A Painful Conclusion, 5th July, late afternoon

Cotton leaned forward to poke a couple more sticks into the fire. "We've bin fightin' the Frogs since I was a younker, there's no reason to think the fightin's goin' to be over any time soon, more's 'the pity." He sighed. "Be nice if it was, though, an' we could be over into France by the end of the year."

He straightened up and reached for his tea. "Maggie an' me might even have kids, time we get to England." He looked across at Beatrice, curious. "No? I thought most women wanted to marry, have kids, a home of their own?"

Beatrice watched the fire, the gentle heat was comforting, and the soft crackling sounds even more so. “It must be possible, for it all to end; the fighting, the war, everything.” She sighed, keeping her focus solely on the fire, “It’d be nice to go home, even for a little while.”

She grinned, “Kids?” Beatrice echoed, stressing the ‘s’ sound; “That sounds, wonderful for you both; exhausting, but wonderful.” She drew her gaze from the fire, remarking the curious expression on her face; almost laughing in spite of herself.

“No.” Beatrice confirmed, “I, I’ve considered it, but never found it was a good option.” She fumbled.

"What wasn't a good option?" Maggie asked, approaching with a handful of cloths of various sorts. "Will one o' them do for you?"

“Marriage.” Beatrice shrugged, plucking a cloth from Maggie’s hands.
“Ah, perfect.” She grinned, splashing a great deal of the salt solution onto it before dabbing at the ‘scratch’ gingerly.

Salt water and a healing knife wound were not a combination that Cotton found he liked. He didn't particularly like the surgeon's using brandy for that same purpose either, of course.

He couldn't help hissing a little as Miss Hunter dabbed at his arm, however gentle she tried to be. Still, it was better to have that stinging now than risk the cut going bad, in his opinion.

"You great baby," Maggie said mildly, looking at the wound while Beatrice dabbed it with her cloth. It was Cotton's own fault for getting in a fight with two other men and getting himself arrested. Not that she felt he deserved it, but he really ought to have been more careful. He should have known better, silly bugger.

"Why ain't marriage a good option then?"

“Sorry, it won’t sting for long.” Beatrice stated calmly; continuing to dab at the wound. At least it was cleaning quickly enough.

“It is for some,” She looked up from cleaning Mr Cotton’s wound for a moment, and gestured with her spare hand to the two of them; “Just one example.” Bea smiled, returning her focus to Mr Cotton’s arm. “However: marriage, in my experience, is more of a business transaction. And I was never much good with business.” She smiled again, wryly this time.

"Just stung a bit unexpected like, is all, Maggie," Cotton replied, slightly stung himself, and smiled. "I've bin lucky in findin' my Maggie, but even out here I reckon it's the luck o' the draw, times. Doesn't mean you won't never find yourself a good man, Miss, whatever other folks might say."

She gave him an affectionate smile then and kissed him on the head. "Aye. We been lucky." They had also been incredibly unlucky in their short time together, but at least they had had each other for support. "But ain't nothin' wrong with a business transaction neither. It's a lot easier to feed two mouths workin' together than just one. Specially out here."

There were not many unattached women following the army, and it seemed to Maggie that they had a difficult time of it, many having to live like Jenny, whoring themselves out to whoever could feed and protect them. That was not Beatrice's way, she knew, but she did not know much about her.

"But you seem to get on all right?" she added, wondering how she managed.

Beatrice smiled to herself, feeling like an intruder on their intimate moment. She busied herself by wrapping the spare bandage around Mr Cotton's arm, tying it firmly so it wouldn't rub or unravel.

"It's not money," she dismissed uncomfortably, pulling at a loose thread in the fabric of her skirt; Bea had escaped a world of old names and fancy airs when she followed the army to the continent. Granted she would return home eventually, return to her little isolated life on the coast, now even more desolate since her mother's passing. "Medicines sell well, I get by okay."
It was true, Beatrice rarely wanted for business.

Cotton was at somewhat of a loss for words, and left feeling a little uncomfortable. He distracted himself by rolling his shirtsleeve down and then pulled on his jacket. He could hardly tell her that she'd have enough trade and to spare before the year was out.

This was hardly the sort of conversation he felt comfortable with, as a man.

What did know about how to talk to a woman, really? He could talk about farming or soldiering, and that was about it.

Medicines must be expensive for Beatrice to buy as well, but Maggie had enough tact to avoid that line of thought. If Beatrice was independently wealthy - as was Maggie's suspicion - it was none of her business to question it. At least not to Beatrice herself.

Instead she asked, "Don't you ever feel... unsafe?" Then, feeling that perhaps her skepticism seemed impolite, she added, "I came out with me man Jem - Corporal Balstrode, you know - and when he died, all the lads looked out for me more or less, till Gabe took me up." She gave her husband a smile. "I ain't had to spend much time alone."

Her thoughts naturally strayed, and she reached out and squeezed Cotton's hand as if to reassure herself that she was not alone now.

Beatrice continued to pull on the loose thread, though absently; "Unsafe? Of course, on occasion." She spent most of each night drifting in and out of light dozes, waking at the slightest shuffle of feet or flash of lamplight. It was rare Bea achieved a full night's sleep, the slightly rusted bayonet kept by her bedding provided little peace of mind.

"They're good men." Beatrice agreed, with a noncommittal nod of her head.

Janet stalked through the camp, her expression vengeful. Breathless and redfaced, she checked before the small group. "You seen a lad come runnin' through here?" she demanded without preamble, "Sandy hair? Face like a frog?"

Maggie could not help laughing at the description. "Like a French frog, or the kind that croaks?"

Janet grinned, her eyes glinting. "Oh, he'll croak, alright. When I get my hands on him."

Maggie laughed again. "What's he done, then?"

Beatrice looked upwards towards Janet, stifling a small laugh before it escaped her. Curious as to who this boy was and just what he had done to irk her so.

Janet snorted. "Poxy bastard thinks he can chouse me, that's what."



chouse = cheat