He was beside himself. An embarrassment which brokered on the obscene at Church. A faint glance to Almeria in apology - yet he wasn't even willing to hold the gaze long enough to find a forgiveness (or otherwise). In her time, she might have directed her carriage to the battlefield and picnicked to the sudden but absolute outcome of the battle where musket men (swordsmen?) stood over each other's shoulders in stupid lines - firing till the other side was properly beaten to death. That he was from a time beyond hers did not change chivalry… Even in the darkest days of his country's strife, when men robbed and raped and mutilated their own kin… He still believed… Still loved to a degree of weeping.
Del hung as a prized bass on the fisherman's line. She tugged and he could go but only with enough will. With his weight was his reticence. His reticence, his manifesting doubts.
Why should he of all men be allowed this? This chance? He heard her words, but he did not believe them - was not willing to give himself into comfort. Yet a voice rose within him, 'Samuel' it shouted; and it was a still ring of a forgotten bell calling Church to some place emptied. "Something I should desire?" he repeated with a foretelling weakness, which melted the rigidness of his arm and let her, finally, to guide him. He went up those stairs with the steady beat of his equipment, thumping upon his back.
He had not answered her question (on provenience) of course. Distracted and perhaps, not fully understanding that this place was not of his 'time'. He let her lead him, for lack of anything else… His mind however on that idea of completion and second chance… Should this be the way his Brother faced the Lord? Yet she had said he was not yet finished. His thoughts, despite, were deep within him as she lead him to that room. A ragged raccoon of a man, leaving a slime trail of foulness behind him.
The room opened up into a comfortable refuge. It was almost embarrassingly so. Surely, it wasn't something that a businessmen of his time would have expected to pay for, but for a simple farmer as himself, a tavern's room with bath to himself was an unexpected extravagance. There was already something surreal about this experience since the moment that he found himself faced with the trading post so he did not remark on the accommodations. The pragmatic, also, mind did wonder why she had not asked for payment, but even that consideration was unvoiced.
"That sounds delightful," he answered to her telling of the meal. His voice deep yet bland in its even keel. She might be accustomed to sorts like himself, come upon her realm with purposes so great that they should overwhelm.
He took a step to the dresser but paused to turn back to her. A solemn bow of his head that hung, while he spoke, "You have my thanks… For deserts and wasteland you have provided me an oasis." He said while she waited at the door, with eyes looking for anything untended.
When she slipped out and closed the door behind he was left with that room. He rounded it once or twice and then shed his equipment, his clothing. The bathing the barbering. And when he stopped the thoughts of that battle… and those before it… began to melt enough in the water, he took a drink or two of the cognac and felt for a moment at ease… a sense he'd not had in a long time.
The dress uniform was pulled on. It fit him well as if it were tailored. Within it, Del cut a distinguished profile like he were a calvary captain. It was once more the blue uniform of his army, but everything was clean for once and there was a crispness to him. He was always a broad shouldered man, barreled chested and distinguished in profile. Within the uniform he should seem much more than the lowly private that he was. (Even the sleeve's chevrons should display his rank, which mystified the man a little). He had trimmed his beard. That bushy mess condensed into a gentlemanly's edge. Del kept a handlebar mustache with a short sheer of a beard, which folded neatly over his wide jaw.
He left his equipment upstairs, though he did holster his pistol to the belt. The offensive weapon was hidden within that leather casing, only visible by its stock and its steely tip.
He was dressed, his hair wetted and combed back behind his ears. His beard neat and close against his cheeks. Yet he stared at the door and did not move from where he sat upon the bed. His hands folded one over the other and he put his palms over his ears a moment. His eyes closed and his breath still.
Finally he stood and walked to the door. Opened it and strode down the hallway. With his steps came again proprietary. While he was American it did not change the English influence of the day… the stiff upper lip and the disdain for emotion. So he should appear down the stairs, something remarkably different than he had entered some time ago.