ofcavendish-blog

[ofcavendish-blog]

mr. NICHOLAS AUDLEY

“Likewise.” Nicholas nodded. “She means well.” His sister always did what she thought was right, and Nicholas loved her for it. “Very much so! But truly, she isn’t causing too much trouble?” She was an adult - he would have to stop worrying about her one day. “She has only good things to say about your family.” He mentioned with a slight smile. “It made me quite curious to see if you would live up to expectations.”

“I wouldn’t venture so far as to call it trouble...” George answered earnestly. Margret wasn’t much good at her chores and often seemed to muck them up, but she did try. He could give her credit for that, at least. Hell, her effort and kindness were the reason that the family had hesitated in firing her for so many years.

“Is that so?” George asked, unable to help his own curiosity. The Cavendish family was Margret’s employer, and it seemed rather surprising that she might have such glowing things to say about them. He’d assumed that people always hated their bosses, he’d read enough novels that followed such a plot line. And, what’s more surprising still, was that he and Margret often argued with one another. “I assure you, sir, we do not,” he mused. Or, at least, he did not live up to such expectations. George shook his head slightly. “I suppose I hadn’t realized the depth of Margret’s dedication. I am certain that we... or, rather, I can be difficult at times.” All the time, but he didn’t see it fit to add that bit in here.

[ofcavendish-blog]

ms. MARGRET AUDLEY

Hands raised as fingers brushed dutifully across stained cheeks, acting to brush aside her tears. The duke didn’t need to endure her hurt, especially while on such public display. Especially since she was his servant, just a maid far beneath his station. Yet his words were laced with the slightest bit of an undertone, one which may even be mistaken for concern. “An old friend returned from the war,” She begins, the story slipping liberally from her lips. “–a friend I once believed I loved, actually.” It was so personal, an intimate retelling yet she allowed it to come forth as she started towards the horizon. At least within the trees and the gardens, she could pretend the two were just simple people, discussing something as mundane as the weather. “I thought he was dead, after all, he’d stopped responding during the war. But it seems he wasn’t, and it had just been a preference to cease correspondence.” A sad smile tugged the corners of her lips upward as she finally drew her gaze towards the man, truly looking at him. “Such a foolish girl, am I not?” 

Shaking her head, Margret tried to physically loosen the memories as she finished. “Perhaps I should’ve known better since the war did not just seek to take lives, but part of us it seems.” A heavier truth could not be stated as the woman reflected on the men and woman she’d seen returning to their town. Their lives in shambles in more ways than one, leaving everyone to work to pick up the pieces. “It changed you as well, didn’t it?” It was a particular question, one best delivered by those close to the Duke, but here and now the superficial walls usually separately them seemed to have come down. Giving way to a season of unknown territory. “I can see it in your eyes, it aged you somehow and you’ve left part of yourself back there.” 

George quietly considered all that Margret had disclosed to him. An old friend certainly wouldn’t make her cry like this, but an old lover...? It wasn’t fair, he knew that, but he’d never taken a moment to consider exactly who she was. Who she really was when she took her apron off. What sort of woman had he allowed into his company? In the time since he had come home, Margret had been a fixture in his life, one that he’d come to rely upon, and he’d seen her as little more than a caretaker. Now, perhaps for the first time, he was curious about her beyond her responsibilities in the Cavendish manor. 

“Everyone is a fool in love.” He replied plainly. “Perhaps the world would be a bit less silly of people didn’t lose their wit once hit with Cupid’s arrow.” George had believed the sentiment from the time that he was old enough to understand love. He’d seen Charles make a blunder, and many of his friends choose someone beneath them, because they had been so deeply in love. Some, to his surprise, had never come to regret it. Yes, love was a common thread in humanity, and it seemed to make everyone lose their damn minds. “It is his misfortune, after all...” We were not all so fortunate as to have someone to write home to. Someone that we loved... Sure, he’d had his family, but not a girl. Books, learning, history would write George no love notes. His time abroad was lonely, isolated, and made him wonder if he’d lived his life all wrong. 

It was not often that George let go of his stoic demeanor, but here, he felt his expression fall slightly. In the months since he’d arrived home, he’d been much quieter and less curious about the world around him. Now, at last, he’d lived the wars and politics and history that he’d read about, and he found that he hated it all. And language? He’d heard people cry out in every language he’d learned, not kind phrases but those of anguish and fear and misery. Yes, she was right, he had changed. George’s gaze fell, his posture tightening, and he shook his head faintly. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,” he lied. Oh, and a lie it was. He’d lost himself, whoever he’d been, had died when he’d first felt the whizz of bullets by his ears. Gone was the good humored gentleman that he’d been raised to be.

[ofcavendish-blog]

mr. EDWARD HEATHCOATE-WILLOUGHBY

It wasn’t as if he had forgotten his life before the war. The things he had got up to, some of which is father could have just kicked him out there and then for. But he just hadn’t cared back then, he hadn’t thought anything could touch him. Now he knew better, now he knew what pain really was. Yet how could he even complain? Most men here had been soldiers fighting for their country, he couldn’t even claim that given how quickly he had been captured. If anything he had been helping Germany given that’s what they used them for, and how was he meant to look anyone in the eye knowing that. “A few days ago” he replied, the words feeling heavy. How different it was from when he used to just talk freely. “Surprised everyone”.

The man that George remembered was vivacious and reckless. Edward had been a personality that could not possibly ignored, and George had thoroughly enjoyed him back in the day. It was clear now, however, that they had both changed. George had sustained injuries and had drawn inward. He was no longer the curious scholar, the well-mannered aristocrat, but a wounded and bitter ex-soldier. And Edward? George hadn’t the slightest idea what the other man had been through, what he had experienced in his time away, but he could tell that this man was not the one he’d once known. “Welcome home,” George replied with the faintest of smiles. “It will take some adjusting to, but...” George couldn’t offer advice, in truth. He hadn’t managed to come home, not fully, not emotionally. “It will become easier.” Slowly, painfully, with great effort, it would become easier. 

[ofcavendish-blog]

ms. MARGRET AUDLEY

Trembling hands wiped at the traitorous tears streaking patterns down her cheeks, acting to compose herself as she moved about the trees. It was a lovely day, the sun granting warmth to the gardens, yet Margret couldn’t find it in her heart to recognize any of it. Instead, her impassioned state necessitated her attention, as she sank to her knees, a pitiful sob emerging parted lips. Nonetheless, a visitor announced themselves just moments later, with branches breaking underfoot and her gaze darted up. “Hello?” 

It took just instants for him to appear, and wordlessly she cursed herself for kneeling into the dirt, the hem of her dress discolored now. “Your Grace, I’m sorry.” Previously bent down, she bowed her head as she tried composing her discouraged state. “I assumed I was alone, I hadn’t meant to disturb you.” There was no usual witticism or irony to her tone as she addressed him, instead, she simply did as expected.

He had expected an animal, or perhaps an overzealous gardener, but not Margret. Her work did not often take her outside of the manor, and he was unaccustomed to seeing her outside. Hell, he’d certainly never seen her cry. As brutal as he’d been at times, as difficult as his temper could be post-war, she’d alway seemed impregnable. “... Good afternoon,” he greeted her a bit awkwardly. In truth, George hadn’t the slightest idea what he was to say to her in this circumstance. Was he to comfort her or to leave her be? 

Stranger still was the way that she apologized without the slightest hint of fire in her tone. 

Something was truly amiss. George squinted slightly, trying to gain a better purchase on the situation, and slowly he took another step toward her. Something rose in his gut, protectiveness perhaps, and he found himself wondering just what had happened to upset her so greatly. “You needn’t apologize.” Or perhaps she should be. George was not meant to deal with servants’ issues, after all. Such was not his post. Still, that protective feeling tugged at him and he found himself speaking without thought. “What is the matter?” He asked, straining to try to get a better look at her. George dared not step closer for fear that she would lash out or spook. “Are you alright?” And there, in his tone, was a hint of concern. 

[ofcavendish-blog]

mr. EDWARD HEATHCOATE-WILLOUGHBY

Edward closed his eyes for a moment, realising that a headache was fast approaching and wanting to get off the street. There was an alley close by he slipped into for a moment, trying to breath and calm his mind down. This was real, this was all real and he needed to somehow remember that. Yet there still remained a part of him convinced this was some illness and he was hallucinating this life. He needed to get water, or just… something to drink of some sort. Pushing himself back off the wall he walked out and almost straight into “George?” 

Ghosts were real, after all. For a long moment, George eyed the man standing before him, trying to decide whether this specter was truly the person that he’d once known. “Edward?” He could scarcely believe his eyes. In truth, he’d thought that the other man had died, that the war had swallowed him up just as it had so many other officers. “Well, I’ll be...” a faint smile appeared upon his lips. He hadn’t dared to hope that all of his friends might come home, that they would be as fortunate as he had, but it seemed that he’d been luckier than he could have imagined... Though, it appeared that Edward was not entirely himself. Something about him seemed off, as though he was ill. “Have you arrived home recently?” George asked, studying him cautiously. He remembered what it was to be newly home, to still have war in his lungs and his mind and his heart. It had been a hard habit to break, one that he had not yet mastered.

[ofcavendish-blog]

[ofcavendish-blog]

ms. MARGRET AUDLEY

The vast gardens of the Cavendish estate were a marvel. Even now, in late November, there were still handsome trees to behold and hedges that were neatly trimmed that they appeared as though he could dine on them. In truth, George had never much cared for the landscaping of the manor prior to his leaving. There were so many other things to learn and conversations to be had, but he’d come to enjoy the solitude of this place. It was so sweeping and large that he was rarely found here by anyone that he wished to avoid. 

As he walked, however, there came a sound. Footsteps and a strange choked sound that caused him to turn and come to attention. His military training kicking in, trying to find where exactly the trouble had originated. 

@margretaudley

[ofcavendish-blog]

mr. NICHOLAS AUDLEY

“We haven’t, no.” Nicholas agreed, holding his hand out. “Nicholas Audley, sir. My sister Margret is under your employ as a maid.” He offered George a small smile. “I hope she hasn’t been causing you too much trouble. I think like all brothers, I found her to be a bit of a handful when we were growing up, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone more dedicated than Maggie.” 

George couldn’t help but feel a bit taken aback. He had known Margret since she’d begun to work for the Cavendish family prior to the war, and had come to think of her as little more than a household fixture in recent months. Of course she had a family, but he’d never anticipated meeting them. He hadn’t really ever wanted to meet them. Had he even known that she had a brother? “It is my pleasure, sir.” He replied with a little dip of his head. This man seemed too well mannered to be related to Margret. “She... certainly is dedicated to her work.” Though he did wish that she would stop arguing with him and start to do her chores properly. “Dedicated and fiery, no?”

[ofcavendish-blog]

m. JEAN-GABRIEL DANTON

                         “lord cavendish.”  jean-gabriel’s words tinged by a familiar parisian twang,  the politician addressed the aristocrat with the respect befitting of his station with a reverent incline of his flaxen head.  french ideals burrowed into both skull and marrow,  jean never thought particularly highly of the aristocracy––the world was so swiftly changing,  so continuously evolving,  and it was as if the patrician had simply forgotten to,  or perhaps deliberately ignored the call for change,  clinging onto the burning embers of supremacy with a stiff upper - lip.  “in truth,  i did not write to you to discuss pleasantries.  as you know,  i have recently filled sir edward bickford’s place in the council,  albeit indefinitely,  and i wished to discuss with you how i intend to proceed as it relates to your grace’s livelihood.  but first,  a drink.  sherry,  brandy?” 

How very unusual. George tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, his expression tightening in the hopes of hiding his curiosity. He had been brought up to converse with his business associates, to engage in small talk and discuss common interests, and it seemed that people very rarely got right to it when he was involved. Perhaps it was his title that kept them from speaking their minds. This man, however, seemed to defy the rules of polite company and George wasn’t sure that he minded. He’d gotten used to the way that soldiers spoke, how they demanded what they need and how officers barked orders, and he found that he’d preferred that manner of conversation to the sort that his family used. The preference hadn’t gone over particularly well at home. “Brandy, if you will.” He spoke calmly, without the faintest hint of his thoughts on the matter. “Tell me, good sir. Why is it that you feel I need a drink to further this conversation?”

[ofcavendish-blog]

This is Finnick Odair. Winner of the 65th Hunger Games. And I’m coming to you from District 13, alive and well. We’ve survived an assault from the Capitol, but I’m not here to give you recent news.

[ofcavendish-blog]

Sam Claflin in “The Riot Club” (Posh).

[ofcavendish-blog]

mr. NICHOLAS AUDLEY

It was only a matter of time until Nicholas ran into his sister’s employer. After all, Hamelton was a small place. He knew that he didn’t need to worry about Margret, but he couldn’t help himself - it was almost as if he was making up for lost time, and with the spectre of Samson back in the village… well, it brought out the worry. “Cavendish, isn’t it?”

George hadn’t meant to make a spectacle of himself. Truly, he had meant to slip into two unnoticed, but it seemed that the name Cavendish lit him like a neon sign. The sound of his surname caused George to turn, his eyes scanning the other man briefly before he nodded in agreement. He couldn’t see the harm in telling this man who he was, it seemed as though he already knew anyhow. “George Cavendish, yes,” he replied with a nod, “I do not think I’ve had the good fortune of making your acquaintance, however.” 

[ofcavendish-blog]

ms. JULIETT BUCHARD

The library was the perfect place to advertise the book club, Juliett thought. She wasn’t afraid to toot her own horn, so to speak, and her knack for finding books (and her taste, nonetheless) was quite excellent. To honour such an exciting venture, it was only right that the advertisement be placed in the middle of the noticeboard. She stood back to admire her handiwork to find someone else looking, too. The perfect opportunity to draw someone in, she thought.

“You will come, yes? To the book club?”

Life seemed to lack the sparkle that it had once held. The beauty of history, of language, of political maneuvering, seemed lost on George now and he couldn’t help but feel lost without them. Here, at home, what was he sans the intrigue of generations passed and in depth discussions about the current political climate? It seemed as though his very core, he, had faded away somewhere in Belgium and France. 

Despite that, George found himself in the library. It had taken a force of will to get him here, to leave his home, open the doors, and retrace his steps to the section that he’d once known so well. It took mere seconds to realize that there was nothing here for him now. No thrill or interest, no curiosity. The well worn books seemed just as lifeless as he felt. He knew damn well how wars were won now, the strategy and tactics that went into them, and he’d lost all interest. He'd given up and turned away, intent on leaving the library behind quickly, when a colorful flyer caught his eye. He paused briefly before it, reading the ad, before a voice caught him by surprise. At once, his expression became guarded, stoic as he turned to face none other than Juliett. “I...” he started and then he allowed himself a moment to pause and collect his thoughts. “When did this start?” Perhaps he’d been absent from the library for longer than he’d realized.

[ofcavendish-blog]

ms. MARGRET AUDLEY

Though this wasn’t the first time George had stalled her movements, requesting she merely allow another to perform the task at hand, still she rolled her eyes. It was an unwarranted reaction to the situation, however, she didn’t pay it any mind. By now, her employer knew of her personality, and though it surely rubbed him wrong most days, he let most things slide by. A curious solution to their ongoing trials but she was thankful, maybe even a little curious as to why, perhaps she was growing on him. Even just the mere thought caused her heart to race, pattering against her ribs as if it were a bird locked in a cage. Oh, she was silly, an utterly naive girl thinking a man of his station would ever bother with acare about her. “Grace is busy, your Grace.” She says, her lips twitching at the edges in a chaste smile. Titles were such a ridiculous notion, as if one could ever recall them all in the correct order without messing up. “But as you wish.” Moving to stand, she returned the rag to the holder and stretched, curling her fingers out as her shoulders rolled back. Cleaning was a tedious job, and silently, she wondered how those who did it all their lives managed. “You know, if you continue to frown, you’ll be granting yourself wrinkles.” They were alone, all other servants dismissed as George worked and she cleaned, which meant she was permitted some casual dialogue between the two of them. “Especially right here.” It happened before she could think better of herself, the way her feet carried her forward, closing the distance between them and her index finger lifted to run along the length of his brow bone.

“Too busy to fulfill her responsibilities? I think not.” These were Margret’s responsibilities, and he knew that well, but it seemed to George that much of the work they did was interchangeable. If one could polish a table well in the dining room, the same skill ought to apply to the end table in his study. Margret was quite the opposite. She couldn’t polish the end table, so she certainly couldn’t be trusted to take care of the family’s heirloom dining table. Oh, he could only imagine his mother’s horror. He was pleased when she did as he asked, however. There were times when she would fight him on the most foolish things, and at long last it seemed that she had learned her place. 

How wrong he was. 

The feeling of her fingertips against his brow made him tense. When he had first arrived home he might have balked, drawn back, or grasped her wrist, but instead he remained in place. He was not the poised, collected man that he had once been. There was ice in his eyes, a sharp flex in his jawline, as he looked up at her. “What, pray tell, do you think you are doing?” He hissed through clenched teeth. “Remove your hand at once. My wrinkles are none of your concern. If you cannot learn how to behave, then you will not be around Cavendish manor long enough to see them through.” Silly girl, she ought to worry for her future, not his.

[ofcavendish-blog]

ms. MARGRET AUDLEY

“Mr. Cavendish, please, I’m aware of how to properly clean an end table.” Glancing up from the gleaming wood, she gave the man a look. The very look she knew drove him a little crazed. George hated how she did things most days, primarily because they were always done in her way rather than how they’ve must’ve been done for the last century. But it was 1918, the women almost had the vote, and the end tables could handle counter-clockwise wipe versus any other. “Remember, this is not your job but mine, sir. So stop staring,” Pause. “Please.”

The luxury associated with the Cavendish name was very nearly as old as the family itself. The proud manor covered acre upon acre of well manicured green space and gardens, fine old furniture decorated the corridors, and portraits of long dead family members covered the walls. His was a legacy of opulence. Pale eyes narrowed as he watched Margret work, ruffled by her carelessness. Though he had never cleaned an end table himself, caring for such things seemed innate, or perhaps learned in passing from generations of help before her. “Well then, please do it correctly.” He replied with a frown. “You will stain the table.” There was no use lecturing her, she never seemed to perform better, it was a curse that she was so kind... “No. Never mind, don’t bother. Leave it to someone else. I will have Grace deal with it instead.”

[ofcavendish-blog]

[ofcavendish-blog]

Sam Claflin  by Tomo Brejc