12th July, evening; The washing

Jérémie was last seen here.

It was only after the brief midday halt that Jérémie remembered he no longer had his spare shirt. Neither did he have his kitten, for both were in the wagon.The realisation brought part of his gloom back. The shirt he had on was sticking uncomfortably to his skin, being damp from three days of sweating. It needed washing and ordinarily, he would exchange it for his spare and send the dirty garment along to be washed.

Now, of course, he did not have his spare shirt and he could not either retrieve it or have his dirty shirt laundered. At least the latter was something he could see to on his own. A wry grin briefly turned up the corner of his mouth. He'd had competent instruction in the washing of clothes. Of course, that thought led to others of a less favourable nature and he pushed them out of his mind. It would not do to dwell on the things he had ruined.

Once the column had halted and fallen out for the night, Jérémie made his way toward the river, which still meandered near enough to the route of march to be useful. He had managed to avoid being seen by any of the others, he thought, which was good. Nobody followed him, anyway. All the same, he loitered near the riverbank for a minute or two before being satisfied that he was indeed alone. Then he went about the uncomfortable business of stripping off his pack and equipment. His coat, waistcoat, and shirt were next, though this was more painful than he cared to admit.

Fortunately, it was growing dark, which afforded him a sense of security. It would take a close look for anyone to know precisely who he was. For a moment, he contemplated putting his waistcoat back on in an attempt to cover the bruises on his torso, but that garment too needed washing. Might as well see to both of them now. Jérémie crouched, a little awkwardly, and removed his gaiters, shoes, and stockings. No sense in getting those wet.

The water felt refreshingly cool on his feet as he stepped into the river half a pace. That was good enough. He shoved the shirt and waistcoat into the water, then sought out a suitably-sized rock against which he'd hammer at the linen.

She'd looked everywhere for Rosy around the company before Gauvin was able to point her in the direction of the river. It was still reasonably close to camp, but in the darkness it felt horribly remote and she was at the point of giving up and returning to the safety of the wagon when she heard a familiar sound. The wet slap of stone on cloth.

Murmuring a relieved little prayer, she padded quickly toward the sound, soon catching sight of a pale figure crouched in the shallows of the river. She slowed, overcome rather suddenly by shyness, and deliberately scuffed at the sand to avoid startling him too badly.

He would never have a laundress' sure sense of timing, he thought. Was the shirt done or not? He had no idea. It was wet and he'd worked at it for some minutes, which probably meant it was done. There must be some way to tell for sure but he didn't know it.

With a shrug, Jérémie peeled the shirt off the rock and gave it a shake. Sure. That was done. Or at least it was done enough to suit his own purposes. The waistcoat was next, though he'd have to be a little more careful with this one, lest he smash any of the buttons on it.

The scrape of a foot on the sand stopped him short, and he turned quickly to the side, reaching instinctively for his musket - which lay near his pack, quite out of reach further up the bank. Damn him for an idiot. But, he realised, whoever had come round made much too small a shadow to be any kind of threat.

Of course, he had a very good idea who was there and he sighed. Not who he'd feared it might be, fortunately, but he was not sure he deserved a visit from her, either. Jérémie set the stone down and shifted so he was kneeling in the shallow water, heedless of the sandy damp that immediately saturated his trouser leg.

"Hello," he said cautiously.

Mathilde bit her lip, uncertain what to make of his tone. Was he going to be angry with her for bothering him? "I... brought your shirt," she said meekly, "And--" Stooping to the ground she seemed to set something down and the next moment a small, dark shape came scampering across the sand towards Blanchard. "Suie came too."

Whatever wariness - perhaps even reservations - he might have had about her being here were mostly dispelled by that declaration. Christ. What was wrong with him, anyway?

Jérémie left the untouched waistcoat, suddenly no longer caring about it, and rose so he could tramp a step or two up the bank, his trouser legs sloshing water as he went. Then, he sat, a bit abruptly. Suie head-bopped his knee before clambering up onto his lap.

"Thank you," Jérémie said simply, trying to coax a smile to his face.

Smiling with relief, Mathilde moved closer, dropping to her knees in the damp sand and reaching out to scratch Suie's ears. "He has missed you, I think," she said, still too shy to include herself in that statement.

Glancing around Blanchard, she saw the waistcoat piled on the rock and narrowed her eyes. "If you are going to become a blanchisseur, then you must teach me to mend shoes," she told him gravely, then, suppressing a grin with only marginal success, "It's only fair."

More likely, the kitten had missed riding in Jérémie's pack. No matter. He had not known he'd missed Suie himself until then. He stroked the kitten's back and was rewarded with a light flickering swat from Suie's tail.

"Indeed?" The question was not a serious one. He saw no issue with sharing such knowledge, in part for selfish reasons. Even though doing so ultimately meant going near the wagon again. Best not to think about that just now.

"It is not so hard, really. Mostly you're just sewing leather."

Mathilde's smile brightened. "I'm good at sewing. Well...mending holes anyway," she added a trifle bashfully. "Would you really show me?"

The prospect of having a willing student to teach, in a trade he had not been too sorry to leave, amused him. Fortunately, he had the necessary tools and some supplies with which to do more basic work. That would help. A nice distraction, anyway.

"Of course. But first, may I have my shirt?" He could not sit here with a bared back, he knew, for a variety of reasons.

"Oh!" She hurriedly unfolded the shirt she had been clutching and held it out to him, blushing. "Sorry."

His own face was warm, well on the way to burning, as he accepted the shirt back and quickly slipped it on over his head. That was better, though.

"Thank you." Jérémie hesitated then, not sure what else to say. What could he say? There didn't seem to be any safe topics... or maybe there were. "Do you have shoes that need to be mended?"

It wasn't perfect but it was better than leaving any openings for questions. Questions that didn't relate to repairing shoes, anyway.

Mathilde thought about this for a moment. "Maman might.... she wears boots. But Gilles and I don't have any," she said at last, sounding faintly apologetic.

Right. Well. That made things a little difficult. It never crossed his mind to send her back to the wagon for the purpose. Not that that was a good idea anyway.

"Ah well. It's unwise to do any involved work at night anyway. But here," he retrieved one of his own shoes. "Do you know what part of the shoe wears out the fastest?"

Mathilde cocked her head to one side, an imitative gesture which had long since become habit. "The bottoms?"

"Basically." Jérémie turned the shoe over so the underside was nominally visible. This would be so much easier if there was light to see by. Shrugging, he held the shoe out in case she wished to inspect the bottom of the shoe by feel rather than sight. "The heel takes wear worst, usually."

Actually, he thought, he might be able to use his own shoes as test pieces, since it felt like the sole on this shoe was beginning to come loose.

Mathilde peered intently at the shoe and nodded. "Is it supposed to move like that?" she asked, seeing the slight play between the sole and the body of the shoe.

Good eyes!

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "It should be one solid piece, from toecap to counter - front to back. I'll have to re-sole it, probably."

"Toecap...counter," she repeated slowly. "Is that difficult?"

"Time-consuming more than difficult." Of course, he had learned such simpler tasks at a young age. He managed a grin that probably couldn't be seen in the dark. Not that it lasted very long anyway. "It's best done in daylight."

"Like washing," added Mathilde with a crooked smile. But perhaps such things were best learned by moonlight.

Yes, like washing. A grin turned up the corner of Jérémie's mouth. "Aye, perhaps. I wouldn't like to try my luck hammering nails in the dark."

Mathilde laughed. "No. You would need glowing eyes like Suie."

He scratched at the kitten's ears and shook his head. "That might be helpful, wouldn't it? Ah well." With a slight shrug, he laid his shoe aside, realising he was at a loss as to what to say next. Short of making a small fire by which to see, he could not undertake anything further in the way of instruction.

"Has he been behaving?" It was the only thing that came readily to mind.

"Oh, yes. Though he has been showing his brothers what's what."

"He must be the oldest, then," Jérémie mused, putting his fingers at risk by rubbing Suie's stomach. Unsurprisingly, he was rewarded by four paws' worth of sharp claws. "You little devil!"

The rebuke was spoken without malice, however. In fact it was nearly possible to hear a fleeting smile in his tone.