Another clerk knocked at the door, entered the room and, without looking at Sharpe, just as a jury would not look at a condemned man, carried a leather folder of papers to the desk. He selected one sheet and gave it to Fenner who read it, signed it swiftly, then looked up at Sharpe. ‘That letter, Major Sharpe, informs His Royal Highness that you cannot, by my orders, attend on him this night. Nor indeed on any other night. Give me the postings!’ He took another piece of paper from the clerk, ran his finger down the list, and stabbed with his nail. ‘That one.’
‘Very good, my Lord.’
‘Write it now!’
‘Of course, my Lord.’ The clerk withdrew.
A clock chimed eight in the corridor outside. Lord Fenner smiled. ‘The Prince of Wales’ Own Volunteers,’ he said the new name with a sneer, ‘will proceed forthwith to Spain, Major, but not with your presence. They will be commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Bartholomew Girdwood. I am sure that under his command they will acquit themselves nobly.’
‘Indeed so,’ Sir Henry interjected. It had been his idea that Girdwood should be given command of the First Battalion and that he should take to Spain, along with the trained men from Foulness, the officers from the disbanded camp. He and Lord Fenner, reluctantly but sensibly, had agreed that, because the Battalion had surfaced so dramatically, it would be prudent to abandon the business of selling recruits. They would not, they convinced themselves, lose much money thereby. The war could not last long. The northern allies had agreed to fight again, France was beleaguered, and Fenner was certain that peace was within sight. He and Simmerson had made themselves a tidy fortune, and now, thanks to Sharpe’s arrest, they could avoid all scandal.
Sharpe said nothing. There was nothing to say.
‘You, Major Sharpe,’ Fenner stared at him with triumph and distaste, ‘have a new posting. You will leave in two days time, and until then, Major, you are under arrest. You will be captain of a convict guard in Australia.’
Sir Henry Simmerson could not suppress a bark of sudden laughter. ‘There are no tailors in Australia; you should feel most welcome!’
Fenner smiled at the jest and looked at Sir Barstan Maxwell. ‘The Duke will agree?’
‘He will think it far too lenient, my Lord.’ Maxwell sniffed. ‘But if you propose it, he will agree.’
‘I am being lenient,’ Lord Fenner said magnanimously, ‘because it is undeniable that Major Sharpe has served his country well. We must all hope, General, that a sea voyage will restore his wits.’
‘The Duke will be so informed.’ General Sir Barstan Maxwell, who would have preferred to see Sharpe hanged, drawn and quartered, sounded grudging. Nevertheless, a posting to Australia was tantamount to a prison sentence. Sharpe would never return, he would be forgotten.
‘Good.’ Fenner closed the silver lid of an inkpot with a snap. ‘Your orders are being written now, Major. You will wait in the guardroom for them. Ah! It seems they’re here already!’ There had been a discreet knock on the door. ‘Come!’
It was indeed the clerk who had been instructed to draw up Sharpe’s orders, but, instead of bringing them to the desk, he hovered uncertainly at the door. ‘My Lord?’
‘You have the orders?’
‘They’re being written, my Lord. It’s your wife, I fear. I did say your Lordship was not to be disturbed, but she is most insistent.’
‘Very insistent.’ The voice, precise and confident, came from the door. Fenner, who was unmarried, stared in consternation, not at the clerk, but at the woman, tall and green-eyed, smiling sweetly, who walked into the room and imperiously waved the clerk away. The Dowager Countess Camoynes, an evening cloak draped over one arm, waited until the door was shut, glanced at Sharpe, then spoke. ‘I called myself your wife, Simon, to persuade that boring little man to let me in here. Sir Henry? Please don’t stand up.’ She smiled at Simmerson who had made no move to stand, then looked quizzically from Sir Barstan Maxwell to Lord Fenner. ‘Do please present me.’
‘Anne?’ Fenner’s voice was an indignant growl.
‘You do remember me! How very charming of you. Just as I remember Major Sharpe. I trust I find you well, Major?’