#Victoria in Dover

[laurapetrie]

ROMY SCHNEIDER as QUEEN VICTORIA in VICTORIA IN DOVER (1954)

[catherinesboleyn]

Romy Schneider as Queen Victoria

Victoria in Dover (1954)

[recycledmoviecostumes]

This blue velvet dressing gown and pale blue night gown is a great example of the same actress wearing the same costume in more than one production. It was first used in Mädchenjahre einer Königin known in English as The Story of Vicky, based on the play Victoria in Dover.  It was worn by Romy Schneider as Queen Victoria. The following year it was reused again on Romy Schneider, but this time as Elisabeth of Austria in Sissi. Both movies were directed by Ernst Marischka.

Costume Credit: Wardrobeoftime

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[cinemajunkie70]

Happy Birthday in the afterlife to one of the most beautiful women to ever walk the earth, Romy Schneider!

[reflections-in-a-critical-eye]

Victoria in Dover (Ernst Marishcka, 1954)

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

Again, not an exhaustive list but for anyone else in the UK, these are where riots are expected today:

Aldershot - Immigration Advisors at 40 Victoria Road GU11 1TH, starting at 19:30.

Bedford - Immigration INN (Inn?) on Ford End Road MK40 4JT, at 20:00.

Birmingham - Refugee and Migrant Centre on Frederick Street B1 3HN, beginning at 20:00.

Bishop Auckland - outside the Town Hall on Market Place DL14 7NP.

Blackburn - Rafiq Immigration Services on Whalley Road BB5 1AA, at 20:00.

Blackpool - Immigration Solicitors at the Enterprise Centre on Lytham Road FY1 1EW, starting at 20:00.

Bolton - Deane & Bolton Immigration Lawyers on Chorley New Road BL1 4QR, at 20:00.

Brentford - UK Immigration Help in The Mile on 1000 Great West Road TW8 9DW, starting around 19:00.

Brighton - Raj Rayan Immigration in Queensberry House at 106 Queens Road BN1 3XF, starting either at 19:30 or 20:00.

Bristol - Gya Williams Immigration on West Street BS2 OBL, at 20:00.

Burnley - at Thompson Park on 111 Ormerod Rioad BB11 3QWat, starting at 13:00.

Canterbury - UK Immigration Clinic in the Canterbury Innovation Centre CT2 7FG, at 20:00.

Chatham - Immigration Status UK on Maidstone Road ME5 9FD, at 20:00.

Cheadle - Intime Immigration Services on Brooks Drive SK8 3TD, at 20:00.

Chelmsford - UK Immigration Information Centre on Violet Close CM1 6XG, at 20:00.

Derby - Immigration Advisory Service, Normanton Road DE23 6US, at 20:00.

Dover - Kent Immigration and Visa Advice at 5A Castle Hill Road CT16 1QG, reportedly around 20:00.

Durham - in Crook at Market Place, at 18:00. (Unsure as to whether this is the same one as in Bishop Auckland as I know Crook is near there?)

Finchley - Immigration and Nationality Services within Foundation House at 4 Percy Road N128BU, around 19:00.

Harrow - Yes UK Immigration and North Harrow Community Library within the Business Centre at 429-433 Pinner Road HA1 4HN, in North Harrow, at 19:00.

Hastings - Black Rock Immigration at 37 Cambridge Gardens TN34 1EN, at 20:00.

Hull - Conroy Baker Immigration Lawyer in Norwich House, 1 Savile Street HU1 3ES, at 20:00.

Lewisham - the Clock Tower, SE13 5JH, 19:00.

Lincoln - Immigration Lawyer Services on Carlton Mews LN2 4FJ, at 20:00.

Liverpool - Merseyside Refugee Centre in St Anne's Centre on 7 Overbury Street L7 3HJ, at 20:00.

Liverpool - Sandpiper Hotel (might be on Ormskirk Old Road? if any scousers can clarify where that is, that'd be great) at 13:00.

Middlesbrough - Immigration Advice Centre which is the Co-Operative Buildings at 251 Linthorpe Road TS1 4AT, at 20:00.

Newcastle - United Immigration Services in Artisan Unit 3, The Beacon on Westgate Road NE4 9PQ, at 20:00.

Northampton - Zenith Immigration Lawyers at 2 Talbot Road NN1 4JB, starting at 20:00.

Nottingham - East Midlands Immigration Services at 15 Stonesbury Vale NG2 7UR, at 20:00.

Oldham - somewhere on Ellen Street 0L9 6QR, at 20:00

Oxford - Asylum Welcome in Unit 7 in Newtec Place on Magdelen Road OX4 1RE, around 19:00. [Updated as of 15:53]

Peterborough - Smart Immigration Services in Laxton House at 191 Lincoln Road PE1 2PN, at 20:00.

Plymouth - in a Morrisons car park, I don't know which but I saw Victory Parade associated with it? If anyone from Plymouth can clarify, please do. Not sure on time.

Portsmouth - UK Border Agency at Kettering Terrace PO2 8QN, at 20:00

Preston - Adriana Immigration Services at 109 Church Street PR1 3BS, at 19:00 or 20:00.

Rotherham - Parker Rhodes Hickmotts, The Point S60 1BP, at 20:00.

Sheffield - City Hall on Barker's Pool S1 2JA, at 13:00.

Sheffield - White Rose Visas at 101 Wilkinson Street S10 2GJ, at 20:00.

Southampton - Y-Axis Immigration Consultants, Cumberland Place on Grosvenor Square SO15 2BG, at 20:00.

Southend - MNS Immigration Solicitors on Ditton Court Road SS0 7HG, at 20:00.

Stoke-On-Trent - ZR Visas on Metcalfe Road ST6 7AZ, in Tunstall, at 20:00.

Sunderland - North of England Refugee Service which is in Suite 12 in the Eagle Building at 201 High Street East SR1 2AX, at 20:00.

Swindon - I have no details for this, just seen that something might be kicking off there.

Tamworth - Lawrencia & Co Immigration Solicitors within the Amber Business Village on Amber Close B77 4RP, no details on time unfortunately.

Walthamstow - Waltham Forest Immigration Bureau at 187 Hoe Street E17 3AP, at 20:00.

Wigan - Support for Wigan Arrivals Project, Penson Street WN1 2LP, at 20:00.

York - only detail I've got it is York Stay City Hotel.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Jenny Jugo (Victoria in Dover, A hopeless Case, Our Miss Doctor)—I just love her! She was an Austrian actress during the 20s & 30s & 40s who was among the big UFA stars. She was beautiful but still appeared to be natural and likeable. Often she played witty, smart, independent and confident (for the time) modern women both in silent and in talking movies. For example in one movie she's a maths teacher who has to prove herself to her male colleagues who doubt she is actually good at mathematics. And she ends up not only being successful at teaching the high-school graduates but even getting to lecture mathematics at university afterwards. (Our Miss Doctor) Or in A Hopeless Case she plays a young woman who is very superficial and spoilt at first but then decides against marrying the good situated man her father wants her to marry and instead is dedicated to successfully study medicine although everyone advises her to stop. She's really a great actress who I always enjoyed seeing in movies ever since I was a child. (Also she always appeared to have thick curly hair which was a great representation for little curly haired me because in movies you rarely see women with that hair type being considered beautiful as well.)

Mary Pickford (Coquette, Tess of the Storm Country)—"America’s Sweetheart”, “Queen of Hollywood”, her and Douglas Fairbanks were the og it couple, owned her own movie studio, had both a drink and a hairstyle named after her

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Jenny Jugo:

Gifset

Gif

Mary Pickford:

She was a pioneer in early cinema! She acted, wrote, and produced numerous films and was one of the founders of the United Artists film studio, along with Charlie Chaplin and her husband, Doug Fairbanks. At the height of her career in the 1920s there was nobody more famous. She was widely known as "America's Sweetheart." She won an Oscar in 1929 for her performance in Coquette (1929) and then a lifetime achievement Oscar in 1979.

She was an absolute pioneer in the very early days of feature films. She co-founded United artists and managed her career brilliantly.

Mary Pickford wasn't just a silent star, she was a huge historical figure for film. I really cannot emphasize how involved she was in creating and shaping the film world. She was completely passionate about the theater world (from a young age!) and still revered even after she lost relevance. Her tenacity, her beauty, and her intelligence is what made her the first actress labeled as "America's Sweetheart." She just has this glow, a wonderful sweet disposition, and warm heart. She often introduced other women to motion picture and helped them showcase their talent. She was an astute business woman, although when asked about this she said "Well you know this business angle is much exaggerated, because most people don't expect much sense of a woman 5 feet tall. If I were 5 feet 8 they would say I was a very poor business woman!" She was friends with Amelia Earheart and had terrible luck in love. Please just learn about or give thought to my sad small sweet girl.

[chordophoneoftheday]

Important, historic and unique harp-guitar with bespoke stand made by D. Jose Gallegos of Spain and signed in mother of pearl on a circular plate positioned beneath the sound hole, the back and sides constructed of rosewood, the spruce table with alternating geometric mother of pearl banding and with further ornate mother of pearl inlaid bands enclosing the sound hole, the harp fitted with twenty six strings and the guitar with two double coarse and four single strings; the instrument also fitted with an angled extended cello neck fitted with three strings, all the strings attached to a pierced foliate engraved metal plate fastened to the lower bouts of the table and bearing an oval plaque inscribed Malaga 1849, also bearing a monogram inscribed on a small gold oval plaque to the pierced guitar headstock, with original harp turning key and within a bespoke made plush lined case. This instrument has the original ormolu and rosewood bespoke stand also made by D. Jose Gallegos, the stand fitted with height and horizontal adjustments, supported upon a short hexagonal tapered column and four curving pierced legs with folding extended ormolu scroll feet; also with a bespoke made carrying case.

This instrument was shown at the 1851 Great Exhibition in London and famously recorded in a wood engraved print after the painter C.N. Jarvas, which was reproduced for all posterity by several sources including Dover Books. The instrument was awarded the medal of the council of S.M.D.

 The instrument was commissioned from Jose Gallegos by the Duke of Montpensier as a special present for his wife in about 1846. Apparently the maker took a full four years and spent 2000 duros in expense to complete it. The guitar was then taken to Seville and demonstrated in front of the Duke who unfortunately refused to receive or pay for the instrument. It is also alleged after the sale fell through that Gallegos played it twice for Queen Victoria and also gave several successful public concerts in London and New York.

[princessanneftw]

A rare insight into the usually unreported work of Princess Royal

Visiting military graves of unsung heroes was fitting appointment for perhaps the hardest working member of Royal family

By Victoria Ward for The Telegraph

Of the many war heroes buried in the windswept Dover chalk grassland is one Sgt Maj Charles Wooden, who was awarded the Victoria Cross after saving a fellow soldier’s life under heavy fire during the Battle of Balaclava.

The Princess Royal studied his grave closely as she was told he was “a bit of a drunkard” who had unfortunately met a sad demise.

Suffering from excruciating toothache, he had tried to dislodge the offending tooth with his gun, only to blow his brains out. “The ultimate pain killer,” the Princess, 72, observed drily, with the wry humour that is never in short supply.

Another, Gunner Andrew McDowell, had been blown to bits as he sat with two other soldiers in Dover harbour out of sight but directly in the firing line of a new 42-pound cannon.

The firing party thought someone said “fire” and duly fired. Gunner McDowell’s arm was found in the local town. The Princess peered closely at his newly restored grave, decorated with a cannon. “It’s almost adding insult to injury putting a gun on there, isn’t it?” she remarked.

The Princess, patron of The Remembrance Trust, was at St James’s cemetery, in Dover, Kent, to inspect its latest work restoring the military graves and memorials of those who made the ultimate sacrifice.

It was the second engagement of at least four on her itinerary, but as a royal who opts to get on with her work under the radar, most of it – as always – will go unreported.

However, on Tuesday, The Telegraph was invited to join the Princess as she travelled to Kent for an update on the work of the Trust, of which she became patron in 2021.

Engaged and unguarded, she delighted the small band of charity trustees and council dignitaries with her easy humour and obvious interest. “You can’t fake that kind of fascination,” one observer said later. “She’s great fun and you can talk to her like a normal human being.”

The Princess, accompanied by her husband Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence, 68, made a point of chatting to each member of the small gang of around 15 that was on hand to greet her.

Introduced to charity trustee and “tomb expert” Dr Roger Bowdler, she joked: “See tomb, will travel.”

Darren Solley, head of parks and open spaces at Dover District Council, told the Princess he was trialling a new approach to managing the cemetery land by leaving much of it to grow wild, improving biodiversity.

“It’s quite a difficult balance, rewilding,” she commented. “Actually, you do look after it but it doesn’t look like it.”

Warming to the theme, she continued: “You do have to cut it but it’s when you cut it that’s key – and what you do with the leftovers.”

Former corporal Steve Davies, a military grave restorer who has worked with the trust since its inception and preserved six of the seven graves on the Princess’s one-hour tour, proved an enthusiastic and informative guide.

The Restoration Trust returns graves to their former glory while at the same time creating a database spanning more than 200 years.

Founded and chaired by North Sea oil pioneer and former Grenadier Guards officer Algy Cluff, 83, it has a vast remit covering an undefined period up until 1914. He was motivated to help future generations understand the nation’s military past after working on the graves of British troops killed abroad.

Those killed from 1914 onwards have their graves kept by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, funded by the Commonwealth governments, but those killed earlier fall through the cracks, their headstones left to fall to ruin.

One of those whose grave has been lovingly restored is Maj Gen William Sutton, who received the Second China War medal and Companion of the Order of the Bath but who requested none of the usual pomp and circumstance at his funeral and asked to be buried in a common grave alongside soldiers of other ranks.

It was fortuitous then, that of all the well-known faces to visit his resting place almost 160 years after his death aged 56 was the Princess Royal, that least showy and no-nonsense member of the Royal family.

“It doesn’t say who he served with,” the Princess commented as she studied his headstone. “56? I’m surprised he lasted so long.”

Mr Davies ushered her along. “We’ve got to hit the hill now, ma’am,” he said. “Don’t worry, I live on the side of a hill,” came the reply as the Princess ploughed on, stopping to study several other graves along the way.

“Oh, it’s a Sherwood Forester, well, well well,” she said, pausing by one that she was keen to point out to her husband.

When Mr Davies told the Princess that he had queued for 14 hours to see her late mother, Elizabeth II, lying in rest, it prompted a discussion about the merits of certain footwear.

The Princess admitted that the boots that form part of the Blues and Royals uniform were none too comfortable. “Which is why I didn’t volunteer to walk after the Coronation, I was riding,” she laughed.

Later, the Princess and Sir Tim retired for a private lunch at Dover Castle before moving on to the next engagement.

Meanwhile, those who had enjoyed her company that morning were unanimous in their praise.

“She’s got common sense running through her like Brighton Rock,” one said. “But she’s enormous fun and absolutely interested and engaged. One couldn’t hope for a better patron.”

[nikethestatue]

Chapter 1

London, England

1890

Elain Archeron

London’s Victoria Station greeted its new visitor with a cacophony of noise, chaos and excitement. Clutching the instructions and the address that she received from the stern and cold Mrs. Amren, who was the organiser of this wild scheme, Elain Archeron attempted to follow the directions inside the clamour of the train station, though it was proving to be difficult.

She’s never been to London before and now, the place terrified her. She was pushed and shoved without consideration for her gentler sex, those around her were shrieking, yelling, and shouting something all the time. There were people, whole families, whose skin tones were different from her own, whose fashions and outfits were odd and contradictory. There were people of different religions as well–she could tell Jews and Hindus and Muslims. She was educated and well-read, so she was not surprised to see those who came from Africa, and India, or even the Chinese, and scarf-clad women from Poland, or maybe Russia–but seeing them all in the flesh was overwhelming. She never imagined that people of so many various colours, sizes and shapes existed. 

She continued her walk through the station, jerked off her feet by the blaring claxons from the train, clutching her travel satchel close to her chest. It had her only possessions inside–her two dresses, her unmentionables, stockings, another pair of boots, hair ribbons and pins, her spare corset, and toiletries. 

Her walk was interrupted constantly, men offering rides and calling out “Miss! Miss!” to her. But she kept her eyes down and shouldered her way to the massive doors of the station. 

She must be mad.

Mad.

It had to be that!

To be doing this, she couldn’t be normal.

She was here, in London of all places, alone, to meet with some mysterious man.

What if he was Jack the Ripper?

She’s read the papers–Jack the Ripper was rampaging on the streets of Whitechapel and what if Mrs. Amren was his co-conspirator? What if she lured unsuspecting country girls to London, and into the clutches of Jack the Ripper?

Elain’s read and enjoyed the tales of Sherlock Holmes, that wiley intriguing detective, who solved crimes–but if she thought about it more, why was there so much crime in London? People stole and abused and murdered others. It was horrifying.

Where she was from, St. Margaret’s Bay, the biggest crime last year was Ollie Oswald stealing Mr. Clarence’s goat, and Maggie May becoming pregnant out of wedlock. That thought sobered her right up, though still, Maggie’s out-of-wedlock babe was hardly the same thing as a mad serial killer running around the streets of London and slaughtering women of ill repute.

Elain finally existed the station and stood on the street, all her senses assaulted by even more noise, the stench of manure, hordes of jostling people who were all rushing somewhere, paper boys who were announcing the latest headlines – another Ripper murder, apparently – vendors peddling food and all sorts of items, handsome soldiers, and every spoken language imaginable. Elain recognised everything from French and Italian, to some dialects that she was unfamiliar with, Slavic, German and even Scandinavian speech. She had a knack for languages, and having spent time in Dover, with her father’s ships, she’d seen sailors, merchants and visitors from every part of the world. Stupidly, she thought that Dover was a busy city. It had nothing on this monstrosity.

She walked over to where the cabs were parked awaiting passengers.

“Good mornin’ Miss, in need of a ride?” one of the drivers asked.

“Yes, this is the address,” she handed him the paper that Mrs. Amren had given her, which had the address and all the instructions. Mrs. Amren had also given her ten pounds, which was more money than Elain’s seen in a long, long time.

She could buy so much for ten pounds! Dresses and a pair of shoes, meat pies, maybe even a pastry, tea, lodging…Her whole family survived on four-five pounds a month, and here she was, with ten pounds, six shillings and 3 pence in her pocket. Mrs. Amren told her that the tenner had come from the gentleman who took care of her travel accommodations and spending money.

Once she was situated in the carriage, they took off,  the driver navigating the streets and the chaos of other cabs and pedestrians with expert precisions. Elain knew that they were going to Westminster, and she wished to see the cathedral, and the abbey, but she did not, though she was pleased that they’d be staying far away from Whitechapel.

“Dog and Hound, Miss,” the driver announced and then opened the door for her.

It was a public house and also offered lodgings and once Elain exited the cab, she thought that it looked presentable and clean. The facade of the building was well-kept, brick, with garlands of wisteria wrapping around the lower part of the building and the very large bay window. Once she paid for the ride, she walked inside–she’s been to public houses and taverns before–but this one looked very well kept, with a beautiful walnut bar, all sorts of hunting pictures and engravings on the walls, and burgundy and green seats. There were not many patrons milling around, but it was also only 10:30 am. 

Elain approached the proprietor, just like Mrs. Amren told her to do and said, “Good morning. I am here to see Mr. Arthur Johnson.”

The man straightened at the mention of the name, and then quickly and accommodatingly told her, “Follow me, Miss.”

“Where are we going?” Elain whispered, baulking at the invitation.

“Mr. Johnson is waiting for you Miss. My understanding is that he wished to have a conversation with you in private.”

Elain’s never been with a man in private, let alone in an unfamiliar city, but what choice did she have? She already felt like she signed her life away, when she was meeting with Mrs. Amren. The woman had a heap of papers and documents for Elain to sign, mostly about confidentiality and non-disclosure of any information that she was to learn. There were financial papers as well, but Mrs. Amren told her that they would be finalised should the contract be signed. 

They stopped at one of the doors and the proprietor knocked. A man’s voice answered promptly.

“Enter.”

“You may proceed, Miss,” he told Elain and then stepped aside.

This is where I die, was her only thought. 

It was definitely Jack the Ripper. There have been whispers that he came from the upper classes, maybe even nobility, and she was going to meet him right now and he was going to skin her alive. And then her body would be baked into meat pies, just like Sweeney Todd did it. They said that the mad barber did not exist, but Elain begged to differ. Stories like that didn’t just happen to be written due to someone’s fevered imagination. He must have existed.

So she would be abused, killed and then will end up in a pie.

-

He sat in a wingback chair.

That’s all she saw when she finally dared to enter the room. The man. The gentleman.

A very tall man by the looks of it, considering how far his long legs stretched. He was dressed in all black, elegantly, in a way Elain wasn’t used to seeing men dressed on a Thursday morning. His jacket was stylishly tailored and his boots were perfectly polished. However, it was the man’s face that gave Elain pause. He was handsome to an unusual degree, the panes of his face sharp and sensual at once. Large, slightly slanted eyes of a peculiar colour regarded her with detachment and mild scrutiny. When he licked his full lower lip, Elain couldn't help but notice the movement and she balled her hands at her sides, suddenly feeling tense and hot. He had the look of a foreigner about him–dark bronze skin, thick black hair cut unusually long on top, and those strange light hazel eyes.

“Elain Archeron, I presume,” he asked at last, and his voice was deep, low and just as sensual as the rest of him. Like a whisper of black silk in the wind. The accent was unfailingly upper crust. 

“I am, my lord,” she confirmed and curtsied.

“Please sit,” he gestured to the sofa across from his chair.

She did as she was told and noticed that he held a photograph of her in his fingers. His hands were large, with long, strong fingers, but surprisingly, the hands were covered in thick scars–burn scars from what Elain could gauge. Mrs. Amren said that the photograph was a requirement and Elain was forced to travel to Dover to have her photograph taken. It was expensive, and she needed to sit in the same position, unmoving and silent, for almost seven minutes. In the end, she didn’t even think that the photograph looked like her. But following her handing the photograph off to Mrs. Amren, she received an invitation to travel to London–-she supposed that it did the trick.

“How was your journey?” he asked politely.

“Very nice, thank you, my lord.”

“I wished to have our conversation first, if you don’t mind, and then you may rest.”

“Of course,” she agreed. Her fingers were shaking and she attempted to hide them in the folds of her skirt, though she was sure that he noticed it.

His tone was light when he assured her, “there is no need to be nervous. I believe we ought to have a talk first and you aren’t obligated to anything, and neither am I.”

She nodded and allowed him to talk, because it was just easier. Her throat was tight and her mouth dry. Her dress felt itchy against her skin and the collar borderline was suffocating. 

He stood up and she had to crane her neck to take in his full height–he was probably six and a half feet tall, and when he moved to pour water into a glass, she definitely noticed how thickly muscled his arms and shoulders were, and how slender he was otherwise, trim and lean and strong. He handed her the glass and then leaned against the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and drumming his fingers on the surface.

“I am Azriel, Lord Night, the Duke of Velaris,” he announced simply. 

Elain’s hand stopped mid-way to her lips, as she stared at him wordlessly.

She’d assumed that he would be a nobleman, perhaps a baron, maybe a count, but a duke? The Velaris family was well-known: it was said that they came to Britain all the way back with William the Conqueror. It couldn’t possibly be the same Velaris? Could it?

“I am sorry, my lord,” Elain said softly. “You are the Duke of Velaris?”

He nodded, “the very same”.

“But…” she bit her lip, “I was under the impression that you were married, my lord? To Lady Morrigan?”

The lovely Lady Morrigan, Countess of Hewn, was renowned for her beauty. Elain had seen her in newspapers and other publications. The Velaris-Hewn nuptials was the society wedding of the year just a couple of years back. 

“I am,” he confirmed calmly. “And since you are bound by our confidentiality agreement, I will disclose that my lady wife had suffered a grave incident last year. She was thrown by her horse, and had broken her spine. Unfortunately, she suffered a brain bleed from her injuries as well. She is my wife and will remain so until she or I die. But alas, she is bed-bound and without sense or consciousness. Now, you must understand that her condition is not known to anyone, other than my most trusted servants and her nurses. It must remain so until I produce an heir. The child must be mine, and upon the birth, we shall announce that Lady Morrigan suffered compilation in labour.”

Elain sighed and murmured, “I am sorry, my lord. For you and your lady wife. It is truly tragic and I am…just sorry.”

He cocked his head and regarded her quietly for a while.

She’d only known him for about fifteen minutes, but she could already see how observant he was, methodical even. There was a calmness about him, an almost predatory stillness, and she sensed that he dwelled in some dark places inside his head. Perhaps it was the sorrow  resulting from his wife’s condition, or maybe something in his past, but this was a man of secrets and unanswered questions.

“May I ask some questions of you?” he inquired at last.

Elain sipped her water and nodded once.

He didn't use any props, not notes or correspondence, when he said,

“Elain Archeron, twenty-one years old, the middle of three sisters. Tell me, why are you, of all people, responded to my advertisement?”

“We need the money, my lord,” she admitted plainly. 

“There are other ways to get money,” he noted, his dark brow raised. “You are a maid of gentle breeding based on your family’s history–a merchant father, a mother who was from a well-to-do family. Surely you can think of other ways to…” he stopped and scrubbed his scarred hand over his chin, before continuing, “tell me, why?”

“My father has lost his fortune,” Elain explained, her voice quiet. “My younger sister has a disease of the stomach that makes her vomit and she is frail and weak. She needs medicines, which we cannot afford. My older sister is a proud woman and…” her voice trailed. How could she explain Nesta? She couldn’t. Nesta was smart, even cunning, but she was better suited for running an estate or even a business. Haughty, proud and demanding is what Nesta was. But she was not one for sacrifices. “And that leaves me. I…well, I answered the advertisement in The Times, and was contacted by Mrs. Amren. We met and discussed the offer…and,” she swallowed, “I am interested.”

“What do you understand of the offer and the proposal?” he asked seriously.

She tugged on her skirt and peered down, looking at the floor. 

Quietly, she answered,

“A gentleman requires the services of a female to produce a child, an heir. The gentleman is willing to pay ten thousand pounds for the child and…well, would pay all throughout the pregnancy…That is all.”

He sighed and turned, his movements measured and languid, as he walked to the window and clasped his hands behind his back, as he looked out on the busy Vincent Street.

“I fear, Miss Archeron, that you are underestimating the commitment that this ordeal would require of you,” he said, almost to himself.

Elain’s heart dropped.

He wasn’t interested.

He did ot find her comely or appealing or satisfactory. Perhaps he liked her photograph, but seeing her in person made him change his mind.

Ten thousand pounds was an astronomical amount of money.

It was enormous. At the height of their success, the Archeron family wealth was estimated at about fifteen thousand pounds, which made Elain and her sisters very appealing on the marriage market. To have a large portion of that fortune come back to them would guarantee a bright future for all–they could all marry well, they could cure Feyre’s illness, they could operate on their father’s mangled leg and send him to Italy or France to recuperate. They could have fine homes and wardrobes and servants. 

Currently, they existed on about four pounds a month, for the four of them. If they were lucky. 

“I don’t think that I am, my lord,” Elain found it in herself to answer boldly and firmly. “I understand what is required.”

“You understand that you must lie with me,” he was still not looking at her, and therefore couldn’t see her flaming cheeks, “and have relations with me as if I were your husband. You would be required to do so at my beckoning and pleasure, for at least six months,”

“What happens after six months?” she interrupted him, confused.

He turned his head and explained,

“I am willing to allot six months for the conception to take place. Children are usually not made in a day…it may take time, and I realise that. I feel that six months is an adequate amount of time for you to conceive. If you don’t, then we will part ways, since clearly we would not be compatible enough to create a child together.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek and then asked,

“And if I don't…conceive that is? What happens then?”

He shrugged,

“You will be paid five hundred pounds for your troubles and you will leave. Naturally, you will be bound by the non-disclosure agreement for the rest of your life. That extends to me as well, Miss Archeron. If we proceed with this…arrangement…whatever the outcome is, your name will not be mentioned or besmirched, so that you have a chance at a successful marriage with a man of your choosing.”

“I appreciate that, my lord,” she said sincerely.

He went back to the desk and gathered a stack of papers in his hands, though he did not give them to her yet. He was clearly still deciding on something, his brow furrowed. At last, he said,

“These are the financial terms of the arrangement, Miss Archeron. If we proceed, you will sign and retain a copy for yourself.

“Again, I urge you to consider everything with utmost seriousness,” he pressed. “This is not a trivial matter. Your involvement with me may last up to a year and a half. It is quite a long time for a woman of your age to dedicate to a…male. One who will not marry you in the end, and whom you shan’t see again.

“Furthermore, if there is a child, it will be wholly mine.”

A shudder ran through Elain and she suddenly became cold. When he put it like that, it did give her pause. Because in exchange for the money, she would be required to give up her baby. Theoretically she understood that–when she began corresponding with Mrs. Amren, and when they finally met, this was thoroughly discussed. But seeing this man in the flesh, even briefly imagining that there would be…coital relations involved, though Elain wasn’t quite sure precisely what it all entailed, and then there would potentially be a pregnancy, which was something that was often fraught with dangers, only to end in a painful labour, and then…the separation. Permanent separation from a baby that she’d give birth to. From the man too. Yes, he was strikingly handsome–to her great relief–but she knew that she was in danger of developing feelings for him, which he surely would never reciprocate. He had his poor wife and was devoted to her, and was only after an heir to carry his name and his legacy. Elain would be left without love, without companionship, without her babe, but with money. She supposed that she could have more children, but the idea of giving up her son or daughter seemed terrifying. Her firstborn. 

Azriel looked up at her and watched the warring emotions that danced on her face. 

“Would you like me to read out the terms?” he asked at last, his expression slightly softened, even kinder.

She swallowed and nodded.

He glanced at the first page and began reading.

“The female in the arrangement is expected to be an unmarried and unbetrothed maid, of good moral standing and a virgin. She is to be free of diseases and for the duration of the arrangement she may not be seen with a male or engage in any manner of relations with a male other than the Requestor.

She would enter into the arrangement willingly and would be required to have sexual intercourse with the Requestor at his bidding. The Requestor shall not physically hurt, slap, hit, abuse or force the female, and will not verbally insult or berate her. If the female is unwilling or unable to have sexual relations with the Requestor, she is to notify him immediately and provide an explanation as to the cause. Relations are not required from the female when she has her monthly flow. 

The female is expected to live on premises of the Requestor’s abode and accompany him upon his travels. She shall have her private room(s) at the dwellings. She is not expected to sleep with the Requestor or share his private quarters. The female is required to maintain her decorum at all times, and may not fraternise with the help. The female is not to divulge any part of the agreement to anyone, including her family. The female will not occupy a place at the servants’ quarters and will not partake in meals with them. The female will have a maid of her own to assist her with personal matters. 

Upon conception, the female is to remain at the Requestor’s home, under the care of his physicians. She is to maintain a healthy lifestyle, to ensure a successful pregnancy. She will be assisted during her labour by a midwife, a doula, nurses and physicians. Upon delivery of the child, the female will be allowed to bond and nurse the infant for up to one week (if she wishes  to do so). After one week of recovery, the child will be removed from the female’s care and presence. At that time, the arrangement would be considered fulfilled and would be terminated.

The Requestor guarantees the following payments:

£1000 for taking the female’s virginity

£50 weekly stipend, for up to six months of service

£50 weekly stipend for the duration of the pregnancy

£1000 for labour and delivery

£10,000 for the birth of a live child

All legal fees, room and board, wardrobe allowance, personal and beauty treatments, transportation, et cetera would be provided by the Requestor. 

The female may be allowed to spend Christmas with her family (up to one week), as well as one week of her choosing as a personal holiday.”

He did not ask whether she was agreeable to the contract, but simply handed it to her and said,

“Read this over and be thorough. Any questions, you should ask me.”

Elain didn't answer for a while, but he didn’t seem impatient, and wasn’t put off by the awkward silence between them. Instead, he went over to a sideboard upon which stood a decanter and some glasses and poured himself a drink of whatever it was.

She finally broke the silence and said,

“This is much more than ten thousand.”

It seemed that she took him by surprise with her comment and he looked at her with expectation.

“The contract was for ten…this is closer to twenty,” she pushed. 

“Is that a problem?” he queried.

“I just…” she blushed, “I don’t want to be unfair. I was fine with ten. Why a thousand for the virginity?”

He sat back in the wing chair and sipped his drink, before saying,

“Seems only fair. I would be taking something that doesn’t belong to me and isn’t intended for me to take. You ought to be compensated for that.”

Theoretically, what he was saying made sense to her, but it seemed so…transactional. And, of course, it was a transaction. There were no feelings involved. 

Craning his head side to side, he added after a pause,

“The pleasure is free, if that makes you feel better. I won’t be charging for it, and I won’t be paying for it either. You can enjoy it free and clear.”

If that meant to be a lighthearted comment of some sort, it didn’t land, because Elain looked at him, perplexed and said. “What pleasure?”

He chuckled softly, “Sexual pleasure, Miss Archeron.”

“There is no pleasure in relations such as those,” she argued primly.

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing into the leather and smiled at her, though the curve of his beautiful mouth was both challenging and sinister.

“And you are an expert then?” 

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and she couldn’t even believe that she was discussing this with a man she didn’t know.

“I am no expert, my lord,” she told him, “but what pleasure could there be? It is an act designed to propagate the species.”

He propped his head on his fist, crossing his long, muscular legs and swaying his boot-clad foot casually. A lock of his silky black hair fell on his forehead and Elain had the insane urge to go and fix it for him. His handsomeness didn’t help. Elain had feared that the man would be old and paunchy, sweaty and balding. Why else would one need to contract for a woman to give him a child? She figured maybe he was missing limbs, or had distorted features, or perhaps some unappealing trait…but she definitely, definitely did not expect Lord Night. She had some parameters that she had set for herself in regards to the arrangement–if the gentleman seemed brutish, if his looks made her squeamish, if he had a visible disease or if his visage repelled her, she would not have gone along with the scheme. As much as she needed the money, she also knew that she wouldn’t have a child with someone cruel or unappealing. She wanted her baby to live in a loving environment and with a parent who’d want them and care for them. 

The problem was that Lord Night’s appearance quickly overrode her good sense. It wasn’t something that she ever considered–that he would be so handsome and so titled that she’d forget all her common sense and all the expectations that she had prior to meeting him.

Stumbling a bit over her own tongue, she asked at last,

“What sort of pleasure is there?”

“Ahhmm Miss Archeron,” he smiled at her, “why do you think people have lost their minds and morals through the centuries over love?”

It was an excellent question, to which Elain did not have an answer. Why indeed?

“Well, perhaps, you will have the chance to find out,” he got up and straightened his jacket.

“I do not want love, my lord,” Elain insisted brusquely. 

He nodded slowly,

“Yes, yes. I know. You need the money.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t fall in love, Miss Archeron,” he suggested.

But why did it sound like a challenge.

“Take the rest of the day to think about everything,” he told her. “These rooms are yours for the night. You may order food and drink. St. John’s Gardens are not far–should you wish to take a stroll. 

“I will call upon you tomorrow, at 10 am, and I expect an answer.”

* UK £10,000.00 in 1890 would be equivalent to £1,644,035.82 in 2023, an absolute change of £1,634,035.82 and a cumulative change of 16,340.36%.

[best-animated-short-tourney]

Accepted Shorts List

This list will be updated as shorts are selected, and will become a masterdoc for entries.

Piper, dir. Alan Barillaro (Available on Disney+)

Dissolve, dir. Carina Heller

Sharp Teeth, dir. David James Armsby

Tar Boy, dir. James Lee

Moses of Prosthesis, dir. Gagame

Quasi at the Quackadero, dir. Sally Cruikshank

Welcome to Hell, dir. Erica Wester

Friendly Shadow, dir. David James Armsby

The Acorn Princess, dir. Kris Yim

Drawn to You, dir. Eleanor Davitt

Scattershot, dir. Jade Smania

Ramshackle, dir. Zi Chen

Paperman, dir. John Kahrs (Available on Disney+, Amazon, iTunes, Google Play)

Loop, dir. Erica Milsom (Available on Disney+)

Jinxy Jenkins & Lucky Lou, dir. Michael Bidinger and Michelle Kwon

Kitbull, dir. Rosana Sullivan

Out, dir. Steven Clay Hunter

In a Heartbeat, dir. Beth David and Esteban Bravo

Ice Merchants, dir. João Gonzalez

Diamond Jack, dir. Rachel Kim

Lackadaisy (Pilot), dir. Fable Siegel

The Cat Came Back, dir. Cordell Barker

Fuelled, dir. Michelle Hao and Fawn Chan

The Man Who Planted Trees, dir. Frédéric Back

My Friends Take the Night Bus, dir. Sofi

Wallace & Gromit: The Wrong Trousers, dir. Nick Park

The Naked King -What a Beautiful Life-, dir. rapparu

Coming Out, dir. Cressa Maeve Beer

Dear Girl, dir. Choi Ji-eun

Jibaro, dir. Alberto Mielgo (Available on Netflix, Love Death + Robots S3E9)

The Witness, dir. Alberto Mielgo (Available on Netflix, Love Death + Robots S1E3)

The Legend of Pipi, dir. Julia Schoel and Birgit Uhlig

The Cameraman's Revenge, dir. Wladyslaw Starewicz

What's Opera, Doc? dir. Chuck Jones

The Dover Boys at Pimento University; or, The Rivals of Roquefort Hall, dir. Chuck Jones

Kitty Kornered, dir. Bob Clampett

A Wild Hare, dir. Tex Avery

Everything Will Be OK, dir. Don Hertzfeldt

Yankee Doodle Daffy, dir. Friz Freleng

Duck Dodgers in the 24½th Century, dir. Chuck Jones

Long Gone Gulch, dir. Tara Billenger and Zach Bellissimo

I Love to Singa, dir. Tex Avery

Opal, dir. Jack Stauber

Scaredy Cat, dir. Chuck Jones

I Should Leave This Mall I Think, dir. Noodle

Porky's Duck Hunt, dir. Tex Avery

Bambi Meets Godzilla, dir. Marv Newland

Porky in Wackyland, dir. Bob Clampett

Rabbit Seasoning, dir. Chuck Jones

One Froggy Evening, dir. Chuck Jones

Don vs. Raph, dir. Jhonen Vasquez

Cat City, dir. Victoria Vincent

Roller Coaster Rabbit, dir. Rob Minkoff

Tummy Trouble, dir. Rob Minkoff

Trail Mix-Up, dir. Barry Cook

Blood Bound, dir. Lyly Hoang

Ciao, Alberto, dir. McKenna Harris (Available on Disney+)

Blackfly, dir. Christopher Hinton

Charlie the Unicorn: The Grand Finale, dir. Jason Steele

Free Apple, dir. Ian Worthington

Bigtop Burger Season 1, dir. Ian Worthington

There's a Man in the Woods, dir. Jacob Streilein

Llamas with Hats: The Series, dir. Jason Steele

Welcome to my Life, dir. Elizabeth Ito

Duck Amuck, dir. Chuck Jones

We Can't Live Without Cosmos, dir. Konstantin Bronzit

Geri's Game, dir. Jan Pinkava

Have to change the format cause tumblr has a limit to text in a single list

68. Snow-White, dir. Dave Fleischer

69. DAICON IV Opening Animation, dir. Hiroyuki Yamaga

70. Rooty Toot Toot, dir. John Hubley

71. SHOP: A Pop Opera, dir. Jack Stauber

72. Rabbit of Seville, dir. Chuck Jones

73. The Cat Concerto, dir. Joseph Barbera and William Hanna

74. My Little Goat, dir. Tomoki Misato

75. Asparagus, dir. Suzan Pitt (Available on the Criterion Channel)

76. Puparia, dir. Shingo Tamagawa

77. The Cybernetic Grandma, dir. Jiří Trnka

78. Captain Yajima, dir. Ian Worthington

79. Agoraphobia, dir. Victoria Vincent

80. Donald in Mathmagic Land, dir. Hamilton Luske, Wolfgang Reitherman, Les Clark and Joshua Meador

81. Joy Street, dir. Suzan Pitt (Available on the Criterion Channel)

82. The Old Man and The Sea, dir. Aleksandr Petrov

83. The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, dir. Aleksandr Petrov

84. Vincent, dir. Tim Burton

85. World of Tomorrow, dir. Don Hertzfeldt

86. World of Tomorrow Episode 2: The Burden of Other People's Thoughts, dir. Don Hertzfeldt (pay per view of Vimeo)

87. The Magic Portal, dir. Lindsay Fleay

88. The Golden Chain, dir. Adebukola Bodunrin and Ezra Claytan Daniels (available on the Criterion Channel)

89. Black Soul, dir. Martine Chartrand

90. Hedgehog in the Fog, dir. Yuri Norstein

91. Dreams of the Rarebit Fiend: The Flying House, dir. Windsor McCay

92. Around is Around, dir. Evelyn Lambart and Norman McLaren

93. Popeye the Sailor Meets Sinbad the Sailor, dir. Dave Fleischer

94. Historia Naturae (Suita), dir. Jan Svankmajer

95. Still Lost I Guess, Here's a Tunnel, dir. Dario Alva

96. Kapaemahu, dir. Joe Wilson, Dean Hamer and Hinaleimoana Wong-Kalu

97. Long-Haired Hare, dir. Chuck Jones

98. Muto, dir. Blu

99. Windy Day, dir. John and Faith Hubley

100. Bully for Bugs, dir. Chuck Jones

101. The Haunted Hotel, dir. J. Stuart Blackton

102. Destino, dir. Dominique Monfery (Available on Disney+)

103. Fantasy, dir. Vince Collins

104. To Beep or Not To Beep, dir. Chuck Jones

105. Pixillation, dir. Lillian Schwartz

106. Goodbye Jerome!, dir. Chloé Farr, Gabrielle Selnet and Adam Sillard (Available on the Criterion Channel)

107. Betty Boop's Halloween Party, dir. Dave Fleischer

108. Jumping, dir. Osamu Tezuka

109. Baby Fingers, dir. Adrian Dalen

110. On Your Mark, dir. Hayao Miyazaki

[is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not]

SLDF Naval Assets, as of Operation TOUCHDOWN, 2153

SLS McKenna's Pride, McKenna-class battleship, SLDF Flagship (Commanding General's Squadron)

SLS Zughoffer Weir, McKenna-class battleship

SLS Bismarck, Texas-class battleship

SLS Ukraine, Texas-class battleship

SLS Chieftain, Liberation (Stefan Amaris)-class battleship (reactivated from museum ship status)

SLS Galactica, Dreadnought-class Battleship (reactivated from museum ship status; extensive refit)

SLS Quicksilver Mongoose, Du Shi Wang-class battleship (recovered from Clan Homeworlds mothball fleet during Operation PICKPOCKET)

SLS Great Coyote Spirit, Nightlord-class battleship (recovered from Clan Homeworlds mothball fleet during Operation PICKPOCKET)

SLS Barham, Monsoon-class battleship (recovered from Clan Homeworlds mothball fleet during Operation PICKPOCKET)

SLS Enterprise, Enterprise-class supercarrier

SLS Blood Drinker, Black Lion-class battlecruiser

SLS Arctic Wolf, Black Lion-class battlecruiser

SLS Dark Wolf, Black Lion-class battlecruiser

SLS Jade Aerie, Black Lion-class battlecruiser

SLS White Aerie, Black Lion-class battlecruiser

SLS Streaking Mist, Black Lion-class battlecruiser

SLS Tripitz, Black Lion-class battlecruiser (hulk recovered from New Vandenburg system in return for concessions to Taurian Concordat; repaired and refitted)

SLS Bloody Fang, Cameron-class battlecruiser

SLS Turkina's Pride, Cameron-class battlecruiser

SLS Invincible, Tharkad-class battlecruiser

SLS Blue Talon, Aegis-class heavy cruiser

SLS Jade Talon, Aegis-class heavy cruiser

SLS Red Talon, Aegis-class heavy cruiser

SLS Gold Talon, Aegis-class heavy cruiser

SLS Chaos Sailor, Aegis-class heavy cruiser

SLS White Terror, Aegis-class heavy cruiser

SLS Auspicium, Aegis-class heavy cruiser

SLS Manassas, Aegis-class heavy cruiser (experimental refit)

SLS Talismantia, Sovetskii Soyuz-class heavy cruiser (leased from Clan Sea Fox)

SLS Dire Wolf, Sovetskii Soyuz-class heavy cruiser

SLS Soyal, Soyal-class heavy cruiser

SLS Victoria Ward, Liberator-class light cruiser

SLS Jerome Winson, Liberator-class light cruiser

SLS Surprise, Kimagure Surprise-class pursuit cruiser

SLS Vision of Truth, Potemkin-class troop cruiser

SLS Renown, Potemkin-class troop cruiser

SLS Abyssal, Potemkin-class troop cruiser (leased from Clan Sea Fox)

SLS Bonaventure, Potemkin-class troop cruiser (leased from Raven Alliance)

SLS Eden Rose, Potemkin-class troop cruiser (leased from Raven Alliance)

SLS Okami, Lola III-class destroyer

SLS Caleuche, Lola III-class destroyer (leased from Clan Sea Fox)

SLS Ranger, Lola III-class destroyer

SLS Emerald Tornado, Whirlwind-class destroyer

SLS Jade Tornado, Whirlwind-class destroyer

SLS Sabre Cat, Essex-class destroyer

SLS The Iowa, Essex-class destroyer

SLS Abundantia, Essex-class destroyer

SLS Deathblow, Essex-class destroyer

SLS Manchester, Suffren-class destroyer

SLS Rogue, Congress-class frigate

SLS Fire Crest, Congress-class frigate

SLS Kerensky's Pride, Congress-class frigate

SLS Silver Merlin, Peregrine-class corvette

SLS Green Kestrel, Peregrine-class corvette

SLS Killing Blow, Vincent Mk42-class corvette

SLS Arm's Reach, Vincent Mk42-class corvette

SLS Simas Osis, Vincent Mk42-class corvette

SLS Liberator, Volga-class transport (leased from Clan Sea Fox)

SLS Megalodon, Volga-class transport (leased from Clan Sea Fox)

SLS Matahourua, Carrack-class transport (leased from Clan Sea Fox)

SLS Tethys, Carrack-class transport (leased from Clan Sea Fox)

SLS Far Star, Carrack-class transport

SLS Enlightened Path, Carrack-class transport

SLS Nebula, Carrack-class transport

SLS Glory Road, Carrack-class transport

SLS Blessed Vision, Carrack-class transport

SLS Pathfinder, Carrack-class transport

SLS Guiding Vision, Carrack-class transport

SLS Bright Star, Carrack-class transport

SLS Faithful Rite, Carrack-class transport

SLS Dover, Faslane-class yardship

SLS Necessitas, Faslane-class yardship

SLS Harmonia, Faslane-class yardship

SLS Glamorgan, Faslane-class yardship

SLS Clementia, Newgrange-class Yardship

[catherinesboleyn]

Queen Victoria’s long white dress in Victoria in Dover (1954)

[divinekangaroo]

WIP: a honeymoon fic teaser for @deliciousnutcomputer for such patience :)

tommy x lizzie; drinking/inebriation, friction, very unreliable (drunk) narrator XD

(it might not seem it but this one will have the most terribly sweet ending i can possibly imagine)

Day 1:

5:00 PM: Arrive at Victoria Embankment in London to board the Orient Express. 6:00 PM: Departure from London towards Dover. Enjoy dinner in the dining car. Socialise in the lounge and bar cars.  Live music and conversation. Admire the passing countryside and towns as the train continues its journey. During the evening, compartments will be prepared for sleeping with the seating converted into luxury beds.

*

‘There’s fingerprints.’

Lizzie looked up from her plate. Quail at perfect moistness, green peppercorn. Some kind of broccoli sliced into the thinnest of curls, transparent as if green glass, or a museum’s pressed dissection of a small tree. Never particularly been intrigued by the idea of matching wine to meal, one of those things the upper classes pretended was real but wasn’t just to create another barrier, Lizzie learned otherwise: something about the way the white wine, selected for her meal especially, that made everything taste so much better. Hadn’t been the first sip, but layered, as if taste was something that could build over time, acquired, and she was in the thick of complementary layered bliss on her tongue right now. 

The green-eyed sommelier explained it to her with a masculine grace and an attention she’d felt warmly gratified by, as he’d seemed to recognise instantly Tommy wouldn’t pay attention, and instead poured his French-accented charm onto her instead. She’d listened, rapt, and drank everything he gave her.

As if giving a toast, Tommy raised his tumbler to the burnished chandeliers that gave the dining car such atmosphere, frowning.

‘See?  Fingerprints.’

‘Are they your fingerprints?’

‘Course they’re not mine. Look, there’s specks of dirt in this glass.’

‘Tommy.’

Now he was sniffing the contents. ‘Is this scotch? Taste it for me. They’ve given me scotch. In someone else’s fucking unwashed glass.’

‘Can you please get your glass out of my face—’

‘Where’s this bar car? I’m not taking this.’

How was she supposed to know if he didn’t? ‘Given there’s only two directions you could possibly go, I’m sure you’ll find it.’

Tommy gave her an unreadable look, untucked his chair, and stalked out the back end of the dining car, holding the glass out as if it was some dripping bloody organ. Then he hit his shoulder on the doorframe as he passed and paused to glare at it.  

Lizzie looked at her plate to avoid seeing if he'd start a fight with mostly inanimate architecture. She ate another careful mouthful of quail with a slice of broccoli folded onto the gold fork by way of the gold knife. There were still three forks and three knives on the table next to her plate, and three spoons in different sizes arranged at the top of the gold-rimmed plate. She assumed one set had been for the prawn thing in the glasses Tommy waved away before the waiters could approach their table, which she forgave because a disgust for shellfish couldn’t be argued with; another for the soup course he’d looked at and sent back without checking with her, which she didn’t forgive when she’d not even the chance to see what it was. But she wasn’t sure about the final cutlery set because it wasn’t meant for dessert, was it?  

She'd lost her taste for sweet things, anyway. Now she would never know.

Five minutes later, Tommy crossed through again to exit to the front of the car, still holding the offending glass, giving her a passing frown.

Lizzie looked at his plate, steak with the slightest blush of pink at the centre; she could tell because he’d sliced it thin as the broccoli, precisely, end to end, complaining it wasn’t cooked through, didn’t they know uncooked meat gave people worms or worse, he’d had better from a gutted squirrel at a fucking street stall grilled over charcoal on a stick. He’d pushed all the potatoes off the plate in the process of his slicing, exactly like Charlie at his petulant worst, staining the tablecloth.  

Having drained her glass of impeccably selected white wine staring at his plate, Lizzie waved the waiter over to fill her up again. The couple at the table next to her looked at her, not exactly aghast, but politely puzzled. Possibly you weren’t supposed to click repeatedly at a waiter like that in first class. Possibly you weren’t supposed to even call them. Maybe it was all done through some strange set of social signals no one was allowed to explain, because you had to be born into it. 

No one seemed to stare at Tommy like that no matter what he did, though, so men must have a free pass. Either that or he’d found a better book of etiquette than she ever had and not deigned to share.

‘You might as well leave the bottle. Are you allowed to do that?’

‘Of course, madam.’

‘Ta. Thank you, I mean. Thank you.’

‘At your service, madam.’ From the cow-eyes, he looked like he wanted to kiss the back of her hand. Surely that wasn’t reasonable? Lizzie looked away, slightly disturbed, and the couple at the table across offered her near-identical conciliatory smiles, sweetly, which made her realise they weren’t a couple but rather brother and sister, and that was perhaps an invitation to participate in some of that much lauded social conversation listed on their itinerary.

In the corner of the car, on a small elevated triangular stage, a trio of young violinists set up quietly. Two women with hair piled high in identical crowns-of-braids and one man, dark skinned.  At some unseen cue, they all began to play, ethereal and compelling. Lizzie thought distantly of Charlie’s practice, wondered if he’d keep his attention on it long enough to become this good.  Violins were amazing instruments. Having mostly filled her days and a good few nights of marriage so far with various entertainments now available to her, including orchestral performances, Lizzie had decided violins might be her favourite. Not just because of Charlie, but because even his faltering practice made the instrument sound almost human in some way, even if with him it was more crying than singing. Now, in the hands of masters, the instruments pulled her into another place where baby new potatoes weren’t rocking gently on the tablecloth with the motion of the train.

Frisson, that’s what it was. Lifting her from the mundanity of having endured without comment the now hours-long litany of Mr Thomas Shelby’s complaints of raw steak and dirty glasses and the station queues and the traffic on the way in and how could she forget her fucking passport all while pretending he hadn’t forgotten his and the stupid imperfect and fundamentally flawed itinerary the latest useless office lackey put together for this whole affair, the crammed luggage and the lack of information on the weather that would be awaiting them so they couldn’t even pack clothes properly as if he'd ever wear anything other than a bloody three-piece in public and the time this would take away from important business and she’d better be happy and why France, Lizzie, why fucking France, when he’d been the one who picked it—

Nothing was left in the bottle. Lizzie realised it was late enough the car was nearly empty, offending plate and potatoes cleared, and she was almost liquid in her chair, suddenly conscious of how she must look. Eyes half-lidded, face soft, listening and looking, free hand curled at her chest as if wounded, and a total degradation of posture.

The young violinist caught Lizzie’s eye and winked at her, inclined his head so briefly towards the rear end of the car. A lifted eyebrow, in enquiry and offering. He put an extra little effort into his bow arm, the tilt of his chin, and held her eye in a particularly meaningful way.

‘Do you want to fuck me,’ Lizzie asked the empty chair opposite her, jarring and vicious and in her poshest attempt at the King’s English.

The chair didn’t answer.

Then she went to find the bar car or her bed, whatever showed up first in the grand linear journey that was navigating a train where apparently everyone except for her husband actually did, in fact, want to fuck her, blaming her sway and the nearly-rolled ankle along the way on the motion of the carriage.

[stephensmithuk]

Boat trains

Boat trains were dedicated railway services that operated from London and some other places to British ports to connect with ships. These trains did not go on the ships themselves, bar the Night Ferry, which is much later than the period we're discussing.

You could buy through tickets from London to various continental destinations (as well as places like the Channel Islands or Ireland) and these dedicated trains were indeed generally limited solely to those heading overseas. Liverpool Street, Charing Cross and Victoria were particularly associated with them:

Liverpool Street used Platforms 9 and 10 for its trains and you could actually walk into the Great Eastern Hotel directly from the platform.

Victoria used Platforms 1, 2 and 8. 2 is still commonly used for charter services and the British Pullman that connects with the Venice Simplon Orient Express, although the latter connection is stopping from 2024, partly due to Brexit.

Blackfriars had a wall showing the various destinations "served" from there, which is still on display after being cleaned up.

Once across the Channel/North Sea, you would board another connecting train operated by the relevant local company. London to Paris was therefore doable within a day. These through connections included the Orient Express, which had carriages from Calais and the various European destinations were displayed on the departure boards:

Trains also operated in connection with the ocean liners that left from places like Southampton.

As Watson does in "The Final Problem", you could register your heavier luggage subject to fees if you went over a certain weight and have this carried in a separate luggage section, it being moved between trains, ships etc. by porters. I am sure some of it got lost.

British Railways even developed a special battery-powered railcar, the Class 419 Motor Luggage Van, for the purpose of carrying registered luggage onto the quays at Dover where a third rail would cause safety issues, which would be attached to the main train until detached there.

Immigration formalities would be dealt with at the ports, but you could sometimes also deal with customs at your destination for registered luggage, Victoria having a facility for this.

Boat trains were considered the most premium expresses, using the most modern carriages, the newest engines, and the most experienced crews. They would also provide at-seat catering in some cases for first class passengers. Bradshaw's has plenty of advertisements for them.

Boat trains to Dover continued to run until the opening of the Channel Tunnel in 1994. You can still get through tickets from London to the Netherlands via the Harwich-Hoek van Holland ferry, but there is no longer a dedicated train, which stopped in 2007.

[cleverwordsandotherstuffilike]

Ethel “Sunny” Lowry was born in Longsight in 1911. Her dad was a fish wholesaler and she was a 2nd cousin of the artist, LS Lowry.

From an early age, she loved swimming. She would swim regularly at Victoria Baths and Levenshulme Baths. She went to Manchester High School for Girls. The school thought that Sunny was rather too much focused on swimming. Sunny later said: "The headmistress was a rather stern woman and she looked at me from over her half-moon glasses and said 'Lowry, what is your ambition?' I replied immediately, 'To swim the Channel' and she said, without another word, 'Dismissed!'."

By her late teens, Sunny had developed into a strong distance swimmer. She took advantage of family holidays to swim the length of Windermere and along stretches of the North Wales coast. She often liked to wear a two-piece costume, which was very daring for those days.  On more than one occasion she said she was "branded a harlot for daring to bare her knees".

She entered an X-Factor style competition in which the winner got to be trained by a top team for a cross-Channel swim. Out of 300 applicants, Sunny was chosen. So, in 1933, at the age of 22, she caught a train from Manchester down to the south coast to begin rigorous training. Her trainer was tough - the first thing he said to her was "'If you say the water's cold, you may as well get off home".

On her first attempt to swim the Channel, she was defeated by strong currents. She tried again the next day, and got to within sight of the French coast. But then a storm blew up. It grew so wild and dark, the team boat completely lost sight of her. She was only spotted when one of the crew caught a glimpse of her swimming cap during a flash of lightning.  So that attempt was abandoned as well. After two failed attempts, the team considered giving up, but Sunny said she really wanted to give it one last go.

She set off again, this time from the French side. It was in the small hours of the morning and was still dark. As usual, she had to be covered in grease to protect from the cold. In preparation, she'd been eating up to 40 eggs a week (mostly in omelettes) and pushed up her weight to 14st 7lb, because it was predicted that she would lose a pound for every hour in the sea.

During the swim, she ate nothing, but paused now and again to drink coffee, cocoa and beef tea,  which she swigged from a medicine bottle dangled over the side of the escort boat.

After swimming for 15 hours 41 minutes, she finally emerged from a rough sea, and crawled up the beach at St Margaret's Bay, near Dover.  Her face and neck were swollen with jellyfish bites, and her lips were cracked and blue. She was exhausted. But she'd made it.

She thus became the 6th woman to swim the Channel and the 3rd British woman ever to do so.

After her successful swim, Sunny returned to Manchester and was she greeted by cheering crowds at Central Station. She accepted that her moment in the limelight would not last and she dedicated her life to teaching swimming. She later married and her husband, Bill, was also a swimming teacher.

She was later awarded an MBE. Sunny was described as a wonderful, gentle, kind lady. Her great niece said: "She was as fit as a fiddle, as sharp as ninepence, and she kept on swimming well into her 90s".

Sunny died, aged 97, in 2008.