This is the re-post -- my apologies for the original version being all bunched up.
Mardy.
ONE
Harper wandered back through the night, listening to the men chatting and gambling, laughing and joking, and smiled to himself as he recognised a different sound. Hagman was singing. This time it wasn't a dour, sobering soldier's song, but a happy children's rhyme. He reached the cluster of tents away from those of the South Essex, finding, as he knew he would, those he cared about the most.
Ramona was sat with Hagman as he bounced a giggling baby Patrick on his knee. He sang quietly but confidently, waving little Patrick's hands in time to the ditty. Harper carried his volley gun over quietly, stopping behind his wife and putting a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, smiled, and then went back to watching her son.
Harper looked around the circle of faces and smiled. Harris, his nose in a book. Moore, cleaning his rifle as if the last four times he'd already done it that evening didn't count. Robinson, Taylor and Brown playing some strange variation of cards, which seemed to involve cartridges and child-safe swear-words. He walked round to the fire, taking the tea urn and pouring himself a cup. He walked over and sat near Harris, looking at the book.
"Another dirty book, Harris?" he asked, amused.
"Not at all, sir," Harris grinned, looking over the top of the slim volume with his small, round glasses perched on his nose. "A witty yet profound tale of love, betrayal and forgiveness," he said.
"Oh. King's Regulations then," Harper grinned.
"Hardly," Harris snorted. "The Marriage of Figaro."
"Where's the wit in marriage?" he asked, and Harris snapped the book shut, looking at him.
"You're supposed to tell me that," he said plainly, and Harper smiled. "And while we're on the subject of telling people things, do you know what we're doing here, Harps?" he asked. Harper looked into his tea.
"Waiting. Just waiting. The South Essex hasn't been ordered anywhere, so we're just sitting here while our arses go biscuit-shaped, so we are," he said quietly. "Why? Fancy a chance to get your head blown off, do you?"
"Just wondered why we're not drilling. Where's the Major, anyway?" he asked. "Not like him to miss his tea."
"Day Book," Harper said knowingly, and Harris nodded. Harris opened his book again, and Harper stood slowly. He finished his tea, stretched, and went back to the tea urn, refilling the tin mug. He walked back out of the circle and toward the Major's tent.
It was well-lit inside, the silhouette of the Major's table and chair plainly visible. So was the form of the Major himself, one elbow out on the table and book, his head in his head. The other hand scratched away with the second quill that evening. The candles flickered, the breeze brought the sound of birds and animals abroad, but the quill kept scratching, scratching, scratching.
Harper waited out of sight, wondering if the Major had known he'd have to keep the books before he'd taken the rank. He doubted it. He was about to cross to the tent and interrupt his scribblings when he heard the distant sound of the Postmaster's voice.
"Schofield! Marjorie Schofield! Postmaster for Marjorie Schofield!"
He looked over quickly, finding the man marching through the lines of tents, waving an envelope in the air, looking around for signs of someone claiming it. He hurried over, following the man, hoping to catch up with him and Miss Schofield. That'll put a smile on the Major's face, so it will, he grinned, finding she's back. As he followed he saw the man stop at a tent, bending and talking. Harper caught the sound of a female voice and grinned, making sure he knew where he was before turning and hurrying back to Sharpe's tent. He crashed his big hand against the wooden post outside.
"Sir!" he called cheerfully. "Sir! News, sir!" he cried.
"What?" Sharpe said, his voice a study in disinterest. Harper pushed the tent flaps aside and stooped, sliding into his tent and holding up the mug of tea first. Sharpe just looked up from the book, waiting. "Well?" he asked, his face bored.
"Miss Marjorie's here, sir," he said, waiting for the smile to break over Sharpe's face. It didn't. Instead, it ruptured with confusion.
"Here? How?" he asked, putting the quill down and staring at the Sergeant Major. "She's supposed to be in Lisbon."
"That she is, sir, but I just caught the Postmaster delivering, sir. She was talking to him just now, sir, her tent's just five minutes from here, so it is," he said. Sharpe put his hands to the table and lifted it away from him slowly.
"Bloody strange," he said to himself, standing slowly. He waved at Harper and they ducked out of the tent. Sharpe stopped and gave his back a bone-popping stretch, rubbing his hands over his face. He sniffed and took the proffered tea from Harper. "Well why didn't she come over here?" he asked himself.
"Couldn't say, sir. Don't know how long she's been there, in that army tent, sir," he said, then realised perhaps he shouldn't have said anything. Sharpe drained the tea double-quick time and looked at him.
"Well, maybe I'll ask her," he said reasonably. "Show me."
Harper turned and led him through the maze of tents and soldiers, the flickering fires and lamplights, until he stopped. "That one, sir," he said, pointing cheerfully. Sharpe walked over slowly, unable to stop a smile cracking his stern features.
"Mar?" he called curiously. "Marjorie?"
"What do you want?" said a voice. It was female, definitely female. And definitely not that of Marjorie Schofield. The tent flaps were swished aside and a woman stepped out.
She was perhaps five foot five, with long jet-black hair that sat freely around her shoulders. It blew around in the breeze as she looked back at the confused-looking squaddie in the darkness. Her dark eyes studied his face, finding the scars, the puzzled expression, and the eyes. She smiled slightly.
"I'm sorry, forgive my appalling manners," she said, putting her hands to her dress and attempting to pull it straight. With it being hemmed so tightly to her bodice there was neither reason nor improvement. "May I help you… gentlemen?" she asked, as if searching for the correct word.
"I were looking for Marjorie, ma'am," Sharpe said, hoping he sounded polite. "Miss Marjorie Schofield?"
She nodded. "That's me. Do I know you?" she asked, curious. She looked past him to Harper, then back at Sharpe. "I think I'd remember," she added to herself.
"Begging yer pardon, ma'am," he said, recognising money when he saw it. "Major Sharpe, of the South Essex. This is Sergeant Major Harper," he said, waving a hand behind him.
"Major Sharpe? Major Sharpe? A Major?" she repeated, staring. There was a long, silent moment. She stared at him, her eyes disbelieving, it seemed. She collected herself. "And in green! What is the world coming to?" she said icily. He just raised his eyebrows. "And why are you roaming round this time of night looking for a girl, Major?" she asked, and her voice was definitely unfriendly.
"She's a friend, ma'am," he said gingerly. He didn't like the way her eyes were burning into his, the way her stare had turned cold and hard. He lifted his chin.
"Well there's only one Marjorie Schofield here, Major, and that's me," she said. "And at the risk of being rude, I neither know you nor want to know you. Goodnight," she said briskly, turning and stalking back inside the tent flaps. Sharpe just watched for a long moment, and Harper prayed he wasn't about to lift the flaps and follow her in.
But the argumentative gleam in his eye died, his chin lost its rigidity and he turned slowly from the glow of the tent, not looking at Harper as he walked away slowly.
"Come on, Pat. Leave her be," he said quietly as he passed him. Harper watched him walk off, and then looked back at the tent. He sighed, then turned and followed the Major back toward their part of the world.
They walked in silence, but the disconsolate depression was almost deafening.
It had been three weeks. Three weeks with no orders, three weeks with no action, and more importantly, three weeks with no letter or note from Marjorie. Not that it bothered the big Irishman, but it bothered his commanding officer, and that made it his business. Of course, the Major never complained about it or discussed it with anyone, and a part of Harper found that sad. He should have someone to complain to. He should have someone to tell. He fell into step next to him, noticing he hardly bothered to watch where his feet were going. Major Sharpe had a curious, nimble gait at the best of times, but right now it was all over the hillside. What he needs is a fight to get his teeth into, so he does, he nodded to himself.
"Strange that," he said aloud. Sharpe just grunted. "Her having the same name, so exactly. And saying she didn't know you, sir," he said curiously. Oh, she knew you alright, he realised, she knew you and hated you for it.
"Well I don't know her. And just like her, I don't want to," he tutted. They reached the tents and Harper waited for him to stop, but he just carried on straight into his own tent. He stood outside.
"Well, I'll just be… sending the boys to bed, so I will," Harper called for Sharpe's benefit. He made out the shape of the Major closing the Day Book and putting things in order, and then the candle was blown out. Harper nodded. "And God keep you too, sir," he said a little sadly, turning and walking back to the circle of faces.
As he sat and sang and drank fresh tea, he couldn't help worry over the face that wasn't there. And then his thoughts turned to the woman. Her face. Something about her face… I've seen her before, I know I have. He sighed, lifted little Patrick onto his knee, and thanked the heavens he had different stars to those of Major Sharpe.
"Do me this favour, Harris, and I'll see to it you get light duties, so I will," Harper said quietly, and Harris nodded and turned away, heading for the officers' tents of the South Essex.
"Sending him fer rum, Harper?" Sharpe asked from behind him suddenly. Harper wheeled quickly, looking at him. He had seen Sharpe covered in mud, blood and all kinds of substances in between, but he'd never seen his eyes look so… empty.
"Not at all, sir," he grinned guiltily. Sharpe grunted and walked past him, toward the large tub of steaming water that Ramona had left out for him on the wooden table. He slid his tunic off and dumped it unceremoniously on the ground next to him, pulling his shirt free before sliding it off over his head. It went the same way as the tunic and Harper sighed, turning and walking off quietly.
Sharpe put his hands toward the water, then hesitated. He leaned forward, put his arms against the sides of the tub comfortably, and instead thrust his whole head into the hot water.
Everything's clearer under here, he admitted to himself. No dust, no French, no waiting, no writing in that bloody great book.
He let a few bubbles of air escape his nose, feeling them bump against his face as they made their way to the surface. He stayed that way until he felt his lungs start to burn. He was thinking about the point in removing his head when he felt a hand on his back.
For some reason he smiled, opening his eyes under the water and straightening, pulling his head out. He turned and his smile dropped as he saw it was Ramona watching him. He realised he wasn't disappointed it was Ramona; more that it was not whom he'd hoped it would be without knowing it.
"You silly boy," she said sternly, pushing a towel at him. "You make yourself cold out here. Is early, and too cold for your head in there." She watched him press the towel to his face, then looked around, checking who was close enough to hear her. "Lawford has riders this morning. Maybe you'll have a job now," she said quietly. He pulled the towel away and looked at her.
"About bloody time," he grumbled. She folded her arms and sighed.
"I hope you find something worth killing," she said sternly, and he just looked at her. "You are looking for something big and fierce to kill, I know that look," she said. He just turned away from her. "Make sure it's what you're looking for, and not something that looks the same," she said wisely, reaching past him and taking the bundle of linen from the wooden table. He turned to look at her but she swished away in a flurry of long skirts. He sighed, then caught sight of Harris sidling out of an officer's tent and into another. He shook his head and turned for his uniform, picking it up off the ground and shaking it out.
There was no movement from Lawford, that day or the next. After the third day Sharpe was contemplating shooting at redcoat picquets in the dead of night just to alleviate the boredom. His uniform had been patched and re-sewn, his boots re-heeled and his sword had been sharpened more times than a Pond Street whore.
He was lying out on his cot, studying the ceiling of his tent as if he'd never seen it before. He brought his hands down from behind his head, looked over at the rifle standing in the corner of the tent, and decided it was time for some shooting practice. He rose off the bed, not bothering to find his tunic or pull his braces over his shoulders, and grabbed up the weapon. He turned for the tent flaps and walked out, looking round.
Moore and Brown turned and looked at him as if surprised. Brown tugged on Harper's elbow urgently. Harper stopped arguing with Harris in mid-flow and looked round. He caught sight of Sharpe and looked back at Harris. Harris looked over, looked back at Harper, and turned to walk away quickly, their heated argument forgotten as Harper gave him a slight push.
Sharpe's eyes narrowed. "Harris!" he shouted. Harris stopped short. Harper turned, stepping into the line of sight neatly.
"Sir, you're awake," he said, walking toward him with a cheery smile. He held a hand behind his back carefully.
"Harris, get back here now!" Sharpe called. Harris turned slowly and began to walk back toward them. Brown and Moore started to back away, Sharpe noticed. He let them. Somehow he had the feeling they were superfluous.
"Harris has some things to –"
"Sergeant, shut it," Sharpe said harshly. He watched Harris walk up and stop next to Harper, as if for protection. "Now what's going on?" he demanded. "Something you don't want me to know about?"
"Well sir, it's not something –"
"Not you, Harper," he snapped. He looked at Harris. "You."
Harris gave a great sigh, as if it were all monumentally unjust, then flicked his gaze at Harper momentarily. He looked at his feet.
"The Sergeant gave me a task, sir," he said gingerly.
"What task?" he demanded. "Out with it, man!"
"Oh but it's nothing, sir," Harper put in. "I just –"
"Sergeant, one more word out of you," Sharpe breathed, and Harper closed his mouth, having noted the wild look in the Major's eye. "Now, Harris, explain what this errand was," he said dangerously. Harris didn't look up.
"The Sergeant Major instructed me to get word to Miss Schofield, sir. I started by verifying she was still in Lisbon, sir. And then a helpful Lieutenant in the 'Essex found news for me, sir," he said quietly. Sharpe studied his face, noted the discomfort and looked at Harper quickly.
"Well?" he demanded. Harper tried a small smile.
"Seems she's not there, sir, as if she's just dis-" Sharpe stepped up very close to Harper suddenly, and he braced himself for a strike. But Sharpe just shoved his hand behind Harper's back and snatched the piece of paper from his hand. "Sir!" he said desperately. Sharpe stepped back, out of reach, lifting the paper to see it.
It was a despatch.
'For the attention of Mr P. Caron, aide to the General Sir Arthur Wellesley, for the sums and amounts of those lost in the skirmish at the outer Lisbon redoubts.'
He snorted without mirth. "A butcher's bill," he observed. His eyes skimmed down the list, naming officers and soldiers who had been identified as those lost in some small surprise attack by French. His eyes stopped abruptly, captured by one simple phrase at the bottom.
'And the regrettable loss of two highly skilled and devoted cartographers Mr Peter Schofield, and his sister, Miss Marjorie Schofield, formerly of England.'
He stared for a long moment, then read it again. He let his hand drop slowly, then looked up at Harper.
"Jesus, sir," the Irishman said quietly, his dark eyes heavy. Sharpe just sniffed dismissively, then looked at Harris.
"Thank you, rifleman. Go clean some kit," he said gruffly.
"Sir," Harris said gratefully, turning and sidling off as fast as was polite. Sharpe turned to go. Harper grabbed his arm quickly.
"Sir," he blurted. Sharpe turned slowly and looked at him.
"What? What are you going to say?" he asked, looking weary. "Is there something you can say?" he asked, curious. Harper just let go of his arm slowly. "Didn't think so," he said quietly, and walked back toward his tent, his rifle over his shoulder. Harper watched him duck under the tent flaps and inside. He stood there a good few minutes, but still no plan struck him that could help the situation.
He turned and walked away.
