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 S’harpe 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.