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There is a light rap on wood, the polite signature of the steward, and James opens the door to Bridgens, who is holding a stack of freshly laundered uniform. James takes the clothes and looks through them, finding between the shirts and trousers his fine cotton petticoats.
“Thank you, Mr Bridgens, your discretion as ever is most appreciated.”
The steward simply nods graciously.
“Oh!” James starts, as if suddenly remembering something although in truth he has the book to hand, waiting for just this moment. “Speaking of discretion.”
He turns and picks up the copy of Sibylline Leaves from the table behind him and hands it back to its owner.
“Thank you for the loan of your Coleridge. But there is some, er, marginalia in there I think was not for my eyes.”
Bridgens gasps and immediately looks to the floor. His cheeks begin to turn the colour of a radish. James recognises fear and shame in the tension that creeps into Bridgens' shoulders and reaches out to reassure him. When he touches the man's arm Bridgens flinches away.
“It's quite alright,” James says gently. “Is he...”
“On Terror, sir.” Bridgens stammers.
“I won't press you for details. Only I must know if you forgive me for separating you. Perhaps if I'd known.”
“I would never doubt the wisdom of your billeting, sir,” Bridgens says, a smile appearing below his sad eyes.
“Nonetheless I apologise,” James claps Bridgens' shoulder, satisfied that the steward is no longer on the verge of a dead faint. “We all do what we can, out here. You have notes and books.”
“You have spoons.”
“I'm sorry?”
“Spoons, sir?”
“I don't know what you mean, Bridgens.”
“Your sugar spoon, sir. Doesn't match the set. It has er,” Bridgens clears his throat. “A different monogram. Sir.”
James can only stare, his mouth falling open a little and his brows knotting together.
“FRMC?”
James eyes fly wide and he dives towards the cupboard with the tea things. He is sure he hears Bridgens stifling a laugh beneath the clattering of cutlery and china.
“I thought it odd the Captain brought it here at all. Odder still that he forgot to take it back, and on several occasions since. I'm sorry, sir, I thought since it has replaced yours you knew about it.”
James finds the spoon and turns it about in his hand as though it is an alien thing and not a common household item. It does indeed bear Francis' initials, engraved small and neat along the back of the handle.
“I didn't notice.”
“Sir.”
“He took. My sugar spoon. And replaced it with his?”
“Something to think about then, sir,” Bridgens says. “Perhaps we find ourselves with a similar problem.”
“But. Francis?” James squawks.
“Something to think about,” Bridgens chuckles and dismisses himself, leaving James Fitzjames holding another man's sugar spoon and wondering what it could possibly mean.