Les Prisonniers, 1 June

"Ah, yes, so they had mentioned," Olivia responded, nodding.

She pursed her lips and turned to Jenny. "What do you think, Miss Ross?" she asked, acting as though it were an invitation to supper back in England. "Are you feeling well enough that we should grace them with our presence?"

Ross. Jérémie's eyebrows drew together. It seemed to him that he had heard that name before.

"Ross?" Where had he heard it before? It was stupidly familiar for some reason. He studied the second Englishwoman, the one with the light hair, and wracked his brain for the answer.

"Ross is my name," Jenny told the soldier with weary impatience, speaking in French. She recognized his companion. "Paul. So you come with a friend." She wanted to think of something biting to say, but the foreign words would not come. "Damn these French," she said instead to Olivia. "I guess we'd better go then."

"I suppose you're right," Olivia said with a sigh.

She turned back to the French soldiers. "Well?" she demanded. "What are the two of you waiting for?"

A glance at Paol revealed nothing to answer the new questions that sprang to life. This was much more odd than Jérémie could have anticipated. And he still could not think why the name Ross was so damned familiar.

"Wine," he said, a trifle shortly. If he stalled for time, he might be able to prod his memory into working better. He turned quickly and went to the tent flap. Was there somebody about who could... "Sevière!" The boy was just strolling past. Perfect. "A bottle of wine, quick's you can."

As the tent parted just slightly, Francois could see past the Frenchman where the women were, no one looked particularly pleased. And the man's demand didn't exactly please Francois either.

"Wine? And where am I to suddenly come upon a bottle of wine just like that?" the young recruit was beginning to become more used to being amongst his comrades and thus a bit more forthcoming about sticking up for himself.

Were they going to give the Englishwomen wine? That might prove interesting....

What? Jérémie frowned. "I don't know. Steal some!"

"Wine?" Jenny exclaimed, staring incredulously at the soldier. Once again her French failed her, and she spoke to Olivia instead. "They expect to enjoy a taste of the officer's life, with wine and women before they hand us over. We are not stupid," she added in French.

Not stupid? Right.

"They will expect you to bring something," Jérémie pointed out with a glance over his shoulder, "since you aren't wearing the dresses."

"A gift?" she exclaimed. "A gift? For the officers?" She shouted a vulgar insult and threw the empty wine glass at him, disappointed to watch it bounce harmlessly against the wall of the tent.

Paol cast a nervous glance back at the flap of the tent, half expecting an officer to come bursting in at any moment. He shifted uncomfortably, turning back to face the two glowering females just in time to duck as a wine glass hurtled through the air.

"Enough." It was a much a plea as it was a rebuke. The wine glass had rebounded of the tent wall, landing near his feet and he bent to retrieve it.

He opened his mouth to ask Jérémie if Leclerc had mentioned anything about the other two lieutenants, but realized this might serve only to further antagonize the two women. "You've heard her name before?" he asked instead over his shoulder.

It was better to ignore the light-haired woman and her hysterics, Jérémie thought. He chose instead to look back toward Paol while young Sevière dithered outside.

"I have," he admitted. "Recently at that. Somebody was talking about her, I think."

"Ross is a common English name," Olivia informed them tartly. "Having heard it before does not mean you've heard of her. You are being rude."

Despite himself, Jérémie felt a pang of indignation. He was being rude? Well good! Then he frowned. Ross. Common. English. What was he, stupid? It was so obvious and yet he hadn't been able to strike upon it.

"Greenjackets," he said, turning around to face the two women. That's where he'd heard the name before. Now that this little puzzle had solved itself, he felt more confident. "Both of you are with them."

Green jackets? What on earth was he going on about? Olivia raised an eyebrow.

"You mean the Riflemen?" She asked, then scoffed. "Not so. We are both attached to the 2nd Guards. Red coats."

She crossed her arms, annoyed. "You see? Not the same Ross."

Redcoats? No, that definitely wasn't it. Jérémie's frown deepened. It wasn't it at all. Or maybe his memory was indeed mistaken. He did not know any English and the ridiculously short conversation he'd had with the crippled greenjacket had been held with Bright - that idiot - translating.

His naturally pink face flushed a shade darker. If he was wrong and had just made a fool of himself, he was going to have a word or two with Bright about his competence as a translator.

Jenny held up her hand to quiet Olivia. "I have friends green jackets," she said, picking out the words carefully. Speaking French was becoming quite tiresome. Though everything was tiresome on top of this headache. "I know some green jackets," she said, hoping it would make sense if she phrased it at least two different ways. "What they say?"

"The crippled one," Jérémie said, hating that his cheeks felt so warm. It was safe to say he felt confused now - and embarrassed for it - less sure in his recollection than he'd been a moment before. Which was stupid. Either he was right or he wasn't. "He... mentioned somebody called Ross."

He shrugged and left it at that. Perhaps he was wrong after all.

Jenny frowned, not recognizing the word he had used, cripples not being a usual topic for drawing room conversation. "What?"

There was definitely some sort of row going on and communications between the two French soldiers and these English women were frayed. While Francois had no idea where he would steal some other soldier's wine (and probably get in trouble for it), he perhaps could be of help with the discussion...or argument.

"Excuse me, but I speak English quite well," he stepped forward.

He quickly glanced to Jeremie and repeated in French what he had just said to them.

Then it was back to the women, "May I be of service to you ladies in translating anything? I am Francois, pleased to meet you even if it has to occur during a time of war."

He bowed slightly then flashed a boyish smile.

Here came Sevière, but without the requested bottle of wine. Damn it. But there was still a use for the boy yet, Jérémie realised. He could make himself understand much better to these two than Jérémie could.

"The crippled greenjacket," he repeated. "The one with the broken knee. He mentioned knowing a woman called Ross."

For the moment, he decided it was better to leave the pleasantries to Sevière, who seemed more disposed to them.

Francois listened to Jeremie then repeated his words to the women, this time in flawless English.

"I know a few of the English prisoners too. If you are looking for someone in particular, ladies?" he quickly added.

Jenny looked suspiciously at the newcomer who spoke such perfect English, wondering if he was a deserter from the British army. But no, his accent was rather strange, not quite native, and he seemed far too young to have deserted from anywhere yet.

Then she looked back at the pink-faced soldier. "Did he say knee?" she asked the young lad. She quickly adopted a look of indifference and said, "That must be the injured fellow who assisted me when I was separated from my dear lieutenant. Perhaps it would be kind to visit him and offer him my thanks."

Wait a minute, wait a minute. Jérémie frowned. The light-haired woman was speaking English now, when only a moment before she had been conversely in French. Both women had been speaking in French, for that matter.

"The greenjacket with the broken knee," he repeated, recognising the light-haired woman's questioning tone, if not the words she spoke.

"Yes, I know him," she answered in French. Then she asked him, "What is your name, soldat?"