curseconsumed

[curseconsumed]

Jacques?

Jacob froze at the address, only to turn and behold a face he admittedly hadn't been expecting to see -- not ever again. Lorraine Duplantier was far too sweet and positive for camp life, or war relations at all, in his blunt opinion, so to find her at a banquet...well...

"It's lovely to see you again, Jacques," she cooed. "I daresay, I've missed your sullen gaze."

Mouth turning downward to match the sour expression of which she spoke, Jacob barely disguised a grumble under his breath, suddenly wishing that he could, in fact, enjoy the drink he held in his hand. It wasn't as if he could ask the servant serving the ale to open a vein.

"Good evening, Miss Duplantier," he muttered, averting his gaze so that instead, he was appraising the other men and women who milled about the room. "What brings you back to Jersey? Surely, not your infernal love of snow angels, or the camp's contagion and unrelenting misery?"

@curseconsumed

"It's lovely to see you again, Jacques. I daresay, I've missed your sullen gaze."

[curseconsumed]

Where parties were once a source of joy and excitement, the war had quickly made them grow stale, stifling. Clara didn't wish to be privy to the lie that all was well. All was bloody not well at all, and she couldn't reconcile with false smiles and forced coquetry a moment longer.

The library was easily her greatest source of refuge. Her family scarcely read, and even if they did, they typically chose to do so in their own personal corners of the house. That was why when a soft, masculine voice erupted from behind, Clara nearly groaned.

"Yes, well I imagine most snoops don't anticipate a guest," she muttered, turning away from the bookcase with a false smile. "Because you do intend to snoop, correct?" Here, she dramatically swept out her arm. "They say you can learn quite a bit about a man once you view his book collection. What does all this say about my father?"

"Er - what are you reading?" the man deflected.

Clara hummed. She wasn't overly in tune with epaulets and their meanings, but she was capable of recognizing that this young man was an officer. Chewing her lip, her eyes grew a touch feline as she lifted the tome, then wiggled it about for dramatic effect. "A collection of Shakespeare," she said. "I was about to start a personal favorite: The Taming of the Shrew."

Drawing the book in to rest over her chest, she smirked and slowly stepped forward, her stride measured and deliberate. "Does this mean you're a well-read man, sir? You'll have to forgive the lack of proper address, because I do not know your name and rank -- though I would wager you can at least guess my own." She simpered. "The rank is merely implied, in my case."

@curseconsumed

It was customary for those loyal to the crown to house the king’s soldiers as they reclaimed territory in his honor, and the Boyd household was close to where M.ajor A.ndre’s current residence. R.iver would be able make his way there at a moment’s notice, should he be needed. After his demotion from C.aptain to L.ieutenant, he’s determined to prove himself worthy of his superior’s confidence and trust. Until then, of course, he was at the mercy of his hosts, who weren’t shy about sharing their wealth in the way of a lavish ball to welcome the battalion.

Not one for the commotion, R.iver decided to make himself scarce and seek refuge in the estate’s library. What he hadn’t expected was to find someone already there.

“Oh, sorry.” He stammers, clearing his throat, “I didn’t know anyone else would be back here with all the goings on.”

It isn’t proper to be alone with a woman sans chaperone, but he also doesn’t want to have to return to the party. Ultimately, he decides on awkward small talk. Better that than the entire town witness his two left feet on the dance floor.

“Er — what are you reading?”

[curseconsumed]

The classless reprobate dared to speak to her again, and she stiffened, sparing him a sharp glance. He likely had a point. If her jewelry garnered more attention from the likes of his lot in life, it would be in her best interest to tuck them away into her pockets. The world beyond ballrooms and social calls didn't seem quite so keen on glitz and splendor.

With a snort, she idly pushed her spoon through her stew -- what was this heinous slop? -- before she heard just precisely what he'd asked.

Dropping her utensil with a clatter, she balled her hands into fists and gritted, "Soliciting? Do I look like some common whore to you?"

The nerve of this man! He was not only infuriating, but far too presumptuous for his own good.

"Could do with a place to lie low for a few hours," he continued.

"Believe me, sir, the only way for you to lie is low, you boot-licking scum," she hissed. "I don't know how men of the underbelly behave, but I can assure you: this is not the way to get into a woman's good graces. Now..." She straightened in her chair. "Unless you have connections to Mayor Mathews himself, I would suggest you lean far, far away from me, lest you end up with my heel in your eye socket."

She wasn't nearly so flexible, but she was quite willing to put her threat to the test.

The woman's doe-like eyes make him convinced she's some upper born lot, but that's before she opens her mouth, "If you are truly so concerned about jewels, sir, perhaps you should protect your own before you find my foot tromping upon your pillock," and she speaks like a cheap harlot. Somehow that makes this easier. Harlots he understands, and an idea is already swirling in his mind like ocean waves and he thinks maybe he can return to the docks without Newgrave stumbling upon him.

"If you're smart, you'll let those get scuffed right so," he nods towards her jewelry, leaning his elbows on the table, "Whoever you nicked 'em from'll be expecting to find something with shine, aye?"

His back to the direction of the tavern where Newgrave's sitting, likely waiting to see if his head bobs above the crowd.

"You soliciting? Could do with a place to lie low for a few hours."

[curseconsumed]

"Ah." Clara's expression grew withering. "So, in other words, you're one of those eel types who writes based on a feeling rather than fact. Does that sound about right?"

She had no real love for her father -- not truly -- but his success or failures held the power to maim her sisters, and Clara didn't appreciate any swings at her family that could prove to their detriment.

"I work for Major Andre," Fleming said, recapturing her attention. "He's preoccupied."

"Why?" Clara coolly asked. "Did you write a defamation piece on him, as well?"

Fleming blew a heavy wreath of smoke between them, his eyes almost resembling a shark amidst the fog -- cold, deliberate, predatory.

"Are you always this accommodating a hostess, Miss Boyd?"

Her shoulders stiffened. "I am if I fancy the company," she dismissed. "Are you always such an insufferable cur? You could at least have the sense to grovel like the rest of these noddies." Finally, her lips quirked into a simper. "I'm rather fond of men who realize the benefits of getting on one's knees."

"I asked what your business is here, Mr. Fleming. If you scarcely remember interviewing my father, and he likely won't recall you."

The corner of his mouth quirks, "I never said I interviewed him."

"How is it you managed to weasel your way onto our guest list?"

He lifts a brow, unsure if it's in acknowledgement or remembrance of her asking the question the first time. "I work for Major Andre. He's preoccupied. Asked me to come in his place," exhaling through his nose, smoke swirls in wisps around his face. Perhaps he is being rude to make himself so comfortable, but he doesn't much care for the company at this gala, and he almost wishes someone would ask him to leave.

"Are you always this accommodating a hostess, Miss Boyd?"

[curseconsumed]

Jacob smelled her, felt her, before he ever truly saw the woman enter the medical tent. With his jaw clenched, he continued stitching a barely conscious patient's wound, choosing nonchalance over violence.

Unfortunately, the woman was quick to realize their predicament.

"Now, now," she cooed. "Let's not do anything hasty, love, lest we make a greater mess of thing."

Jacob lifted his eyes, nailing her in place with a chilled scowl while he worked. "I'm not doing anything," he coldly corrected. "Given the rather open audience we presently have, I don't think it wise to be so brash." Here, he inclined his head. "Just beyond that copse of trees is a sentry. Are you truly so keen on making him sound the alarm?"

The woman's fangs retracted, though her intent was still clear. She was far too close to the unconscious soldier for comfort, yet Jacob knew better than to attack.

"Must be hard, this," she remarked. "How do you manage to control yourself around so much blood?"

A tight smile filled his face. "It's surprisingly easy. Human blood sickens me."

This much was true. Much like how a man could develop aversions to certain foods, Jacob had miraculously become repulsed by the scent of human blood. It had not happened overnight -- no, this development was merely within the last year or so -- which meant he'd been in agony for the past seventy years. His overarching theory was he had come rather close to feeling affection for someone, and thus, his curse may have undergone a minor shift.

Finishing up his stitchwork with a snip of his scissors, Jacob regarded her evenly before setting them onto the cot, never quite relinquishing his grip. "I can take you elsewhere, if you're hungry," he offered. His words were not said with generosity. "It's as you said: there is no need to be hasty."

@curseconsumed

Sneaking into the medical tent and pretending to be a concerned wife of an officer so she could feed was one thing, running into her own kind and finding him treating mortals as patients was another thing entirely. If she weren’t so thirsty, she would almost be impressed by his restraint and dedication. At the moment, however, she was too parched to care about the details. All she wanted was a nice juicy vein to sink her teeth into.

“Now, now. Let’s not do anything hasty, love, lest we make a greater mess of things.”

Victoria’s fangs retract as she closes her mouth, still hovering over the unconscious soldier with intent to feed, even if she’s stalled for the moment. Surely the other v.ampire wouldn’t risk blowing his cover all for the sake of saving one man’s life? Her tone is hushed and soft she won’t risk stirring her impending v.ictim.

“Must be hard, this.” She says, her eyes glancing about the vicinity as she references his current circumstances, “How do you manage to control yourself around so much b.lood?”

[curseconsumed]

"I suppose we have that in common then," Jacob muttered. "Though in truth, being the 'odd one out' allows a bit of a reprieve, wouldn't you agree? With the world not paying you any mind, all sorts of opportunities arise."

With Katrina's hand on his arm, he guided her deeper into the woods, mindful of keeping her away from the low-hanging, clawing branches.

"Have you ever done any nursing, Miss Van Tassel?" he asked her. "Although the liquor I intend to give the Holloway boy should help subdue him, once I start hacking into his limbs, I will need assistance in keeping him detained." He glanced down at her with an arched brow. "I know you claim interest in the macabre, but there is a stark difference in thought, word, and deed. I cannot afford to have you fainting on the spot. I would hate to besmirch my stellar reputation as a surgeon."

He felt no need to talk down his accomplishments. Jacob was damn good at what he did, but his curiosities often got the better of him -- presently, this girl was serving as an unusual source of interest.

She laughed softly as she slipped her hand into his so that they might be on their way. She was eager to get going anyways, before someone comes around to stall them. She definitely did not want him to change his mind or to have someone come over and question what it was that they were doing.

"I would most enjoy to tell you anything you'd like to know on our way away from these...bumpkins." She gave him something of a teasing smile once they both slipped from the large dance hall. On her way out she her gotten her cloak and was tying it securely across her shoulders. "I'll also have you know that my father won't be so terribly upset about me leaving this way. He barely pays attention to me these days. Or what I do." Especially since he had gotten remarried.

[curseconsumed]

Breaking away from home was never wise, but it was downright asinine in the dead of night. Still, Clara felt as if she had no choice. Her father had all but kicked her out, and her mother was a spineless, cowering whelp, so she had received no solace from arms that should embrace, rather than repel.

Her foolish actions had drawn her straight to the nearest tavern. She had a small amount of coin -- plenty for room and board, as fate would have it -- but the company was less than pleasant. It was dangerous for a woman to travel alone; unfathomable, even, so she supposed that was why some cur deigned to speak as though they were acquaintances.

"Now what's a pretty thing like you doing with jewels like that in a place like this?"

Her eyes cut toward him in warning, the corner of her mouth barely able to resist from curling in disdain. "My business is none of yours," she coolly replied. "If you are truly so concerned about jewels, sir, perhaps you should protect your own before you find my foot tromping upon your pillock."

Tempted to take her ale and move to another table, Clara grudgingly realized that the other occupants were far greasier, far more slovenly, so with a barely disguised huff, she took another swallow of the watered down beverage and scooched her chair farther to the right.

@curseconsumed

"Much obliged, ma'am," Bonnet only dares to speak in hushed tones, eyes flickering from the tavern door to the furthest-most table where he can make out the edge of Newgrave's tricorn. It'd been a simple accord at the cards table in sight of everyone, though he couldn't understand why it was so outrageous, his stealing the ring from the pot in the middle and none the wiser until he was half down the main road.

He'd been dealt a shit hand, and he believed it to be as much the dealer's fault rather than fate's.

Tapping a finger impatiently on the mug he's stolen from his faux company, he tilts his head, taking in his unwitting accomplice's appearance, and that's when he sees the earring, the necklace, each new flash of gold what catches his eyes rather than the woman's appearance.

He nearly laughs, wondering if this was fate's plan all along.

"Now what's a pretty thing like you doing with jewels like that in a place like this?" He lifts the stolen drink to his lips.

[curseconsumed]

"I suppose there is merit to striking the fear of God into people," Clara agreed, "but truly, how can the evils ever stop if we persist in enacting them ourselves?" Here, she trained her eyes upon Caleb's face, her chin tense and her eyes sharp. "Don't get me wrong, Major: I have absolutely no love for rebels -- none -- but if we punish them, will they not keep striking back? How many must die before we know peace?"

She could go on, but held her tongue, knowing how most men did not wish to hear, nor care for a woman's conjecture on a man's war. Still, Clara found she had quite a few opinions on the conflict -- most of which became far more negative by the day.

Mercifully, Caleb's gaze remained impish and warm, so it was easy for her frosty demeanor to melt again. A small smile pulled at her lips and she shrugged. "Rules are more of advisements...little guidelines, if you will. So long as I follow the Ten Commandments, I see no true reason to worry." Leaning toward him, she coyly whispered, "I have never, ever killed anyone, for instance, so I'd say I'm off to a fabulous start."

"I'm not always too keen on the rules, myself," Caleb allowed. "What would life be without a little bit of rebellion?"

Catherine gasped at his words, cooling herself a bit more spiritedly with her paper fan. "Oh, I wish you both would quit speaking of the rebellion," she bemoaned. "It surely isn't something to make light of!"

Clara sighed. "He is a soldier in His Majesty's Finest, Kitty. How can he not speak of the rebellion? I imagine it consumes his very soul."

"And we shall pray for your soul, sir," Catherine agreed, still appearing quite unnerved. "My fear is that such fixations will bring about God's wrath. Should we not be striving for peace? Surely, the King and the rebels alike will see reason?"

"Hush now," Clara dismissed. "This is a night of celebration, not your maudlin despair."

Caleb, too, seemed far more willing to engage with the idea of a good gamble, so her simper returned and she idly held her wine between her fingers. He accepted her offer -- good man -- before Clara held out her hand and lightly tucked it into his elbow. "Come along then," she cooed. "Major Markham will absolutely delight in robbing you of a shiny new shilling or two."

Leading Caleb over to the swarthy gentleman spiritedly engaging his group of friends in a bawdy tale, he only halted once he realized they had company on their heels.

"Ah, Miss Boyd!" he crowed, his eyes crinkling warmly around the edges. "Already back for more, are you?"

"I won our last game of whist, as you'll recall," Clara reminded him, a pleased smirk lifting the corner of her mouth. "But if you can keep your greed in place for one moment, I'd like you to meet my new friend." Here, she inclined her head toward Caleb. "Major Adam Markham, this is Captain Caleb Baker. I don't believe you're from the same regiment?"

"Why, no," Adam replied, extending his hand with a grin, "I don't believe we are. Major Markham, of His Majesty's 17th Regiment of Foot, at your service." He winked. "Are you a cards man, Captain Baker?"

Caleb watched her face twist just slightly at her mention of rebel disturbances, though she quickly took a sip of her drink and schooled her expression back to neutrality. She spoke of the safety of being on their own land, and he had to wonder truly how close the war had ever gotten to their doorstep.

"My apologies that you've had to witness such disturbances," he said out loud, genuinely feeling a bit put out that a young woman of high status did have to see such a thing. "We do our best to keep them in check, and unfortunately sometimes a public example is believed by some to be the best way to do so."

He raised his eyebrows just slightly, smile growing once again. "You've always known just what you wanted then, hm?" he teased quietly. "Never one to let some rules or decorum get in the way, I see." Caleb paused for a long moment, watching as her smile grew slightly more pinched before smoothing back out. "I believe I could handle you just fine, Miss Clara," he finally continued, trying to match her tone. "I'm not always too keen on the rules, myself. After all, what fun would life be without a little bit of rebellion?"

The look he gave her in return was somewhere between teasing and a challenge; he always liked his acquaintances to have a little bit of fire in them, and part of him wanted to see just how far this woman could push things. Truthfully, as dangerous as the game was, Caleb also found himself wondering just how far he could push things until she grew too sick of indulging him. Hopefully, the answer was much, much further.

He pointedly glanced away from Catherine, seeing the way she shrunk in shyness under his gaze, but nodded politely at her explanation. "I hear Philadelphia is quite the place to be if one cannot find themselves in York City," he commented easily. "Though I regret I was unable to make her acquaintance on this night. If she's anything like either of you, I'm sure she's wonderful."

His eyes shifted back to Clara as she spoke, and he caught just a hint of teeth in her smile. She was clearly avoiding his question, and though he was well aware of that fact, he chose not to pry any further. "I'm sure your talents are far better than you think, but I understand the desire to find entertainment where one can," he agreed. "And the thrill of winning a good game - or several - can be nearly unmatched, as I'm sure you know."

Caleb considered her proposal for a long moment, his eyes once again finding the major at the other end of the room. He was doing pretty well already, anything to get him more information would be helpful, and if things went sideways, Caleb was pretty confident that he could get himself out and back to Connecticut without too much extra trouble. Eventually, he made up his mind, straightening his spine and pressing his shoulders back to more closely imitate the overly proper officers all around him. With a soft incline of his head, Caleb politely offered his arm to Clara. "In that case, my good lady," he responded quietly. "Please do lead the way."

[curseconsumed]

"In Father's mind, 'reputation and sense' are one and the same," Clara coolly replied. She watched the man -- or Ian Fleming, as he'd introduced himself -- light his pipe with the relaxed, unhurried demeanor that reflected so many of her father's acquaintances. It was as if they all believed themselves untouchable.

Barely masking an eyeroll, she turned her head and took a swallow of madeira. She only looked Fleming's way again when he spoke of writing an article. Bristling, she demanded, "Odd how? If you're asking me to spill all of my family's deep, dark secrets, I am afraid you're not nearly charming enough, sir, and I'm not nearly the proper amount of foxed."

Wiggling her half-empty wine glass to prove her point, Clara finally flashed a lopsided smirk.

"What was your question again?"

"I asked what your business is here, Mr. Fleming," she replied. "If you scarcely remember interviewing my father, and he likely won't recall you, how is it you managed to weasel your way onto our guest list?"

@curseconsumed

"Yes, I'm beginning to notice your father cares more for reputation than sense," Ian says this in an absentminded tone, focused more on stuffing tobacco into his pipe than giving Miss Boyd his full attention.

Thumb jammed into the tobacco chamber, he smirks, "I wrote an article about him, you know... before the w.ar, of course. I don't think he remembers. Lord, I hardly remember. Had to do with a court settlement. Odd business. Though, I suppose that sort of oddity is quite normal around here."

He pauses long enough to light his pipe, tossing the scrap kindling into the flames of the hearth.

Sucking in the first inhale of smoke, he exhales with a frown, "What was your question again?"

[curseconsumed]

"Fair enough," Clara agreed, waving her hand. "We're rather fortunate, being out here beyond rebel influence. I've witnessed the occasional disturbance, of course -- in particular, a flogging -- but that was in the square. Being out on our own land certainly has its merits."

Scrappy was putting it lightly. The rebels had done heinous damage to civilians and businesses alike, and with a shudder, she drew her wine glass back to her lips, recalling tales of tarring and feathering, and far worse.

It wasn't until Caleb spoke of a challenge that she looked at him again, her green eyes flashing with mischief. "I've been known to dabble here and there," she agreed. "When I was eleven, I broke my arm confiscating my horse from the barn after everyone had retired for the night. I suppose there's always been a bit of a rebellious streak in me...otherwise, one tends to get swallowed up by all the noise." And forgotten. Choosing not to speak this part aloud, she forced a smile and shrugged, allowing the thought to roll off her shoulders. "If you don't think you can handle me, Captain, then I needn't disturb you."

Swatting at Clara with her fan, Catherine flushed once all eyes drifted to her, and then she bowed her head, seeming to not have realized that her warning would be visible. "Apologies," she mumbled. "But yes, Captain...our sister, Charlotte, is in Philadelphia. Clara doesn't hate hosting, she's just...she likes to talk."

"Well, one of us should," Clara fired back, though without any true malice. Looking back to Caleb, she flashed a grin with a hint of teeth -- a true faux pas -- before she waved her fan a bit more spiritedly. "Is it truly so unbecoming for a lady to know how to play cards, Captain? I'm dreadful at the pianoforte, and my singing voice isn't much better, so I had to entertain myself somehow beyond my average embroidery skill-set."

That wasn't entirely what Caleb had asked -- he wished to know how she knew of Adam's gambling habits -- but with every bit as outrageous as she could be, she could be equally coy and withdrawn, if the situation called for it.

"It's hardly an inconvenience," she said whenever prompted. "In fact, I daresay you'll be saving Major Markham, too, what with all those simpering sycophants preening at his side. Come along..." Here, she crooked a finger. "I'll introduce you."

"I don't think it would have much of an impact, no, but I do think it would be quite the irritant, if nothing else," Caleb confirmed with a slight wave of his hand, corners of his mouth drawn up in a teasing smile in return. "I assure you, I am well aware of what a scrappy force like theirs can be capable of if they put their mind to it. It is why our King's troops find ourselves here in the first place."

It took genuine effort for Caleb to hold back the depth of his actual personal feelings, for the sake of playing a convincing Redcoat. As much as he wasn't always one for playing by the rules of the army, there was no denying that Washington's forces had far more power than most of the British gave them credit for. Clara, it seemed, had a more favorable understanding of Continental power than most in her position, and Caleb found his interest piqued even higher. Despite the hint of disdain in her voice when she spoke of rebels, he wondered for just a brief moment if perhaps their man in New York could be a woman instead.

He laughed softly at her offer, a bit taken by her sheer confidence and the pointed look she gave him up and down. "I fear I'd find a way to make a fool of us both, even with your expert teaching," he explained, just barely emphasizing the flattery. "And I could hardly bear to do such a thing to a lady in her own home. Though, I suppose if you wish for a challenge..."

He was stepping a little too far into dangerous waters - really, he was not graceful enough for those fancy British dances - but he'd always been one to throw caution to the wind. The friendlier he could get with loyalists, the more information he was likely to hear, and then perhaps this trip to the city wouldn't be for nought. (Damn Woody, refusing to let Caleb break him out of jail...)

Caleb raised an eyebrow at Clara's comment about her mother. Catherine seemed to want to quiet her before she said it, but Clara pushed on regardless. Most wouldn't be so forthcoming in admitting the downfalls of their family, and once again Caleb had to wonder at this woman's motivations.

"And since your eldest sister is away, I presume that puts you in the position of power, as it were?" he said out loud. "I confess, I imagine the daughter of the host has a certain sway with her guests that none else can quite match, especially not an officer in an all-too-common position. Though I suppose if you hate it so, I could certainly try my hand."

Her offer had been a tease, that much was certain, but who was Caleb if not someone that thrived on teasing? His smile grew, and he could practically feel the hint of a taunting sparkle in his eye. For just a moment, he glanced over to Catherine to see what she thought, and found the woman looking at the floor like she was praying for the ground to open up and swallow her away from the shame.

Caleb's eyes found Clara once more as she agreed to pointing out the major, and he leaned forward just slightly to follow her gaze across the room. Almost immediately, he could tell who she was talking about; in the far corner stood a man in a coat of rich officer's red, one hand on his sword, the other holding a small glass of drink.

"Threatened?" he asked, his tone light with mirth. "Am I supposed to be threatened by such words?" Though he wouldn't say it, her description wasn't incorrect; the major was a striking figure that certainly stood out in the sea of British officers. Even from a distance, Caleb could see the smile on his face that told him this man was powerful and knew it. "Dare I ask how a lady knows about the major's gambling habits?" he joked, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

Straightening back up, Caleb considered his options. On one hand, meeting someone higher up in the army could get his bluff called. But on the other, he was doing a pretty convincing job already, and he was curious about the roles of everyone here. "I'd hate to inconvenience you," he finally landed on saying, trying to turn the decision slightly away from himself. "Yet I fear denying such a kind offer would be far more impolite."

[curseconsumed]

Clara arched a brow, a soft, unladylike snort catching in her throat. "Truly?" she asked. "You honestly think that will work? Granted, yes, words do hold a sort of power -- if I were to tell Private Tilghman to jump, he would likely careen himself into those bushes beyond the terrace -- but that doesn't mean a bunch of rebels will cave simply because we, ourselves, are saying such a silly phrase." She simpered. "With all due respect, Captain, I think you vastly underestimate them. The defensive parties are always the ones with little to lose."

Caleb spoke of lacking grace, and with a smirk, Clara unabashedly appraised him from head to foot. "Oh, I don't know," she crooned. "I've been told I'm an excellent teacher, should you be in the mood for a lesson. And if all else fails, you could always dance with Catherine."

The blonde in question squeaked, her shoulders ducking once all eyes fell on her. "Oh, I don't know," she lamented. "I have scarcely practiced!"

"Then that puts you two in perfect company," Clara fired back. "But very well. Be a bore."

Despite Caleb's comment about "entertainment" being wholly innocent, Clara bit her lip to fight off a smirk. "Yes, so I've been told," she allowed. "Though in terms of 'foisting,' I am afraid I cannot...Mother is far too drunk these days -- Kitty, do not look at me like that -- so alas, the duty falls upon my shoulders. Unless you are offering, of course?"

The remark was made in jest, but Clara always enjoyed seeing to what lengths the male species would lie, if they believed such a fib would earn them into her good graces.

Caleb, however, didn't seem intent on flirting, so much as climbing the social ladder. And who could blame him? Major Adam Markham was a fine officer, and would likely grease the wheels for a promotion.

"Oh, certainly," Clara agreed, her eyes glittering as she glanced over her shoulder. "See that handsome gentleman over there with the dark hair, and fine eyes of ebony fire? Unless, of course, you feel threatened by my usage of such complimentary words?" Ignoring Catherine's warning nudge of embarrassment, the redhead continued, "That's Major Adam Markham. He is by far the most interesting of the officers here -- not to mention, the youngest -- and he's always eager to gamble, should you play your cards right...no pun intended." Her eyes gleamed. "I could introduce you, if you'd like? And perhaps to Father, as well? He may be an eel, but he is an eel with connections."

Well, he'd certainly become quite talented at putting his foot in his mouth, and very nearly choked himself a little more by arguing that they rarely actually said that, thank you very much. Managing to stop himself before he said anything extra stupid, Caleb instead amended his reaction to a smile at her clear jest. "But what sort of force would we be if we allowed them to take over some simple words?" He teased back. "The power in their language stems from us, I dare say we speak their slogans and steal that power back."

It put an almost sour taste in the back of his throat to say such things about his own side, but he did put himself in that situation by stealing a damn officer's uniform. After Catherine and her sister--Clara, she'd finally introduced--had each taken a glass from him, Caleb reached to the side to grab another glass of wine for himself, taking a swallow to wash the taste of the roundabout insults out of his mouth. He listened politely while Clara mentioned a third sister, and couldn't help but wonder what she must be like; the two in front of him now were so markedly different, it seemed almost impossible they could be related.

"I'd offer a dance, but I fear I am not nearly graceful enough on my feet," he added, apologetic. "Even with practice, I have never been able to get the hang of the steps. No one deserves to be across from me as I try, least of all either of you."

It was a half-truth; while he'd learned a few steps when he was younger, he never spent all that much time practicing. Dancing wasn't something a whaleboat sailor ever needed, but part of Caleb regretted not paying more attention during his previous instruction. It seemed like every damn officer in the British army knew how to dance, and being called on to do the same would surely get him caught.

He was grateful for the distraction of listening to Clara lament about the duties of hosting. It was her father's party, yes, but Caleb wasn't blind to the fact that responsibilities fell to the daughters, as well. And, despite her disdain for the job, Clara seemed to be the one most suited to do it. He stole a glance to Catherine, who was pointedly avoiding making eye contact with him, and noted the flush she wore high on her cheeks. She hadn't said so much as a word to him since he arrived, even leaving her introduction up to her sister.

"You seem to be quite good at the entertaining part, if I may say so," he said out loud to Clara. "A sharp wit is certainly beneficial to keeping the evening interesting. Perhaps you simply need to find someone else to foist those more tedious duties onto, hm? After all, it's a shame that one woman is expected to do all the work."

He couldn't help but smile at her comment, letting out a slight laugh at the joke about dexterity. She had very obviously avoided confirming or denying his observation, but the clever way she talked around it and wove in a double meaning or two told him that he was right on the money. "Call it a lucky guess, I suppose," he answered. "I can't say I've met the major, no. I haven't been in the city all that long, so my acquaintances are slim, to say the least. Though I appreciate knowing not to challenge anyone to a game without thoroughly learning their character first." His eyes sparkled with mirth, and he found himself surprised by how much he actually was enjoying himself, all of a sudden. It seemed just his luck that he'd quite literally run into the one person near as sarcastic as him. "Even a gentleman, exaggerator or not, often has a few tricks up his sleeve," he agreed. "Would you be kind enough to point him out to me, if he's around? I can introduce myself on my own time, but I'd like to know who I'm looking for, at least."

[curseconsumed]

"Tread upon me?" Clara echoed, an amused gleam shining in her green eyes. "My, my. I certainly hope you don't talk like rebels around your superior officers -- because correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't 'don't tread on me' a bit of an incendiary phrasing?"

She simpered, if only to show her jest. She by no means cared about politics, nor the war as a large -- it was all a foolish endeavor, as far as she was concerned -- but this man was (unintentionally?) amusing, and she was in desperate need of a worthy distraction.

Snorting at his apology, she spared Catherine a sidelong glance, noting how the blonde seemed rather rapt. Her sister was far more easily swayed by the prestige of officers than she was, and would likely swoon if she knew what these men truly got up to on the battlefield. Catherine could scarcely see her own blood spilt, so how could she possibly hope to engage in conversation with soldiers?

The man finally introduced himself -- a Captain Caleb Baker -- and as if on cue, both Clara and her sister dipped into a practiced curtsy. At this point, it felt like her bloody knees were always hinged.

"A pleasure, Captain," Clara purred, only for her eyes to light up in realization. "Oh! Well, how silly of me," she said, waving her fan beneath her chin. She inclined her head. "Clara Boyd, sir -- though I suppose the surname was obvious. Our other sister, Charlotte, is tragically in Philadelphia on this night. Were she here, perhaps we'd at the very least be dancing. Father cannot resist letting her do as she pleases."

While Caleb handed them each a wine glass, Clara tried not to smirk at his comment. Yes. He most certainly was "out of his element," and a part of her wondered if he was like this in general, or merely awkward around womenfolk. Everything he said was so practiced and cautious, and were she to blow on him, she wondered if he might topple over.

Glancing toward Catherine, who was still far too shy to speak, Clara hummed before looking back to the captain. "When a woman's primary duty is to host, it's nothing but a chore, yes? I enjoy a nice gathering as much as the next sort, but I'm afraid I don't have the temperament for selecting menus, minding the farmhands, and overseeing every godforsaken knife, fork, and knob getting polished."

Upon hearing Caleb's whispered assessment, Clara laughed, her eyes crinkling in amusement. "Now who told you that?" she asked, an impish flutter overcoming her lashes. "Were you speaking with Major Adam Markham, by chance? He is a gentleman, but he also exaggerates. Though if you wish to get on his good side, being dexterous is key." With a smirk, she clarified, "At whist, of course. Are you acquainted with the major?"

Caleb never really bothered himself with matters of propriety, and was usually the first one to toss out a flirt or compliment, yet he still felt heat rise to his face at her comment about feeling along her bodice. No, nope, that is not what he was here for, and like hell he was going to let an offhanded barb get into his head.

"I am glad to know I didn't unintentionally tread upon you," he agreed politely. "I don't know if I could forgive myself for injuring such a fine young woman, least of all the daughter of our host."

Caleb felt his heart skip a beat or two when she asked for his rank. Shite. He hadn't paid attention to whose uniform he'd snatched! He glanced down at himself for just a brief moment as he tried to come up with an answer, and hoped this woman was telling the truth about not knowing symbols of rank.

"Captain Caleb Baker, at your service," he fibbed, once again inclining himself slightly in a bow. "It is a pleasure to meet you both, Miss Catherine and Miss...?"

He trailed off, waiting politely for the woman's introduction, but couldn't bite back a smile at her next comment. "I assure you, I do not make it my intention to snatch such a role from under you. I am merely... a bit out of my element," he said as he turned to grab two wine glasses off the serving tray. His fingers careful on the stems, he offered one politely to each woman, waiting for them to take one if they so chose. And, since it was there, Caleb was already thinking about grabbing one for himself. He was a man that could hold his booze; all a glass of wine or two could do to him right now was make the evening just a little more bearable.

"I do hope you are enjoying yourself, at least to an extent," he said, and the genuine tone in Caleb's voice surprised even himself. "It seems a shame for such an event to be nothing but a chore. Though I suppose being of the hosting family carries a certain set of responsibilities the rest of us are not privy to, does it not?"

Caleb thought for a moment longer, letting himself consider the woman in front of him. Host's daughter, yes, but she already seemed to show a certain disdain for the role. He didn't expect that talking to a civilian would get him any super important information, but he also wasn't here under any specific orders, and perhaps if she was already willing to complain...

Caleb dropped his voice lower, until it was a murmur that only she could hear over the crowd. "... Though something tells me you care not for such rules."

[curseconsumed]

In upper Manhattan, the Boyd family lived in a manor with lush, abundant land, and resources that stretched on for miles. Despite many homes being used for billeting soldiers, the Boyds had been spared of this inconvenience due to their close ties with British officers, and Major David Mathews, himself.

Presently, the Boyds were hosting a party for every man and woman worthy of note – loyalists and British soldiers only, of course – and Clara stood along the outskirts with her sister, Catherine, trying not to roll her eyes with each cloying attempt at flirtation. After the latest sod walked off, Clara’s head dropped back in disgust. “Fie, this is so tiresome!” she complained. “There isn’t a single gentleman under 30 within breathing distance, and all that drab, melancholic stringed music is making me want to pack my own ears with sand.”

Catherine winced. “It isn't so bad…”

“What isn’t? The music, or the tragic lack of young, interesting, not to mention, handsome men?”

Catherine rose on tiptoe, attempting to peer around the milling guests. Finally, she grinned and inclined her blonde head toward a nearby victim. “What about him?”

Clara turned along with the gesture, frowning. “Oh, that’s just Jonathan Smythe,” she said, dismissive. “I don’t count him since he sprays when he talks. Handsome he may be, but cleanly he is not.”

Catherine pouted. "Well, you didn't say there had to be all this additional criteria! How was I supposed to know?"

Clara moved to reply, but that was when an officer bumped right into her, and quite forwardly grabbed hold of her shoulders. It was only when their eyes locked that he finally dropped his hands, lifting them aloft as if he'd been burned.

The redcoat began spluttering his apologies, and unbidden, Clara barely disguised an unladylike snort. "You mean, you weren't intending to feel along my bodice? Why, the evening just continues to disappoint!"

Her lips quirked into a simper, and despite the jest in her tone, she was trying to mask the fact she was poking fun at him. Soldiers and civilians alike tended to fawn over her family, and it got so bloody tiresome. Why shouldn't she have a bit of fun?

"Trouble?" she echoed, mulling it over. "Well, I seem to have escaped the stampede of your boots against my toes, so that's one accomplishment you can wave about, dear sir." She searched his uniform with interest. "I apologize, but I'm afraid I do not yet recognize symbols of rank. Are you a captain? A major, perhaps?"

Catherine cleared her throat, shyly twisting her hands as she tried to shuffle forward.

"Oh..." Clara gestured to her right. "This is my sister, Catherine -- or Kitty, if you play your cards right." When the girl flushed, the redhead continued on, “Since you’re standing there like a guarding sentinel, would you pass me one of those flutes of wine, please?” Lowering her voice further still, she added, “And perhaps you could also act as though you are enjoying my father’s party? I’m afraid it’s my job to be the ingrate, and no one else’s. I’ll be rather sore if you steal that honor from me.”

@curseconsumed

Caleb had barely been at the party for an hour before he had to sneak off to scratch under that damned wig. It was just about the most uncomfortable thing he'd ever worn, he didn't know how the Brits could handle it every day. Not to mention his face felt weird without his beard, and the uniform wasn't quite his size so it pinched in some places and pulled in others, all on top of the fact that he decidedly did not belong here.

Unfortunately, a fancy Redcoat party just wasn't something he could pass up when he was already in New York with the uniform. The information he could get just by existing here could bring the war to a swift end. And wasn't that everyone's goal?

After a few minutes spent adjusting his clothes to make them bearable, Caleb decided he'd better rejoin the party, perhaps actually do the job he came here to do. With a bracing breath, Caleb left the closet he'd hidden himself away in, quickly turning the corner back towards the foyer.

... And he promptly ran directly into a young woman standing off to the side. Shite. So much for keeping a low profile.

Instinctively, he reached out his hands to grab her shoulders, hoping to steady her, before belatedly realizing that perhaps that wasn't appropriate. He took only a second to make certain she was standing straight before dropping his arms and crossing them behind him, hoping to keep them out of any further trouble. Now, it was time to lay on the charm and not make any more of a scene.

"My deepest apologies, Miss," he said with a small bow, forcing his voice into the light tone of that dumb posh accent. "I should have been much more careful with where I was headed. I do hope I haven't caused you too much trouble with my clumsiness."

[curseconsumed]

Pride & Prejuice & Zombies

Lily James and Bella Heathcote

[curseconsumed]

[curseconsumed]

"i didn’t need your help." from river to one of your ladies *snorts* it can be a historical or modern verse. dealer's choice.

@retrograderesemblance

"Indeed?" An unimpressed smile tipped the corner of Clara's mouth. "Well, if that's truly the case, then I suppose I should get Harrelson to turn this vessel around. Perhaps we can even fetch those soldiers who were clearly tailing you? Because if you don't need my help, I'll more than happily bring you back to the dire straits you were in before careening like a ninny into the side of my carriage."

She lifted her paper fan from her lap, idly wafting a breeze beneath her chin. With a hum, she said, "I think you should be nice to me, Mr...River, was it? You're not only astonishingly bad at lying, but you seem to be a bit lacking in the cranial department."

[curseconsumed]

Katrina's eagerness was admittedly befuddling. In his experience, women tended to swoon or grow squeamish at the slightest bit of blood, so the near joy she expressed was almost enough to make Jacob smile.

Almost.

"I can allow anything I wish," he reassured, "and I see no harm in having a participant observer. Although I don't usually need a hand, these gangrenous patients can be a bit much with their jostling about and wailing."

Curious, he appraised her again, his dark eyes far more probing this time. "I suppose the proper question is, would your father allow it? I don't imagine I can keep this secret for long, lest we train in neighboring townships."

Across from them, raucous laughter erupted as one of the guests tripped and fell headfirst into a refreshments table. Resisting (and then failing) the urge to roll his eyes, Jacob held out a hand and encouraged, "Come. We might as well take our leave while these bumpkins are otherwise detained -- begging your pardon, of course. And along the way, perhaps you can tell me about your area of expertise. A girl with such morbid interests has surely done her fair share of reading."

She listened to him as though spellbound. Katrina was ever involved in things that most people would frown over but she could never do it openly. She knew that. She didn't want to bring shame to her father's name. If she did that, then they could potentially lose everything. She would not allow that to happen, not when so much was possibly at stake.

So to hear this man speak to her as though she were on the same level as him was one thing that she was grateful for. So many treated her like she was simply a dimwitted girl. That was the most offensive thing about the society that she lived in. She had hoped to find like minded people. She was glad that she seemed to have done just that by chance, here at a party.

"You would actually allow that?" She questioned happily, a smile across her lips as she looked between his eyes. She wanted to make sure that there wasn't anything amused in his gaze, that he wasn't making fun. When she noted that he wasn't doing that at all, she nodded her head somewhat excitedly. "I would love to do that. I could make a devoted nurse-in-training."