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Francis rubbed his eyes, already feeling a headache coming on before he’d even stepped into the wardroom. Command meetings on this expedition had never been pleasant, sure, but they’d become nearly unbearable the longer they stayed trapped in the ice. It was small comfort that they weren’t being joined by the Erebus command this morning—he didn’t think he could get through another one of James’s self-aggrandizing stories without killing the other man or himself. Or both.
Even so, his own officers weren’t exactly fine company either. Irving was much too earnest in his faith for Francis’s tastes, and Hodgson talked nearly as incessantly as James. Little was at least appropriately serious given their situation, and seemed to generally have a good head on his shoulders. The long arctic winter in the ice, though, had seemed to tip him into true melancholy. The man looked like a kicked dog.
Little’s personal appearance had also seemed to follow his mental state as of late. The lieutenant wasn’t as diligent in his shaving, his chops and hair had grown out considerably, and he didn’t bother much with combs or pomade. He was looking a bit…unkempt, if Francis was honest. It was perhaps not the best appearance for an officer, and he’d need to intervene soon to address it.
Francis would prefer to cut off some of his own toes than have that kind of conversation with Little about his grooming and mental state.
Thinking on it, it was really the stewards’ role to maintain officer appearances. Francis knew that he himself would probably be looking even worse than Little is it weren’t for Jopson’s sharp eye and steadfast attentions. Maybe Jopson could speak to the subordinate officers’ steward about stepping up his duties in regard to the lieutenant.
He had just come to that conclusion when he finally gathered enough will power to enter the wardroom, and Francis nearly stopped in his tracks.
The other men were already seated around the table, talking idly while they waited for him to join them. Little was in his usual seat—but instead of seeing the ragged and run-down man he’d become accustomed to, Francis felt like he had stepped months back in time looking at a pressed and polished Little.
Francis wasn’t as expressive as some, but he’d been spending less and less energy on facades lately, and so was out of practice in hiding his surprise. He also couldn’t help himself from staring intently at Little as they began the meeting, searching the man’s appearance for signs explaining this sudden change. He watched Little flush and squirm a bit under his scrutiny, which at least reassured him that his lieutenant hadn’t been replaced overnight.
In his observations, Francis could see that Little’s hair was still on the longer side, though nicely tamed and styled. His chops had been trimmed, though, and the edges neatly tidied. And while Little had never truly compromised on his uniform, the lines of his coat looked sharper—helped by his straighter posture and a firmer set to his shoulders. Small changes on the whole, but ones that made a significant impact on how scruffy the man looked.
What the devil had happened to produce such a change in the man?
Francis narrowed his eyes, moving them away from Little to sweep the room. No one else had commented on the change in Little’s appearance, though that may have happened before he arrived. Irving was in the middle of a long and broadly uninteresting account of their stores—there had been no changes out of the ordinary, it seemed—so Francis continued to ponder the question of his first lieutenant.
It was unlikely, he decided, that Little himself had experienced some great personal revelation or emotional recovery that prompted this change overnight. The man was still his dour self with no sign of mania or renewed vigor. He still looked as tired as the rest of them, and his additions to the meeting were entirely in line with his previous behavior. The only changes in his demeanor seemed to be a result of pride or enjoyment in his tidied appearance, not the other way around.
Francis supposed the man could have reached some breaking point in regard to his appearance and pulled himself together in response to it. But as much as he appeared somewhat happier in his current polished state, Little’s previous scruffiness hadn’t seemed to bother him much. Or at least, he hadn’t seemed distressed by his hair or beard—Francis had seen none of the frustrated fidgeting or scratching of a man upset by missing a shave or two.
Well. If it wasn’t Little, it could have been his steward. But even as the idea came to him, Francis dismissed it. Why would Gibson have cared to reform the lieutenant’s appearance now? He had clearly allowed the man to fall into mild dishevelment for months. It was possible that some external force had prompted him to intervene, but the most likely source of that would have been Francis himself, and he had only just now had the idea to suggest Jopson speak to his fellow steward about the situation.
Ah, Jopson.
That was the only remaining explanation, really. Jopson saw everything on this ship, he had surely noticed the lieutenant’s degrading appearance long before it had truly registered to Francis. He likely raised the issue to Gibson and gave him a subtly nudge to step up his grooming for Little.
At that moment, Jopson entered the wardroom with a tea service. Francis smiled at him and idly watched him efficiently and gracefully serve the table. Jopson was a fine man and a fine steward. He saw to his own duties with near perfection, and it seemed he’d even taken to ensuring that same degree of excellence outside his own domain.
But Francis paused again as he watched Jopson approach him and Little with their cups. He watched as color rose again in Little’s cheeks, though the man’s expression didn’t change. It seemed he was reacting to the mere proximity of Jopson setting a cup and saucer in front of him on the ward table. For Jopson’s part, his face was frozen in his perpetual professional mask. But when Francis glanced at Jopson throughout the remainder of the meeting, the steward’s eyes were consistently trained on Little.
Francis was forced to reassess his initial conclusion. Clearly, Jopson had been involved in the lieutenant’s polishing, just more directly than he had assumed.
When they finally adjourned, Francis asked Little to stay for a moment as the other men filed out of the room. Little was clearly a bit confused and mildly panicked about the unexpected one-on-one, but merely nodded and returned to his seat. Francis watched him glance over to the side of the room where Jopson was stationed against a wall.
Right, this was untenable. He had to intervene.
“Lieutenant. I see you’ve cleaned yourself up.”
Little flushed and ducked his head. “Ah, yes sir. I apologize for a lack of…diligence in recent months. I assure you that I’m committed to maintaining a presentable appearance, and it won’t happen again.”
“Aye, I’m sure Jopson will help you with that as well.”
Francis watched the man in front of him freeze and heard a sharp intake of breath from behind him. He turned to wave Jopson toward them.
“Come around, Jopson, I wish to speak to you both.”
Jopson moved stiffly around the table to stand facing Francis. He positioned himself a full foot or two away from the lieutenant, as if physical distance would prevent Francis from drawing the conclusions he already had.
“Right. Whatever it is you two have been getting up to—”
Little broke in desperately, “Sir. I assure you, Mr. Jopson has never behaved improperly. Any liberties were taken by myself alone—”
Jopson interrupted, “I’m sorry for speaking out of turn, sir, but I cannot allow Lieutenant Little to take blame for actions he did not commit—”
Faced with overlapping, halting attempts by each man to jump in front of the other to fall on the sword, Francis sighed and rubbed his eyes. He held up a hand and they both fell silent.
“I am not here to punish your indiscretions. I truthfully could not care less about it, I only caution you to be more careful. Edward, you were nearly sighing after Jopson during that meeting. And Thomas, I could see your hand in the lieutenant’s reformation immediately.”
These were wild exaggerations, but Francis felt they were justified to frighten these lads into taking better care to conceal their relationship. While it was true that Francis didn’t care personally—he’d be a great hypocrite if he did—he would have limited options if others caught on and raised it to him. Better to nip it in the bud.
The men in front of him looked properly chastised. He could tell that Little had taken the words to heart, and was shamefully looking into his lap. Jopson was also looking down, though he had a ghost of a smile on his lips. Damn him, his steward knew Francis too well; he’d clearly seen through the gruff performance to the humiliating, soft underbelly of his care for the men. Jopson was too smart for his own good, sometimes.
The steward looked up to meet his gaze, the smile having grown to tip both corners of his mouth up. “Thank you, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you for your…lenience. And your candor, sir. We will be much more considerate of how we navigate ourselves going forward.” Little was speaking gravely and a bit desperately, as if he was still trying to convince Francis to spare them or something of the sort.
He waved the man off. “I’m certainly glad to hear it, lieutenant. Now, back to your duties.”
Little nodded sharply and stood, giving him a “sir” and a hand to the brim of his cap before departing.
Francis sighed again. Poor lad, so worried and wound up all the time. He hoped he hadn’t scared him too badly, though he supposed that was better than some of the alternatives. He was pulled from his thoughts by the clinking sounds of Jopson gathering up the remains of their tea from the meeting.
Jopson gave him a long, considering look before saying, “Very thoughtful of you, sir.” and leaving with the tray of dishes.
God, cutting off his toes might really have been easier.