rosemarytalbot

[rosemarytalbot]

EMMA (2020) dir. Autumn de Wilde

[rosemarytalbot]

May 13th. Modiste. London.

[OPEN] starter.

Once Rosemary reached the mature age of sixteen, she was given her very first diamond-encrusted brooch. Believing that to be the greatest day of her life, she reconciled with the fact that never again would she feel the same all but crippling exhilaration that overcame her in the moment that brooch latched onto the lace above her breast.

Until today.

The eldest Talbot had fortunately taken pity on the poor girl with her splotched gown, allowing her this ‘one final purchase’ - as he reminded her nearly a dozen times - and Rosemary began to feel that intoxicating tingle of delight begin in her fingertips; one that only developed when she spent money.

Once her new amethyst-colored dress was safely packaged away in the box, she produced a coin and set it atop the counter eagerly, until...

“What do you mean it isn’t enough?” Came her indignant response to the dressmaker’s most absurd declaration.“It is not but a simple afternoon gown! It hardly deserves to be priced at anything more than thirty shillings.”

Scoffing, Rosemary snatched her coin away from the elder’s fingers whilst adjusting the fitted cape around her shoulders. “You are in absolute delirium if you believe your work is-”

Her rant abruptly ended when the presence of a hand shot forward and dropped a pound note near her box. Perhaps if she were another woman, a desperate woman, she might've been relieved for the grace of the stranger.

But Rosemary Talbot was enraged.

Nostrils flaring, she whipped around to openly glare at the individual, her embarrassment quickly morphing into pointed vexation.

“I do not desire your money, for I can manage just fine on my own.”

[rosemarytalbot]

May 13. The Cresswell. London. 

[OPEN] starter. 

Gone were the days Rosemary Talbot could enjoy an evening dinner at the Archambault feasting through upwards of ten meals - the silken ribbons in her dress threatening to unravel in delicious fulfillment. For a moment she mulled over the idea of pleading with her eldest brother for a couple shillings so that she may enjoy the delicacies of French cuisine, but even a woman of such obstinance knew better than to approach Alistair Talbot for trivial matters.

Though as she sat amongst the lowlives of London society, she hardly believed her apprehension to be trivial. Promised a decent meal and lively atmosphere, she followed her chaperone to the Cresswell. 

Crowded. Musty. Noisy. Second-rate. Shoddy. 

She could barely contain her grimace. 

“Excuse me for a moment,” she announced half-heartedly, leaving her plate of what she assumed was a starch and meager piece of substandard meat untouched; clouds of pipe smoke had accumulated both in the restaurant as well as Rosemary’s lungs, and she knew she needed to leave. 

Weaving her way through the congested aisles, she had nearly reached the door when her abdomen fell victim to a sharp pain. She gasped under her breath as her eyes drifted downward to see the darkened wood of a patron chair shoved into her slim stomach. 

And in the midst of her bodice lay a streak of grime. 

Incredulously, she turned towards whom she considered her assailant. Her dress was ruined, never mind the steadily forming bruise on her skin! Alistair would never approve of a new gown, and she’d be forced to rewear a soiled frock. 

“Are you mad?” She exclaimed, standing to her full height as her fingers gestured to the notable dark stain,“Did you assault me and my gown on purpose, or are you truly so idiotic that you did not see me?”

[rosemarytalbot]

Rosemary Talbot ♠ 24 ♠ Lady ♠ Tynthesfield

 ♠ 𝔸𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕥𝕚𝕔

Shallow laughter, shiny dresses, sparkling jewellery. Men following your every step, your every wish, your every whim. Always asking for the best of the best, never settling for anything. Crash. No one left to follow you, nothing left to wish for, no more whims allowed. You thought they were your friends. Now you are alone, and perhaps it’s time to begin asking yourself: were you ever a friend?

♠ 𝕀𝕞𝕡𝕒𝕔𝕥

Conceited: Of course you were conceited! Arrogant! Ignorant! Haughty! Indifferent! Of course you were! You could afford it! Yes people kept coming in and out of your life but that was your choice, right? You were the one to send them away, to mock them, to manipulate them. Who cared if you didn’t treat anybody fairly, who cared if you weren’t actually well liked?

Regretting: But now you’ve got nothing left. No money to bribe and apparently no real friends to stand by your side. They snicker when they pass you, and even if the tears you cry are real, no one stops to console you. And you understand now, you understand that you messed up. But how can you make amends if you never learnt how? If no one ever gives you a chance to learn?

♠    ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤

𝟙. ℂ𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕙𝕠𝕠𝕕

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of good fortune, must be in want of a new diamond encrusted brooch. Rosemary held no interest in trivial pursuits such as mathematics and embroidery. Her worth would never be measured by her ability to complete a multiplication table, nor was it dependent on her knowledge of flora varieties. She had learned from an early age what it meant to have prominence; when a child’s natural curiosity and beaming grin were never able to produce the same results as a thin smile accompanied with a new lace-bodice gown. The most prestigious of accomplishments awarded to a woman would be her last name, and Rosemary prided herself on her ability to form connections with those in high society. After all, they were the ones who had raised her. With four children to care for on her own, Baroness Talbot had been nurturing to a fault. Early in her adolescence perhaps Rosemary did vy for her mother’s attention, desiring to feel a comforting stroke of aged fingers through her blonde locks as her head rested upon her mother’s bosom - but alas, as her father grew more absent and her siblings required more guidance, Rosemary sought comfort in the other wealthy families of St. Maur. She was but a child, but her comprehension of the world around her astounded even the most ambitious of ladies. Her pinky remained lifted from her porcelain cup whilst an eyebrow followed suit as she observed the gentry with disdain. Her countenance mirrored the old money Mamas she engaged with, shopped with, bribed with, and whom she idolized. Misfortune can only breed more misfortune, and those suffering from abysmal circumstances do so by their own hand. Rosemary could never be bothered to pity those beneath her, after all, a frown would not attract a worthwhile suitor.   And then she fell. Well, she supposed it had been her entire family that suffered the fall from grace - but how was she to procure a husband if they remained without a single shilling to the Talbot name, and worse, how could she afford a new hat for next week’s tea? Would she even be invited for tea? For too long she had walked the line between reality and fantasy, consciously choosing to ignore her lack of fatherly affection whilst simultaneously avoiding her mother’s. Yet when the riches vanished along with her invitations, the line she had drawn faded until she was left to drown in her own reality. She tried her hand at charming her way back into the circle of women she once presided over, but it seemed her friendship was only as enticing as her family’s name. She cursed those that had forsaken her, yet she couldn’t shake the intrusive thought that maybe… Perhaps just maybe… She deserved this.

𝟚. ℙ𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕖𝕟𝕥

Rosemary struggles to find her place in the world, and the same can be said for her role as a Talbot. She never did spend much time in her ancestral home, but it seems she now had no reason to leave. There were no parties or afternoon teas to attend, and there were certainly no suitors at her beck and call. No longer was she able to turn a blind eye to the struggles of her parents; her inability to remedy the sadness that bloomed within her mother’s heart was not lost on the young woman. What was her mother’s favorite color? Did she have tea with her afternoon meal or did she indulge in a glass of wine? And what of her brothers? Thinking back, she can’t remember the last conversation she had with the elder Talbot siblings that did not center around the crucial burden of finding a suitor for both herself and her younger sister. And Florence - poor, poor Florence. Rosemary should’ve been present to guide her younger sister through the trials and tribulations life had to offer. Yet even now, as her fingers struggled to manage even the simplest of braids and her hands struggled to smooth down the crinkled material of her dress worn two-times-too-many, she still couldn’t bring herself to change. To ask her mother about her preferences or engage her brothers in some meaningless debate meant to admit defeat. Rosemary was a Talbot, dammit, and she was not destined for depravity. And so every afternoon she would promenade, leaving her brothers to suffer the weight of their father’s addiction and her sister to bear the heartache of their mother. After all, misfortune can only breed more misfortune, and so she must live as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

𝟛. 𝔻𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕤

Rosemary desires to be…well, desired. She wants her name to be synonymous with authority and for her name to be whispered amongst the town with an awed admiration, and above all else, she wants to be loved. All she knows is money. Satisfaction is money. Euphoria is being fitted for a new gown. Wealth was not simply a state of being; Rosemary was wealth. Whomever she touched turned prosperous, and she bathed in her own luxurious hopes and dreams. She wants her old life back - no, she refused to consider it some sort of former glory. This is simply…a bump in the road and would only mean that she was indeed owed a greater life in return. This greater life needed to come in the form of marriage. She did not need a man to love her, she could love herself enough for the both of them. Conceited? Absolutely. True? Of course - or at least, that is what she tells herself. The truth is, Rosemary wants affection. She wants someone to value her opinions and find both joy and comfort in her presence. She doesn’t make it easy, that is for sure, and her relationships both romantic and platonic have been sabotaged by her own selfish need to enhance her status. But as she slowly comes to terms with her new position, she begins to realize why she sought comfort in the other wealthy maidens of the town. When you hold power, people won’t leave you. Their own desire for societal advancement ensures their continued support and faux friendship. Yet as Rosemary sits alone in her bedroom without comfort, she longs for devotion, but isn’t aware of where to find it.

♠ ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕟𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤

Mr Forester - The Scintillating Bastard

You can’t bear looking him in the eyes anymore. The truth is, yes, you loved him. But he was gentry and you were of blue blood, surely neither of you were blinded enough to think this could ever lead to something? Now you’re still of blue blood but he’s the one with the money. Should you give him another chance now? Could that fix it all? Or would that only prove how shallow you truly are?

Lady’s Maid of Clevedon Court - The Neglected Friend 

She was your Lady’s Maid too, and you must admit it, at least to yourself, you miss her. But what’s more, you know she misses your mother. So maybe your skill at manipulating people doesn’t have to rest just yet? Perhaps a few conversations here and there and you can get her back? It would be great to have finally someone do your hair again. 

Lady St Maur - The Witty Traditionalist

You decided you were best friends when you were still learning how to write. And what a great friendship it was! You used to ride out together, give tea parties together, and even steal each other’s dances. But now she has completely forsaken you. Sure she still greets you in church, but that’s about it. It’s as if you are just another common girl to her, and your blood seethes.

[rosemarytalbot]

Rosemary was many things.

Opportunistic, yes, and certainly avaricious; never was she subversive, though. Yes, my Lord. Indeed, my Lady. Subservient? On the contrary, Rosemary Talbot found pleasure in the taste of authority on her tongue, for she knew one day she too would be more than simply the daughter of a Baron.

But why settle for a Viscount when she could have a prince?

Oh and what a handsome prince he was indeed. She cursed the sun for glaring so brightly before, had she recognized who it was that stumbled upon her hiding spot, she would have chosen a more charming introduction.

“I did not mean…,” she mumbled, blinking uncharacteristically quick as she silently willed her lips to form something even slightly becoming of a lady, or perhaps even a princess. “Prince Alexander if I have offended you…”

She watched silently as his eyes traversed the length of the large tree, the monsoon of anguish in her gut calming into nothing more than a simple flood; livable, but nonetheless distressing. If she had half a brain, perhaps she would have lied and claimed willows to be amongst her favorite tree varieties - but in the presence of such wealth, one must surely forgive her for her honesty.

“I’ve come to this very park for many seasons, and yet this is perhaps the first time I’ve ever noticed this willow,” she began, taking a few steps closer to the male to gaze upon the large beast of a tree, “Parisian streets are littered with chestnuts and oaks, though I did see a cherry tree once!” Her tears were long gone as she turned to the prince with a wide grin. Rosemary Talbot, finding amusement in nature? The devil must be freezing.

Clearing her throat, she prodded at her coiffed hair in uncharacteristic shyness. “It’s remarkable what you are able to witness when you are no longer preoccupied by…other engagements.” Rosemary had resigned herself to the realization that this man had already witnessed her slick and swollen cheeks, and no amount of acting could ever give him the impression that everything was just fine.

“You said you read to them, correct, Prince Alexander? I am embarrassed to admit I was never much of a reader myself, but I greatly enjoy stories.” If he listened closely, he would surely be able to detect a hit of pathetic hopefulness in her voice - oh how she wished he was distracted. “I’m afraid I’m not as majestic and magnificent as a willow, but I was indeed weeping before you arrived…would you tell me a story, sir?”

rosemarytalbot​:

May 8th. Hyde Park. London.

[OPEN] starter.

If she weren’t so disheartened, perhaps she would’ve found the current situation amusing. Sundays had always been Rosemary’s favorite day, for they signaled a new week was on the horizon, and a new week always meant new festivities for the younger Talbot to attend where she could further enchant the handsome men that were bold enough to make her acquaintance. Above all else, however, she enjoyed a bustling season.

But not for the weather, because she burned terribly easily under the sweltering sun. The balls were also often lengthy and tiresome, and Rosemary found that her feet were in a perpetual state of bruised and battered. Nearly the entire town of St. Maur would be in London, and where there were people, gossip ensued, and Rosemary was always fond of the occasional scandal.

Ah, and how she enjoyed the feel of a freshly stitched gown draping across the curvature of her bodice.

Yet as her hands brushed away stray tears and her lips quivered in an attempt to prevent from downturning, she wondered why she ever considered the ignominy of scandal to be so enthralling. She wished desperately to compartmentalize her emotions. Her sorrow could make an appearance once their family returned to their now desolate home, but here she wanted - needed - her countenance to not betray her. And it was going according to plan. Rosemary Talbot held the same air of unperturbed self-assurance she always prided herself on -

Until the whispers began.

“Shameless.”

“I cannot fathom why the Talbots-”

“-see their clothes? Truly unbecoming-”

“I would simply have stayed in France.”

She struggled to breath in through her now dry mouth, a stark contrast from the moisture that glistened down the pale flesh of her cheeks. This wasn’t Rosemary. She was resilient and a force to be reckoned with. She never wore her heart on her sleeve, in fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she genuinely laughed aloud.

Yet here she stood, just out of view from the promenading couples, her hands shakily pressing into her abdomen in a feeble attempt to put an end to the traitorous onset of emotional turmoil that had crashed onto her like the waves of the St. Maur coastline.

And then she heard it - the quiet clip, clop of a steed’s hooves as they pounded against the London ground, threatening to expose her spot behind the willow tree.The young female scrambled to formulate an excuse as to why she stood there appearing as if she had lost everything.

Ah, well. For a moment she forgot that she most certainly had. 

Turning on her heel whilst adjusting the lace of her dress, she cleared her throat haughtily as her eyes squinted against the blazing sun, attempting to make out the figure atop the large mammal.

“Was the park too crowded for your liking, or did you perhaps find me with the intention to mock?”

Except for the truly important events, Alexander was rarely asked to attend the balls of the London Season. He didn’t mind. The rooms were often sticky with heat, the uniform the Princes were asked to wear were stiff and hardly allowed room to dance freely, and there were so many names and connections to remember, that Alexander often found himself overwhelmed by even pleasant small talk in the span of an hour or two. But it was different for the Promenades. 

Apart from the ridiculous tophat which wanted to fly away at every breeze, his day suit was simple and comfortable, airy almost, allowing him to never feel on the verge of suffocation. And what’s more, the Promenades were out in nature, or at least the domesticated nature London allowed. It was such nature which Alexander inspected with great diligence and admiration on the 8th of May. For the better half of an hour, he’d now gazed upon a willow tree, wondering if the gentle wafts of its branches would feel akin to a woman’s caress to his cheek.

Mesmerised, he’d eventually gone close to it, laying a hand on its rind to greet it. It was then that he heard a voice speak to him. It was not the tree’s voice. Surprised, he turned and found a fine young lady, whose beauty was only lessened by the frown she wore on her face, and the way she was clutching her hand to her stomach. “Pardon,” he said, “I did not see you.” Then he thought about her question, earnestly, allowing for a pause as he sought to give the most truthful answer. “The first, perhaps.” 

He looked back up at the tree and explained: “Willows were always my favourite tree. As a child I learned they were called Weeping Willows, and I spent many Summer afternoons reading stories to the Willow in our garden, trying to cheer it up.”  

[rosemarytalbot]

People talk too much. Entirely too much.

If it weren’t for the tight cinching of her dress around her slender waist, Rosemary was positive she would have melted into the wooden floor, reduced to nothing more than a puddle under the weight of their stares.

It was an enigma, really, how paintings were but mere shapes printed onto canvas and yet the female swore she saw one glare in her direction.

Paintings, she realized, could whisper amongst themselves just as people could.

Which is why she spent most of her afternoon amongst the watercolors, finding comfort in the images portraying her namesake, surrounded by purity and gracefulness that reminded her of no one else but herself. She had quite enjoyed the works of Monet back in France, but she supposed the menial works of London would suffice for a day.

Venturing further into the room, her eyes swept across the seas of society imperiously, head raised in contempt for those that dare believe themselves worthy of her consideration - and alas, amidst the ocean, a lifeline.

If she were fifteen once again, perhaps she would have waved a hand in greeting.

But she was now twenty four, and Zachariah Forester could no longer be allowed to sway her. She spent years learning to suppress the affection that clawed against that godforsaken organ in her chest, and if there was ever a time she needed to forget just how glorious it felt to be his, it was now.

“Mr. Forester,” she nodded, gaze lingering momentarily on the male before shifting to feign interest in the art beside them, “You should know better than anyone that I would not miss the season.”

Subtly, her eyes diverted down to observe the flesh of his hand - his left, just above his third knuckle. Please. “Have you come to claim a missus? I’m sure this season will afford you many desperate ladies wishing to claim the role of a doctor’s wife.” Pathetic.

Though if she were referring to other women or herself, Rosemary would never know.

Remembrance

Time: 8th of May, 1904 Place: Royal Academy Summer Exhibition’s Vernissage Status: Closed for @rosemarytalbot

Zachariah was not exactly floundering in a sea of paintings, it was more like he was treading water. Years and years of comporting himself meant that he had not fallen apart entirely after his recent discoveries, and yet, much like treading water, it felt like only a matter of time before he sunk beneath the surface.

He wished he didn’t have to be here really, but his siblings had shown an interest and he was very keen to keep showing an interest in his siblings, especially Benny who was around here somewhere though he’d lost him in the crowd very early on. So he was hear, treading water.

Perhaps he could have kept it up for much longer if he hadn’t at that moment seen Lady Rosemary Talbot. She was exactly the opposite of the lifeboat he needed.

He locked eyes with her across the room. It was impossible to pretend they hadn’t seen each other, and so despite himself, he moved through the crowd towards her.

He couldn’t look away, he realised he hadn’t seen her, not properly, since before the Talbot scandal broke. By the time he reached her the art on the walls was largely forgotten.

“Lady Rosemary,” He nodded in greeting, oddly formal, considering everything. “I heard you were in Paris these last few months. I wasn’t sure-” when I’d see you again. “-if you’d be returning for the season.“

[rosemarytalbot]

May 8th. Hyde Park. London.

[OPEN] starter.

If she weren’t so disheartened, perhaps she would’ve found the current situation amusing. Sundays had always been Rosemary’s favorite day, for they signaled a new week was on the horizon, and a new week always meant new festivities for the younger Talbot to attend where she could further enchant the handsome men that were bold enough to make her acquaintance. Above all else, however, she enjoyed a bustling season.

But not for the weather, because she burned terribly easily under the sweltering sun. The balls were also often lengthy and tiresome, and Rosemary found that her feet were in a perpetual state of bruised and battered. Nearly the entire town of St. Maur would be in London, and where there were people, gossip ensued, and Rosemary was always fond of the occasional scandal.

Ah, and how she enjoyed the feel of a freshly stitched gown draping across the curvature of her bodice.

Yet as her hands brushed away stray tears and her lips quivered in an attempt to prevent from downturning, she wondered why she ever considered the ignominy of scandal to be so enthralling. She wished desperately to compartmentalize her emotions. Her sorrow could make an appearance once their family returned to their now desolate home, but here she wanted - needed - her countenance to not betray her. And it was going according to plan. Rosemary Talbot held the same air of unperturbed self-assurance she always prided herself on -

Until the whispers began.

“Shameless.”

“I cannot fathom why the Talbots-”

“-see their clothes? Truly unbecoming-”

“I would simply have stayed in France.”

She struggled to breath in through her now dry mouth, a stark contrast from the moisture that glistened down the pale flesh of her cheeks. This wasn’t Rosemary. She was resilient and a force to be reckoned with. She never wore her heart on her sleeve, in fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she genuinely laughed aloud.

Yet here she stood, just out of view from the promenading couples, her hands shakily pressing into her abdomen in a feeble attempt to put an end to the traitorous onset of emotional turmoil that had crashed onto her like the waves of the St. Maur coastline.

And then she heard it - the quiet clip, clop of a steed’s hooves as they pounded against the London ground, threatening to expose her spot behind the willow tree.The young female scrambled to formulate an excuse as to why she stood there appearing as if she had lost everything.

Ah, well. For a moment she forgot that she most certainly had. 

Turning on her heel whilst adjusting the lace of her dress, she cleared her throat haughtily as her eyes squinted against the blazing sun, attempting to make out the figure atop the large mammal.

“Was the park too crowded for your liking, or did you perhaps find me with the intention to mock?”