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Sharpe had sworn he wouldn’t do this, sworn on every ounce of pride he possessed that he wouldn’t do this. Had lain in his lonely bed at night swearing he wouldn’t do this.
But here he was, perhaps not literally on his knees, but knowing in his heart that if Arthur demanded he kneel then he would abase himself on the instant, and he prayed to the god he didn’t believe in for the strength and wisdom to redeem himself.
He looked at Arthur. “Please, my Lord,” was all he could find to say. “Please.”
He looked at the floor, not daring to meet the General’s eyes as he considered Sharpe’s plea, and noted dimly that his overalls needed patching at the knee again.
It all depended on Arthur now. But he’d had the strength to send Sharpe away in the first place, to cut him off with little sign of regret, and Sharpe feared to see in those cold blue eyes the distant look that said he had the strength now, too, the strength to hold to his course and to hell with whatever pleadings Sharpe might come up with.
The silence was oppressive. The heat in the small room made him want to scratch himself all over and it suddenly occurred to him that he should have found some means of having a bath before throwing himself upon the Duke’s notoriously thin mercy. If Arthur did give him another chance it had been Sharpe’s intention to take him to bed straight away. That had been the entirety of his plan in choosing such a late hour to seek this desperate audience.
But while His Grace was no perfumed fop he did keep himself clean, far cleaner than an infantry officer without servants to heat the water and to iron the lice from the seams of his uniform while he bathed was generally able to achieve, and Sharpe saw with despair that he’d gone about this all wrong. He should have thought it through properly, but he’d seen a chance, the door left unguarded for a moment, and he’d taken it.
Now he looked up at last, fearing the continued silence. Arthur’s eyes were not icy, but neither were they warm and loving as they had been during that time Sharpe tried not to remember too often, and he was staring at Sharpe as if he were some stranger come importuning who he hadn’t yet decided what to do with.
“What, exactly, is it you’re asking me to do, Major Sharpe?”
The voice was distant, almost detached, and Sharpe’s resolve faltered. Through the too-short years they had been together, it had always been Arthur’s - Wellington’s - habit to call him by his rank (a) when it was business and (b) when he wasn’t happy with him.
This wasn’t business.
“I’m asking, my Lord,” he began carefully, “that you...” he stopped. He’d been going to say “reconsider”, but that wasn’t right, that would sound as if he thought Arthur - Wellington - hadn’t considered it all very thoroughly in the first place.
He thought it through again himself. The breaking point, he had come to realise, was in his dependence. In his total lack of any plans for after the war other than to stay near this man, wherever he went.
It had become very clear to him that Arthur didn’t want that, didn’t want a desperate and needy ex-soldier hanging around him, however discreet he might be about it, because Arthur had plans for the future. Big plans. Plans that involved diplomacy and high-born women, travel and no doubt even more meetings than he endured at present.
“I’ve been thinking,” he tried again. He’d done little but think ever since Arthur had sent him away, and although he had as yet come to no firm conclusions, it was at least clear to him now which direction his thoughts needed to be heading in. “And I wondered - if I promise to find myself a proper separate life after this is all over...”
He meant the war, but had a sudden panic that Arthur might think he still meant 'after our relationship is over'. “The war, I mean, obviously, not...” Again he stopped himself, mid-gesture, because he’d been about to say “you and me” and at this particular moment, and for the several months leading up to it, there was no him-and-Wellington and if he didn’t get this right, there never would be again.
He gave up trying to explain himself. He would beg if he had to, would prostrate himself on the floor and plead, but he knew that wasn’t the way. Better to leave it unsaid. Arthur knew - he must know - what he was asking for.
“I just need some hope, my Lord,” he said. “That one day we might...”
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Sharpe trailed off and Arthur let the silence continue while he worked out what to say.
This was, quite apart from being excruciatingly embarrassing, extremely difficult. His aides were all at dinner just down the corridor and as he hadn’t yet dismissed them for the night, one of them might come in at any moment.
Otherwise, Arthur knew - though Richard as yet did not - that this would have been over the moment Richard said “Please,” in that desolate tone that made it clear he was hurting, that he had dragged the depths of his soul to come here and beg like this. Because while he, Arthur, might be the General, he was despite his rank and responsibilities still only a man, and all he really wanted to do at this moment was go to Richard and hold him tight.
But for now the proprieties had to be observed.
“Shut the door,” he ordered. He almost smiled at the look on Richard’s face. “With you on this side of it,” he clarified.
Neither of them was some gently-born virgin who must not be found alone in a room with a man, but it would be every bit as disastrous to their reputations for anyone to hear the conversation they were about to have.
He waited until Sharpe returned to the desk. “Please, Richard, sit down,” he said quietly, and he could see the man composing his face to show nothing of his feelings. That was nothing new, Sharpe might be bleeding to death inside and his first thought would be not to show any fear or pain.
But if his thoughts were where Arthur suspected they were, he would be feeling a lot of pain, if not fear, at this moment, and so Arthur wasted no more time.
“My dear. Since I told you things had to end between us, I’ve thought of little else in the nights besides trying to find a future for us. And I haven’t changed my mind - no, sit down, Richard, don’t go! Please, hear me out.”
Damn, he’d worded that badly. Change it round. And quickly.
“What I haven’t changed my mind on,” he said carefully, “is that - will you not sit, Richard?”
He would not, it seemed, and Arthur could hardly blame him, so he continued.
“...is that I would not wish to see you wasting your life after the war in simply waiting around for me to come for you.”
He saw Richard’s lips twitch at the phrase and he stifled his own smile. Time enough for smiling when they’d sorted this out.
“What I mean, Richard, is that, well, I have a certain, um, standing, in the world, and after we have won this war I imagine our lords and masters will continue to find work for me in France for at least a few years. But wherever I go next, I could not countenance your sitting alone in a set of rooms somewhere, having no life of your own. I won’t be moving back to England for another two or three years at least, I would imagine.”
“I don’t have any great hankering to return to England, my Lord.”
“So what will you do?” He had to impress upon the man that they could not simply go back to how things had been before. They must look ahead to their joint and separate futures.
“Do you mean...?” He saw the slow dawning of hope on Sharpe’s face.
It was too early for hope, Arthur thought. “I mean, Major Sharpe...” Use of the rank was deliberate, and he disliked himself for it, but one of them had to be sensible. “That you will need to convince me that you understand the need for you to have a separate life, not just...”
“I just promised that, my Lord.”
“Not quite,” Arthur couldn’t help noting. “Your exact words, if I recall, were ‘If I promise’.”
They looked at each other. Eventually Sharpe smiled reluctantly, but it seemed to Arthur that he was clinging tightly to what little pride he felt he had left, so he wasn’t entirely surprised at Sharpe’s next words.
“I suppose it’s a good thing that you don’t bloody change much. I promise, then, is that enough?”
Arthur made him wait a moment longer. He had to impress upon Richard that this was serious, that they needed to understand each other properly, not merely exchange expedient words.
“So long as you mean it, yes.” He saw Sharpe relax very slightly. “Because I’ve tried being without you and I don’t like it one bit, and so I would be exceedingly grateful if...” He stood up. “Richard... would you do me the honour of agreeing to resume our relationship?”
Sharpe unexpectedly took a step backwards rather than forwards.
“You’ve made me promise something,” he said. “Now I’m asking you to make me a promise, too.”
“If I can,” Arthur said guardedly. Sharpe showed no surprise at his response. How well they knew each other, Arthur thought.
“I need you to promise that you’re not going to change your mind and send me away again every five minutes if sometimes I forget myself and tell you how much I love you.” The soft words delivered in a hard business-like tone were so very Richard that Arthur couldn’t help smiling.
“I promise,” he said.
“And I need you to promise that you won’t send me away if I seem to take longer than you deem proper to come up with a plan for after - forgive me, but I have other things to worry about, like staying alive and keeping my men alive - ”
And I suppose I don’t, Wellington thought, slightly sourly, but he let it go. Richard was of necessity closer to his men, a closeness Arthur was simply unable to allow himself even if he’d known how to do it.
“...for after the war, a plan that gives me my own life as well as being available, just occasionally, to be part of yours?”
Wellington could see Richard didn’t have the first idea what that life might involve, but he seemed sincere enough. “I promise that, too,” he said. “And I sincerely hope that when this is all over you can be part of my life rather more than ‘just occasionally’.”
“Well then, that all seems very satisfactory,” Sharpe said in a slightly mocking tone of voice. Then he softened and opened his arms. “Come here,” he commanded. “Let me hold you.”
Arthur stepped forward gladly and complied.
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