Disclaimer - I don't own Sharpe. If I did then I'd be rich writing this. I'd also like to say my heart goes out to the people of France, and to wish something like that never happens again, though I doubt it. Terrorism is as old as time. But I hope they get caught.
Jane's Fate.
It was strange; after years pining for England from distant countries and from the hell of the battlefields, the drills, the camps and the floggings and the sight of friend's you'd laughed and joked around with only to lose them to a stray or deliberate shot or piece of shrapnel, the sights and the sounds, not to mention the stench of residual gunpowder and the stench of death that lingered in the smoke from cannon and volleyfire, it always surprised Richard Sharpe with how much he yearned for countries he was more accustomed to when he did visit the island of his birth. Sharpe had seen, and fought, in many countries during his long career as a soldier; he'd fought in India, where he'd served as a private soldier before being promoted to Sergeant and then he'd fought in the naval battle of Trafalgar before transferring to the 95th rifles and continuing to serve a king he'd never met, let alone spoken to, in Portugal, Spain, all the way into France.
Sharpe's dream of returning to England had persisted all the way until the final days of the war before that battle in Waterloo, and that mess after Toulouse with Jane, and that bastard Rossendale. If there was one thing he was grateful about with falling in love with a French woman, it was having someone there to help you through the pain of losing one of your dreams. After falling in love with Lucille, he'd realised that his dream of a life in England free from the army was never going to come true even if he packed up and left France for a ship to take him into Portsmouth, and besides he was happy on the farm in Normandy even after Lucille's tragic death. Farming was quiet, less chaotic, and once he'd gotten used to it with Lucille's patient tutelage it was easy - even the harvests were straight forward enough, and Sharpe had plenty of experience when it came to being pressured to make them work.
It was strange. On the rare occasions he'd returned to his home country, Richard Sharpe found he didn't recognise the place any more than he was recognised by the pig bastards who ruled and governed the country. Sharpe knew his life had diverged when he'd saved Wellington from that group from the French cavalry, he remembered being content with his lot in life as a sergeant; he'd been popular with the men besides being a stickler for punctuality and duty, but he had looked out for them. Then in the space of a minute he'd become a lieutenant in the 95th and suddenly he was moved to a different command under men who'd hated him at first for not being a proper officer. Things hadn't been helped by his fellow officers barring one or two, because they didn't see him as one of them. That had been alright with Sharpe; he didn't like the prospect of being an officer, and deep inside he'd wondered if he could return to his old rank, but once he'd gotten settled he found he enjoyed being an officer because it gave him the means of being seen without being ignored.
Sharpe sighed as he remembered the chosen men; apart from himself and Pat Harper they were all dead and buried, and their deeds and nobility would probably be forgotten in another decade or so. Tongue, Cooper, Perkins (even after all these years, that death still hurt Sharpe; Perkins had been seen as the younger brother of the group, and his death had broken Sharpe's heart, a pain that only grew when they'd found Perkin's girl, Miranda), Hagman and Harris. The most painful thing was he hadn't been there to help the last two; Dan Hagman may have believed those lies about him in Yorkshire for a moment, but he'd retained his faith in Sharpe, and Harris had had way more potential as an author to be cut down because Silly Billy, the Prince of bloody Orange had been frightened by the French at La Haye Sainte.
Their friendship with him had been gradual, and occasionally there were issues with them, but after befriending and giving Harper a chance they'd come to like and even respect him. Now they were all gone, and Harper and Sharpe were the only ones left.
But when he'd become a lieutenant, Sharpe had not planned to move higher into the ranks other to Captain. Some people, particularly those who knew him and knew of his reputation would have scoffed at that, but Sharpe really hadn't wanted to be too high up on the ladder. Pat knew, he also knew how reluctant he had been to be promoted higher than Captain. It was Hogan and that bloody bridge along with the mess Simmerson had made that saw the colours being taken that had him given a promotion to captain, and then to Major, and now Lieutenant Colonel. Sharpe knew he'd gotten too big, noticed, and he had worked hard to secure for himself a nice pension for himself for the day he would leave the army, and find a new life for himself. He had also hoped to find Antonia, the daughter he'd had with Teresa, and try to form a relationship with her after virtually abandoning her.
His hopes were for nothing. What had his move through the ranks achieved for him? He had nothing left, which was why the offer of being made General in India had been declined; even if he had been tempted, it would do little for him since he had technically retired. All he had was the farm, and Sharpe had no intentions of trying to fight for things he'd never deserved again in case he lost what little he had left. He should have known better than to move through the ranks, he should have never have married Jane; they had nothing in common besides an obvious attraction when they'd first met that had just died as they'd gotten to know one another. Sharpe had genuinely wanted to know more about Jane, but he had been incredibly shy at getting to know her properly, something that came from the delicacy of his meeting her and also a reminder of what had happened to Teresa. If shy was the right word, and everything had fallen apart, whereas he and Teresa had been more alike than anybody else on Earth, but the bitterest pill he had to swallow was he'd broken his promise to Lucille when he'd had no intention of fighting in Waterloo.
Sharpe hadn't been that surprised when he'd heard about Napoleon's escape from Elba. Boney had always been a cunning man, and he knew how to twist things to his advantage, but he hadn't really cared about it. As far as Sharpe had been concerned at the time it was Wellington's problem, not his, and besides he was still hurting from the death of his brother in Yorkshire, whom he'd barely known, and trying to rebuild the farm with the limited resources he'd had. It had been truly painful for Richard to learn he had a brother after so many years of being alone and ignoring all thoughts about his mother, and they'd barely known each other at the time of his passing. It was money in the end that had attracted him to fighting again when the Prince of Orange had summoned him, not that Sharpe liked the Prince. Hell, he'd never even heard of the stupid boy, who'd only been in his early 20s, but assumed he knew everything about war whereas Sharpe had been a soldier his whole adult life. Lucille hadn't been happy about him fighting her countrymen again, but she had confessed that Bonapartists had killed her brother and her husband had died at Talavera - Sharpe genuinely hoped he hadn't been the one to kill the man - so she held no love for the regime. Any love she might have had died with her brother, then again being shot down at night by cowards who cut off two fingers would do that to you.
What Sharpe hadn't expected during the mess in Waterloo was meeting Jane and Rossendale so soon after Yorkshire, and he wondered if the pair of them had deliberately left England to taunt him, show off what he no longer had. Sharpe had still wanted the money he'd bequeathed to Jane in case anything happened to him at Toulouse, instead the little whore had run off and hitched up her legs for the first pig bastard who looked at her. His reasons for wanting the gold back were more practical than either Jane's or Rossendale's, and he doubted they even cared to know what they were. Well, he couldn't blame Jane for running away and getting together with another man, really; he had broken his promise to her, but he hadn't expected her to take things to the extent she had. He also wasn't surprised now he thought about it that she had gone over the top on her spending habits; Jane had once told him, though he'd guessed it already really that Sir Henry and his wife hadn't really allowed her much freedom with spending gold, so when she'd gotten the opportunity she'd been uncontrollable in her spending habits.
Rossendale had died after Sharpe had threatened him with demands for the rest of the money, not that he'd had authority to give it back to him in the first place. Sharpe had needed money after realising the extent of work he'd needed to do for the farm. He'd wanted to pay Lucille back for her kindness, for letting him stay, but he'd failed to secure the last of his fortune, and now he had no idea if Jane was still living a life of luxury or if the stupid bitch had spent the lot. He'd managed to scavenge bits and pieces from dead Frogs after the battle and then bartered them for cash, so it wasn't a total loss, but his hope to fully renovate the farm hadn't been properly met but at least he'd made some effort thanks to his efforts in plundering, and he'd managed to pick up one or two things from his recent sojourn to India.
Now he'd returned to England, his old and tatty green jacket stowed securely in his bag along with his rifle and sword, hopefully he'd never have to use either of them again. Sharpe was tired of soldiering; the recent messes in India didn't count, he had just been a friend passing through, rescuing another friend who'd gotten himself involved in things he shouldn't have been. He just wanted to live the rest of his life alone without any more trouble, and he'd told Pat to not answer anymore calls from London, he'd just told him to keep settled. Fortunately, India had worn Pat out, so he hadn't gotten any protests. He'd finished giving his report to Wellington, and now he was preparing to return back to the farm, all the while hoping Wellington would leave him alone in the future; he had no wish to clean up any more of the bugger's messes after what seemed like a lifetime of it. He knew he could've gone to visit Yorkshire, but the journey was long and he was too tired to care, though he did plan to return to his old home county and keep his promise to the people he'd known there. Maybe in about a year or so he'd go back, spend a few days there, visit his mother and brother's graves...
For the time being Sharpe was walking around the streets of London after dropping his things in an inn he was staying at for the night before he left, just to soak the atmosphere before his return to Normandy. The rarity of his visits to London dimmed the memories he had of the place, and the lack of time to truly capture the essence, as an artistic friend of his in France so eloquently put it, did not help Sharpe try to develop some kind of attachment to the place. But no matter how infrequent his visits, Sharpe never gave up the chance to be amongst English people again; the people in Normandy were nice enough, though it had taken him a while to gain their trust and respect through the ingrained fears of Englishmen, though that fire where he'd rescued those children had done a lot of good to making them accept him. Also, much to his surprise, some of the people there hadn't thought much of Napoleon because of his waging constant warfare on so many fronts and weakening their country, and causing the deaths of so many of their relatives and friends. Sharpe had liked those people for their honest opinion than the sheep like mentality that always raised its head whenever Bonaparte had made one of his legendary speeches that seemed to make everyone flock to his side, and damn the consequences.
Dressed in a dark brown coat with a dirk hidden in case anyone tried anything, Sharpe did his best to appear nondescript as he walked, and he didn't attract that much attention, keeping his long honed wits about him. He passed a number of prostitutes on his way, but they stood in his path. He ignored them as they offered their services.
"Excuse me, please," he said, pushing some of them gently out of his way. Many of them muttered angrily at him, annoyed he wasn't going to bite though in the past he had for meaningless sex, but they did as they were told on this occasion.
"Richard, is that you?"
Sharpe stopped at the sound of the familiar voice, and he turned around and came face to face with his wife, or rather ex wife; he may have told Rossendale when he'd confronted the former in one of the numerable woods near the battlefield at Waterloo that he'd given Jane to him like the men in his county when they'd committed adultery, but such a divorce was not seen as legal to layers and the clergy, but he still saw Jane as his ex wife.
Looking at her now was a bit of a disappointment. Jane wasn't the same person she had been when he'd last seen her, she had changed a great deal from the rich, haughty but beautiful woman he'd seen on Rossendale's arm, a far cry from the demure, naive girl he'd met. It never ceased to amaze - and worry him - about how many different personas Jane seemed to have; she was demure, shy, afraid of her own shadow when they'd first met, and yet capable of being so solemn it was hard not to feel sorry for her, especially since she always frightened, on the other she could be quite moody, sullen and quiet, like she had shortly after their marriage and he was barely around, and the vain, haughty, arrogant woman who never hesitated to lie or miss an opportunity to swear and snap at those unfortunate enough to be around her. Seeing her again revealed another face for Jane; she looked beautiful as she'd always had, but her previous haughtiness had faded and in its place was a look of uncertainty, harking back to the days when she'd been terrified of shadows and terrified for what could happen to her if something went wrong. He couldn't blame her; Simmerson's family had grown up in luxury, and none of them would be caught in these places in London, and so Jane knew very little about living on the streets. As much as he hated himself for it, Richard couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for her.
Her hair was worn high and her dress was cut short, and he could tell she wasn't wearing any petticoats underneath, which made sense given her new profession. Her face was overly made up, highlighting the structure of her face, her forehead, her cheekbones, and her eyes, but strangely enough while it made her look beautiful it did nothing to hide the misery she clearly felt at her predicament.
"Hello, Jane," he replied, then quickly found he had nothing more to say to her. What else could you say to your adulterous whore of a wife?
Jane glowered at him before sighing. "What're you doing here, the last I heard about you was you had moved to Normandy?"
Sharpe wasn't sure how to react to that; it had been common knowledge he'd left for Normandy after his mess of a trial in those deaths Ducos had caused to pay him back one last time and the theft of Napoleon's gold after Toulouse. He guessed Jane was trying to make conversation, and as much as he wanted nothing to do with her, he decided to go along with it for politeness sake. He wasn't going to play the same game she had played when he'd caught up with her in Yorkshire, how she'd refused to speak to him when he'd found her in that mansion; Richard knew he had been rough that time, forcing his way in, but he had needed to see Jane, to get himself some decent answers, and forcing his way in had been the only answer once he'd realised gentle persuasion wasn't working. No, he was going to speak to her in a civilised way to show he was better than her, he certainly wasn't going to be angry like he had when he'd seen her at the Duchess of Richmond's ball even if he'd a right to still be angry.
"Yeah, I did," he replied, "I'm still working on the farm."
"So what are you doing back here?" There was a strange gleam in Jane's eye that Richard couldn't place. But he didn't plan to tell her how Wellington had summoned him back only to be despatched to India to rescue Patrick. The memory of Jane's words saying he was an animal had cut into his heart and soul, and they had left painful wounds, because he was trying to prove to Lucille at the time he was a good man, and Jane's insults had made him fear how Lucille saw him. He was what he was because he had needed to survive, was it any wonder he lashed out at those who got onto his wrong side? No, telling her about what Wellington had done to send him to India would be ammunition against him, and he didn't need let alone want to have a fight. Not here. Why couldn't Jane see that he had needed to be strong in order to survive? In any case he wasn't going to talk about it now.
"Oh, I just visited for the sake of it," Sharpe replied, hoping Jane didn't see he was lying. "I just wanted to see England briefly before returning. I've spent most of my time picking supplies I can't get from French markets before returning." It was truthful enough, though he actually planned to do it in the morning.
"Oh," Jane's open disappointment surprised Sharpe. Surely she hadn't expected him to come back for her, even after what she'd done? Surely she couldn't be that stupid? His suspicion was confirmed a moment later.
"So, you didn't come back for me?" Jane asked him like she'd never run away from him, stealing his fortune and ripping his life to shreds in the process. Sharpe was speechless with disbelief. "Why would I?" he asked, trying to contain his anger; even after all this time, all he'd endured and lost, the people he'd buried, the friends he'd lost and almost lost, the revelations, people still wanted more from him. "Jane, you ran off emptying my bank account along the way, hitched your legs up for the first man who turned your head, and every time I tried to speak to you, and even when Pat tried to give you a letter you refused to have contact with me. Eventually I got the message, and started leaving you alone, and turned to that spineless shit instead. Why would I come for you now? Didn't Rossendale tell you that I'd given you to him? Pig bastards like him might sneer and look down on country practices like dragging an adulterous wife to the market to sell to other men, but I didn't care. I was done with you - you didn't want anything to do with me, and I was too tired to care about you. Remember Yorkshire, that day you met me and there was a funeral in progress? That was my half brother they were burying, so I wasn't in the mood to be polite. But during Waterloo...You were welcome to each other as far as I was concerned.
"Until now I had no idea what you were doing, I didn't even know you were a prostitute. What happened?"
Jane had gone pale during his attack, but her face darkened with anger. "Like I told you in Yorkshire, that money was mine as well as yours," she hissed angrily, "I did what Molly told me to do-"
"Molly?" Sharpe echoed in disbelief. "Not the so-called Lady Molly Spindacre, the whore? Jane, you do know she wasn't a lady, right?" he asked her worriedly. Jane was suddenly silent, gazing at him with silent shock at the interruption and the questions. She hadn't expected Richard to know Molly. "How do you know Molly?" Her question confirmed his worst fears.
"Jane, she was married to a lord before having a string of affairs in London before getting hitched with a rich colonel to escape the scandal after her husband died. When he was posted in France during the war, she broke up with him and had another string of affairs with some of the army officers. I didn't even know you knew her."
"And you did?"
"Of course I bloody knew, especially when what she'd done in London reached the officers," Sharpe exclaimed impatiently. "It'd been going on for months. And she told you to run away, steal my fortune, and basically fall into Rossendale's bed?"
The question was rhetorical, but Jane's expression answered it better than words could. It may not have been what really happened, but it seemed close enough. Sharpe sighed. "Now it makes sense," he replied before his face hardened. "The last I heard she was with Wigram. What did she say to you?"
"She told me you'd gone on to fight a duel, that Wigram had paid me a compliment about my beauty which you didn't understand and you called him out," she glared angrily at him.
"A compliment? Is that how she put it?" he glared down at her. "I see, did your saintly friend bother to tell you that her precious Wigram insulted you as well, saying how some women liked the rough than the smooth of men, that they enjoy having themselves degraded?" Sharpe sneered at the shock on Jane's face, enjoying her surprise with a cold sadism. No, Molly hadn't told her, and he knew it. "I thought not."
"W-why didn't she tell me?" she whispered, but he heard it.
"Oh please, tell me you're still not that naive!" Sharpe glared down at her, and his hands clenched as though he were tempted to give into the urge to shake her roughly to get her to see reality. "Wake up Jane, you're living on the streets where lies are told as easily as poets string a few rhymes together, and actors get drunk, put stupid wigs on their heads, and trust in their luck not to screw up on the stage! Everyone lies, its part of surviving. Hang about, did she visit you during the battle at Toulouse, and did you talk about the Power of Attorney?" The question may have seemed abrupt, but if Jane had said Molly had visited her than it meant she'd been a frequent one to wherever they'd been staying as the war had continued.
"Yes," Jane admitted quietly. After everything she'd just heard she realised how little she actually knew about what had happened.
Sharpe looked away from Jane with a sigh, cursing her naivety and her becoming friends with the last people on Earth he'd even look at. "Jane, she's a gold digger. Why do you think she seduced half those fools? They were rich, and the moment she saw that Power of Attorney she must have thought all her Christmases had come at once. How much money did you give her?"
"Not a lot," Jane admitted, "over 1000 guineas."
Sharpe sighed and rubbed a hand over her eyes. "Why did you become friends with her in the first place?" he asked wearily as he realised that their breakup had been planned deliberately, but truthfully now he didn't care, at all, Jane leaving had been a blow to Richard, but truthfully now he felt better about himself, because he knew where he stood.
"Because she was what I needed, the person I needed when you weren't even there, and she was a better friend than half of those army wives," Jane said.
"Don't I know it," Sharpe snapped, ignoring the stares they were attracting. "I hated half of their husbands, they were everything I hated about being a soldier; jumped up snobs without any brains, looking down at their men simply 'cause of their histories and the circumstances of their births without bothering to look deeper and were too pathetic to realise the roles were reversed 'cause the common soldiers were better than they were, in everything. But you haven't answered my question, what happened to you?"
He needed to get away from the topic of Molly Spindale. Sharpe had known about the woman, known her for what she was, a whore. Sharpe had met and dealt with dozens of whores along the way, hell he'd been born in one for god's sake, and he knew Molly was the epitome of one. Granted, not all whores were like her, but Molly was manipulative, much like Hogan, Munro, Ducos, and as much as he would've hated to admit it, Wellington. Nothing good ever came from knowing people like them. Looking back, Sharpe could more or less see what had drawn Jane to someone like her; Molly had a broader view of the world than the army wives, who reminded Jane of her own aunt, and their lack of conversation would have bored her to tears. Molly was a far more exciting person, she was blunter and more world wise than those pig bitches. But she was the least important thing to discuss right now. He wanted to know why Jane had been reduced to eking off a living as a prostitute, though he had a good idea how it had happened. He had no idea how much of the 10,000 guineas had been left by the time Waterloo had come, but Jane and Rossendale had been wearing lavish clothes at the height of fashion, Jane had worn one of the latest dresses at the ball, though he'd barely noticed as he'd been too busy chasing that coward Rossendale around to deliver his threat; Rossendale may have gotten the better of him in Yorkshire, but at Waterloo he'd been a scared kid. But at the time he had no idea how much was left, and he hadn't trusted Rossendale when the former had told him she hadn't spent all of it when he'd confronted him.
Jane looked away from him, speaking as though talking of a memory she would prefer to forget. "I became pregnant," she told him before going on to say unnecessarily, "with John's baby. I thought I could handle it, honestly I could," she looked beseechingly at him, hoping he would understand. "But I couldn't. I was spending so much money, and I'd tried to invest what was left, but I wasn't getting any returns. Eventually I was kicked out of my home, and the bailiffs turned up and took everything to pay for my debts.
"A woman took me in, seeing I was pregnant and I had no where else to go, but I didn't know she was a brothel owner until it was too late. She had two men...force themselves on me, and then she had me work for her," Jane paused over her description of how the brothel owner had gained leverage over her, a polite way of describing how she'd been raped.
Sharpe didn't know what to say. He was part disgusted by what Jane had gone through, though he was aware that it was because of his respect for women. He'd never liked other men hurting or abusing women since most of his best friends growing up had been women, that was one of the reasons he'd married Jane, to protect her from her uncle, and over the years he'd learnt women weren't damsels; Ellie and Teresa had been proof of that. Lady Kiely had been alright, she had suffered because of her husband's open infidelity, but he had redeemed himself, but she had stood strong and proud. Sharpe wondered what had happened to her, and hoped she was happy.
But he couldn't let his pity of Jane hide the fact she'd hurt him. But he also found it hard to be surprised that Jane had lost everything due to her own greed; Simmerson had never allowed her access to much money, so when she'd had the opportunity to have some for herself it was too much, and now it was all gone. Sharpe could see reasons for Jane's desperation to turn to him, even if it meant being a hypocrite and swallowing her pride to beg him to take her away from the misery her life had become. But he wasn't going to do it. Not willing to let himself be drawn back into her web, he focused on something else after looking back on during Jane's brief tale of her woes. "What happened to your child?" he asked, refusing to say Rossendale's name. Jane glared at him, correctly guessing he was only asking to not go into details about the brothel, but she conceded. "I had to give him to an orphanage," she said at last. "I had no money, and even with what I earn I can't get him out."
Sharpe wasn't sure what to make of that. He remembered when Harris had been alive, how just knowing the bookish but skilled and courageous soldier had broadened his mind to literature, how Harris had explained the meaning of irony when he'd found it in a book. Harris had been more than pleased to explain it to him. He had never felt that something was so ironic than he did now. Jane knew he had grown up himself in an orphanage, that his mother had been a whore working in a brothel; it struck him as ironic that Jane had probably created another Richard Sharpe by dumping her child on an orphanage's doorstep, and she had become a whore long before she'd begun selling her body for real out onto the streets. Richard knew the child, the boy, would never know who his real father was, or even that he'd been a lord from a prestigious family with wealth to back it up. He would also probably never really know his mother, like she would never know him; Richard had only known his mother as a peripheral figure in his life, but beyond that he'd never had much to do with her. Looking back now she was dead and he was now so old he regretted that. His mother had never been a maternal woman, but he could have made some effort, and Jane wasn't one either. She had never really spoken about children when they'd been together and he'd followed her lead, but he did want to know what it was to be a father. Being an uncle to Pat's son was one thing, but he had wanted to be there for Antonia, but Teresa's family wouldn't have it. That had broken his heart, grinding the shards into little bits.
Jane's parting words about not having enough money to get him out struck him; the orphanage staff would usually let a child go if bribed to do so, so that meant Jane had probably not bothered.
He was silent for a while. "You wanted me to rescue you, didn't you?" he asked bluntly. It was so typical of Jane to think for herself, but he could understand it. Prostitutes were considered scum, and usually they were murdered and no-one truly cared what happened to them.
"Please, Richard," Jane implored him, clutching at his arms with thin wrists that spoke volumes of the amount of food she ate. "You have to help me, you are my husband-"
Sharpe couldn't believe that Jane was that arrogant, that she would think he was that stupid he'd buy that and let her use it against him in the future, and it made him angry. Even after she'd cuckolded him, stole his money, slept with another man and had his kid, dumped that kid in an orphanage and barely seemed to care about him, her own son, and how likely it would be that boy would grow up to become a thief, if not another soldier like her husband whom she'd cheated on, she still wanted more from him. Sharpe would never wish the kind of childhood he'd had on anyone, not even the bastard child of Lord John, and it made him angry that Jane seemed to care more about herself than her son. Again, he was angry people just expected him to clean up their own mistakes and messes after taking what little had left to begin with. It was enough to drive any sane person up the wall.
"What about your son?" he asked quietly; his throat was sore from all the unexpected talking and the lack of proper drink that stopped him from shouting his head off. Part of him wanted to do just that, but he had no intention of it. Some of his best speeches were done with a mild tone, and he had become adept at telling people how he felt in a mild tone. Besides, Jane wasn't worth raising his voice against too often.
Jane backpedalled in surprise, her argument seemingly leaving her body at the unexpected question and interruption. She blinked up at him in surprise.
"W-what? How could you ask me that-?"
"Come on, Jane, it's obvious you didn't plan to include him in your plan to make me rescue you," Sharpe replied; truthfully he wasn't sure if Jane did actually love her son, just like he wasn't sure if she'd even loved Rossendale after telling him for months he'd loved him, Richard Sharpe. It was a vicious circle, and Sharpe just wanted out.
His interruption was a test to see if Jane did love her son or not. If she did, well he wasn't sure what he would do but he had no intention of saving her from her new life, and if she admitted it without knowing it that she did despise her own son, well he wouldn't save her. It was a win-win situation in his eyes. He wanted nothing to do with her; the farm he owned in Normandy had no place for Jane, it had been his haven, the place he could escape from Britain, the army, the life he had led, and he had no intention of someone like her spoil it for him. It was cruel and probably something that Hogan or Ducos would have done to him, but he didn't care. This was personal and had nothing to do with the army though.
"Why should I?" Jane asked, not using her intelligence to see the test for what it was; Richard had always assumed that besides one or two exceptions education was a waste of time, and he was astonished by how often he was proven right. In this case Jane had ignored the double meaning of the question.
"Because he's your son," Sharpe ground out though he was patient to keep Jane digging her own grave, "your own flesh and blood. He's all you've got left of Lord John, the man you loved."
The sneer in Sharpe's voice at the mention of John's voice had a devastating effect. "Lord John? Oh, he may have rescued me from you, Richard," Jane snarled, "but he left me destitute and with child. I had to pay off half of his debts. He also couldn't even defend me against you at that bloody ball. His mother hated me, and his brat didn't help. I tried hard to show him as the heir of Lord John Rossendale, but since I was his mistress the family didn't recognise his own son, and they kicked me out whilst the brat wailed and wailed. I had to get rid of him.
"I had to give the boy up to live my own life, and I knew he would grow up safely and warmly with food in his belly in an orphanage. I'd have thought you of all people would've wanted to keep a child out of an orphanage, but clearly not," she finished off her tirade by glaring at him, but Sharpe had gleaned enough to guess that most of the last minute pity party was fake; she'd called the boy "his brat" so she genuinely didn't care about him.
Sharpe had no problem overlooking his pity for Jane to point it out; it just annoyed him that after everything she had seen and been through that Jane still lived in a world where she was queen. It was time for her to face reality.
"Yeah, you're right, I do care about him being in that orphanage because I know what kind of things he'll go through. I was seven when I realised what my own mother truly was, and that shaped my life. I wanted nothing to do with her, and it strikes me you want nothing to do with your own son, Jane. Oh, you can dress it up however you like, but you reduced him to the sidelines as you tried to get me to take you away. Don't deny it - you had no intention of me helping him."
Jane's anger fled her quickly as she seemed to realise what she had stupidly done. "No, you're wrong-"
But Sharpe was sick and tired of this. He'd begun to wish he had never left his room at the inn. It wasn't worth this. "I'm not wrong," he said simply, and he released a tired sigh and started walking away. "Help yourself, Jane," he said without turning, "I'm not wasting my time on you. I only hope your boy doesn't end up becoming like me."
Sharpe walked away, leaving a sobbing Jane to her fate.
Please tell me what you think. This is my first Sharpe story, and I'd like everyone to comment on what you think. Thank you.