In Lisbon Market

On the march tomorrow, and Cotton had to stock up on stuff. Things like tea and sugar for the Captain and more thread for his own housewife*, among other things. He found himself in Lisbon market, looking at the stalls. It wasn't till he came to Maggie's that he found what he needed.

"Should've come here first off," he said, looking at the stock she had for sale.

*sewing kit

"Yes, you should've," Maggie replied without looking up from her mending. "Is it you, then, Gable? What you be needing?"

"Aye, it's me, Maggie, and don't you know it is." He grinned at her. Allus busy with her sewing, this one. "Tea and sugar'd do, fer a start. You heared we'm marchin' tomorrow?"

She finished her stitches with deliberation and answered him guardedly. "Aye, I heard. Tea and sugar, is it?" She wiped her hands on her apron absently and reached for the scoop.

"Aye, if'n ye, please, Maggie. An' I don't s'pose you've got any thread for sale there, anywheres?" He tried to think what else he'd be likely to need once away from here.

"Have I got thread..." she scoffed. "Of course I do. Are ye blind today, Gabriel Cotton? Right there. And I wish you may have good luck with it. Or have ye found someone to do your mending yet? You need a good woman looking after you, you do."

She was prattling away like her usual self, but Cotton could tell that her mind was engaged elsewhere.

"Beg parding, din't see that there." She seemed somewhat distracted, but Cotton wasn't quite sure how to broach the subject.

"Is ever'thin' all right with ye, Maggie?" he asked, wondering if there was anything he could do to help.

"Oh, aye, I'm all right, I'm fine," she replied lightly, giving him a quick smile before looking away to busy herself with the tea. An awkward movement overturned a crock, and dried beans spilled over the table and onto the ground. The crock itself rolled, hesitated, and finally made its own plunge to the ground before either of them could reach it. Maggie swore.

"I don't think it's broken," Cotton said, picking it up. "It's mebbe got a new chip or two in it, but nothing worse'n that. Here." He put it down carefully on the table and began to help Maggie get the beans back in it.

"You sure you'm all right, lass?" he asked again. If Maggie didn't want to talk to him, he wouldn't push his luck, and she would probably clout him as soon as talk to him right now.

She tried to dismiss the question with a wave of her hand, tried to shake her head and look busy with cleaning up the mess - beans everywhere, everywhere! - but his persistence and kindness and the crock and the mess pushed her over the brink. Even with her head bent low and turned away from him, he could see that she was crying.

He abandoned the crock and the beans as she turned away, burying her face in he apron. "Hey, hey, Maggie." He bit his lip for a second. He wasn't much good with crying women, but there was nobody else around. "Here, come on, lass." He stepped around the table. "I din't make you cry, did I?" His concern was written all over his face.

She tried to wave him away again, but it was a futile gesture, so she turned instead and squeezed his arm gratefully. "No, no," she blubbered, trying to wipe her nose and feeling very foolish. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry Gabe. I was just--" Her face contorted as she tried to fight back the crying, but she appealed to him to understand. "Jem!" was all she could say.

Ah. He moved a bit closer and put his arm round her. "Hey, lass, you cry all you want, I ain't a-goin' nowhere."

She'd done well for herself, all things considered, since Jem had died only a few months ago. She'd managed to set up shop selling stuff the soldiers would need, so she had some money to live on. But even so, it couldn't be easy for her.

"You'll be all right, lass."

She nodded, grateful, well knowing how awkward the rifleman must feel in the presence of a crying woman making a spectacle of herself. She detached herself after a moment and said rather aimlessly, "I miss him, you know?"

"'Course you do, lass. He were a good man to you, and a good mate to the rest of us."

At least she seemed to have got herself under control a bit more now. "Feelin' a bit better now?"

She nodded and patted his arm, trying to stop the tears by force of her will. When they seemed to have stopped at last, she asked wearily, "But what am I going to do? I never, never should've come. Never."

"Seems to me you've got a choice, Maggie," Cotton said. "You can come with us north, wherever it is we're headin' to this time. Or... there's a prisoner in the guard house. Some French officer who'll want someone to wash, and cook and mend his uniforms and stuff for him."

He looked at the stall. "But you've got a nice business here, as well, and us swaddies, we allus like to see a pretty, friendly face. So you c'n do what you want, and mebbe you'll find yourself another man."

That hadn't come out the way he wanted, so he pushed on. "Not that anyone can replace Jem, but surely some lad would like a nice girl like you."

A young rifleman from the 60th, probably buying things for his departure the next morning, but stopping to haggle with the stall holder. Unusually an English girl - probably a widow, or something less permanent. At least she chosen a respectable alternative to whoredom. The rifleman was trying to impress her with talk of French prisoners. An officer at least, from his list of requirements. Now, who might have been involved in a battle with the French - that damned uninformative Padstowe.

Edrington, wandering through the market, had already seen that the woman had coffee beans, and now he became seriously interested.

As he held and smelt the beans, he watched the two, the girl still upset, the Rifleman consoling her. Not yet lovers, but friends. Friends, you could interrupt.

"Excuse me, Rifleman, but did I hear you mention a French prisoner. Would that be the one Captain Padstowe brought in?"

"A French officer?" she repeated in disbelief, staring at Cotton. "What'd I want to do for a French officer? Them as killed my Jem!" She was appalled that such a thought would even cross his mind. But after a moment, she relented a bit and sighed. "Anyway. Speaking of him. I think I know the one you mean because I had to wash his clothes - filthy! They'll be dry now, though. I'd better take 'em back, and, I guess, clean up this mess if I'm going to march with you lot in the morning. And I guess I'd better get that tea and sugar still." She looked around wearily at the goods in her stall, and then wiped her eyes quickly when she noticed the officer.

The Rifleman - one of Captain Vickery's he thought - could hardly claim that it was secret since he told it to the girl. And she had known about it anyway. But it was who had taken him prisoner, not who he was that was important. He held out his choice of beans. "How much do you have, Ma'am? I would be interested in a reasonable amount."

"Rifleman?"

A voice from behind made him jump. He spun round, coming to attention as he did so; that was an officer's voice or he'd eat his hat.

Yes. Nice, expensive uniform to go with the posh, cut-glass accent. "Sir. I think so, sir."

And he shut up, waiting for the next question, the next statement or whatever the officer had to say. He knew his place all right, with someone like this around.

Maggie ducked down as if to reach for the scoop, giving her face a quick wipe with her apron while the men were distracted.

"Thank you. You wouldn't know what sort of officer: cavalry, infantry, voltigueurs..." A slight accident! He'd give Padstowe full marks for discretion - and a warning about common gossip always outrunning secret information.

"Cavalry, sir, from what I saw." Oops; he shouldn't've said that... but the news was probably half-way round the Army by now anyway.

"Quite a coup for the Captain. A scout, I suppose." With the army moving north, Soult would be sending scouts down - Hussars possibly. That would need to watched on the march. And he had just the men.

There was no sensation of goose-flesh, or other intimations of doom.