Work Text:
There was a set of evening wear hanging from Laurence’s wardrobe. It was perfectly, tastefully, not a uniform, though it had enough of the suggestion of one to make the intended meaning plain. The touches of embroidery were reminiscent of some he had seen on the portraits of marshals, or on the men themselves as they walked the halls of the Tuileries. Horribly out of fashion now in England, but it would slot neatly in with the tactical gilt of Napoleon’s court.
Laurence held it up distastefully. “I can’t wear this.”
“Unfortunately,” Tharkay said, looking meaningfully at the simple shirt and waistcoat he wore now. “We are living a life of limited choices.”
Laurence made a rueful expression, and he shrugged and slipped from the room just as Granby entered.
“I see you have your own suit,” he said, a coat draped over his arm. His neckcloth was worn in a loose, informal style, though its presence represented a fair increase of formality for Granby. The waistcoat was in a pale silk which combined with the rest of the outfit to make him look striking and rakish. “There’s one in Tharkay’s room too.”
He supposed it made sense. The ball was to honor Laurence as a hero of the Empire, but their service to him had earned them some honor too. Napoleon would not have his guests appear slovenly, or his own hospitality ungracious. Still, it irked him.
It irked him more when he realized it fit perfectly and matched well to his tastes. The waistcoat was cut from silk with a distinctly Nepali motif, while the coat and breeches were of simple but high-quality black wool. He looked at himself in the mirror on one of the ornamented walls and clipped his single gold earring back into place.
They convened back in the drawing room closest to their spaces, waiting for the escort they knew was inevitable. They shared between them a glass of port and the uncomfortable sense of having been plaid. Laurence, of course, looked impeccable. Stiff and uncomfortable, yes, but here in a palace, dressed in finery, he looked regal. His long hair, pulled back in a queue, was archaic by the current fashion but served only to reinforce the impression of some long-gone golden age.
Promptly at 10 pm, an officer in full dress arrived to escort them to the ball. Tharkay downed what was left in his glass and stood to follow Laurence, who looked like he was being marched to his court-martial.
When they arrived, the ball was already in full swing. Everything stopped when Laurence’s name was announced—with his Chinese title. Tharkay caught him grinding his teeth, but swung his gaze out to Napoleon. The man’s face dropped, thoughts visibly stuttering to a halt, and Tharkay thought rather uncharitably that he had made his bed and could damn well lie in it.
He recovered quickly enough to grab a glass of champagne and lift it in a toast. The rest of the room followed suit, the aviators more genuinely than most. They made up the bulk of the company, a sea of joyous flint gray. Laurence had earned their devotion. Tharkay slipped off to find something else to drink.
Unfortunately, his association with Laurence made him a desirable target for dancing. It was a situation he had not found himself in before. He grit his teeth through an interminable cotillon before making his escape. Laurence was still surrounded by wellwishers, so he found a position against a wall where he could observe unhindered.
“He’s magnificent, is he not?” Napoleon said, appearing at his side. Tharkay said nothing, taking another sip from his glass of champagne. “It is good to see him receive his dues.”
“He won’t accept them.”
“From me? No. But look at them.” He gestured towards the aviators Laurence was talking to now. Laurence still looked like he was trying to deflect, stuttering through his lieutenant’s French, but it seemed more like his normal self-effacement than real distaste.
“How many did you have to put up to it?”
Napoleon smiled. “None.”
He patted Tharkay once on the shoulder, and vanished back into the crowd.