“That’s what he always says.’ Sharpe dropped the sword, turned away, and Teresa was smiling at him, offering him the bundle, and he began crying, he did not know why, and he took his daughter into his arms and held her, kissed her, tasting the blood on her throat. She was his. A baby, a daughter, Antonia; crying, alive, and his.
EPILOGUE
They were married the next day by a priest who shook with fear because the city was still being sacked and there were flames over the rooftops and screams in the streets. Sharpe’s men, those who had come to the house, tidied up the courtyard and threw out the drunks. It seemed a strange place to be getting married. Clayton, Peters and Gutteridge guarded the main gate with loaded muskets, acrid smoke drifted into the court, and Sharpe did not understand a word of the ceremony. Harper and Hogan, their faces, in Sharpe’s opinion, stupidly happy, looked on. The Sergeant had whooped with joy when Sharpe told him that he and Teresa would marry; Harper had thumped Sharpe’s back as if they were the same rank, and claimed that he and Isabella were very happy for them.
‘Isabella?’
“The wee girl, sir.’
‘She’s still here?’ Sharpe’s back felt as if it had been struck by a French four-pounder.
Harper blushed. ‘I think she may want to stay on with me, for a wee bit, you understand. That’s if you don’t mind, sir.’
‘Mind? Why should I mind? But how the hell do you know? You don’t speak Spanish, she doesn’t speak English.’
‘A man can tell these things.’ Harper said the words mysteriously, as if Sharpe would not understand. Then he smiled. ‘But I’m glad you’re doing the right thing, sir, so I am.’
Sharpe had laughed. ‘Who the hell are you to tell me what the right thing is?’
Harper shrugged. ‘I’m the true faith, so I am. You’ll have to bring the wee one up a Catholic.’ ‘I don’t intend to bring the wee one up.’ ‘Aye, that’s true. It’s woman’s work, sure enough.’ ‘I don’t mean that.’ He meant that Teresa would not stay with the army, nor he go to the hills, and so he would still be away from his child and his wife. Not for a while, but the time would come when she would leave, and he wondered if he was marrying only to give Antonia a name, her legitimacy, something he had never had himself. He was embarrassed by the ceremony, if a frightened priest standing among grinning soldiers constituted a ceremony, yet he felt a shy joy, was touched by pride because Teresa was beside him, and he supposed he loved her. Jane Gibbons was many miles and more impossibilities away. He listened to the words, felt awkward, and watched the happiness on Teresa’s aunt’s face.
Man and wife, father of a child, Captain of a company, and Sharpe looked up, past the trees, into the wide sky where the kestrels hung, and then Teresa plucked his elbow, spoke something in Spanish and he thought he knew what she had said. He looked down at her, at the slim beauty, the dark, strong eyes, and he felt a terrible fool because Harper was grinning, just as Hogan and the Company were grinning, and the girl, Isabella, was crying for happiness. Sharpe smiled at his wife. ‘I love you.’ He kissed her, remembering that first kiss, beneath the lances, and it had led here. He smiled at the thought, because he was glad, and Teresa, happy that he was smiling, clutched his arm.
‘I can kiss the bride, Richard?’ Hogan beamed at them both, clasped Teresa, and planted a huge kiss on her that made Sharpe’s men cheer. The aunt clapped them, spoke in quick-fire Spanish at Sharpe, and then brushed at the remains of dirt and blood on his uniform. Then Lieutenant Price insisted on kissing the bride, and the bride insisted on kissing Patrick Harper, and Sharpe tried to hide his happiness because he believed that to show an emotion, any emotion, was to expose a weakness.
‘Here.’ Hogan held up a cup of wine. “With the compliments of the bride’s uncle. Your health, Richard.’