Rene couldn’t help but smile, he could easily imagine the sort of clash of wills that might erupt over the issue of marriage in a family like the Falias. It was axiomatic that nobles were strong willed, but people rarely appreciated the reality of placing a group of iron willed individuals together in a family environment. Privately, he suspected it was one of the reasons that familial relations among the upper classes were so strained. It was hard to love the ideal to which they all aspired, but impossible to aspire to anything else.

“I’m not sure you mother would have approved of you marrying a disgraced noble who enlisted in the marines to avoid being tried for murder, maybe the janitor wouldn’t look so bad,” he joked, stroking her soft lustrous hair. It wasn’t really true of course, he might be disgraced but he remained of the correct stock and station. In theory at least his offspring would not share in his disgrace, it might be generations before either the De Quentains, or the Falia’s acknowledged the links but they would eventually form a link in the Byzantine chains of family and influence which kept the upper echelons of the Stellar Empire running. It was even theoretically possible that Solae might one day lay claim to some portion of the Du Quentain legacy, although unless it was specifically condoned by Rene’s father, it would certainly require years or decades of legal battles.

“My mother died when I was eight or nine, aneurysm,” he went on plowing through the unpleasantness while the topic was open, rather than risk revisiting it later. He remembered the funeral clearly, it had been an almost bacchanalian affair, a solem service in public followed by a bawdy affirmation of life in private.  He remembered being sad because the house staff was sad. His mother had spoken to him rarely and then formally and her loss was more academic than practical. His father had been a little more hands on, although for most of his life it had been servants who tended him. He remembered his father being proud when he had won a fencing match, or scored well in some test or other, but he remembered weeping when Old Mae, their kindly cook, had passed away much more vividly.

“I think my father would have like you too,” he told her after a few moments of reflection. It was hard to know exactly what the stoic, dour, Alric Du Quentain would think about anything, but Rene suspected he would have approved of the fiery young woman, though the Falias and Du Quentains had few previous contacts.

“He is a very hard man to read, after I enlisted I held out hope that he would get in touch with me and… Stars I don’t know, anything really.” It had been painful weeks, then months before Rene had finally given up hope that his father would speak to him. It shouldn’t have surprised him, he couldn’t fault the man politically, but it still stung. 

“There are no other loves to report,” he told her truthfully. 

“During training there is no time and afterwards…” he trailed off considering the graduation festivities before the first posting. There had been ample opportunity, indeed some of the women who lived near Camp Able made their whole years salary by freelancing for graduation week, but Rene couldn’t bring himself to partake. It wasn’t that he was a saint, though he generally tried to do the right thing, but a sort of residual class loyalty. His fellow troopers had mocked him ceaselessly, and he had gained the nickname Galahad, which he supposed had died at the Rat Trap.

“It probably sounds stupid but I just couldn’t. I suppose I figured that even as low as I had fallen I was still a Du Quentain, and that so long as I acted like a noble ought, it couldn’t be taken away from me. He trailed off finding the words in adequate to describe the thought behind them.

“In any case let us talk of happier things. We are still alive, we have a ship, I think we need to consider that a win!”