He felt still low and guilty, and so he said hurriedly, “Laurence, I would not for the world distress you—”
“No,” Laurence said, rousing, “no; I was only considering—but no. I beg your pardon. You must consult your sense of what is right, not my feelings. God forbid I should lean upon friendship to stand between you and your duty: it could not be borne. I would not for the world act in so false a character, towards any man—towards anyone. All feeling revolts at the idea.”
“That is just how I feel myself,” Temeraire said, a little puzzled, but relieved: Laurence was not angry. Perhaps Laurence would consider their remaining? It occurred to Temeraire belatedly that if they should remain, then perhaps the Emperor would grant Laurence an estate, and at least surely some finer clothing and jewels might be arranged.
Relief, gladness surged; he meant to add this handsome suggestion to his persuasions, to expand upon them, and then all was shattered—all turned at once dreadfully wrong, for Laurence added, “I hope having said as much, I may add I should most deeply regret the parting,” and Temeraire realized, in slow-rising horror, that Laurence meant he would not stay himself. Laurence would leave him.
? ? ?
Laurence was taken aback by the violence of Temeraire’s response; and only after a sharp recrimination did he understand that Temeraire had meant to propose not a separation but their remaining in China together, as though Laurence had anything to do here but make a cake of himself, prancing about in false honors bestowed for mere politics and luxuriating in a wealthy foreign court, while on the other side of the world, his country-men fought and died to defend their country against an encroaching tyrant.
It had not occurred to him even as a possibility that he should remain. Failing that, he had therefore made the only answer he felt endurable: and he had felt only ashamed of the reluctance which had slowed it coming from his lips—a reluctance which had not even the excuse that he had thought of his duty and Hammond’s wishes. His reluctance had been wholly selfish and irrational: a disquieting pang at the thought of losing Temeraire. But such sentiments had even less place, in a question of duty, than the political considerations which Hammond had put forward.
“But you must see,” Laurence said bewildered, “I cannot contemplate remaining. While Britain stands on the brink of subjugation, my remaining behind, to serve no purpose, could be nothing better than rank cowardice. Your remaining may indeed have some beneficent effect; mine, none. I should be a mere supernumerary, and useless here, just when every able-bodied man in Britain ought beat to quarters, as it were.”
“You said once before we should remain if I liked,” Temeraire said, accusatory, to Laurence’s broad astonishment, “and you needn’t look at me that way, as though you did not believe it, only because your memory is all ahoo; so I do not think I am in the least foolish for having asked. I did not propose keeping you from your duty, which properly considered ought be our duty. Of course I did not. Only, I thought you might have felt as I did, that our duty might lie here. I did not propose we should be parted—that you should go back to those wretched fools at the Admiralty, who do not want us, anyway; not really. And I dare say if I did let you go back without me, they would only hang you.”
So concluding his wild outburst—the most singularly irrational thing Laurence had heard Temeraire say—the dragon flung himself aloft and vanished into the night sky with a rattle of black wings, leaving Laurence calling, “Temeraire—!” after him into the air.
Disheartened and impatient all at once, Laurence turned to his quarters; a cup of tea was offered but he rejected it to pace instead. That he had misstepped, and badly, was plain; but he had no idea how he had gone wrong, and where the fault lay. Temeraire’s final words rankled, as well: that the Admiralty should not want them echoed yet again all Laurence’s worst fears, and hinted at an almost mutinous disposition.