charitylovehopefaith | The Ninth

"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.

"Were it in my power to destroy them -- even just that damned Frenchman -- without risking my brother? I would do it." It's a strange feeling to actually say it, to actually give voice to the words. "I protect myself, yes, but I would love a taste of revenge. Edward's done it to himself. He chose to leave a powerful man's daughter. When the war ends, he'll find himself in dire straits. Martineau... will probably get of scot free, and for that, I can hate him even more."

Hell hath no fury.

"I believe you, though. Against my better judgement -- I admit. If I had my way wholly? I wouldn't trust a thing any man said again, but I do. I trust you."

It was unavoidable, now. The understanding that the Malnosso had indeed done something to her. She'd alluded to speaking more frankly, but he had never anticipated this level of honesty. It wasn't simple factual honesty; it seemed to slice down into the woman's soul. He felt selfish for staying. He felt worse for wanting to know more about her, and wondered if she would forgive him for not jumping up and running away until she had control of her tongue.

"Why is that? I'm no gentleman. You know it." Just like Edward.

Edited 2013-12-04 21:43 (UTC)

"As if gentlemen can be trusted," Faith replied.

She knew all too well now that something was actually wrong with her. It wasn't a matter of ease or of trust. It was impossible, once she'd thought of actually saying something, not to say it. There was no chance for imagining the sorts of things she might say then choosing a politic answer. No, now it came out. Yet... Yet, faced with the same opportunity, she knew herself well enough to know that she would gingerly poke and prod to learn all she could. Annoyed as she might be, she couldn't really hold against him what she would do, too.

"David is a gentleman. Aaron was a gentleman. They lie as easily as they breathe."

Which didn't answer his question. Why did she trust him?

"You've been kind to me, which many men are, especially at first. A pretty girl in need of assistance, and most men are kind." Her looks have gotten her kindness she never would have been shown otherwise, she knows that. "You've had many opportunities to turn a situation to your advantage, to do me harm. Yet you have never given me even the slightest suggestion that such a thing came to mind. You've spoken to me like you expect to be understood, not as if I'll simply stare uncomprehendingly when you finish. You've encouraged me, too, to speak as a person, rather than as an ideal. Even before now."

Their talk of duelling, for one. And, in another way, his encouragement of her artistic pursuits and other things when her wings had turned black.

"If it's all just an act? It's a very convincing one. I believe you respect me." Her eyes almost rolled, irritated to admit it. "It is the one further point I must give in Edward's favour -- he never treated me falsely. When he left me, he confessed he was doing it and told me why. Stupid as it was, he was honest with me. I -- believe you would do the same, should I ever lose your favour, and I would rather be told the truth than coddled."

"I simply hope I don't ever lose your favour."

"And I yours."

He wanted to match her sentiment without sacrificing masculinity. Brevity would do, he hoped, and so he took a deep swig of tea before returning the cup to its saucer. And he began again, hoping to level the field between the pair of them: "Ask a question, love. Any question. And I swear I will not lie to you."

Like their talk of past marriage, he was prepared to match honesty with honesty.

The words were enough. Faith smiled, ducking her head a bit to try and hide the welling tears. She felt foolish, being suddenly brought to tears. But there were too many feelings all at once. Shame for all the things she'd said, fear for all the things that could be, anger for all the things past, gratitude for all the things he said.

Briefly, she covered her mouth, closing her eyes. Fighting everything back, restraining herself as best she could.

The smile she looked up at him with was genuine, though it was small. "What sort of future do you hope for?" Maybe it was mercy, not asking him to lay his soul bare as she had found herself doing. Or perhaps it was an attempt to lead them to happier things. "If you could construct one for yourself, what would it look like?"

The question made him smile with fondness. It was a clever question, he decided, from a clever girl. Clever and polite, even in the midst of this crisis.

"Secure." He breathed the word. "Men like me may never be secure in our rank; our fortunes -- our futures -- depend upon being useful. No king gives a common soldier a commission unless he's useful. And no common soldier keeps his commission unless he's productive. Waste your chance, and you end up commanding nothing but the baggage train. Command a baggage train and you'll end up in ruin."

But that was all the short term, wasn't it? So his demeanour softened: "Some nights, I think I want a farm. Not a big one. But big enough to keep me busy when the fighting is over."

The Ninth - [written]

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