5 June - officers' suppertime

"What? No! Take 'em back. I ain't doin' this."

Pelletier did not answer, but looked pointedly at the two bowls of steaming watery soup in his own hands and the third balanced on his arm.

Gazing at the two steaming bowls in his hands with increasing desperation, Paol somehow found himself following Pelletier towards the table. As carefully as he could he set one of the bowls down without spilling the contents. Much. But such was his concentration on that task that he let the scalding broth from the other bowl slosh over his hand and in his haste to set that bowl down, knocked over one of the wine glasses.

"Ah, never fear, mesdames, messieurs. I will clean it up in an instant," Pelletier said, placing his bowls in front of the officers without incident. He glared at Kerjean and whispered, "Where were you raised? Fetch me a cloth. Never mind, serve the bread and I'll do it myself."

Blushing fiercely, Paol turned away. He wanted to run, to get the hell away from there, but wasn't even sure that he could. He hadn't been dismissed. Though now he wasn't convinced that he was supposed to be there in the first place and that this wasn't simply some grand scheme of Pelletier's.

The bread, blessedly, was easily found and Paol scooped it up and returned to the table. He set the loaf down carefully, as though it might shatter at any moment, and withdrew to the comparative safety of several feet away.

For her part, Jenny felt a bit sorry for the poor Paul fellow. He had obviously never served at table in his life, and now he seemed to be as much a prisoner at this miserable affair as she was. Apart from the fact that he still had a musket slung over his shoulder.

She turned to the officers and spoke for the first time. "When do we return to the English?"

The corners of Jarreau's mouth twitched ever so slightly. This woman, it seemed, had no patience for pleasantries, something he could sympathize with.

Leveque, he noticed, looked somewhat discomfited by the question, but he answered as affably as ever. "Pragmatics would dictate that it be as soon as possible, at least with respect to the civilian prisoners. But I regret that I cannot speak for my commanders. I am as ignorant in the matter as yourselves."

She frowned. She was incredibly hungry, but then she was used to that. She would not eat, not yet. She did not understand all of his words, but she certainly heard the word regret. He was probably saying that he did not know, or could not tell them. "When will we know?" she persisted.

"I do not know," he repeated gently, "I am sorry. Truly." It was not in Leveque to be serious for long, however, and he smiled back at the woman. "Now, won't you try the soup? It's really quite good!"

"It certainly is," Chevenier put in, hoping to help derail the conversation. He sent a smile to Pelletier and Paol. "My thanks, gentlemen."

Olivia, however, was having none of it. She put down her food, feeling quite dismayed.

"You have no idea at all?" she asked, insistently.

"I am afraid not. Jarreau, you have not heard anything?"

Jarreau gave his friend a dubious glance, but seemed to be considering the question. After a pause, he turned to the woman who had spoken and smirked. "Four days."

Olivia frowned, narrowing her eyes at the officer's unpleasant expression.

"There is no need to mock us, sir," she said stiffly.

"Mesdames," Leveque cut in quickly before Jarreau could answer, "Please forgive my friend's lack of manners. He meant no offense, I am sure."

"They objected to the truth," Jarreau protested, "I was merely—"

"That's enough."

Chevenier frowned at Jarreau as well. He did not approve of being impolite to the women - particularly not when they were already in a situation against their will. It was not an ideal situation by any stretch of the imagination, and there was no need to make it worse for them. He took a sip of his wine, wishing that Leveque had been content for supper to be a quiet affair for just the three of them.

Jarreau contemplated his wine glass. It was full and that was a problem, but it was not his most pressing. Leveque, he was fairly certain, was looking at him as though he had just drop kicked a three legged puppy, and Chevenier would undoubtedly share his disapproval. Not, Jarreau reminded himself, that he cared about such things. He didn't. Really.

"Your pardon, ladies," he said abruptly, "I spoke without thinking." He reached for his wine glass then and drained it. It took the edge off the apology, somewhat, but the empty glass presented an even more serious problem. Rather than wait for Pelletier – it still unnerved him to be waited on – he refilled the glass himself.

Jenny stared distastefully at Jarreau, wishing she could think of something biting to say in French. She could not. Instead, she took a long drink from her own glass and started on her watery soup. No one would tell them how long their captivity would last, but this meal would certainly last as long as there was food on the table. The sooner it was finished, the better.

"Your French is excellent," Leveque nodded to the two women, "I regret that I am not such an accomplished student of your own language."

Olivia offered an icily polite smile. "Our thanks, sir."

She took a spoonful of her soup, then dabbed delicately at her mouth with her napkin, buying time as she tried to think of something else to say. Nothing came readily to mind.

"My tutors had a sufficiently difficult time beating the classical languages into me," he continued on blithely, "I think they despaired of ever successfully imparting a contemporary tongue. Though I feel I might have done better if the material had been even remotely engaging. But no, it was The Meditations for me; love nothing, desire nothing – it was meaningless to a child. I suppose my father thought it instructive. The old miser. "

Jenny did not understand the officer's rattling on. He spoke too quickly for her to catch the meaning of his phrases. She heard only a string of words, some that she recognized, but there was no time to put them together. She sighed. He was probably not talking about anything important.

"Where are the Portuguese women?" she asked abruptly.

"The Portuguese women? I had thought that they were with the rest of the civilian prisoners." Leveque's puzzled frown darkened suddenly. "Do you mean to tell me that they have been taken elsewhere?"

Jenny frowned, not in irritation this time, but in concentration. She glanced across at Olivia for help. "I do not understand," she told him.

Catching Jenny's look, Olivia raised her eyebrows at Leveque.

"The Portugese women have not been with us," she said. "Not that I've seen."

The importance of this escaped her, but she continued anyway. "Where else would they have been taken?"

Pelletier cleared his throat awkwardly. "Shall I serve the chicken, monsieur?" he asked Leveque.

Leveque resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Any number or possibilities came to mind in answer to the woman's question, none of them pleasant. However, Lieutenant Goyette's company had been charged with the care of the prisoners and the lieutenant, Leveque reminded himself, was an honorable man; no doubt he would have a satisfactory explanation.

"I am afraid that I must once again plead ignorance, madame. I was under the impression that all civilian prisoners were being held together. Yes, thank you, Pelletier," he added, nodding to the batman.