Yet another posada in Lisbon

Padstowe frowned.

"No, I didn't mean that one. I left one from my sister lying about somewhere and I haven't been able to find it; wondered if you were sitting on it. Never mind, it'll probably turn up."

He then raised his eyebrows, seeing as the opportunity had now presented itself to ask questions.

"But now you mention it, you never did say what that letter was about. You have read it, haven't you?"

"Actually, no. I'd completely forgotten about it, to be honest. Hardly surprising, seeing as I was jumped after leaving the Mess, and then there was all that business with the court martial, an' all." He frowned; he wasn't sure whether opening it in front of Padstowe would be an entirely good idea.

"And no, I'm afraid I haven't seen any letters laying around. Sorry."

"Oh."

He paused, looking at the letter clutched in Sharpe's hand with a mild curiosity.

"Aren't you going to open it?" he asked lightly.

Sharpe turned it over and broke the seal before scanning the contents. "Ah. Um. Right."

He folded it up again and slipped it back inside his jacket. "Sorry, Jon. Private correspondence. What were you saying about a letter from your sister?"

Private! Padstowe's heart sank and he seethed with curiosity. What could Sir Arthur have to say to Sharpe that he couldn't hear? Or that would turn the tips of the rifleman's ears pink?

"Nothing much," he said, somewhat sullenly as he stood in front of the mirror on the wall, pulling up his collar and arranging his stock. "Just that it's missing and I can't seem to find it, which is unusual. I'm normally good with letters."

"You didn't shove it in one of your folders of stuff for the court martial, did you?" Sharpe suggested. "Or maybe it's in your office at Headquarters." He really couldn't think where else it could be.

"Already looked," the captain said. He picked his hair brush from the table and scraped his wet hair back across his scalp. It looked a little odd, but in this hot climate it would not take long to dry. "And I didn't have it at the court marshall - disappeared before then. But as I said, it'll probably turn up."

"Strange, but as you say, it'll show up before too long. It can't have gone far, after all."

Sharpe watched Padstowe and wondered how it was that even with minimal effort, people like him always managed to look better and wealthier than Sharpe. Maybe it was simply the fact that they could afford to replace clothes once they'd worn a little or started getting frayed or threadbare.

Padstowe noticed Sharpe's expression reflected in the mirror.

"Penny for your thoughts, Richard?" he asked, putting the brush down and picking up his waistcoat from where it had been neatly folded over the back of the spare chair. That Cotton certainly was a useful fellow to have around... Shame he couldn't poach him from Vickery.

"Just wonderin' how come all you born officers manage to look so bloody neat and tidy all the time without hardly any effort."

Sharpe was pretty sure Padstowe had worn his other shirt two days running, and yet you couldn't have told it from looking at him. And now he sounded childish, even to himself. Damn it.

Padstowe looked at Sharpe somewhat bemused, his surprise clear on his face.

"I wasn't really aware that we did... and there are some perfectly smart non-'born' officers, as you call them, wandering about."

"I must be the only scruffy one, then," Sharpe said. "Just look at yourself in the mirror some time, you'll see what I mean. Anyway, if you're supposed to be heading for Headquarters, hadn't we better go?"

"You're in in a hurry all of a sudden," Padstowe quipped, raising an eyebrow. "First it was 'it can wait till tomorrow' no there's not a moment to lose."

He lifted his coat from the back of the chair - smoothing out the epaulettes - turned to look in the mirror again, frowning at his reflection. No, he really couldn't see what Sharpe was getting at.

Sharpe shrugged. "Dunno." Maybe it was a bit strange, but it was the getting ready that irked Sharpe. Always had. "Just one of them things, I reckon." He pulled at a loose bit of braid on his jacket. "Don't mind me. Just a bit jumpy, I guess."

"Jumpy?"

Padstowe shrugged on his coat and began doing the buttons up. Not really a surprising that Sharpe would be a little unsettled by recent events, but jumpy?

"Well, y'know..." He waved a hand. "Fidgetty. I can't put a name to it; I ain't all that good wi' words, you know."

He wished Padstowe would stop looking at him in quite that way; it was making him more unsettled than he already was. Off-balance was what it was, but he could hardly go around telling people that.

Padstowe decided to let the subject drop. He fastened the last button, settling his lapels so they were folded out neatly across his chest, brushing a stray piece of fluff from one of the black facings.

"Couldn't hand me my sash, could you?"

Sharpe passed Padstowe his sash and smiled to himself. From Lieutenant in the 95th Rifles to officer's batman in one short step. He pulled is jacket straight and looked down at a loose button. "Not again," he said. "Too many buttons on this thing, really." He pulled it off and shoved it in his pocket.

"Anything else you need a hand with?"

God damn the man! The captain very nearly growled in annoyance at Sharpe's subserviant tone.

"What do you mean, 'anything else'? I only asked you to pass me something," he said, tying the sash around his middle and then returning to sit on the edge of the bed and tug his boots on.

Sharpe grinned openly. He nearly spun the chair round to sit on, but decided that it probably wouldn't hold his weight. "You know, you're very easy to bait, Jonathan," he said. "Teasing you is such fun."

At this Padstowe did growl. He may be feeling vastly better than he had been since first waking, but he was still not quite in the mood for continual jesting - especially when it was aimed at him.

"Sorry." He really should know better than to tease someone who was in the final stages of getting rid of a hangover. "But seriously, is there anything else I can do before I run the gauntlet and return them to the kitchen?" He indicated the bowl of water and empty mugs, which had been placed on the bedside table.

Padstowe sighed, and rubbed his face in his hands.

"No, there's not. And you don't have to 'run tha gaunlet' as such, she'll come up for them once we've gone."

Though he still wasn't one hundred percent convinced that he actually wanted to go yet. He sat gripping the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, feeling somewhat out of place and indecisive; which was decidedly unusual for him. But then again it was decidedly unusual for him to go out seeking to get drunk.

"Fair enough." He studied the other man for a moment. "You look a bit out of sorts, if you don't mind me saying so. But don't you have to go to Headquarters anyway?"

If Padstowe decided he really couldn't be bothered going anywhere, Sharpe was going to dig out the bottle of wine and a pack of cards and get drunk himself. Well, at least that would give Padstowe something else to think about...

Padstowe shook his head.

"No. Leastways nobody's asked me to, and there's nothing waiting."

He probably should go anyway, but the small amount of drive he'd had to get up and dressed had dried up assoon as he sat back down on the bed again. He let out another hefty sigh.