Author's Note: More random Regency-periodness. Almost done this mini-arc. (and fic, for that matter).
A good cup of tea. A soft bed. The affections of a loyal, protective, strong, gorgeous man. Her life had certainly seemed to take a turn for the better.
If one did not take into account the whole 'Lost in Time' aspect.
Sarah shrugged inwardly, taking another sip from the delicate porcelain cup and smiling at her newfound friend.
"Taking tea in the garden was a splendid idea," she complimented Mrs. Sharpe distractedly, captivated by the fascinating view provided.
"It hardly qualifies such a title, I'm afraid," Jane replied just as absently.
They were both fixated on a scene playing out not more than thirty yards away in an open area amongst the army encampment. Major Sharpe and Captain Becker were sparring... with swords! Of all things! And the ARC captain wasn't bad, holding his own against the scrappy rifleman, who walked around with such an instrument always at his side. No doubt Becker boasted fencing lessons in his youth-for he had certainly been sent of to one of those antiquated military academies, the soldier was so deeply ingrained in him.
Sarah couldn't really complain. The fierce loyalty of the man appealed to her. As did those very tight, borrowed but gorgeous, dark green rifleman's pants. Suddenly, any minor wounds he sustained in his rough-housing with the major no longer seemed problematic, as she contemplated kissing them better.
"Excuse my impertinence in the question," Jane Sharpe interrupted her consideration of fitted military uniforms. "But you are attached to Captain Becker, are you not?"
"I am that," Sarah replied emphatically before sipping at her tea and then sighing. "But not in the way you suppose."
Primarily at the hip, apparently.
"Oh, you really are going to hate me," Jane continued, after a somewhat tense silence. "However I must ask permission to further my trespass and put another question to you."
"How could I deny you such an inquiry without remaining forever curious as to its nature?" Sarah replied. Why was there such an appeal for the convoluted language? Perhaps it was because if she released all of her worries and concerns, she could practically trick herself into believing she was in the middle of a Jane Austen novel. And the appeal of that was undeniable.
Mrs. Sharpe leaned in conspiratorially close, setting her tea cup aside in excited anticipation. She whispered her 'scandalous' question in hushed tones.
"Am I mistaken in assuming that you share your bed with the captain?"
How to reply was difficult to discern. Back home, it was no significant circumstance to find oneself consistently spending their nights with a man despite the uncertainty as to the nature of their relationship. In fact, many would call her a tease for taking so very long to 'seal the deal.' But in this era, her actions were of the worst variety for a woman; she'd be considered 'ruined' at the very least.
If she was such a 'scandalous' persona, she might as well have fun with it, she supposed.
"No, you are not mistaken."
Jane appeared appropriately scandalized, but continued to pursue the socially unacceptable conversation.
"No offense, dearest Sarah, but you do not seem the type to fall into such a trap," Jane furthered. "Or to lack the persuasiveness to insist that the captain perform his duty as a gentleman." The very English regency era lady fanned herself as she took a breath. "So, why..."
"You know," Sarah began dryly. "It's rather like having a St. Bernard lying at the foot of one's bed. One feels quite safe and protected whilst they sleep. And, as with all such creatures, is it not right to offer reward for unwavering loyalty and services well rendered?"
She fought the smirk twitching at the corner of her mouth as her hostess' eyes widened first with shock and then good humour as she digested Sarah's remark. They both burst into laughter.
And yet Sarah knew she was a pariah in this era. It would probably be addressed in a more trivial, joking manner back home, but it dawned upon her that she did not even know her lover's first name. Normally, that would be indicative of drunkenness and some bad choices, and frowned upon even in her time. But it wasn't like that. 'Becker' was simply who the man was, at least to her. Perhaps to everyone, even his own mother, for all she knew.
It was a title, like 'Cher' or 'God'...okay that was slightly blasphemous, but it was apt. Why did she need to know another name for him, when the one she had was his 'true' name, the one that best defined him, that was him?
Sarah smiled into her tea cup. It was too perfect. Becker belonged in this era. Duty and honour were what drove him. He had been trained to survive, protect, kill. The perfect soldier. And, as was common during this period, everyone referred to him in the formal, by his family name.
And, borrowed though it may be, he filled out that rifleman's uniform in a most appetizing manner.
A/N: Sick of me yet?