"Loyalties Lie" by inlovewithnight: Hornblower
TITLE: Loyalties Lie
AUTHOR: inlovewithnight
CHARACTERS: Mariette, Horatio, Archie
RATING: PG
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, no profit made
CHALLENGE PROMPT: Female characters
AUTHOR'S NOTE: AU from "The Wrong War"/"The Frogs and the Lobsters;" kind of an alternate take on Mariette. Thanks to romanticalgirl for the beta.
She is French, from her hairline to the soles of her feet, and inwardly, where it matters more. French blood is hotter than the English, she has always heard, and French hearts beat more truly. She isn't sure that matters, when French and English alike are so eager to stop those hearts, to spill that blood.
She watches him, this boy in a man's uniform, doing a man's work. And perhaps those things do indeed make him a man; perhaps she is being unfair. He is, if younger than she herself, little enough so that it should make no difference. And she has not considered herself a girl in a very long time.
He is lovely, she thinks. Perhaps not in the way of the village boys she thought lovely before, long ago when there was time and joy for such things. But he has a certain...light to him, as if his loyalty and his honor and his commitment to his king are so strong within him that they shine outward through his skin. If English blood is colder than French, it must still move as quickly, to carry its heavier passions along so strongly.
She watches him, she makes her choice, and once it is made it is little enough work to win his hand to hers. Wide eyes. Soft words. A kiss or two. Not difficult at all.
And in his name she has her passage to England, and guarantee of her life.
**
The captain is trying to keep his voice low, his anger private, but he is not good at it at all. Mariette keeps her eyes averted, her hands folded in her lap, and plays deaf and dumb, pretending not to hear or see anything at all.
"Have you gone mad, Mr. Hornblower?" the captain snaps, his voice rising from a whisper to a near-shout in just that short space of words.
"Sir, with all due respect..." Horatio's voice is an uneven murmur, thick with stung pride and anger and, she suspects, a dawning realization of his own hastiness. Too late to change your mind, my love, you have made your promises and your fine heart will make you keep them.
"She is French," says the man from their Army, lounging in his fine red coat and sipping from a goblet of fine red wine, light glinting off his golden hair like something from a fairy tale. Her patriotism bids her to snatch a knife and place it between his ribs; her pragmatism keeps her hands folded, her face closed.
"Yes," the captain says, smacking his palm against the table, sound pleased that someone has joined him in seeing the obvious. "She is French."
Mariette can hear Horatio's careful breath, hear him struggling to manage his frustration. He is an open book, her pretty English boy, an endless ream of clean white pages. She has no desire to hurt him; she will write the story she desires with care.
"With all due respect, sir, Major my lord, I am aware that she is French, but she has chosen to come with us. That is a clear show of her loyalty, is it not?"
"My God, boy," the major says, staring levelly over his glass, "can you possibly truly be so naïve?"
Mariette bites hard into her lower lip at that, holding back a smile. Yes, he can, my dear officer. It is the good in him, and the fool. I shall not abuse it more than needed.
"It's a terribly sudden decision to betray her people, Horatio," murmurs the third man in the room, the other young officer of the ship who has been silent until this time, his eyes moving slowly and constantly from Horatio to Mariette and back again. "For her to come with us is, from a certain point of view, an act of treason."
"What point of view is that, Mr. Kennedy?" Horatio says stiffly, his face twisted with utter unhappiness. Mariette suspects it should be her role here to touch his hand, smile softly, say something to reassure and cheer, but prudence holds her still and silent. She will not raise her head above the grasses lest she take a bullet between the eyes.
"The point of view that, according to everything we knew until now, she adhered to with considerable passion," the Major says dryly. "Or did you somehow overlook the extensive goings-on in that village?"
"With all due respect, sir..."
"Stop saying that!" the captain roars, pounding his fist on the table again, and Mariette shrinks in her seat, willing herself to greater invisibility. "If you say that again, I swear to heaven, Mr. Hornblower, I will have you struck back to midshipman."
Horatio falls silent, his face red and his breathing jagged as he struggles to keep his temper, and Mariette digs her nails into her palms. Everything is terribly close to falling apart. She knew it was a precarious plan, pieced together from scraps and terror, but it's all she has, her only chance. Choosing safety over loyalty is a traitor's act, but choosing loyalty over life is a fool's. She will be French in her heart no matter how long she lives on English soil, but first she must reach England, not be drowned in the Channel like an unwanted kitten.
"There is one way to assure her good conduct, sir," murmurs the other officer again from the end of the table, his eyes as modestly downcast as Mariette's own.
"And what is that, Mr. Kennedy?" the captain asks acidly. "Do you have some magical means of divining that she is not a spy?"
Mr. Kennedy looks up then, directly at Mariette, meeting her eyes steadily as she peers up through her lashes. "Mr. Hornblower is a man of great honor, as we all know, sir. And if he were to marry the mademoiselle, her honor would become his own." A faint smile twitches his lips, though his eyes do not reflect it as he gazes at her. "I have no doubt that he would defend the combination to the hilt."
"A clever plan," the major says approvingly. "A sound plan. Commendable, Mr. Kennedy."
Mariette looks over at Horatio. His expression can only be described as terribly, terribly stunned.
She offers him her sweetest smile. Such a sudden twist, but even better than she could have hoped. They will tie her life to his, and he will preserve her, whatever the cost to himself. Has he not already proven it? Do his honor and loyalty and lovely ideals not demand it?
Praise God, my darling boy, for the day I set eyes on you.
**
It is a terribly simple thing. He changes into a clean uniform. The captain reads from the Bible and says a few words. Mr. Kennedy and the major stand witness. Not a word of it is in her own tongue-she even murmurs a humble yes in answer to the captain's question instead of oui, signaling her surrender to Horatio's people and their ways as she swears to surrender to his will. She feels no fear as she makes her oath; she knows from a glance that he will not ask much of her. He does not know how, and his pride forbids him to learn.
And then they are wed, and the major insists that they share a glass of wine. In Horatio's case, a glass becomes several, and he stares at her as if he has never seen such a thing, as if he is not quite certain what it is he has done. She is fairly certain that no such look crosses his face when he kills a man in battle, or watches a ship crewed by her countrymen burn to ashes. She has learned already that such is the way of men who live by bullets and blades: no show of violence can frighten them so much as the idea of binding themselves to a home and a hearth, and that is constant whichever nation's blood flows in their veins.
The captain grants Horatio a night off from taking the watch, and use of one of the cabins for their wedding night. Mariette makes an appropriate show of blushing gratitude, squeezing her husband's hand through his corresponding blushing embarrassment. She has no fear of this; the needs and desires of men are something else she learned long ago in the troubles of her country, and she is quite certain that they are constant across the Channel as well.
Perhaps she can offer it as a token of her gratitude, because she is grateful for what he has given with such open hands, even if he didn't understand it himself in the giving.
**
The next morning she stands on the deck taking the air, careful to keep her face demurely turned from the crew going about their work. Prudence. She is practiced at exercising such care, and that will stand her in good stead in this next turn of her life.
"Did you sleep well, mademoiselle?" comes a polite voice from behind her, and she turns, the proper smile on her face even before she sees Mr. Kennedy.
"Quite well, thank you, mon...thank you, sir," she murmurs, listening with detachment to the differences between his voice and hers, wondering how much of her way of speaking it will be expedient to give up and how much she might keep.
He is on watch, his uniform precise and perfect, his hands clasped behind his back, his face and voice impassive as he speaks to her. She suspects he is aware, at every moment, that unseen forces might be watching. It is an awareness she entirely understands, though he is cautious of his superiors and she, ever and always, must be alert for anyone who might hear too much and betray.
"You do realize," he says in that light, clear tone, the brightness of his eyes the only sign of emotion, "that you have very likely ruined him? A lieutenant's salary does not go far to support a wife, mademoiselle."
"Madame, now," she corrects, lifting her chin the barest fraction, her smile unwavering and perfect. "I am his wife."
"Yes," he says, his smile changing just a bit, perhaps a twist of respect. "Indeed. My apologies, madame, for my mistake."
"It is quite all right, I assure you." She hesitates, watching him closely, and decides that she can take the risk; he is powerless, after all, a lower rank than Horatio, of no consequence at all upon this ship. "And if I have ruined him, sir, it is at his own choice."
"I suspect that you encouraged him, madame. More than slightly."
"Perhaps," she says, shrugging her shoulders carelessly. "But the choice was his, and he made it. He made the offer that I merely accepted. He brought me here, to your ship. He said the words before your captain."
He tilts his head, studying her closely, his jaw taking a firm set that she recognizes from so many other angry men. She holds her ground. She is an officer's wife, he cannot touch her, and even if he could he would not. She can see that in him, as she saw Horatio's honor and pride and need.
"I think that you are very cold, madame," he says at last, and repeats the phrase in French before she can mistake his meaning for a change in topic to the weather. "Very cold indeed."
"I am alive," she corrects, gathering about herself the blanket she is using as a shawl. "That is more than many of my countrymen can say."
"You have no regrets, then? I wager you never will have any." He shakes his head, his expression slipping to expose a kind of disgust, and her temper rises, slipping through her fingers more than she expects herself to permit.
"You will find someday, monsieur, when you are on the losing side, when you are trapped, that regrets are a victor's luxury."
He looks up sharply, meeting her eyes, and she holds his gaze, trembling slightly with mingled fear and defiance. Let him strike her, let him take her to the captain, let him do as he wishes. She will find a way to survive.
"Actually, I have learned that lesson already, madame," he says, tugging his jacket straight and looking away. "Though I fear I did not learn it so well as you. I beg your pardon, but I must resume my watch."
"Au revoir," she murmurs, drawing the blanket tighter about her shoulders and turning away as the sounds of his steps retreat across the deck. She looks out over the water, across the Channel, trying to peer through the clouds and see England approaching. She has a new home, a new husband, a new life, and much to do.
AUTHOR: inlovewithnight
CHARACTERS: Mariette, Horatio, Archie
RATING: PG
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, no profit made
CHALLENGE PROMPT: Female characters
AUTHOR'S NOTE: AU from "The Wrong War"/"The Frogs and the Lobsters;" kind of an alternate take on Mariette. Thanks to romanticalgirl for the beta.
She is French, from her hairline to the soles of her feet, and inwardly, where it matters more. French blood is hotter than the English, she has always heard, and French hearts beat more truly. She isn't sure that matters, when French and English alike are so eager to stop those hearts, to spill that blood.
She watches him, this boy in a man's uniform, doing a man's work. And perhaps those things do indeed make him a man; perhaps she is being unfair. He is, if younger than she herself, little enough so that it should make no difference. And she has not considered herself a girl in a very long time.
He is lovely, she thinks. Perhaps not in the way of the village boys she thought lovely before, long ago when there was time and joy for such things. But he has a certain...light to him, as if his loyalty and his honor and his commitment to his king are so strong within him that they shine outward through his skin. If English blood is colder than French, it must still move as quickly, to carry its heavier passions along so strongly.
She watches him, she makes her choice, and once it is made it is little enough work to win his hand to hers. Wide eyes. Soft words. A kiss or two. Not difficult at all.
And in his name she has her passage to England, and guarantee of her life.
**
The captain is trying to keep his voice low, his anger private, but he is not good at it at all. Mariette keeps her eyes averted, her hands folded in her lap, and plays deaf and dumb, pretending not to hear or see anything at all.
"Have you gone mad, Mr. Hornblower?" the captain snaps, his voice rising from a whisper to a near-shout in just that short space of words.
"Sir, with all due respect..." Horatio's voice is an uneven murmur, thick with stung pride and anger and, she suspects, a dawning realization of his own hastiness. Too late to change your mind, my love, you have made your promises and your fine heart will make you keep them.
"She is French," says the man from their Army, lounging in his fine red coat and sipping from a goblet of fine red wine, light glinting off his golden hair like something from a fairy tale. Her patriotism bids her to snatch a knife and place it between his ribs; her pragmatism keeps her hands folded, her face closed.
"Yes," the captain says, smacking his palm against the table, sound pleased that someone has joined him in seeing the obvious. "She is French."
Mariette can hear Horatio's careful breath, hear him struggling to manage his frustration. He is an open book, her pretty English boy, an endless ream of clean white pages. She has no desire to hurt him; she will write the story she desires with care.
"With all due respect, sir, Major my lord, I am aware that she is French, but she has chosen to come with us. That is a clear show of her loyalty, is it not?"
"My God, boy," the major says, staring levelly over his glass, "can you possibly truly be so naïve?"
Mariette bites hard into her lower lip at that, holding back a smile. Yes, he can, my dear officer. It is the good in him, and the fool. I shall not abuse it more than needed.
"It's a terribly sudden decision to betray her people, Horatio," murmurs the third man in the room, the other young officer of the ship who has been silent until this time, his eyes moving slowly and constantly from Horatio to Mariette and back again. "For her to come with us is, from a certain point of view, an act of treason."
"What point of view is that, Mr. Kennedy?" Horatio says stiffly, his face twisted with utter unhappiness. Mariette suspects it should be her role here to touch his hand, smile softly, say something to reassure and cheer, but prudence holds her still and silent. She will not raise her head above the grasses lest she take a bullet between the eyes.
"The point of view that, according to everything we knew until now, she adhered to with considerable passion," the Major says dryly. "Or did you somehow overlook the extensive goings-on in that village?"
"With all due respect, sir..."
"Stop saying that!" the captain roars, pounding his fist on the table again, and Mariette shrinks in her seat, willing herself to greater invisibility. "If you say that again, I swear to heaven, Mr. Hornblower, I will have you struck back to midshipman."
Horatio falls silent, his face red and his breathing jagged as he struggles to keep his temper, and Mariette digs her nails into her palms. Everything is terribly close to falling apart. She knew it was a precarious plan, pieced together from scraps and terror, but it's all she has, her only chance. Choosing safety over loyalty is a traitor's act, but choosing loyalty over life is a fool's. She will be French in her heart no matter how long she lives on English soil, but first she must reach England, not be drowned in the Channel like an unwanted kitten.
"There is one way to assure her good conduct, sir," murmurs the other officer again from the end of the table, his eyes as modestly downcast as Mariette's own.
"And what is that, Mr. Kennedy?" the captain asks acidly. "Do you have some magical means of divining that she is not a spy?"
Mr. Kennedy looks up then, directly at Mariette, meeting her eyes steadily as she peers up through her lashes. "Mr. Hornblower is a man of great honor, as we all know, sir. And if he were to marry the mademoiselle, her honor would become his own." A faint smile twitches his lips, though his eyes do not reflect it as he gazes at her. "I have no doubt that he would defend the combination to the hilt."
"A clever plan," the major says approvingly. "A sound plan. Commendable, Mr. Kennedy."
Mariette looks over at Horatio. His expression can only be described as terribly, terribly stunned.
She offers him her sweetest smile. Such a sudden twist, but even better than she could have hoped. They will tie her life to his, and he will preserve her, whatever the cost to himself. Has he not already proven it? Do his honor and loyalty and lovely ideals not demand it?
Praise God, my darling boy, for the day I set eyes on you.
**
It is a terribly simple thing. He changes into a clean uniform. The captain reads from the Bible and says a few words. Mr. Kennedy and the major stand witness. Not a word of it is in her own tongue-she even murmurs a humble yes in answer to the captain's question instead of oui, signaling her surrender to Horatio's people and their ways as she swears to surrender to his will. She feels no fear as she makes her oath; she knows from a glance that he will not ask much of her. He does not know how, and his pride forbids him to learn.
And then they are wed, and the major insists that they share a glass of wine. In Horatio's case, a glass becomes several, and he stares at her as if he has never seen such a thing, as if he is not quite certain what it is he has done. She is fairly certain that no such look crosses his face when he kills a man in battle, or watches a ship crewed by her countrymen burn to ashes. She has learned already that such is the way of men who live by bullets and blades: no show of violence can frighten them so much as the idea of binding themselves to a home and a hearth, and that is constant whichever nation's blood flows in their veins.
The captain grants Horatio a night off from taking the watch, and use of one of the cabins for their wedding night. Mariette makes an appropriate show of blushing gratitude, squeezing her husband's hand through his corresponding blushing embarrassment. She has no fear of this; the needs and desires of men are something else she learned long ago in the troubles of her country, and she is quite certain that they are constant across the Channel as well.
Perhaps she can offer it as a token of her gratitude, because she is grateful for what he has given with such open hands, even if he didn't understand it himself in the giving.
**
The next morning she stands on the deck taking the air, careful to keep her face demurely turned from the crew going about their work. Prudence. She is practiced at exercising such care, and that will stand her in good stead in this next turn of her life.
"Did you sleep well, mademoiselle?" comes a polite voice from behind her, and she turns, the proper smile on her face even before she sees Mr. Kennedy.
"Quite well, thank you, mon...thank you, sir," she murmurs, listening with detachment to the differences between his voice and hers, wondering how much of her way of speaking it will be expedient to give up and how much she might keep.
He is on watch, his uniform precise and perfect, his hands clasped behind his back, his face and voice impassive as he speaks to her. She suspects he is aware, at every moment, that unseen forces might be watching. It is an awareness she entirely understands, though he is cautious of his superiors and she, ever and always, must be alert for anyone who might hear too much and betray.
"You do realize," he says in that light, clear tone, the brightness of his eyes the only sign of emotion, "that you have very likely ruined him? A lieutenant's salary does not go far to support a wife, mademoiselle."
"Madame, now," she corrects, lifting her chin the barest fraction, her smile unwavering and perfect. "I am his wife."
"Yes," he says, his smile changing just a bit, perhaps a twist of respect. "Indeed. My apologies, madame, for my mistake."
"It is quite all right, I assure you." She hesitates, watching him closely, and decides that she can take the risk; he is powerless, after all, a lower rank than Horatio, of no consequence at all upon this ship. "And if I have ruined him, sir, it is at his own choice."
"I suspect that you encouraged him, madame. More than slightly."
"Perhaps," she says, shrugging her shoulders carelessly. "But the choice was his, and he made it. He made the offer that I merely accepted. He brought me here, to your ship. He said the words before your captain."
He tilts his head, studying her closely, his jaw taking a firm set that she recognizes from so many other angry men. She holds her ground. She is an officer's wife, he cannot touch her, and even if he could he would not. She can see that in him, as she saw Horatio's honor and pride and need.
"I think that you are very cold, madame," he says at last, and repeats the phrase in French before she can mistake his meaning for a change in topic to the weather. "Very cold indeed."
"I am alive," she corrects, gathering about herself the blanket she is using as a shawl. "That is more than many of my countrymen can say."
"You have no regrets, then? I wager you never will have any." He shakes his head, his expression slipping to expose a kind of disgust, and her temper rises, slipping through her fingers more than she expects herself to permit.
"You will find someday, monsieur, when you are on the losing side, when you are trapped, that regrets are a victor's luxury."
He looks up sharply, meeting her eyes, and she holds his gaze, trembling slightly with mingled fear and defiance. Let him strike her, let him take her to the captain, let him do as he wishes. She will find a way to survive.
"Actually, I have learned that lesson already, madame," he says, tugging his jacket straight and looking away. "Though I fear I did not learn it so well as you. I beg your pardon, but I must resume my watch."
"Au revoir," she murmurs, drawing the blanket tighter about her shoulders and turning away as the sounds of his steps retreat across the deck. She looks out over the water, across the Channel, trying to peer through the clouds and see England approaching. She has a new home, a new husband, a new life, and much to do.