A Painful Conclusion, 5th July, late afternoon

Maggie paused to listen as she passed by the captain's tent on her way to the fire. Her eyes widened as she heard the sound of a woman's voice speaking with Vickery. A woman alone with the captain in his tent! What would Gabe think of that? Or maybe he already knew about it. Of course, Maggie had been alone with the captain in his tent several times, but everyone knew she was his servant's wife. That was different.

She hurried to the fire and set down her kettle of water. "Gabe! There's a woman in the captain's tent!" she whispered.

“Very well.” Beatrice nodded, quickly returning the flask to the medicine bag before handing the captain his jacket. “Is that all Sir?” she asked, keeping her tone polite.

Vickery couldn't think of anything else he needed right then, and he nodded. "Thank you for the tea," he said, pulling his jacket back on before picking up the tin mug of tea.

“I hope it’s to your liking Sir.” Bea smiled, taking his words as a dismissal and gathering up her things.

"Gabe, are you listening to me?" Maggie persisted. "Oh, I think she's comin' out now." She watched like a hawk to see who would emerge from the tent.

Bea exited the tent; her bag tucked under one arm, the bowl of lukewarm water in her other hand. Almost immediately upon exiting the tent she met the eyes of a woman by the fire, did she know her? Squinting her eyes Bea studied the other woman, she didn’t seem familiar, but why was she scrutinising her so?

"'Course I'm listenin', woman." Cotton gave her a fond smile. "Here, y'don't have to stare so - you'll make her uncomfy. She was only sent for 'cause you was busy elsewheres an' I ain't no hand with bandages or nothin'." He poured her a cup of tea, and then found a spare mug.

"Like some tea, Miss?" he asked Miss Hunter, poised to brew another cup.

Bea raised her hand, shielding her eyes from the glare. Instantly everything shifted into focus, allowing her to make out the Cottons. She felt her cheeks flush, ashamed she hadn't recognised them sooner.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you." She smiled, making her way over to join them.

It was Beatrice Hunter, of all people! Maggie stared, and only then realized that Cotton had said something. "What? Beatrice Hunter, what're you doin'?" She glanced at the bowl in her arms but gave it no thought.

"Mr Roper sent for me." Bea explained simply, setting the bowl on the floor to free her hands. She was aware the explanation completely lacked in detail, but didn't wish for Maggie, or Mr Cotton, to worry unnecessarily; no doubt the Captain would inform them if he saw fit.

"To go in the captain's tent?" Maggie persisted.

"Maggie!" Beatrice exclaimed indignantly, "I hope you're not even implying that..." 

She trailed off with a sigh, "Mr Roper informed me you were busy. And asked if I had time to spare." 

"I ain't implyin' nothin'!" Maggie said, relenting a little. It was silly to have imagined that Beatrice might be up to anything unscrupulous. "But other folks might. A woman's gotta be careful, 'specially one who ain't married. Believe me, I know."

She settled down by the fire and now peered into the bowl that Beatrice had set there. Murky water. Roper had called her in because Maggie had been busy? And Gabe had mentioned bandages... "So - you been lookin' after the captain's gash?" If that was the case, Maggie was glad enough not to have been called. Tending a man half dead was one thing, but a calm and sentient officer was another.

“Sorry, I must have misinterpreted.” Beatrice sighed, her cheeks still burning with her indignation. She hadn’t even paused a moment to consider how visiting the Captain alone would look to passersby. “You’re right,” Bea smiled warmly, realising her error; “I’ll take more care in the future, promise.”

Joining Maggie by the fire, Bea arranged her skirts so they wouldn’t crease too much. ’Old habits die hard’ she thought in passing before realising Maggie was speaking to her.
“Yes.” She admitted, staring into the bowl rather than at her friend; “I could barely refuse when Mr Roper said he was hurting, could I?” Despite her best efforts, the questioning inflection crept into her tone.

"Well, o' course you couldn't," Cotton replied briskly, holding out the mug of tea he had finished brewing while the two women were talking. "how is he, Miss?" he added, refilling the kettle and hanging it over the fire again. He sat back with his own mug, and looked over at Miss Hunter. "You oughtn't worry about the Captain doin' anythin' he oughtn't, Miss, he's a proper gennelman an' all."

With a word of thanks, Beatrice accepted the offered mug. She was grateful for the reassurance, and her shoulders relaxed visibly as a result.

"In himself? Captain Vickery seemed well enough." 
Lifting the mug, she gently blew the steam off before taking a tentative sip. 
"However the wound," she sighed, "It's causing him some pain, rather a great deal of pain. There doesn't seem to be any infection, so there's a blessing." Beatrice kept her voice low, although she supposed it was perfectly acceptable to discuss this matter with his batman; she respect the Captain's privacy. "Could I possibly leave a flask of laudanum with you?" she almost blushed at the forwardness of her request, but pressed on regardless: "The Captain seemed adamant he would not require it, but it would put my mind at ease."

Raising her eyes from the mug of tea in her hands, Bea looked over to Mr Cotton: "I don't doubt that." she agreed, taking another sip of tea. 

"Did you partake in the football game Mr Cotton?" Beatrice queried with interest. 

"Football game!" Maggie exclaimed. This was news to her. She had been busy with what little marketing she could manage and had only just returned to this side of the camp. "Is that why the captain's feelin' poorly? He didn't ought to - Gabe! Was you playin' football, with your arm like it is?" She stared at him accusingly.

"Wasn't much of a game," Cotton put in, slightly defensively. "Anyhow, me arm ain't so bit bad." It hurt a little, but he was pretty sure the worst was over - and anyway, having what amounted to a long scratch didn't somehow render him an invalid or anything.

And Miss Hunter had said something about leaving something with him. "You want me to look after that in case he needs some more of it?" he asked, looking at Beatrice.

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to-” Beatrice hastily stammered, accompanied by a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach: “From what I can gather it was only a brief game, the Hussars muscled in.” She explained, in a desperate attempt to fill the hole she had just dug.

“Please, Mr Cotton” she confirmed, fishing out the flask of laudanum from the bag by her feet; “The Captain was... adamant. But just in case, it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.” Bea smiled, holding out the small flask to him, “And if your arm is causing you any pain at all, just be careful. It’s quite strong.” Her voice kept to a conspirative whisper.

"Let's have a look at your arm," Maggie said, still frowning. Since Beatrice knew all about cures and such like, she might as well see it too.

"It ain't bad, not much more'n a deepish scratch," Cotton said, and shrugged. Maggie wasn't likely to let up, though, and he reached to unbutton his jacket to pull it off.

"And have you seen the surgeon about this 'deepish scratch?" Beatrice asked, looking concerned. She shifted her position as to see clearly before taking another sip of tea.

Cotton paused in unbuttoning the cuff of his sleeve. "'Course I did. Doused it in brandy he did - waste of a good tot, that, an' all - an' bandaged it up proper an all."

He pushed the sleeve of his shirt up over his elbow - the loose cut of the shirt made it easy enough to do so - to display the neatly tied bandage the surgeon had wrapped around his forearm.

"It escapes me why they always use the good stuff." Beatrice smiled wryly, her father had thought the use of brandy in medicine to be akin to blasphemy.

At first glance, the bandage seemed clean enough, pristine even. "You say it's been hurting some, er- a little?" She asked, quirking an eyebrow in a puzzled expression.

"Only if I do summat that'll pull at it," Cotton assured her. Which the football game had, somewhat, though it had settled down a lot since then.

"It's not like I'm ham-fisted, neither, though," he added with a wry shrug. Being right-handed, it was the arm he used most often and he was apt to try to use it without thinking, which didn't help.