Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil

Frederickson paused, then blushed. ‘I would be deeply obliged, my friend, if you would refrain from insulting Madame Castineau in my presence.’

Sharpe stared aghast at his friend.

Frederickson straightened his shoulders as though bracing himself to make a very shameful confession. ‘I have to confess that I feel a most strong attachment towards Madame.’

‘Good God.’ Sharpe could say nothing else. This misogynist, this hater of marriage, this despiser of all things female, was in love?

‘I understand how you feel about Madame Castineau, of course,’ Frederickson hurried on, ‘and I cannot blame you, but I think you should know that I have the warmest of feelings towards her. Towards,’ he paused, tried to meet Sharpe’s gaze, failed, but then, with the coyness of a lover, said the widow’s Christian name fondly, ‘towards Lucille.’

‘Bloody hellfire!’

‘I know she isn’t a great beauty like Jane,’ Frederickson said with an immense but fragile dignity, ‘but she has a great calmness in her soul. She’s a very sensible woman, too. And she has a sense of humour. If I had not met her I would scarcely have believed that so many excellent qualities could have been combined in one woman.’

Sharpe blew on a spoonful of soup and tried to accustom himself to the thought of Sweet William in love. It was like discovering a wolf purring, or learning that Napoleon Bonaparte’s favourite occupation was embroidery. ‘But she’s French!’ Sharpe finally blurted out.

‘Of course she’s French!’ Frederickson said irritably. ‘What possible objection can that be?’

‘We’ve been killing the buggers for twenty years!’

‘And now we’re at peace.’ Frederickson smiled. ‘We might even make an alliance to mark that peace.’

‘You mean you want to marry her?’ Sharpe stared at his friend. ‘I seem to remember that you thought marriage was a waste of money. Can’t you hire its pleasures by the hour? Isn’t that what you said? And do I remember you telling me that marriage is an appetite and that once you’ve enjoyed the flesh you’re left with nothing but a dry carcass?’

‘I might have questioned the validity of marriage once,’ Frederickson said airily, ‘but a man is permitted to reconsider his opinions, is he not?’

‘Good God Almighty. You are in love!’ Sharpe was flabbergasted. ‘Does Madame Castineau know how you feel?’

‘Of course not!’ Frederickson was profoundly shocked at the thought.

‘Why ever not?’

‘I have no wish to embarrass her by a precipitate declaration of my feelings.’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘Love is like war, my friend. Victory goes to those who pounce first and pounce hardest.’

‘I can hardly imagine myself pouncing,’ Frederickson said huffily, but then, because he had a desperate need to share his feelings with a friend, he coyly asked Sharpe whether his looks would be a barrier to his suit. ‘I know myself to be ugly,’ Frederickson touched his eye-patch, ‘and fear it will be an insuperable difficulty.’

‘Remember the pig-woman,’ Sharpe advised.

‘My feelings in no way resemble the transactions of that squalid tale,’ Frederickson said sternly.

‘But if you don’t confess your feelings,’ Sharpe said, ‘then you’ll get nowhere! Do you sense her feelings in this matter?’

‘Madame behaves very properly towards me.’

Sharpe reflected that proper behaviour was not what his friend sought, but thought it best not to say as much. Instead he wondered aloud whether Frederickson would take a letter to the carrier who risked the dangers of the country roads by travelling once a week to Caen.

‘Of course,’ Frederickson agreed, ‘but may I ask why?’

‘It’s a letter for Jane,’ Sharpe explained.

‘Of course.’ Frederickson sought to turn the subject back to Lucille Castineau, but did so in such a roundabout way that Sharpe might not suspect the deliberate machination. ‘It occurs to me, my friend, that there have been times when I might have been a trifle unsympathetic towards your marriage?’

‘Really?’ Sharpe flinched as a stab of pain went from his shoulder down to his ribs.

Frederickson did not notice Sharpe’s discomfort. ‘I assure you that I jested. I see now that marriage is a very fortunate state for mankind.’

‘Indeed.’ Sharpe resisted discussing Frederickson’s new devotion to the married state. ‘Which is why I would like Jane to travel here.’

‘Is that safe for her?’ Frederickson asked.

‘I thought you and Patrick might meet her at Cherbourg and escort her here.’ Sharpe had resumed drinking the soup which, despite his earlier boorish verdict, was quite delicious. ‘And once she’s here we can all rent a house while I recover? Maybe in Caen?’

‘Maybe.’ It was clear that Frederickson had no wish to leave the château, yet he agreed to deliver Sharpe’s letter to the village carrier.

But, as it happened, there was no need for the letter to go to the postal office in Caen, for the very next night Patrick Harper offered to carry the letter clean into London itself. ‘You’re not going to be fighting fit, sir, not for a month or two, and I’m worried about Isabella, so I am.’

‘She’s not in London,’ Sharpe said.

‘Mr Frederickson thinks it’ll be quicker to get a ship for Spain out of England, sir, than it will be from France. So I’ll go to England, see Mrs Sharpe, then fetch my own lass back from Spain. Then I’ll take her to Ireland.’ Harper smiled and suddenly there were tears in his eyes. ‘My God, sir, but I’ll be going home at last. Can you believe it?’

Sharpe felt a moment’s panic at losing this strong man. ‘Are you going home for ever?’

‘I’ll be back here, so I will.’ Harper tossed the seven-barrelled gun on to Sharpe’s bed. ‘I’ll leave that here, and my uniform too. It’s probably best not to travel in uniform.’

‘But you will be back?’ Sharpe eagerly sought the reassurance. ‘Because if I’m going to find Ducos I’ll need you.’

‘So you are going to find him, sir?’

‘If I have to go to the end of the bloody earth, Patrick, I’ll find that bastard.’ It was obvious now, from the evidence of the two fingers that had been hacked off Lassan’s dead body, that it must have been Pierre Ducos who had killed Madame Castineau’s brother. Lucille herself had accepted that verdict, and her acceptance had only increased the remorse she felt for her precipitate shooting of the Rifleman. Sharpe did not care whether she felt remorse or not, nor did he much care that her brother was dead, but he did care that he should find Ducos. ‘I’ll get well first,’ he now told Harper, ‘then I’ll hunt the bugger down.’

Harper smiled. ‘I’ll be back here to help you, sir, I promise.’

‘It would be harder without you,’ Sharpe said, which was his way of saying that he could not bear it if Harper deserted him now. Sharpe had always known that peace might separate their friendship, but the immediate prospect of that separation was astonishingly hard to bear.

‘I’ll be back by the summer, sir.’

‘So long as the provosts don’t catch you, Patrick.’

‘I’ll murder the bastards before they lay a hand on me.’

Harper left the next morning. It seemed strange not to hear his tuneless whistle or his loud cheerful voice about the château. On the other hand Sharpe was pleased that the Irishman was carrying the letter to Jane for she had always liked Harper and Sharpe was certain she would respond to the big man’s plea that she travel quickly into Normandy where her husband lay ill.

A week after Harper had left, Frederickson carried Sharpe downstairs so he could eat at a table which had been placed in the château’s yard. Madame Castineau, knowing that Sharpe disliked her, had kept a very politic distance from the Rifleman since the night when she had shot him. This night, though, she smiled a nervous welcome and said she hoped he would eat well. There was wine, bread, cheese, and a small piece of ham that Frederickson unobtrusively placed on Sharpe’s plate.

Sharpe looked at Frederickson’s plate, then at Madame Castineau’s. ‘Where’s yours, William?’

‘Madame doesn’t like ham.’ Frederickson cut himself some cheese.