Yet, despite the threat, neither Jane nor Lord John tried to dull the edge of the gossip by circumspection. And, as her popularity in society increased, so did people feel a growing sympathy for Jane Sharpe. Her husband, it was said, was a thief. He had deserted the army. The man was clearly no good, and Jane was plainly justified if she sought consolation elsewhere.
Jane herself never complained that Major Sharpe was a bad man. She did tell Lord Rossendale that her husband was unambitious, and proved that contention by saying he would mire her in a country village where her silks and satins must be surrendered to the moths. She allowed that he had been a magnificent soldier, but alas, he was also a dull man, and in the society amongst which Jane now moved with such assurance, dullness was a greater sin than murder. Lord Rossendale, though frequently penniless, was never dull, but instead seemed to move in a glittering whirl of crystal bright opportunities.
Yet still, like an awkward bastion that resists the surge of a victorious army, there remained the inconvenient fact of Major Sharpe’s continuing dull existence, and Peter d’Alembord’s visit to Jane’s house was an abrupt and unwelcome reminder of that existence. It was no longer possible, after that meeting, for Jane to pretend that Sharpe had simply disappeared to leave Jane with his money and Rossendale with Jane.
So, that same evening, Jane sent a servant to fetch a carriage and, with a cloak about her bare shoulders, she was conveyed the short distance to Lord Rossendale’s town house which overlooked St James’s Park. The servants bowed her inside, then brought her a light supper and a glass of champagne. His Lordship, they told her, was expected home soon from his Royal duties.
Lord Rossendale, coming into the candle-lit room an hour later, thought he had never seen Jane looking so beautiful. Perturbation, he thought, made her seem so very frail and vulnerable.
“John!” She stood up to greet him.
“I’ve heard, my dearest, I’ve heard.” Lord Rossendale hurried across the room, she met him halfway, and they embraced. Jane clung to him, and Lord Rossendale held her very tight. “I’ve heard the awful news,” he said, “and I’m so very sorry.”
“He came this morning,” Jane’s voice came in a breathless rush. “I hardly credited he would ask for your help! When he said your name I almost blushed! He says he will try to see you, and I could not dissuade him. He wants you to see the Prince about it!”
“Who came?” Lord John feared the answer. He held Jane at arm’s length and there was a look of real fear on his face. “Your husband has returned?”
“No, John!” There was a note of asperity in Jane’s voice at Lord Rossendale’s misapprehension, though his Lordship showed no displeasure at her tone. “It was an officer who was a friend of Richard’s,” she explained, “a Captain d’Alembord. He says he met Richard in Bordeaux, and Richard sent him to London to seek your help! Richard expects you to plead with the Prince.”
“My God, so you haven’t heard?” Lord John dismissed Jane’s news of d’Alembord’s visit and instead, very gently, led her to a settle beside the open window. A warm breeze shivered the candle-flames that lit her face so prettily. “I have some other news for you,” Rossendale said, “and I fear it is distressing news.”
Jane looked up at his Lordship. “Well?”
Lord John first poured her a glass of white wine, then sat beside her. He held one of her hands in both of his. “We have heard from Paris today, my dearest one, and it seems that there was a French officer who could prove your husband’s guilt. Or innocence, of course.” He added the last hastily. “That officer was murdered,” Rossendale paused for a heartbeat, “and it seems most probable that your husband committed the murder. The French have formally requested our assistance in finding Major Sharpe.”
“No.” Jane breathed the word.
“I pray the allegations are not true.” Lord John, like Jane, knew just what was proper to say at such moments.
Jane took her hand from his, stood, and walked to the room’s far end where she stared vacantly into the empty grate. Lord John watched her and, as ever, marvelled at her looks. Finally she turned. “We should not be too astonished at such news, John. I fear that Richard is a very brutal man.”
“He is a soldier,” Rossendale said in apparent agreement.
Jane took a deep breath. “I should not be here, my Lord,” she said with a sudden formality.
“My dearest…” Lord John stood.
Jane held up a hand to check his protest. “No, my Lord. I must think of your reputation.” It was very properly and very prettily said, and the inference of noble suffering touched Lord John’s heart, just as it was meant to do.
He crossed the room and took a temporarily unwilling Jane into his arms. She insisted that her married name was now tainted, and that Lord John must protect himself by preserving his own good name. Lord John hushed her. “You don’t understand, my dear one.”
“I understand that my husband is a murderer,” she said into his uniform coat.
He held her very close. “And when he is captured, my dear one, as he will be captured, what then?”
Jane said nothing.
“You will be alone,” Lord John said, then, just in case she had not worked out for herself the fate that would attend a convicted murderer, “and you will be a widow.”
“No,” she murmured the proper protest.
“So I think it can only reflect on my reputation,” Lord John said nobly, “if I was to offer you my protection.” And he tilted her pretty, tear-stained face to his and kissed her on the mouth.
Jane closed her eyes. She was not a bad woman, though she knew well enough that what she now did was wrong in the world’s eyes. She also knew that she had behaved very ill when Peter d’Alembord had visited her at Cork Street, but she had been frightened to be thus reminded of her husband’s existence and, at the same time, she had so wanted to impress d’Alembord with her new sophistication. She knew, too, that her husband was not the brutal, dull man she depicted, but her behaviour demanded an excuse beyond the excuse of her own appetites, and so she must blame Sharpe for the fact that she now loved another man.
And Jane was in love, as was Lord Rossendaie. They were not just simply in love, but consumed by love, driven by it, drenched in it, and oblivious to the rest of the world in their obsession with it. And Major Sharpe, by murdering a Frenchman, had seemingly removed their last obstacle to it. And thus, in a warm and candle-shivering night, the lovers could at last anticipate their happiness.
There had been no sentry on the tower, Lucille explained to Frederickson, because the roof timbers were rotten. So, a week after their drastic arrival at the chateau, Harper and Frederickson repaired the tower’s roof with weathered oak that they took from the disused stalls in the chateau’s stables. They adzed the timber to size, pegged it tight into the masonry, then spread layers of tar-soaked sacking over the planks. “You should have lead up there, Ma’am,” Frederickson said.
“Lead is expensive,” Lucille sighed.
“Yes, Ma’am.” But Harper delved among the generations of debris that had piled up in the barns and discovered an old lead water-tank that bore the de Lassan coat-of-arms, and he and Frederickson melted it down and made thin sheets of the metal which they fixed between the courses of stone so that the tower at last had a watertight roof,
“I don’t know why you God-damned well bother,” Sharpe grumbled that night.
“I’ve nothing better to do,” Frederickson said mildly, “so I might as well help Madame about the place. Besides, I like working with my hands.”
“Let the bloody place fall down.” Sharpe lay swathed in stiff flax sheets on the goosedown mattress of a massive wooden bed. His right leg was encased in plaster beneath which the flesh throbbed and itched, his head hurt, and his left shoulder was a nagging viper’s nest of pain. The doctor had opined that Sharpe should have the whole arm off, for he doubted if he could otherwise keep the damaged flesh clean, but Harper had performed his old trick of putting maggots into the wound. The maggots had eaten the rotten flesh, but would not touch the clean, and so the arm had been saved. The doctor visited each day, cupping Sharpe with candle-flames and glasses, bleeding him with leeches, and distastefully sniffing the maggot-writhing wounds for any sign of putrefaction. There were none. Sharpe, the doctor said, might be walking again by the summer, though he doubted if the Englishman would ever again have full use of his left arm.