Sharpe’s Havoc: The Northern Portugal Campaign, Spring 1809. Bernard Cornwell

but no one came.

      Kate almost cried herself to sleep that night, but next morning her spirits were restored and, over the shocked protests of the servants, she swept out the entrance hall which was a glorious space of chequered black and white marble, with a white marble staircase curving up to the bedrooms. Then she insisted on dusting the fireplace in the great parlour which was decorated with painted tiles showing the battle of Aljubarrota where Joao I had humiliated the Castilians. She ordered a second bedroom to be aired, its bed made and the fire lit, then she went back to the balcony above the porch and watched the driveway until, just after the morning bell had rung in Vila Real de Zedes, she saw two horsemen appear beneath the cedars and her soul soared for joy. The leading horseman was so tall, so straight-backed, so darkly handsome, and at the same time there was a touching tragedy about him because his wife had died giving birth to their first baby, and the baby had died as well, and the thought of that fine man enduring such sadness almost brought tears to Kate’s eyes, but then the man stood in his stirrups and waved to her and Kate felt her happiness flood back as she ran down the stairs to greet her lover on the house steps.

      Colonel Christopher slid from his horse. Luis, his servant, was riding the spare horse and carrying the great valise filled with Kate’s clothes that Christopher had removed from the House Beautiful once her mother was gone. Christopher threw Luis the reins, then ran to the house, leaped up the front steps and took Kate into his arms. He kissed her and ran his hand from the nape of her neck to the small of her back and felt a tremor go through her. ‘I could not get here last night, my love,’ he told her, ‘duty called.’

      ‘I knew it would be duty,’ Kate said, her face shining as she looked up at him.

      ‘Nothing else would keep me from you,’ Christopher said, ‘nothing,’ and he bowed to kiss her forehead, then took a pace back, still holding both her hands, to look into her face. She was, he thought, the most beautiful girl in creation and charmingly modest for she blushed and laughed with embarrassment when he stared at her. ‘Kate, Kate,’ he said chidingly, ‘I shall spend all my years looking at you.’

      Her hair was black and she wore it drawn back from her high forehead, but with a pair of deep curls hanging where the French hussars wore their cadenettes. She had a full mouth, a small nose, and eyes that were touchingly serious at one moment and sparkling with amusement the next. She was nineteen years old, leggy as a colt, full of life and trust and, at this moment, full of love for her handsome man, who was dressed in a plain black coat, white riding breeches and a cocked hat from which hung two golden tassels. ‘Did you see my mother?’ she asked.

      ‘I left her promising that I would search for you.’

      Kate looked guilty. ‘I should have told her …’

      ‘Your mother will want you to marry some man of property who is safe in England,’ Christopher said, ‘not some adventurer like me.’ The real reason Kate’s mother would disapprove was because she had hoped to marry Christopher herself, but then the Colonel had discovered the terms of Mr Savage’s will and had turned his attention to the daughter. ‘It would do no good to ask her blessing,’ he went on, ‘and if you had told her what we planned then she would most certainly have stopped us.’

      ‘She might not,’ Kate suggested in a small voice.

      ‘But this way,’ Christopher said, ‘your mother’s disapproval does not matter, and when she knows we are married then I am persuaded she will learn to like me.’