Mayhaps another officer is getting a little too chummy with his wife? Perhaps something like Millington at the start of the movie, or an officer from another regiment paying a visit who isn't familiar with their particular rules
(Indirectly) Maj. Alastair Wimbourne x Reader.
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(The appearance of an OC I created for the plot).
He has been discreetly warned about this particular outpost.
But, he could scarcely believe such rumors.
The Caldwell Reforms had many a battalion sent to the strategic far corners of the Indian subcontinent while others remained behind, at home, not unlike a remotely tethered twin, receiving recruits and providing potential replacement --- this bit of transit was to function as a sort of visitation of an unestablished regiment of newcomers to an established regiment of veterans acting as a host to their freshly arrived, untested brethren and the one thought that permeated second Lieutenant John Fletcher's mind was the counsel he strictly received from his Captain was do not cavort with their women.
He distinctly remember asking while on a train heading out towards Rajapur, the dry, dusty flatlands peppered with miles of bushels of yellow grass giving way to endless wasteland of an open desert headed southeast, needing, he supposed, clarification, what cavorting exactly meant by definition in this particular case, finding it could mean one thing in England and another thing entirely in India, although the basic concept usually remained much the same across distances. His Captain was quick to illuminate him, he recalled, listing off things with the speed of a fired Gatling gun.
-"Speaking, socializing, touching, being alone unchaperoned, glancing too long. In no particular order, of course, Lieutenant. They have their rules over there."-
He explains, seeming somewhat cynically pleased with himself, the port the native server with an immaculate, crisp turban brought him balanced in sturdy fingers that seemed most experienced at drinking inside of moving vehicles. John was instantaneously perplexed and perhaps inappropriately entertained to the degree he had to chuckle in spite of himself; such was often the case when one heard something so ridiculous, that irregardless of their composure, they couldn't help but show what they really thought of what was just uttered.
Luckily, this was merely banter and not an official order in an official capacity.
-"Why,"- He lets out an amused huff of breath he didn't realize he was holding at the time, crossing his arms behind his back, the train corridor providing to be spacious enough to house two Officers shooting the breeze in-between the humid pews of side corridor coaches, while the flooring beneath their feet rattled with a familiar, thudding hum of the train cart. -"That sounds like they are prisoners! More so than wives, Captain."- John declared, thinking then he said something awfully perceptive or enlightened, not realizing then just how accidentally prophetic those words would have proved to be.
Perhaps he ought to have taken the look his Captain gave him seriously.
Quizzical and remote. Strangely knowing.
Seldom anyone understands the power of hindsight, of course.
Had he realized, had he understood, he would have asked for a transfer immediately.
Anywhere. Madras. Faridkot. Agra. India is certainly large enough.
But that first night in the outpost at Rajapur, the old, established regiment that found its house within the walls of the palatial garden fortress, Lieutenant John Fletcher did not take the warning to heart. It is not that he disdained his Commanding Officer or thought him a liar far too fond of the pleasures of a good drink. No. He just didn't feel the English are capable of it --- of what he described, perhaps being a more naive man then than he was now. He didn't believe them capable of being quite so irrationally despotic towards their own, their ladies, no less. Perhaps, in his stubborn, ignorant haughtiness, he'd write that off as a trait of a more impassioned people, but logic and propriety being the cold, sturdy background of everything he's ever known back home demanded he deem this an over exaggeration; a warning for sound comportment slightly blown out of proportions. These men weren't Genghis Khan, he thought to himself self-reassuring, sipping his cooled brandy, lonesome for the time being but quite content to simply watch and learn, observing the nighttime mingling along manicured garden grounds --- officers and their ladies walking in the moonlight. They were the Queen's men! Not a wild, wanton horde. A piece of homeland bottled up and revived so far away from its original cradle, John felt at ease here, gliding further along the shaded pavillion overgrown with vines and curtains of red Hibiscus, like he's scarcely just crossed half of the world to be here in a three month trip, both by land and sea, halting by a wooden, carved white bandstand to find a woman with her back turned standing there, looking away from the dusky, grassy promenade illuminated by lanterns and out in the wild, cultivated Eastern garden. There. See? A member of the fairer sex quite unaccompanied. Not at all as the Captain said, kept under lock and key, like in some manner of vulgar harem; John Fletcher feels validated in his assumptions as he, in wide strides, crosses the green, carpeted lawn and walks up the steps leading to you, clearing his throat discreetly as to avoid intruding too abruptly, announcing himself. -"Madam. Are you quite unchaperoned?"- He inquires, his presence causing you to turn, slightly surprised to see a stranger there. An understandable reason for confusion, truly. You chuckled soon after, seemingly charmed, if confused --- perhaps even a little flustered, which he found an endearing trait immediately. Spoke of a certain natural decorum and virtue. -"Oh, no. Excuse me."- You manage in earnest, something sweet about your countenance, even in front of a no-name somebody.
-"I am just waiting for my husband."-
No matter; he wouldn't allow his private disappointment to prevent him from being a perfect gentleman.
John offers his arm instinctively, if apologetically.
-"Who is he so we may find him together? I cannot abide a lady standing alone."-
He insists tenderly and indeed he could not abide by it; whether by the familiar piers of Brighton or the middle of India, he dreaded to see someone without a companion like that, even if a temporary one; you seemingly hesitate, almost as if held back by something unseen, only for your fingers to tentatively rest on the scarlet sleeve of his uniform jacket once you found he would not relent, wordlessly and patiently keeping his elbow bent until you were forced to accept it. -"If you permit me?"- He asks with a small inclination of his head, leading you down the marble steps, his eyes already scouring the crowd for whatever man you were tethered to, hoping someone will recognize you and approach you to take over, slowly walking back towards the lights and the quiet music emanating from inside the garden building, the figures reflected through the illuminated, golden windows spinning around in a waltz on the dance podium. -"That truly will not be necessary, sir ---"-You try and trail off somewhere mid-sentence, taken by some strange anxiety he couldn't name or understand at the time. Oh, but how rude of him. He has made no formal introductions. He turns slightly towards you, clicking his boots, saluting respectfully, as he would to a superior. -"Lieutenant John Fletcher. Recently arrived. At your service."- He beams there and then, a sensation interrupted only by the loosening of your grip on his polished gauntlet buttons. You look at him, really look at him, like someone who, much like the mysterious Sphinx, intended to make him privy to the secrets of the world. -"Lieutenant."- You begin with something halfway maternal and gentle in your tone, tapping his cufflinks with your other free hand as reassurance that has him catching his breath at the contact. In hindsight, he understood now that you were tenderly preparing him for the blow, maybe even trying to save him indirectly. He should have listened to you. -"I thank you for your considerate nature, but ---"- You wander off, not mincing words, instead allowing the reality of things to settle in with ease to avoid raising offense. That much was abundantly clear even then. -"Let me walk alone from here. It is for the better."- You murmur partially pleadingly, partially with unabashed kindness and John pulls back in subdued shock, unsure why on earth you would wish to, the Captain's warning en route returning to hover like a spectre. Do not cavort with the women.
They have their rules over there.
A man's voice cuts through his tense reverie.
-"Tempting the new arrivals, are we, madam?"-
He interjects with a sardonic grin, the seams of his upturned mouth digging into the meat of his cheeks in undeniable pleasure, but the instant first impression settling upon John is one of oozing contrition, like standing face to face with a slithering, immaculately uniformed snake in the grass that was rearing to bite him. You free your hand from his, rushing over to the man in recognition and apparent joy, bare hands clasping bare hands, his white gloves tucked into his belt in a fashion most casual. Tempting...the new arrivals? What the devil did he even mean by that, tempting the new arrivals? John clears his throat again. It is simply what he did when he was nervous or did not know how to break the tension and interlude of silence.
-"This is my husband. Major Alastair Wimbourne!"-
You make introductions, linking your arms with this man instead.
John straightens his posture, quite frankly a little offended, feeling his ears burn.
Perturbed by the fact that your own husband was speaking to you thus.
But rather, this cad of a Major seemed rather proud of himself for some reason.
-"Lieutenant Fletcher was the face of chivalry, Major. He was worried with me standing alone and offered to find me my pair."-
You hastily explain, admittedly, not unkindly, addressing your spouse formally.
Almost giving him the impression of being eager to soften some manner of blow.
Still, standing rigidly on attention, there was something about this chap he did not like.
Perhaps how damn cynical he seemed, all artificial warmth that did not reach the eyes.
He was around fellow Officers long enough to recognize when they're angry.
One step away from calling him a midwit too.
-"Her pair is quite present, laddie."-
In the most icily chipper sense, this Major Wimbourne quips looking between him and his own wife, a chuckle emanating from deep inside his throat causing him to sound like a pleased tomcat with a canary in its mouth; reaching over, the gloves that were tucked between the leather straps of his belt now between his fingers as he casually slaps John's dressed hands with in passing, seemingly under the guise of being playful and nonchalant before turning to guide you away and something in him instantaneously recognized the meaning. In the old days, gentlemen would throw each other gauntlets as a challenge. Now, duelling was outlawed, but it was still a concealed sign of hostility, one you do not seem to notice, so seamless and swift being the contact. John stares at where the pale kidskin touched him, wholly perplexed. Goodness. This man despised him and he has only just met him. A shiver involuntarily passes through him despite the humidity of the night air, only then realizing he must have left his drained glass of liquor somewhere on the bandstand fencing in his eagerness to help. How he wished he had it now, fully re-filled.
-"We hope to make your acquaintance at the club with the other men, laddie."-
Major Wimbourne mentions once he and his wife have already paced away.
The man's profile partially illuminated by lanterns pushed up by a venomous smile.
The condescending repeat moniker right there, as if directly making fun of him.
The invitation to join the menfolk in the joint ringing somewhat hollow.
For reasons he could not immediately decipher why.
Conduct and comportment, they had their rather unique brand of it, he intrusively concludes. These army fraternities were always insular and one was to make no mistake, all army men were men of brotherhood by proxy, be they in a remote locale or a buzzing one. They have local on-base rules nobody made me privy to. Do not cavort with the women seemed one of them.
Even though, he was not cavorting.
He was merely being...well...nice. Or at least attempting to.
Were you not warned about that too, John? That they did not even enjoy one talking to what is theirs?
-"We play games there too."-
The man adds as he and you leisurely walk away, towards the music, hand in hand.
He had not the faintest idea what that particular, cryptic comment meant.
He did find out later, though he wishes he has not.
Games! Perish the thought!
Everything his Captain warned him about on the train being true and more.
Took him a staggering three years for him to earn the right to be transfered elsewhere.
-"Of course, Major. Good evening, Major."-
He stutters finally, as if awoken from some manner of tongue-tied, confused trance.
Straightening his back and posture.
Unsure how to classify that particular interaction.
He addresses you too, rather, your back, but by then, you're too far away to hear him.
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