Preparing to Leave Lisbon

Maggie stared down at the table again. She found herself wishing Jem was there so she could lean her head on his shoulder again. She was ridiculously tempted to leap up and squeeze into Cotton's own chair, to lean against him, the same green jacket with the dear buttons that hurt when they pressed hard against her face. Am I getting drunk? she wondered.

"I do want to," she admitted in a small, quiet, apologetic voice.

Cotton said nothing at first, but kept watching her face. He was afraid to press her too hard, afraid she might turn and run and keep away from him, from getting to know him.

She was a brave woman, he thought. Brave, but a little lost, and very sad still over Jem's death, which was only to be expected.

"Then why won't you?" he asked quietly, aware that he might be pushing her too much.

Sharpe cast around for something else to say, and drew a blank. "Will you be marchin' with the Army tomorrow?" he asked finally. What a stupid question to ask!

Stephen looked up, jerked from his reverie. "I plan to. I have one or two things to see to in the morning, but I shall probably go with the medical corps." He looked around. "Will they serve food at this time of night, do you think? I suddenly realise I raven."

Sharpe shrugged. "Dunno. You c'n ask... and it's amazin' what a bit o' money can buy, at any time o' night."

"I will - I am not looking for anything interesting. Have you eaten?"

He had, but rather earlier, and he was a little surprised to find he was feeling peckish. "Had lunch, but don't think I had anything since. An' it depends what sort of 'not interesting' you mean. Most British soldiers think Portuguese food is quite interesting enough, by their standards."

Maggie frowned, perplexed. It had all seemed so complicated a moment ago, but Cotton's question made it seem so simple. Was it really simple after all? She felt an undefinable guilt that she couldn't explain and couldn't express. Guilt for Jem, guilt for herself, guilt for Cotton. But she couldn't make sense of any of it. She couldn't think at all. She had just admitted that she wanted whatever it was she had admitted to. But that was purely selfish for her own part. And Cotton was so good, and it didn't seem fair on him.

"I don't know," she answered quietly. "What I said. I don't remember now."

"Bread, garlic, sausage. I will ask for something less spicy that what they would normally serve, if you prefer."

"I don't mind spicy. I was in India for five years, remember? Bit of garlic's fine by me."

Stephen smiled. "Of course - very good." He walked to the counter, cursing the stab of pain in his leg. If he was to walk to Belem in the morning, he would fortify himself beforehand.

He returned to the table with a plate. "He says that his neighbour has had to report two fights tonight already," he said, nodding towards the tavernkeeper. "I must admit, I am slightly concerned for Captain Padstowe, with his shoulder in its state. Which reminds me - I have been shamefully neglectful - how is your head now?"

Talking about food now, Mister Sharpe was. What sort of folk ate at this time of night?! And it was distracting, too.

"Would you... would you try? Just a little bit? Just to get to know me and, maybe, to like me. Just a bit, Maggie, just a little bit."

He didn't understand everything she meant, he didn't understand why it was suddenly so important. But he wanted to get up and hug her, hold her close and make all the confusing things go away.

"Aches a bit, but no worse than if I'd walked into summat. Think I've got a lump the size of a damn pigeon's egg be'ind me ear, though."

Maggie was confused and distracted. It was so hard to think. And so very tempting to finally have a friend. She knew there were countless good reasons to say no, but she couldn't remember what they were.

"All right," she answered, almost too quiet to be heard.

Was that a yes? Cotton wasn't sure he had heard her properly. But suddenly, he didn't mind. He just knew he wanted her to be happy.

"Oh, Maggie," he said, and before he quite knew what he was doing he'd pushed his chair back and crossed to her side. "Oh, Maggie," he said again, putting his arms around her, careless of who was watching and what they might think. "I just want you to be happy, lass."

"Let me see. Lean towards the candle a little... There is a lump, but it feels bigger than it is. It was a lucky miss: it is close to the squamosal suture. You will probably have a concussion too, but there is nothing to be done for that - just be careful not to knock it again."

Stephen was distracted by the couple in the corner, who suddenly embraced - he looked away, not wishing to stare.

Maggie felt a sudden feeling of panic, wondering if she had done something terrible. But pressed against Cotton's shoulder, it didn't seem to matter. She couldn't remember anything at all. She felt safe. And she was surprised to find herself feeling rather happy.

Sharpe bore the doctor's examination as stoically as he could, though he couldn't help wincing a little as he pressed on the swelling. "Jon... Captain Padstowe said you'd shown him how to check for a fracture, and he said it wasn't. I don't intend to let anyone hit me there again, it hurt enough the first time."

Concussed... would a concussion prevent him from marching tomorrow? He didn't ask in case the answer was yes.

He blinked a little as the Rifleman at the corner table suddenly got up to hug the girl he was with... He started a little as he recognised the man. Did Captain Vickery know his batman was seeing a lass?

Dragging his thoughts and attention back to his comrade, he remember Maturin had been injured as well, before the messy fight in the woods. "How's your head? And your leg?"

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Did he now? Well, he was right, thank the Dear, though I would not recommend him to display his medical talents so soon - untrained diagnosis is the greatest killer of men. The leg is fine, and the head will heal eventually - a few dizzy spells, and a certain lachrymosity, but I count my blessings; if Captain Padstowe had not been there, I would have no head at all. Or not one instantly recognisable as a head."

"Oh, Maggie," he said again, for lack of anything better to say. "You'll be all right. Stick with me and you'll be fine, you'll see." It felt nice, holding her. Somehow, it just felt right.

Dizzy spells... Sharpe could certainly empathise with that. "Least it's mendin'," he said. "And are you plannin' on riding wi' us? Because I don't think you should be on foot with that leg; you'll have the devil of a job to keep up."

Stephen smiled. "I do not have much of a choice - I cannot afford a horse. I hired a nag for our excursion, and I had to pay an extortionate amount when I could not return her, poor creature. If I am in a particularly bad state, the Medical Corps may be able to lend me a mule."

"You need a horse?" Sharpe said, thinking. He didn't know how good a rider the Doctor was, of course, but he was bound to be better than Sharpe was.

"It does not matter if I need a horse - I cannot afford one, and I cannot afford to look after one. I am quite used to walking on my own two feet, Lieutenant, but should I require a horse for any further excursions, I am sure Major Hogan will be willing to lend me one." He grinned. "I am afraid you are saddled with your gift horse, which you should not look in the mouth, I am assured by excellent authorities."

"Make sure Major Hogan lends you a decent one, then. Last time he lent me anything, it was a damned screw. And I prefer me own two feet, an' all. Not so far to fall."

It had been a generous gift, he thought grudgingly. It just would have been better going to someone who could make proper use of it.