charitylovehopefaith | The Ninth

The Ninth - [written]

November 27th,

I apologise for my recent absence. I remember very little of it, but I know with certainty I have been a "guest" of the Malnosso. Thankfully, I can detect no physical or mental imperatives. No harm done, it seems.

As Christmas is coming, I had had hoped to ask: What is typically done here for it? Is it celebrated? Do you have services for Advent, the Eve, the Day, and Epiphany? Are there feasts? Dances? Or is it a very quiet affair?

I confess, I will be disappointed if the latter most is true, but I suppose one cannot expect the culture one has grown up with in a place like this.

Faith Long

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"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."

She smiled, listening to him. She understood the desire for security. Even admirals couldn't be so sure of that. An ineffective post-captain would, yes, be eventually promoted to post-captain if he could live long enough for his name to advance, stuck in its order, up the lists. But he would find himself on shore with his half-pay and no command. For a prudent, cautious man, an admiral's half-pay could make a decent life.

But most yellow admirals were not so.

"A farm." She'd spoken before of her desire for a house in the country, away from the city she knew so well. She envied her sister-in-law to have Crawford Manor all to herself save her staff. "With someone trustworthy to watch it for you and a few labourers while you were at war, that might provide some security. An income, at least, separate from the whims of commission."

"Aye," he laughed. "Something like that."

Sharpe's dream-farm had no labourers beside himself. Perhaps that was naive? He did not know. But the notion of employing someone was foreign to him. He was no employer.

"Though I can't see it doing much, income-wise. But I suppose it's better than spending your whole bloody pay on mess bills."

Officers had to pay for the mess, even if they did not use it. And most officers saw it as a negligible expense because they had their own incomes coming from somewhere else. But for a man whose commission had to pay for it all -- sword, bills, all of it? He'd often been left with very little but his silver buttons to show for it.

"It would be a little extra, at least, and would keep the land ready for when the war ends and you can return to it to take charge yourself."

It wouldn't require many labourers, especially in the case of them being only a measure while the landowner himself was away at war. She could respect wanting to work the land himself, certainly, but her own sense of practicality -- fuelled by his mention of wanting security -- led her mind to a more calculated idea.

"Would you intend to only have crops? Or livestock as well?"

Not that it really matters, but she's curious, eager to hear more about this dream-farm.

"Cows, I suppose. Although...

The youngest Everdeen at the house? She keeps a goat. It gives milk what's good enough. And cheese, if you're patient. She's a hardy little beast. A few of them might suit me."

"I imagine they would require less work than cows." Faith replied, smiling a little. "A few chickens, perhaps, too? For the eggs."

"And a well. One of'em wells what gives proper good water."

Growing up in London, he had little of that.

"Certainly," Faith replied, smiling warmly.

"And someone to share it all with."

He would not say the word. He would not say wife.

"Of course." She smiled a little, folding her hands together. "It wouldn't be home without that."

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The Ninth - [written]

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