10 July, Evening in the Guards' camp

Jenny paced back and forth behind Woodmarsh's tent, thinking to herself. What to do, what to do? She looked around the side of the tent and could see Christian a little ways in front of it, stirring at the fire or something. At last she made a decision and approached him resolutely. "Mike. This seat taken?" she asked, pointing at the ground beside him.

Christian glanced up, looking as though he was unsure whether to be amused or puzzled by the question and managing a little of both. "Sit down, if you like."

She smiled and sat down, but there was a thoughtful look on her face, and she was quiet for a moment. "Mike," she finally began.

"Jenny," he replied with mock seriousness. But something was off -- it wasn't like Jenny to be quiet, at least not like this -- and he frowned. "Some'at wrong?"

"No no," she said, a smile quickly lighting up her face. "It's just rather unusual. I hope I can call you my friend," she continued slowly.

Shit, something was definitely wrong. "Jenny," His manner was now dead serious. "What's goin' on?"

She frowned, not wanting to be rushed. "Well, you and I are alike, in some ways, aren't we? We want the same sort of things. I think perhaps we understand each other's..." What? "We understand each other. Right? In general, I mean." This was difficult. Talking seriously, and about herself, did not come easy to Jenny.

Understand her? Sometimes he thought so, but then she'd turn 'round and set everything on its head and he'd be back where he started. He did not even begin to understand her, or rather he did, only he kept having to begin again and again. Hell, he didn't even understand this conversation.

But he wasn't about to admit that now. "Aye... I s'pose," he replied warily, hoping like hell things started to make sense very soon.

She laughed then. Poor Christian. "I mean, we both want to stay alive, and survive this war, and make it home and all that."

"Oh. Well, aye, 'course."

She gave him a smile and continued. "Now, Woodmarsh is a good catch for now. But for all that he's a second son and a pompous ass and an ignorant peacock - " Here she looked at the tent behind them, but she knew very well that Woodmarsh was not in it. He had gone to a dinner to which she, thankfully, was not invited. "Well, you know him better than anyone. He would never buck tradition and family and all that and marry me. He might set me up as his mistress a while, but how long would it last? He's all very well right now. He's hardly likely to die in battle, big coward that he is. But I worry that the war could end at any moment and I wouldn't be ... ready for England."

Christian stared at her, trying to understand, and trying desperately to smother the faint, tinder spark of hope which her words stirred up. He didn't speak, he didn't dare to.

She bit her lip before speaking again. "I mean - well, I couldn't very well go on as I am now - whoring, and all. I - you might not believe me, but I never had much experience of it before following the army." She laughed a little, a self-deprecating laugh, and then returned to seriousness. "So while Woodmarsh might be good now, I never know when he might throw me over. On a whim, even. But," and now she looked at him keenly, "I think I could make Corporal Macklin marry me."

For an instant hurt, disappointment, embarrassment were all visible in his face, then he dropped his gaze, his expression flattened, and his eyes closed off.

Idiot. The word played over in his head like a litany, fierce and bitter. Now it was his turn to be silent. He stared at the fire, collecting himself, then nodded. Nothing had changed.

"Macklin's a decent sort," he said at length, looking up. He smiled, or tried to. "An' I don't think you'll have any trouble convincin' a lad to take you on, proper like."

She looked at him, and looked at the fire, and looked at the sky. "I just don't know. I left Woodmarsh once before, and it was rather a silly thing to do." She looked at Christian once again, formulating a question.

Christian shrugged. "If you can abide him, it ain't a bad arrangement. Considering. 'Sides, even if the war did end tomorrow, ain't like the Army to do nothin' quick like; you'll have time to sort things out."

"Possibly." She sighed again. "But Macklin can't be relied upon not to die like Woodmarsh can. Damn it."

"Ain't just balls and bayonets what kill lads," he said gently, "Could make it all the way through and die o' some disease on the ship home. Ain't no sense worryin' 'bout it now."

For some reason that made her laugh. "True. True enough. And it could just as well kill me, too. I have trouble even picturing my life after the war... Well, perhaps I should ask Woodmarsh! He's after a fashion my friend as well, though not the same as you, but he does receive some benefit in our little arrangement. Perhaps he might see that he owes me, and he can make some sort of arrangement when the time comes. He'll probably give me a dowry and marry me off to one of his men. Might even be you, poor lamb!" she added with a laugh.

He looked down into the fire once more, his face flushing. It was a joke to her, nothing more.

"Would that be so terrible?" he asked suddenly, on impulse. He had meant it to sound light, teasing, to match her own manner, but it came out painful, awkward and faintly bitter, and it was all he could do not to cringe. Idiot.

She was surprised. "No," she answered simply. "Not for me. But poor you, darling."

For a moment he simply stared at her. "Jenny... Jesus-- you know.... you know I, well -- you know I care for you, don't you?"

Jenny gave him a puzzled frown for a moment, assessing his words and his earnest face. "I think so."

"Alright." He didn't know what else to say. He was still waiting for the axe to fall; for her to laugh, or pull away, or for an awkward gulf to gape between them. His face felt as though it were on fire.

Now she gave him a gentle smile and patted his arm. "Don't worry, darling," she said lightly. "This war will probably never end. Meanwhile, we both have a golden goose in Woodmarsh."