“I’ve got nothing to say to her.”
“So you are not really brave after all,” Pohlmann said. “I dare say you wouldn’t think twice about charging a line of guns like those I had at Assaye, but a beautiful woman makes you shiver, yes?”
Lady Grace stood solitary and slim, wrapped in a cloak. A maid attended her, but the girl stood at the side of the deck as though she was nervous of her ladyship. Sharpe was also nervous. He wanted to talk to her, but he knew he would stumble over his words, so instead he stood beside Pohlmann and stared forrard past the great bulk of the sails to where the rest of the convoy was just visible in the gathering night. Far forrard, on the fo’c’sle, a violin was being played and a group of sailors danced the hornpipe.
“Were you really promoted from the ranks?” a cold voice asked and Sharpe turned to see that Lady Grace had appeared at his side.
He instinctively touched his forelock. For a moment he felt struck dumb and his tongue seemed stuck to his palate, but then he managed to nod. “Yes, ma’am. Milady.”
She looked into his eyes and was tall enough not to need to look up. Her big eyes were dim in the twilight, but at supper Sharpe had seen they were green. “It must be a difficult circumstance,” she said, still using a distant voice as though she was being reluctantly forced into this conversation.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sharpe said again, and knew he was sounding like a fool. He was tense, a muscle was twitching in his left leg, his mouth was dry and his belly felt sour, the same sensations that a man got when he was waiting for battle. “Before it happened, ma’am,” he blurted out, wanting to say anything other than a monosyllabic response, “I wanted it badly, but afterward? I reckon I shouldn’t have wanted it at all.”
Her face was expressionless. Beautiful, but expressionless. She ignored Pohlmann and Mathilde, but just stared down at the quarterdeck before looking back to Sharpe. “Who makes it most difficult,” she asked, “the men or the officers?”
“Both, ma’am,” Sharpe said. He saw that the smoke from his cigar was annoying her and so he tossed it overboard. “The men don’t think you’re a proper officer, and the other officers … well, it’s like a working dog ending up on the hearth rug. The lap dogs don’t like it.”
She half smiled at that. “You must tell me,” she said in a voice which still suggested she was merely making polite conversation, “just how you saved Arthur’s life.” She paused, and Sharpe saw there was a nervous tic in her left eye that caused it to quiver every few seconds. “He’s a cousin,”
she went on, “but quite far removed. None of the family thought he’d amount to anything.”
It had taken Sharpe a second or two to realize that she meant Sir Arthur Wellesley, the cold man who had promoted Sharpe. “He’s the best general I’ve ever seen, ma’am,” Sharpe said.
“And you would know?” she asked skeptically.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sharpe said firmly, “I would know.”
“So how did you save his life?” she insisted.
Sharpe hesitated. The aroma of her perfume was heady. He was about to say something vague of battle, confusion and blurred memory, but just then Lord William appeared on the quarterdeck and, without a word, Lady Grace turned to the poop stairs. Sharpe watched her go, conscious of his heart thumping against his ribs. He was still trembling. He had been dizzied by her.
Pohlmann was laughing softly. “She likes you, Sharpe.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“She is panting for you,” Pohlmann said.
“My dear Sharpe! My dear Sharpe!” It was the Scotsman, Major Dalton, climbing from the quarterdeck. “There you are! You vanished! I would speak with you, Sharpe, if you can be kind enough to spare me a few moments. Like you, Sharpe, I was at Assaye, but I’m still utterly confused as to what happened there. We must talk, indeed we must. My dear baron, baroness”—he took off his hat and bowed—”my compliments, and perhaps you will forgive two soldiers reminiscing?”