“Beautiful words,” Bang said happily.
“Indeed,” Sharpe said, his relief making him sound fervent.
Bang finally abandoned Sharpe’s soul. “You have met Mister Skovgaard before?” he asked.
“No.” They were on a causeway that crossed the canal and Sharpe at last was feeling safe.
“I ask because it is rumored that England is sending an army to take our fleet. Is that true, do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
Bang glanced at the saber scabbard that Sharpe had let drop now that they were out of the city and in the less populated suburbs. “I think you are a soldier, perhaps,” Bang said.
“I was,” Sharpe said curtly.
“The buttons on your coat, yes? And the sword. I wanted to be a soldier, but my father believed I should learn business and Mister Skovgaard is a very able teacher. I am lucky, I think. He is a good man.”
“And rich?” Sharpe asked sourly. They had left the road to walk through a cemetery, but beyond the graveyard’s low wall he could see big houses standing in tree-shaded gardens.
“He is wealthy, yes,” Bang said, “but in matters of the spirit he is poor. His son died, as did his wife, God bless their souls, as did his daughter’s husband and her son. Four deaths in three years! Now all that is left is Mister Skovgaard and Astrid.”
Something in Bang’s voice made Sharpe glance at him. So that was how the land lay. Skovgaard had a daughter and no son, which meant the daughter would inherit. “And the daughter,” Sharpe asked, “she hasn’t married again?”
“Not yet,” Bang said with studied carelessness, then he unlatched the cemetery gate and waved Sharpe through.
They walked up a street edged with trees until they reached a white-painted gate beyond which lay one of the big houses. Its bricks and red roof tiles were hardly discolored, suggesting the house was only a year or two old. Back in the city a church sclock struck half past eight, the sound echoed by other church bells in the suburbs as Bang led Sharpe up the long carriage drive.
An elderly servant, soberly dressed in a brown suit with silver buttons, opened the door. He did not seem surprised to see Aksel Bang, though he frowned at the mud and hay on Sharpe’s coat. Bang spoke in Danish to the servant who bowed and left. “You will tarry here, please,” Bang told Sharpe, “and I shall tell Mister Skovgaard of your coming.” Bang disappeared down a short paneled corridor while Sharpe looked around the tiled hall. A crystal chandelier hung above him, an eastern rug was underfoot and from one of the closed doors came the sound of tinkling music. A spinet or harpsichord, Sharpe was not sure which. He took off his hat and caught sight of himself in a gilt-framed looking glass that hung above a spindly table on which a china bowl held a pile of visiting cards. He grimaced at his reflection, picked some more hay off his coat and tried to smooth his hair. The music had stopped and Sharpe, still staring at the mirror, saw the door behind him open.
He turned and for the first time since Grace had died he felt his heart leap.
A girl dressed all in black stood looking at him with an expression of astonished delight. She was tall, very fair-haired and blue-eyed. Later, much later, Sharpe would notice she had a wide forehead, a generous mouth, a long straight nose and a quick laugh, but at that moment he just stared at her and she stared back and the welcoming look of pleasure on her face died to be replaced by a puzzled sadness. She said something in Danish.
“I’m sorry,” Sharpe said.
“You are English?” she asked, sounding surprised.
“Yes, miss.”
She stared at him oddly, then shook her head. “You look so like someone else”-she paused-“someone I knew.” There were tears in her eyes. “I am Skovgaard’s daughter,” she introduced herself. “Astrid.”
“Richard Sharpe, miss,” he said. “You speak good English.”
“My mother was English.” She glanced down the corridor. “You are here to see my father?”
“I hope so.”
“Then I am sorry to have disturbed you,” she said.