charitylovehopefaith | The Ninth

[ oh, how he smiles. ]

Aye. Well -- [ be sweet, sharpe. you can do it. ] I know the feeling, aye. Tea?

[Propriety. Be a proper young lady. Propriety.]

Would you like to meet at the tea shop? Or shall I prepare something for us in my lodgings?

[See? Easy. After all, at this point, there's no cause not to invite him over. They've been alone before, and he's trustworthy.]

I'll come 'round yours, lass. Better you rest, aye? And she's getting cold outside.

I'd like that. I'll have the tea ready for us.

He barely muttered farewell or see you soon before he was up and strapping on his sword belt. Pulling on his boots. Rummaging, as well, for a gift but finding only an ostentatious brooch left behind by Effie Trinket. Christ. He tossed it aside, supposing she might accept him as he was for once. After all, she's said...

Huff. He slung on his jacket, pulled on his greatcoat, and hoofed it to Miss Faith Long's lodgings with a light winter flush on his cheeks. If he seemed anxious or excited, it was because he certainly was. She'd been gone a while, and he missed her dearly. He missed her company; her sweetness; her smile. And he poured every inch of that missing into the abrupt knocking on her door.

For her part, Faith has arranged the new living area. A pleasant surprise, at least, to come back to a slightly different set of rooms. Nothing was missing, and a bit of accommodating had to be done, but she was not as frail as the men who usually surrounded her would believe, and she'd changed what hadn't been right easily enough.

For this afternoon, she has her tea set and two places set at a small table, along with a plate of sandwiches. Just a little something to snack on while they take tea. Having a little sort-of kitchen was a God-send, especially for private affairs like this. Small, personal.

Her earlier outburst -- such strange frankness, said as if it were the most natural thing in the world -- has her a bit nervous, but she only needs to be careful. That, she thinks, will answer all ills. So, when the knock comes, she takes a moment to right herself before opening it.

"Richard, please come in. It's wonderful to see you." She smiles, stepping back from the door to allow him entrance. "I was worried you might not wish to see me. I've been gone so long, and absence can do more harm than good, sometimes."

...Well. In future statements, she promised herself, she'd be more careful. That... was not caution. Yet it had come out so simply, as if she'd always meant to say it, rather than it being something better left unsaid.

"Never possible," he countered -- and it seemed her honesty kindled a similar frank emotion in this otherwise enigmatic man. Before now, he had always pitched his reserve to match her own. But he quickly switched gears, mistaking her blunt affection as the passing of yet another courtship hurdle.

Even so, he stood stiffly amidst her furniture and her domestic touches. Palming his sword-belt in a nervous (and hardly threatening) fashion. And smiling, even if it was more so with his eyes than with his mouth.

"Bloody glad to see you..." He said in a rush, then regretted it. "Sorry, miss."

"Don't be, please." She smiled, shutting the door behind him. She couldn't control her mouth, it seemed, but she had the ability to restrain her actions. She didn't embrace him, didn't hold onto him, didn't cry. All of which, after a month away from anything familiar, she felt sorely keen to do. But that would never be acceptable. Not for awhile, at least.

She led the way to the table, only now pouring out the cups of tea, so they wouldn't cool too badly. Her voice is low, almost wary. "I've been disappointed before by the men I've let myself become fond of." Why couldn't she stop? Dear Lord, she was going to do far more damage to herself than she could ever hope to repair. "I hope you can forgive me for fearing you would be another one of them. The last proved inconstant, even with my presence. So I feared, with a month without contact, you might have found your affections cooled."

God in Heaven, was there no end to this?

"I am nothing if not patient," he said. He lied. Because Sharpe knew himself to be a very impatient man indeed. But when it came to women, constancy was a strength of his. Or, at least, now it was. Love, and losing love, had a strange way of reforming a man.

And although he too wanted to draw her into some sort of embrace, he kept himself rigid and separated from her. Years of army drills were good enough to keep him in his place, even when his memory burned with the small kiss she'd once gifted him. Small and light and chaste.

"There are women worth waiting for, you see..."

"If you keep talking like that," she said, trying to sound as if she were scolding him, but there was a smile on her features, "you're going to make me cry."

It was foolish. All of this was foolish. Why should she think he was any different than the other men she'd known? Full of honeyed words so long as he wanted something, but ready to wander off when he grew bored or saw something else he wanted. Common charm had proven inconsistent. Gentlemen had proven disinterested or violent. Yet, she still had a smile for him. Still thought she could trust him.

"I'm sorry. I don't seem able to control what I say. I-- I hope you will pardon me if I overstep. I fear the harm I could do should I offend, and I couldn't bear to lose you to my own foolishness."

Christ, he thought to himself, but she couldn't bear to lose him? It took grave self-control not to break out into an idiot grin. He repeatedly internalized what he'd once spoken aloud to Harper: a soldier should not suffer himself to smile so easily. And that had been over the announcement of his daughter's birth; if a man should feel foolish smiling over that, then this was also a time for stoicism. Gentle stoicism, though. Warm and energized with a young love.

"Speak your mind, Faith. I'll not hold it 'gainst you."

"A kind sentiment -- if only I believed you."

Even among the honest declarations of fondness, there were barbs she'd have rather kept to herself. Quietly, she sits with her teacup, sipping it for a moment.

"I find most men who say that to women think they know a woman's mind, then they are disappointed and hurt to find it not what they expected."

She shrugged her shoulders a bit, frowning.

"At least you treat me as if you actually believe I have a mind -- more than what you tell me to, than needs only be filled with what you think it ought to. There are far too many men who seem to believe a ten-year-old smarter than a grown woman, simply by virtue of sex."

Her smile comes almost without her bidding it. She can't help it.

"Of course, those men are usually the most easily influenced. Play the fragile doll, and they'll never realise they're the puppet on strings. Still, I'd rather one who knew to be wary than one easily controlled."

"Aye, well. There's the benefit of having been puppeted in the past." A cool allusion to a past woman -- he gave it little affection, and was quick to return the conversation back to Faith herself. Almost playfully: "You want me to be wary of you, eh?"

"All men should be, of all women," she replied, taking a sip of her tea. What sort of woman had made a puppet of him before? Oh, she'd ask. Just not right now. His question consumed far more of her attention. "But yes. I think men -- especially men who show interest and find it returned -- should be wary of me."

She held the teacup but didn't drink again, almost contemplating the fragile material between her fingers. "I have a father, mother, and elder brother. Not a single choice I've ever made has been my own. Even Edward was of my brother's choosing -- I only grew fonder of him than of Aaron. Because he wrote me letters, told me more about the war than most deemed it 'proper' for me to know." She made a quiet, contemplative sound. "I think that was what made it easy to overlook his breeding -- or lack thereof. By virtue of that lacking, he lacked the strict propriety I was brought up with. He spoke more candidly."

Even with her coldness, there was still a strain of affection. She knew she ought to limit her speech, but she found that impossible. Besides, had he not asked her to speak her mind? Well, then. She would.

"I think that may be a weakness of mine-- the so-called 'gentlemen' of society treat me as little more than a child. You and Edward at least share treating me like an adult."

They shared a lack of breeding, too, from the sounds of it. But Sharpe did was Faith could not and held his tongue on that account. He'd only just assured her that what she said would not offend him; how cruel to then take offence at a slight he may only have imagined? Sharpe swallowed his pride, deigned to at long last take a seat, and lifted his own teacup with two rough hands.

"I pray there ain't much more we share, love. From your stories..." Well. Sharpe didn't finish the sentence.

Edited 2013-12-04 20:27 (UTC)

"I would not take an insult so grave a second time," Faith said, calm and serious. "I thought the lowest any man would sink was when Aaron struck me, like a coward. A decorated gentleman-soldier, and he'd hit a young woman who, at that time, had only friendly affection for her brother's brother-officer."

Yes, Aaron Cork had had a temper, one that had given her offense. One David had avenged. And yet...

"Imagine my surprise when I found out there is, actually, conduct worse." Quietly, almost to herself, but unable to be stopped, she murmurs, "Sometimes I wish I'd carried out my threat. I told Edward I'd go to my father and see him hanged."

Hanged! Even Sharpe could not suppress the slight bow of his mouth. Hanged -- the threat hung heavy. He'd lived under that threat before, had faked a hanging, and had once known a devil who'd survived one. He wondered -- briefly -- if Faith knew the dire nature of the threat she now described. He wonder if she understood the horror. Not that Sharpe disagreed with the punishment; he'd personally ordered the hangings of a number of men for a number of crimes. Theft. Murder. Rape. His stomach turned.

"What stayed your hand...?" Mercy? Fear? Shame?

"Fear." She doesn't even have to think to answer that.

"He seemed stupid enough on the subject that I was almost certain he wasn't a threat, but I've played that role before. Feign ignorance and no one will know what you're capable of." She held the teacup a little tighter in her hands, lips pressed together in a thin line. "So I couldn't be sure. If he wasn't as thick as he seemed, and I charged him with sodomy, he could have accused David, too, and then it would be my fault my brother ever faced a court martial for it."

...None of which should have ever been breathed to another soul, and Faith blanches a little for the admission. A dangerous thing, not being able to hold her silence.

Richard Sharpe was preparing a marvelously heartening speech. He was preparing to applaud her on her wits and courage -- praise her for sussing out the bastard's feigned ignorance and explain to her how impressed he was that it was a tactic she knew well. Common soldiers, after all, often lived or died by their ability to stand stone-faced in front of their officers and pretend as though they were dumb as posts. He was going to slyly comment upon it as though it was a strategical strength they shared, and perhaps a compliment would lead to to a smile. And a smile would lead to a kiss, and...

Sodomy. The word brought him up short. His posture -- it had relaxed but incrementally since he'd sat -- grew mechanical once again. If anything, Sharpe seemed surprised and embarrassed. It was a topic he blushed over even when Hogan would joke about Lord Pumps and his favoured men; it was an even stranger subject to encounter with the woman he was courting.

But even more surprising was..."David?"

Sharpe could barely believe it. But then, he supposed, it wasn't all that difficult to believe that a man would keep his own affairs private. Sharpe might have been easily flummoxed by the notion, but he was not naive.

"Yes," she replied. "David."

It wasn't something talked about. Not even whispered about.

"I think the only person in the British Royal Navy who doesn't know is my father. David has rarely met a man in uniform he doesn't like." And it's said with full understanding how that could be taken; it's meant to be taken in such a way. "But he's an admiral's son, and he's made friends with very powerful men in the navy. So who is there to accuse him, lest they find themselves responsible for a long list of accused."

She took a sip of her tea. "Edward? I admit, I didn't guess at him. Most of that sort take up with David, and I know what that looks like. He hadn't, so, I suppose, I gave it no further thought. Foolish as that was."

And the embarrassment deepened. He felt as he'd felt that evening in London when the implication had been made that Pumps had been dropping anvil-shaped hints for hours and Sharpe had been steadfastly oblivious to all of them. Half-guilty and half-concerned that he was ruined in the implication. Hogan had casually asked Sharpe whether he realized Pumps was a molly, and of course he had. Sharpe had insisted that he liked the man regardless, for he was not stuck up. Hogan had cheerily told him that there was nothing in all the world that Lord Pumphrey wanted more than to be stuck up with him. And Richard had shrunk back into sullen silence.

For his part, he no longer liked Lord Pumphrey -- but that had little to do with the man's sticking preferences and everything to do with a grievous murder. Sharpe swallowed the pain.

"I hadn't a clue," he ventured carefully -- hoping his genuine ignorance might spare him the curious cast of this gossip.

Faith tried. She truly did. It didn't work. She laughed. Though, the sound wasn't mean. It was a break in the sullen mood her own freedom of speech was leading her into. She had to laugh or sink further into her bitterness toward David and his ilk. So, she laughed.

After a few moments, she collected herself. "I'm sorry," she managed. "I shouldn't laugh." Yet, it had felt good to do it. "You didn't know him long, and I..." She smiled. "Well, I believe I suggested enough times that I was fond of you that he knew not to try his luck." After all, she'd never seen David not at least notice. So, perhaps he'd learned at least a little and had held back. Or... Well. He'd been years older than he should have been. Perhaps the coming years would modify his restlessness. "Perhaps he took up better with Hawke than I thought, too."

She shrugged her shoulders. It was a strange thing to admit, yet...

"I wouldn't have been nearly as angry, actually, if Edward had taken up with David. I wouldn't have been pleased or even understanding, but I would have tolerated being jilted for my brother better. I think."

Sharpe, who'd never had a brother, tried to imagine whether a jilting kept in the family could truly hurt less than any other sort of jilting. He frowned as he tried to work this out, wondering if fraternal affection could be so powerful. Wondering whether Faith was telling herself so because it was an easy thing to imagine.

But he had one thing he had to make very clear, Edward's mad choice to abandon this creature be damned: "Had he tried his luck, he'd find he wouldn't have much of it. I..."

What he wanted to say was something more along the lines of I'm yours but it came out as a cowardly "I'm not...I'm no...that ain't me, love."

"I'm glad." In a way, the halting way in which it came out soothed her even more. It calmed her nerves, applied a balm to the raw wounds her former fiancé had left. Other men -- men like David, she imagined -- would have said it much more confidently. The stilted manner suggested, to her, sincerity. "I don't think I could have borne that twice."

She shook her head lightly, sighing. "I-- I am sorry. A great much of that should never be said, let alone so freely."

"Someone hurt you, and you're doing what you must to protect yourself. No one can fault you that. Least of all me."

And it wasn't the worst confession he'd ever heard, though it did rend his heart for the girl.

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