An Officer's Room in Belem

Padstowe saw that Stephen was withdrawing into himself again, and though a little affronted by his instruction he did take a few more mouthfuls of food, before turning his gaze back to the doctor, watching him quietly.

Stephen realised that Padstowe was watching him, and that he had stopped eating. He wrenched himself away from his thoughts - he had not told Padstowe the full extent of yesterday's discovery; a few hurried words assuring him that Wellesley had the papers he needed, and those who needed to knew of his condition, and then the briefest possible account. "Have you had enough? Finish the bowl, now. Are you warm enough?"

Padstowe sighed.

"Stephen," he said, ignoring the doctor's fussing. "What is troubling you?"

"You, not leaving an empty bowl like a Christian."

Padstowe gave him a dark glare.

"Stephen!" he growled.

"Yes, Jonathan?" Stephen said mildly.

Padstowe gave an exceedingly frustrated sigh.

"Do not abuse your authority over me as your patient to deny me information," he said testily. "I am getting tired of it. My body may be bruised and broken, but mind mind is not - so, please, tell me what is bothering you."

The last held the ring of a plea.

Stephen sniffed, offended. "I would never abuse any position of authority I had been given."

He tapped his left foot, gazing up around the room, focusing on nothing. Eventually he stared down at the floor. "I will concede that I am a little low in my spirits, but I am ashamed that it should be so apparent; for that, and for what I fear was a shocking display of sentimentality last night, I can only ask that you forgive me."

Padstowe wondered when Stephen had become addicted to seeking absolution.

Stephen spread his hands. Always silence, always. "I do not know what else you want to know."

The captain looked down into his lap.

"What can I ask that you will tell me?"

Stephen idly prodded his leg, his spirits plummeting once again. "I am not by nature a loquacious man, Captain. I have told you what it is necessary for you to know."

"Quite possibly," Padstowe said sternly. "But it is not the same as what I wish to know. And it is also highly unfair of you, doctor, to expect men to confide in you the minutest detail of their actions or sorrows without imparting anything in return."

Stephen felt stupid, and humiliated. He had thought that Padstowe had been asking after him, but it seemed that in his loneliness he could not longer distinguish between an inquiry after a person's state of mind, and a demand for information. He realised further than every time he had apologised to Padstowe, or opened himself in any way, the man had not denied the need for any guilt, but he had not even accepted his apologies. Stephen might not have been a loquacious man, but Padstowe was silent, and Stephen understood now just how wounded by those silences he had been.

"It is not unfair in the least, Captain," he said icily, struggling to maintain an impassive facade. "I am a physician; that is the essence of my duty. That is what is expected of me."

"But is it not the duty of a friend, also?" Padstowe challenged. "He had faced down enough of Sir Arthur's icy tirades to be intimidated by Stephen's tone. "At least, I would be willing to count you as a friend, doctor. Whether you wish to offer me the honour, I do not know."

"I thought that I had offered it, Captain, and I thought that it had been rejected."

He stood up. "I need to see Capitaine des Sablières," he said quickly, frantically looking nowhere. "I have some books in the haversack: Horace's Satires, Martial's Epigrams, a missal, Clarke's Medicina Aciei and a study on the skeleton Daption capense - a most unusual sternum; it is very interesting. No novels, I am afraid, but if you have the Latin..." He trailed off, looking away.

Padstowe looked at Stephen with a somewhat puzzled and hurt expression.

"When was that?"

"When?" Stephen felt as though the word had been torn from him. "Every time I have tried to explain myself, or to apologise to you, you have been silent. Obidos, Lisbon, Belem - I have tried, again and again, to be open, and to seek some- But always to be met with silence. I do not know whether it was agreement, or contempt, but I just-" He looked down, shocked.

Oh. Padstowe found that he could not meet the doctor's gaze.

"I thought that you did not want me to comment," he said awkwardly. "And if I did I felt that somehow whatever I might say would be wrong."

"It would have been preferable to silence, to letting me think that I did not deserve even a cruel word. And why would I speak thus, if I were not- Do you think it is easy, for a man of pride to say such things?"

He did not know. He had gotten the impression that the doctor wanted to kick himself when he was down (he had known a few men who were the same) - but to say that was sure to lose him the man's goodwill forever, if he had not done so already.

"I do not know," he said instead. "I have never made such a confession. But also, in the past I have more often than not found that speaking further upsets those I have sought to console."

"'Never made such a confession'; of course, I see," Stephen said bitterly, looking up.

Padstowe let out a ragged sigh.

"See?"

Stephen shook his head, once, twice - he almost seemed to deflate. "I have to see des Sablières," he said quietly, in a monotone. "Will you need anything while I am out?"

"No."

Damn it!

"No, thank you."