eleven
After Vivienne and Dobkins left, Samuel closed the door behind them and took a good look at the room.
Captain Jackson was tossing the empty bottles in a box, smashing them.
Samuel picked up a few glasses from the floor and put them on the table. Vivienne’s questions had left a trail of thoughts in his mind. He’d disappointed her somehow although he wouldn’t know why.
Her smile never failed to make him acutely aware of her beauty. Not only her beauty, but her shining soul, too. Under normal circumstances, a man like him would never share the same room as she did. His inadequacy was on full display, but he didn’t mind that; he was only sorry he couldn’t be more for her.
The captain paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. “What do you think of my situation? Do you agree with Dobkins and Lady Vivienne that I must change my habits?”
Since there had been too many arguments for one day, he shrugged.
“Don’t give me the bloody shrug!” Captain Jackson smashed another bottle in the box.
He flinched, and the glass he was about to place on the table fell to the floor, breaking into pieces.
“Hell…” the captain said, “I’m sorry.”
He suppressed another shrug.
“I didn’t mean to give you a fright.”
He knelt to pick up the shards.
The captain crouched, too. “Leave it.”
He insisted. He hadn’t done anything to help the captain. It was his turn to be helpful.
“It’s sharp. I’ll do it.” The captain swatted Samuel’s hand away, cutting himself on a sharp piece. “Bloody hell!”
On impulse, Samuel recoiled and covered his head with his arms. When no pain came, he lowered them.
Captain Jackson slouched. “I truly am sorry, lad. I have a temper, but I would never hurt you.”
“I know,” he signed with trembling fingers.
“I’m an ass.” The captain sagged on the floor, blood trickling from the cut on his palm. “You can be honest with me. I’m a bloody mess, right?”
Samuel sat next to him and searched his notes, which were very rudimentary sketches of a few signs and some scribbled words.
“I went through this,” he signed.
What he wanted to say was that he understood what the captain was going through, and if he’d managed to get rid of the morphia, the captain could get rid of his whisky. But that was a speech too complicated for his skills.
Nevertheless, he beat a fist against his chest and then on the captain’s.
“You’re stronger than I am,” the captain said.
Samuel laughed. A throaty sound came out, more chilling than joyful, but he laughed anyway.
“You are.” The captain nodded. “I’m a coward. That’s why alcohol is called Dutch courage. Not that I feel particularly brave when I’m drunk. I feel nothing, which is even better.”
Slowly, he signed, “Adele?”
“I didn’t drink back then. I was a paragon of virtue, convinced that, if you were honest and good, life repaid you in kind. My arse. Such a fool I was. But no matter what I did to help Adele, she died too quickly for me to save her. So small. So fragile. So many tears.”
Samuel took his handkerchief and wrapped it around the captain’s injured palm.
