe had lied to him. “If my guess is any good then it’s the name of a man in Copenhagen who might help us, a name, I might add, that the suspicious bastards at the Foreign Office refused to give me. Divide and rule, that’s the Foreign Office way. Aren’t you going to tell me the name?”
“If I remember it,” Sharpe said. “I threw the paper overboard.”
Lavisser laughed at that untruth. “Don’t tell me little Pumps told you to keep it secret! He did? Poor little Pumps, he sees conspiracy everywhere. Well, so long as one of us has the name I suppose it don’t matter.” He looked upward as the topsails were released. The canvas shook loudly until the seamen sheeted the sails home. Men slid down shrouds and scrambled along spars to loose the mainsails. It was all so very familiar to Sharpe after his long voyage home from India. Captain Samuels, heavy and tall, stood at the white line which marked off the quarterdeck from the rest of the flush-decked frigate. He said nothing, just watched his men.
“How long a voyage is it?” Sharpe asked Lavisser.
“A week? Ten days? Sometimes much longer. It all depends on Aeolus, our god of the winds. May he blow us swiftly and safely.”
Sharpe grunted an acknowledgment, then just stared ashore where the herring smokers made a haze over the land. He leaned on the stern rail, suddenly wishing he was anywhere but at sea.
Lavisser leaned on the rail beside him. “You ain’t happy, Sharpe,” the guardsman said. Sharpe frowned at the words, which struck him as intrusive. He said nothing, but was acutely aware of Lavisser so close beside him. “Let me guess.” The Guards Captain raised his eyes to the wheeling gulls and pretended to think for a while, then looked at Sharpe again. “My guess, Sharpe, is that you met Lady Grace Hale on shipboard and that you’ve not been afloat since.” He held up a cautionary hand when he saw the anger in Sharpe’s eyes. “My dear Sharpe, please don’t mistake me. I feel for you, indeed I do. I met the Lady Grace once. Let me see? It must be a dozen years or more ago and I was only a sprat of fifteen, but I could spot a beauty even then. She was lovely.”
Sharpe said nothing, just watched Lavisser.
“She was lovely and she was clever,” the Guards Captain went on softly, “and then she was married off to a tedious old bore. And you, Sharpe, forgive my being forward, gave her a time of happiness. Isn’t that something to remember with satisfaction?” Lavisser waited for Sharpe to respond, but the rifleman said nothing. “Am I right?” Lavisser asked gently.
“She left me in bloody misery,” Sharpe admitted. “I can’t seem to shake it. And, yes, being on a ship brings it back.”
“Why should you shake it?” Lavisser asked. “My dear Sharpe, may I call you Richard? That’s kind of you. My dear Richard, you should be in mourning. She deserves it. The greater the affection, the greater the mourning. And it’s been cruel for you. All the gossip! It’s no one’s business what you and Lady Grace did.”
“It was everyone’s business,” Sharpe said bitterly.
“And it will pass,” Lavisser said gently. “Gossip is ephemeral, Richard, it vanishes like dew or smoke. Your grief remains, the rest of the world will forget. They’ve mostly forgotten already.”
“You haven’t.”
Lavisser smiled. “I’ve been racking my brains all day trying to place you. It only came to me as we climbed aboard.” A rush of feet interrupted them as seamen came aft to secure the mizzen sheets. The great sail banged above their heads, then was brought under control and the frigate picked up speed. Her ensign, blue because the fleet’s commander was an Admiral of the Blue, flapped crisply in the evening wind. “The grief will pass, Richard,” Lavisser went on in a low voice, “it will pass. I had a sister who died, a dear thing, and I grieved for her. It’s not the same, I know, but we should not be ashamed of demonstrating our feelings. Not when it is grief for a lovely woman.”