"Tea, sir?" echoed Smith incredulously.
"Yes, tea," said Richard impatiently. "I take it you have heard of the beverage?"
"Yes, of course, sir. Straight away."
He started to duck back out of the door, with obvious relief.
"Sergeant," said Richard, halting the man in his retreat.
"Yes, sir?"
"How is Titan?"
The sergeant swallowed nervously.
"Er … the surgeon managed to get the ball out of his leg, sir, and he thinks it might heal in time, with luck."
"Good. You will ensure he gets the best of care. Did the surgeon say when he will be fit to ride again?"
"He's … not sure if he will be, sir. He said it will be a few weeks before he knows. The ball caused quite a bit of damage, he said, sir."
The sergeant closed his eyes and waited for the explosion.
"Ah. I see," said Richard quietly. "Well, we will have to wait then, and see what happens. And how are you, Smith?"
"Me, sir?" said the sergeant, stunned.
"Yes, you," replied Richard with something that looked almost like a smile. "You were wounded, were you not, in the battle? How are you?"
"I'm fine, sir," stammered the sergeant. "It was just a scratch."
"It was a lot more than that," said Richard. "You fought very bravely. All the men did. Ask the landlord to give a bottle of wine to each man, at my expense. I should have done that immediately after the battle, but I've had other things on my mind."
Now Richard did smile, at the sergeant's expression of unbelieving wonder. He looked as though he'd wandered into the mouth of Hell and instead of the expected cloven-hoofed demon with a pitchfork, had encountered a golden, fluffy-winged angel. It was good to keep the men on their toes, and one way to do that was to sometimes behave in the way they least expected you to. A gesture of appreciation now and then went a long way too, especially when it was bestowed by a normally harsh officer like himself. And his men had fought well. They deserved his praise.
"Yes, sir, at once, sir. Thank you. Very much. Sir." Smith said, beaming now. He made to leave the room again.
"Don't forget the tea, sergeant," Richard called.
"No, sir."
"And a woman. For the whole night. You know the sort I like."
Once the door was closed, Sergeant Smith drew out his handkerchief and mopped the nervous sweat from his brow. Captain Cunningham was the most unpredictable man he'd ever met. You never knew how he was going to react from one day to the next. He would have a man flogged if he even imagined he was not being shown sufficient respect; he expected all his orders to be followed without question; he had no sympathy with weakness or any display of nerves in his men; and if he wanted something he expected it to be provided for him, and would accept no excuses. He had, as far as the sergeant was aware, no discernible sense of humour.
On the other hand, his bravery was beyond question. He would not expect any of his men to face anything that he himself would shrink from. Which was fine, except that there was nothing he would shrink from. He was reckless in his courage, which the sergeant personally considered a dangerous quality in an officer, particularly as it endangered his men, of which the sergeant was one. Since he had married well and come into money the captain was showing that he could be extremely generous to his men, if he felt they deserved it. His men feared their captain and some of them hated him. No one admitted to liking him.
The sergeant started down the stairs. Tea. Why the hell would anyone who was in the enviable position of having a wine merchant for a landlord ask for tea? Still, it should be easy enough to procure. The woman was a different matter. Richard's reputation with women was already becoming notorious, and once a whore had spent one night with him she was not eager to repeat the experience, in spite of his generosity, and the word was spreading. There had been some whispered speculation in the mess as to whether the captain was a secret molly, who tried to hide the fact by buying women then taking his frustration out on them when he couldn't rise to the occasion, but neither the sergeant nor the men really thought this to be the case. Captain Cunningham showed no sexual interest whatsoever in his own gender. No, the captain was a normal red-blooded male, although he certainly seemed to hold women in deep contempt, to hate them even. It would not be easy to find a whore who was willing to spend a whole night with him. The sergeant would have to find one, though, or face the consequences.
He set off to accomplish his task. He felt sorry for the poor cow, whoever she was going to be, but the sergeant was a practical man; whores were whores, and better one of them be beaten half to death than him for failing to provide one.
In his room, Richard had already forgotten the sergeant. He sat down at the escritoire, scanned Anne's letter again, and picking up a sheet of paper and a quill, prepared to reply to it. It was most annoying that he couldn't write what he wanted to, and instead would have to send the sort of letter that everyone would expect a loving new husband parted from his dear wife for the first time to write. She might show the letter to others; she would certainly keep it, along with all the other ridiculous souvenirs she was already accumulating; a lock of his hair, a pressed flower from her wedding bouquet.
He sighed, adjusted position slightly to take the weight off his injured leg and settled down to write.
* * *
"So obviously she feels a great deal happier now, and the christening will go ahead next week," said Caroline. Her voice was coming out a little jerkily, as she was bouncing Freddie on her knee as she spoke. The little boy chuckled with delight, waving his chubby fists about.
"Good," Edwin murmured into his brandy.
"Have you listened to one word I've said?" his wife asked.
Edwin started and looked up.
"Yes!" he said. "Of course I have. Richard wrote to say he thinks that George William is an excellent patriotic name for the child and … er … "
Caroline shook her head in mock despair.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just a bit preoccupied, that's all. I'm not sure it's wise for us to commit another six thousand troops to Flanders. It leaves us terribly vulnerable at home."
"There's no choice, though, is there?" said Caroline. "We have to replace the men who were killed at Fontenoy last month."
"Yes," said Edwin. "But if there were to be a Jacobite rising now, we'd be unable to defend ourselves."
"Do you really think there will be?" she asked. "The French army's as tied up as ours, and the Pretender's son is still whoring his way round France, isn't he? We're hardly in any immediate danger."
"Hmm," said Edwin moodily.
"Edwin, you have to relax at some point," she said with concern. "Worrying yourself into an early grave isn't going to solve anything."
"You're right," he agreed, putting his glass down and reaching over to relieve her of the child. "So, the christening, then. Are we invited?"
"Yes, although the whole thing was nearly delayed again when Anne realised she'd forgotten to ask Richard who he wanted for godparents. I honestly think he couldn't care less. He's just been in a battle, and he was wounded; he's probably got a lot more on his mind than the christening of a child he's not that interested in."
"Who did she ask?"
"She asked Anthony and Beth, and Bartholomew Winter."
"Really?" Edwin raised one eyebrow. "Did Anthony agree?"
"Of course he didn't. He gave the same excuse he gave us for not being Freddie's godfather. Beth refused as well, but I think that's more because she knows Richard would be annoyed if he knew Anne had asked her, than because of any superstitious beliefs. She suggested Charlotte might be a better choice, as she helped Anne so much after Stanley died. Charlotte nearly died on the spot from excitement."
"I bet she did," said Edwin. "It must be the most exciting thing that's happened to her since poor dear Frederick died."
"The only exciting thing, I should think. What is it about the Cunningham men that they have to make sure they're surrounded by feeble women, and then still feel a need to trample all over them?"
"Insecurity," said Edwin. "It takes a man of great strength and personality to marry a firebrand and survive intact."
"Or not so intact, if you're referring to us in that statement," warned his wife.
"Not at all," said Edwin, with the polished insincere candour of the born politician. "I was thinking of Anthony and Beth."
"Of course you were. Anyway, it's nice to see Anne relaxed and happy again. She was terrified that Richard wouldn't forgive her for nursing the baby herself, but he seemed fine about it. Beth still thinks that he was trying to murder the baby by insisting Anne hand-rear it, but she always does think the worst of him. He had no idea it was so dangerous; he said as much in his letter."