Reporting In

Sharpe grinned at the General. "You'd worry about me if I didn't get in trouble, sir," he said. "Besides, I always get out of trouble again, don't I?"

And if he upset anyone, then they probably weren't worth keeping happy anyway.

"'Sides, I'm always careful, sir." Noe necessarily as careful as he should be, but he didn't have the patience such care needed. He preferred to cut straight to the heart of a problem than dance around it. He was a soldier, for God's sake.

Wellesley frowned. Sharpe had actually deemed to smile at him; which was step up from staring fixedly past his left earhole. He snorted.

"As careful as a bull in a china shop!"

He took another sip from his glass, waiting for Sharpe's reply. When none came he paced back over to the window. That was the official business over with... but what now? He wondered how best to continue, and whilst he wondered he watched an ant crawling its way along the windowsill. The thing must have managed to get in through the frame somehow.

If there anything Sharpe was not, it was a bull in a china shop. Well. Mostly he wasn't.

But sometimes he had to be bullish; it was all he really knew, and some of these officers were just dandies who barely knew one end of a sword from the other, and certainly couldn't tell a rifle from a musket.

And now Wellesley was studying the window frame. Sharpe wondered if there was anything else he was needed for, but he didn't say anything, just in case the General turned and snapped at him. He never quite knew where he stood with the General.

Sir Arthur felt Sharpe's eyes on him. The man was probably waiting to be dismissed, but he had not said all hewanted yet - or, more truthfully, heard what he wanted to hear.

"Tell me, Sharpe," he said quietly. "How has it been for you? Since India, I mean."

Strange question. And what did the general want him to say? He took another sip of wine, emptying the glass.

"Different, I suppose. I dunno. Ended up bein' shoved away as Quartermaster to the 2/95th." So he hadn't even really been able to use his soldiering skills before Corunna. At least he could still do the soldiering, he hadn't lost those skills, so that was something.

He didn't know quite what else to say, so he fell silent, and fiddled with the wineglass.

"I heard..." The General paused. This would be the awkward bit, and he watched the ant try to climb up the glass. "I heard that you had taken up with a lady back at Shorncliffe; a lady of good birth."

Sharpe tightened his grip on the glass. He came to his senses before it broke, and put it down.

"She died, sir," he said quietly. It still hurt.

"I know." He said it softly, still not looking at Sharpe. The ant had just slipped and was staggering around slightly dazed. "I understand it was during childbirth."

He knew this was upsetting the man, but he needed to know.

"Yeah."

He twisted his fingers together. He wanted to stand up and move around, get out of that gaze, but was frozen in his seat.

"And they said she died afore the babe, so the lawyers took everythin' off me for him."

"I'm sorry."

The General finally turned around and saw Sharpe hunched up in his seat, his fingers twisted together, his uneasy gaze trained on the carpet. The wineglass stood abandonned on the desk. Sir Arthur walked over to the sideboard, fetchingthe decanter and bringing it back to the desk, where he refilled Sharpe's glass and offered it back to him.

"Why did you not marry?" The question was not accusatory.

"Her husband died, and she was still in mournin' and then she died, and so did the kid and I had to move back into barracks." And he was babbling. Bugger.

Wellesley was somewhat surprised by the strength of the emotions the subject raised with Sharpe. Grief and anger; the wound still raw, it would seem, even after all these years.

"I am sorry," he said again, still holding the glass out as a silent offering. "I never got to see her in India; was either too far away or too busy fighting another goddamned war."

"'M sorry, sir, didn't mean to snap, sir." He sighed, and took the glass. "Thanks, sir."

India... things had been so much simpler out there.

"Do not apologise, Sharpe, it was I who raised the subject."

He perched on the desk, his own drink in his hands, watching Sharpe closely.

"And how has it been for you since then? I know that with the loss of the Tippoo's jewels it must be difficult to foot the Mess bills, nor do I imagine that you liked being a quartermaster much; it is so often the way it goes, unfortunately."

Sharpe sighed, yet again, and swallowed half the contents of the glass at once. "Tough. I like bein' an officer, don't get me wrong, but the soldiers don't much like it, and most the officers sneer at me when I walk in." He looked up. "I'm a good soldier, I know I am. I just wish other folks knew it."

And when had he got friendly enough with Sir Arthur to say all that?

"I'm sorry, sir, you didn't want to hear all everythin' about me, like. Didn't mean to run off at the mouth, like."

Sir Arthur arched an eyebrow.

"As I recall, Sharpe, I asked you to talk about yourself. It does not hurt to once in a while."

And contrary to popular belief (including his own) he was starting to find he liked taking with Sharpe; the man had no concept of toading or hypocrisey, and neither did he let hierarchy get in the way too much when he got going. Before Sharpe could protest again he swapped back to the previous subject.

"Unfortunate indeed. It is a shame you no longer have the telescope; you may have got something for it now. Not much, but it would be something."

"Telescope?" Sharpe blinked. "I couldn't sell that, sir." The only present he'd ever had, from anyone. It was worth more to him than any money he'd get from selling it.

Wellesley started slightly, wondering if he'd heard the rifleman right.

"What do you mean?" He asked sternly. Surely Sharpe had pawned that thing years ago! He had been in need of money enough times that he couldn't still have it.

What did he think Sharpe meant? "Still got it, sir," he said. The only thing he had that was any real value, and he'd never be able to part with it. He shifted in his seat a little, and pulled it out from where he kept it tucked away. It might be a bit battered now, but there was no way he'd ever sell it.

He held it out. "See?" he said, simply.

Wellesley's fingers trembled slightly as he took the telescope from Sharpe, running their tips over the wooden outer casing and the small brass plaque.

In Gratitude. AW. September 23rd 1803.

The General could not put a name to how he felt at that moment. It had been a gift given so that it could be sold, never expected to be kept or ever gratefully received. He had not thought Sharpe to be the sentimental kind... yet here was the proof of that in his hands.

"I expected you to sell it," he murmured quietly as he felt the words of the brass plaque again.

Sell it? The General had expected him to sell it? He shook his head in denial.

"Couldn't do that, sir. Only present I ever got." And some silly emotion was making his voice tremble a bit. He hoped Wellesley hadn't noticed. "Couldn't sell it, not for all the tea in China," he said, almost to himself.

He caught the tremble in Sharpe's voice and linked it with the tremble of his own fingers. Something was going on here, and Wellesley did not like the look of how it was shaping up. That Sharpe placed such value on such a carelessly given thing, something that he had not wanted; it made him feel completely wretched, and he drew back on his icy hauteur, attempting to hide behind formality again. He handed Sharpe back the telescope.

"As I said before, an officer's eyes are more important than his sword," he said crisply. He was not certain that he'd managed to pull off the withdrawal completely, for he still felt the turmoil in his breast too strongly for it to be purely confined to his insides.

And he'd said something wrong somewhere. That chilly mask was back in place - and when had Sharpe started thinking of it as a mask? He accepted the telescope back with a nod, unconsciously running a thumb over the brass plaque set into the outer tube, as he put it away.

"Yes, sir. An', thank you, sir." Though what he was thanking Sir Arthur for, only God knew.

Thank you? What in God's name for? For asking him here and then making them feel both exceedingly uncomfortable? Perhaps it was merely for the wine... He gave an infinitesimal nod.

"Your written orders shouldbe with you by this evening," he said evenly. "Until then I should suggest you get some rest and clean yourself up, else the dowagers and matrons shall start pressing coins on you out of pity and make you promise not to spend them on drink."

"Yes, sir," he said and got up to leave. Something Wellesley had said a moment ago made him pause.

"The Tippoo's jewels, sir? Who... How... I never told a soul. How did you know?"