“Whatever he does,” Sharpe said, “he’s still in danger. The French want his list of names.”
“Aksel looks after him,” Astrid said.
“Then he’s in far more danger than he realizes,” Sharpe said.
Astrid smiled at that. “You don’t like Aksel?”
“No. Do you?”
“No,” Astrid confessed, “but this morning my father suggested I marry him.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. She was silent for a few seconds, flinching as a succession of big shells cracked apart in the citadel. Each explosion flashed livid light on the smoke and threw shadows from the gravestones. Sharpe could hear the scraps of shattered casing striking on the citadel’s walls or whistling overhead to rattle on the roofs of Nyboden’s small houses. “It’s the warehouse,” Astrid said at last. “If my father dies then I will inherit and he does not think a woman can run the business.”
“Of course you can run it,” Sharpe said.
“And he would like to know that the business is safe before he dies,” she went on as though Sharpe had not spoken. “So he wants me to marry Aksel.”
“Marry someone else,” Sharpe said.
“It has not been so long since Nils died,” Astrid said, “and I have not wanted anyone. Except Nils.” She still had her arm in his elbow, though they were not walking anymore, but instead were standing under a tree as though its branches would shelter them from the bombs that whistled overhead. “It would be beautiful,” Astrid went on, “if it were not so sad.” She was talking of the northern sky which was lit by the intermittent flashes of mortars aboard the bomb ships. Each discharge flooded the night like crimson summer lightning and the flaring displays flickered one after another, filling the sky. “It is like the winter lights,” she said.
“So will you marry Aksel?”
“I want Father to be happy,” she said. “He has not been happy for a long while.”
“A man who loves his business more than his daughter,” Sharpe said, “doesn’t deserve to be happy.”
“He has worked hard,” Astrid said as though that explained everything.
“And it will all be for nothing if he stays here,” Sharpe warned her, “because the French will come after him.”
“What else can he do?” Astrid asked.
“Move to Britain,” Sharpe said. “His old friends in the Foreign Office want that.”
“They do?”
“So they tell me.”
Astrid shook her head. “After this? No, he will not go to Britain. He is a loyal Dane.”
“And you?”
“Me?”
“You must have relatives in Britain?”
Astrid nodded. “My mother’s sister lives in Hampshire. I visited a long time ago. It was very nice, I thought.”
“Then go to Hampshire,” Sharpe said. A piece of shell tore through the branches above them. Birds were singing, disturbed from their sleep by the noise.
“And what would I do in Hampshire?” Astrid asked.
“This,” Sharpe said, and kissed her. For a heartbeat she seemed to resist, then he realized it was merely her surprise, for then she put her arms about him and returned the kiss with an astonishing ferocity. They kissed again, then she put her head on his shoulder and said nothing, but just clung to him for a long while. Six more bombs fell. The flames were now showing above the citadel’s walls, then a shell struck a second ready magazine and Astrid shuddered in Sharpe’s arms as the whole city physically trembled.
“I could not go to England,” Astrid said softly, “not while Father lives.” She pulled herself back so she could look up into his eyes. “You could come here?”
“It’s a good place,” Sharpe said. What was left of it.
“You would be welcome,” she said. Her face, serious-eyed, was lit by the flames. “You really would be welcome.”
“Not by Aksel,” Sharpe said with a smile.
“No, not by Aksel.” She smiled back. “I should go home,” she said, but did not move. “Would you really stay here?”
“I will,” Sharpe said.
She frowned. “I don’t know you, though, do I?”
He kissed her again, tenderly this time. “You know me,” he told her.
“We must trust the heart, yes?”
“Trust the heart,” Sharpe said and she smiled, then laughed. She pulled him away from the tree.
“I really don’t know you,” she said. She was holding his hand as they walked. “But you are like Nils. He swore terribly!”
“A Dane? Swearing?”
She laughed. “He made me laugh too.” She swung on Sharpe’s hand, suddenly unable to contain a joy that bubbled in her despite the city burning around her. “And you?” she asked. “You have never been married?”
“No.”
“Not even close?”
“Close enough,” he said, and he told her about Grace and that tale brought them near to Ulfedt’s Plads, and when the story was told Astrid stopped and hugged him. “I think,” she said, “we both need some happiness.”
“Your father won’t be happy,” Sharpe said. “He doesn’t like me. I’m not religious enough for him.”
“Then you must tell him you are searching for God,” Astrid said. She walked on a few paces, flinching as more bombs shook the night. “It isn’t just religion,” she went on. “Father thinks any man will take me away from him, but if I tell him you are staying here then he might not be angry.”
“I will stay here,” Sharpe said and was amazed that a decision that would change his life should be taken so easily. Yet why not, he wondered. What waited for him in England? He could return to Shorncliffe, but he would be a quartermaster again, despised by men like Dunnett because he had been born in the wrong place. And he liked Copenhagen. The folk were tediously pious, but that seemed a small price to pay for the happiness he wanted. And had he not considered working for Ebenezer Fairley in Britain? So why not work for Ole Skovgaard in Denmark and take his daughter into the bargain? And with a little luck he could bring a pile of golden English guineas to this new life.
A dim light shone from the windows of the house in Ulfedt’s Plads. “Father must be home,” Astrid said. The house and warehouse were safe, for they lay far enough from the great fires that burned in the city’s west and in the citadel. Astrid unlocked the door, offered Sharpe a wry smile as if to say she knew they must endure some hostility from her father, then pulled him over the threshold. “Papa!” she called. “Papa!”
A voice answered in Danish, then a light appeared at the top of the stairs to cast wavering shadows from the balustrade, but it was not Ole Skovgaard who carried the lantern. It was Aksel Bang. The Dane was wearing his shabby uniform and had a musket slung on his shoulder and a sword at his side. He seemed to be reproving Astrid as he came downstairs, then he saw Sharpe and his eyes widened in disbelief. “Lieutenant!”
Sharpe nodded, said nothing.
“You should not be here!” Bang said sternly.
“Everyone’s saying that tonight,” Sharpe said.
“Mister Skovgaard would not want you here! He will be angry.”
“Then Mister Skovgaard can tell me that himself,” Sharpe said.
“He will not be back tonight,” Bang said. “He is helping with the fires.”
“And you’re not watching him?” Sharpe asked.
“He’s safe,” Bang said. “He has other men with him.”