'I don't understand what?
She did not answer for a long time. The waves beat at the mudbanks behind Sharpe, water sucked and gurgled in the creek bed, then she pulled her hands free, rubbed her face, and began talking. 'My mother was the younger daughter. She married badly, at least that's what my uncle thinks. You see, my father was in trade. He was a saddler. He was successful, but it's still trade, isn't it? So I'm not well-born enough to go into society, and I'm not rich enough for society to come here. She gave the smile again, rueful and fast. 'Do you understand?
'But your brother…"
She nodded quickly, understanding the question. Her brother had presented the appearance of aristocratic birth and breeding; it had made him into a loud, arrogant, insensitive and elegant lout. 'Christian always wanted to be fashionable. He worked hard at it, Mr Sharpe. He aped the accent, the clothes, everything. And he inherited the money and lost most of it.
'Lost it?
'Horses, clothes. She shrugged. 'But I imagine he made a good soldier. She could not have been more wrong, though Sharpe said nothing. Jane pushed hair from her forehead. 'He wanted to go into the cavalry, but it was too expensive. We weren't rich. At least, not as rich as Christian would have liked. She said her parents had died eleven years before, when she had been thirteen, and she and her brother had come to this house where her mother's sister was Sir Henry's wife. Lady Simmerson was ill. Jane shrugged. 'Or so she says.
'What do you mean?
The quick smile again, shy and dazzling, and she looked behind her as though worried that a servant might be watching from the moon-glossed windows of the house. 'She doesn't leave her room, hardly her bed. She says she's ill. Do you think a person can be so very unhappy that they think they're ill?
'I don't know.
She looked at the table top. She pushed a leaf between two of the rough planks and he saw how the white cuff of her dress was darned with small, neat stitches. 'I don't think she wanted to marry my uncle, but women don't have a choice, really. She talked very softly, not just because she feared her voice carrying, but because she had never talked like this to anyone. She said she should have been married herself, two years before, but the man had lost his fortune and Sir Henry had called off the wedding.
'Who was he? Sharpe asked with a stab of jealousy.
'A man from Maldon. It's not far away. Now she had been told she was to marry Bartholomew Girdwood.
Told?
She gave her sudden, enchanting, mischievous smile, that always, Sharpe was noticing, left a residue of sadness on her face. 'I ran away when it was arranged. My uncle brought me back.
Sharpe wondered if that was why she had been in the carriage on the day when he and Harper were being marched as recruits to Foulness. 'Ran away?
'I have a cousin who married a vicar. Celia said I should come to them, but my uncle knows the man who owns the living, and you can imagine what happened. Doubtless Sir Henry had threatened the vicar with the loss of his parish and livelihood. She smiled at Sharpe. 'I wasn't much good at running away.
'Are you frightened of Sir Henry?
She thought about it, her hands linked on the table top, then nodded. 'Yes. But most of the time he's in London. He's only here for a few days at a time. She looked out over the moon-washed marshes to where, now at its height, the tide was pushing waves across the drowned mudflats in shimmering, silver sheets that broke in small, bright spurts of foam where they met the river's push. 'So here I am. I'm a companion to my aunt, I talk with the housekeeper, and sometimes, when my uncle's at home, I have to be a hostess for his dinners. She smiled. 'That means soldier's talk.
'Girdwood?
'He's always here. She said it with a rueful laugh. 'My uncle likes him. They talk for hours and hours about battles and tactics? She made the last word into a question as though she was not accustomed to using it. 'But I suppose all soldiers do that?
He shook his head. 'Most of the soldiers I know talk about what they're going to do when the war ends. They want to own a piece of land. I think they dream of never seeing a uniform again.
'And you?
He laughed. 'I don't know what I'll do. He remembered his sad thoughts as he had sat on the pool's parapet in the Vauxhall Gardens, his drab presentiments of a soldier in peacetime.
She sighed. 'You need the books badly?
'Yes. I have to have proof, you see.
'Yes. She nodded. 'I want to help you, but it's hard.
'Hard? He wanted to take her hands once more, but was uncertain whether the gesture would be welcomed. Her head was lowered, and the moonlight cast the shadows of her eyelashes in long, thin lines down her cheeks that abruptly vanished as she looked up at him.
'I can take the risk, you see. I can try to find them for you. I would like to do that, really. But I shall be punished.
'Sir Henry?
'He beats me. She was not looking at him, but across the marshland to the small waves.
'He beats you?
'Yes. She said it as if it was the most normal thing in the world. 'He let Girdwood watch the last time, because he thought the Colonel should know how to treat a wife. He uses a cane. He doesn't do it often; not very often, anyway. She gave a small laugh, as though indicating that she was not seeking his pity. Sharpe felt inadequate to say anything, and kept silent. She shook her head. 'There are marks on his study walls. He thrashes, you see, and the cane scratches the plaster. He gets very angry. The last words were said limply, as though she could not truly describe the beatings. In the silence that followed her words Sharpe heard a clock chiming in the house. He counted ten beats and, when they were done, she looked up at him. 'What happens if you don't have the books?
He did not know. Everything he had planned for these next few days depended on the accounts. He had been so sure that they would be here, that he could ambush Girdwood and take them, and then march the men to Chelmsford where the Battalion would wait. He had planned to send d'Alembord to the Rose Tavern, but without the books he had no proof. He had nothing. He looked into her huge eyes, shining with reflected moonlight, and he let his gaze linger on the shadows beneath her cheekbones and on her neck. He smiled. 'Do you remember that you gave your brother a locket with your picture inside?
'Yes. She sounded surprised.
'I wore it after his death.
She smiled shyly, knowing the message he was giving her, yet not sure what to say in return. She looked down at the table. 'Do you still have it?
'I was taken prisoner earlier this year. A Frenchman has it now. Sharpe had worn it as a talisman, as all soldiers have talismans against death. 'I expect he wonders who you are.
She smiled at the thought, then looked up at him. 'I want you to have the books. She said it hurriedly. 'But I'm afraid. She was scared because, once Sharpe had the books and his victory, she would be left to her uncle's revenge.
Sharpe touched her hands again. It seemed, at that moment, as brave an act as climbing the blood-slicked breach at Badajoz. 'Why do you want to help me?
She gave the quick, mischievous smile. 'I never forgot you. She said it very softly. 'I sometimes think that it's because my uncle hates you so much. If you were his enemy, you had to be my friend? She inflected the last word as a question, then gave a low laugh. 'He envies you.
'Envies?
'He'd like to be a big, brave soldier! she said scornfully. 'What did happen to him in Spain?
'He ran away.
She laughed. Her hands were still in his, unmoving. 'He always talks about it as if he was a hero. Did Christian take that Eagle?
'He was close.