#lady barrister

[bisthefairy]

The average Mario Kart character owns 35 shitty businesses

[streetsofdublin]

THE TOMB OF THE JEALOUS MAN AND WOMAN AND A CURE FOR WARTS REF-226395-1

Locals believe that if you stroke a wart with a pin or needle and leave it in the tomb the wart will disappear as the pin rusts

THE CEMETERY OF ST PETER AND PAULS CATHEDRAL IN TRIM Visit the cemetery of St. Peter and Paul`s Cathedral you will discover an impressive altar tomb dating from around 1592. The tomb known locally as “the Jealous man and Woman” is the resting place of Sir Lucas Dillon and his wife Lady Jane Bathe. In reality the tobm could be better described as being what is left of Newtown Clonbun Parish…

[artsandculture]

Lady Agnew of Lochnaw (1892) 🎨 John Singer Sargent 🏛️ National Galleries Scotland 📍 Edinburgh, Scotland

Sargent’s dazzling and unforgettable image of Lady Agnew is one of the most famous of his many portraits of fashionable London society. For both the artist and his sitter, the painting was an instant success, establishing Sargent’s reputation as the portrait painter of choice for the London elite and immediately transforming the newly elevated Lady Agnew into a society celebrity.

Sargent was born in Florence and spent his childhood travelling across Europe with his wealthy American parents who restlessly followed the changing social seasons. In 1874 he entered the Paris studio of the stylish French portraitist, Carolus-Duran. The young Sargent combined the flamboyant style of his teacher with his study of old masters such as Rembrandt and Velázquez but was also influenced by Monet and Impressionism. His provocative and unconventional Portrait of Madame X caused a scandal at the Paris Salon exhibition in 1884; and, when Sargent settled in London in 1886, he initially found it difficult to find clients as his bravura, continental style of painting attracted suspicion. However, his dashing technical mastery and confident manner were ideally suited for aristocratic patronage and he soon won over his critics with his elegant, flattering portraits. When his portrait of Lady Agnew was shown at the Royal Academy in 1893, one contemporary observed: ‘London is at his feet … he has had a cracking success.’

The sitter was born Gertrude Vernon and married Andrew Noel Agnew in 1889. Her husband, fifteen years her senior, was a barrister and later an MP and deputy-Lieutenant in Wigtownshire; he succeeded his father as 9th Baronet of Lochnaw in 1892, shortly before Sargent embarked on this portrait. The exact circumstances behind the commission are not known, but the Agnews may have met the artist through mutual American friends. According to notes in her husband’s diary, work on the portrait progressed swiftly, and Sargent later recalled that it was painted in just six sittings.

Lady Agnew is shown seated in a Louis XVI chair against the backdrop of a Chinese silk hanging, both of which were standard props in Sargent’s studio. She is reported to have been of frail health; she recovered slowly from a severe bout of influenza in 1890 and was apparently still convalescing and suffering from exhaustion when she sat to Sargent, which may account for her slightly ghostly pallor in the painting. Lady Agnew fixes the spectator with an intelligent, faintly amused gaze but it is her elegant white silk dress and lilac sash that threaten to steal all our attention. There are brilliant passages of painting in the highlights, reflections and coloured shadows that show Sargent at his best as a painter of surfaces and textures, the ideal artist for a gilded, polished yet ultimately superficial society.

Sargent’s image of Lady Agnew helped her to become a leading light in fashionable circles, holding lavish salons in her London home. Ironically, the high costs of this hospitality meant that she was eventually forced to sell some family pictures including this portrait which was purchased by the Scottish National Gallery in 1925.

[iknowitsariot]

poison either way | chapter one

My Lady Jane | Jane Grey x Guildford Dudley | Rated E | 4,124 words | chapter 1 of 8

She wants to get her mother off her case. He wants to save his family from financial ruin. Their first meeting is a disaster, but their parents are convinced they're each other's future spouses. So Jane Grey and Guildford Dudley choose a totally reasonable, not-remotely-doomed course of action:

They pretend to date each other. Should be fine, because Jane doesn't want Guildford in the slightest...right?

~

Jane doesn’t get out much, what with the fact that she’s spent nearly every waking moment since she was eighteen working to become a successful – and more importantly, financially independent – barrister specializing in human rights and international justice. School and training and exams and papers have left little time nor energy to be spent on the more frivolous habits of some of her peers, such as drinking heavily and stumbling about connected by the mouth to some stranger while “Mr. Brightside” inevitably plays in the background. So on the rare moment when Jane does decide to indulge, it’s usually for some nagging reason that needs immediate forgetting.

Reason number one: that forty-page paper she poured countless hours into, read through dozens of time for errors today alone, and uploaded five minutes before the submission deadline, to feel something like relief mixed with anxious nausea hit the second she hit send.

Reason number two: her mother’s inability to see her as someone who can take care of herself, who is the whip-smart and capable and self-reliant young woman that Frances intentionally raised her to be, who needs a husband about as much as she needs a kick in the head.

Reason number three: some motherfucker named Guildford Dudley.

read more on ao3

[jalebi-weds-bluetooth]

Saheb, Bibi aur Ghulaam

#3

Thank you to the lovelies @arshifiesta for celebrating IPK and setting up the great moodboards and AU.

1878, Calcutta

Eleven years old Arnav Mullick had not spoken a word in a year.

Some thought it was his parents' traumatizing deaths that led to his silence. But death was nothing new. The house had lost its middle son, his Mejda Akash at tender age of 19.

So no, death made no difference to Arnav. In fact he was happy when his philanderer of a father died of drinking as well. He deserved it. Not once had he seen his father home at night.

Arobindo Mullick would often scoff when stopped, that if any man of this house had ever spent a night in his own house?

So then some speculated that Arnav's behavioral issues had gotten worse, hence why he stopped speaking for a year.

If his darling mother was alive, she would've wrestled with anyone who thought such against her Arnob. Shyam, Arnav's Borda (boro-dada = older-brother) would perhaps be the only one to chuckle and agree with the society. Arnav was tempestuous as a child.

But quiet? Never quite.

The society would never understand that it was Akash's falling for a Baiji (courtesan) at the age of seventeen, his frequent visits leading his early introduction to alcohol despite their mother's best to protect them for it that hurt Arnav the most.

This was when Arnav swore off love.

That his otherwise pious brother was gullible to follow his father's footsteps to a kotha - where Arobindo Mullick spent all his nights.

It was his mother's haunted face and tears that left Arnav speechless. Or rather Arobindo's reply to her request to stay at home.

Has any Mullick ever spent a night in their own home?

This was when Arnav swore off marriage.

Or that despite Raja Rammohan Roy having abolished Sati-pratha a good sixty years ago, Arnav's mother was dragged to her undeserving husband's pyre by her conservative in-laws to follow patni dharam.

This was when Arnav swore off religion.

But if maa was alive, what life would she have had? Arnav saw how his uncle, Kaku, eyed her. And Arnav had seen that in the months prior to his mother's death, how she was shaved, dressed in white and forced into a strictly ritualistic dreary life.

His mother, whose hair spilled like the Ganges from Himalaya, had a beauty who could rival the Goddess, lived a life none deserved simply out of rituals and religion.

Thus when Shyam gave their mother mukh-agni, Arnav found his devotion die in his mother's pyre. And when his only hope, Borda (Shyam) set sail to London abandoning him, his words died as well.

-- -- --

1880, Calcutta

Arnav had been wrong about Borda. He returned as a Barrister from London, swiftly kicking out Kaku (father's younger brother) by bringing up property possession rights and threatened the rest of the Mullicks with incarceration for having forced their mother to die.

Thirteen years old Arnav did not know what to do when the brother he thought so wrongly about did the most just thing. It was then he decided that he too would run away to London when he came of age.

But the other thing he couldn't figure out was what to do with Boudi (bhabhi; sister in law). Their grandmother had fixed Borda (Shyam's) alliance with a member of the Tagore family.

Barely two years older than him, fifteen years old Anjali Devi was to manage the household of a twenty five years of Shyam Mullick. How could Arnav accept her as the lady of the house when the post truly belonged to Maa and only her.

But Arnav realized no rebellion was needed. Boudi arrived with the biggest reverence to their mother, along with the grief of losing her own. She chatted constantly with Arnav, not questioning his silence at all - Borda had gotten fed up after a few tries.

And over the years Arnav realized he had a sibling more in Boudi than in Borda.

Perhaps, perhaps maa's essence found its way into Anjali Boudi. It would explain why Arnav's first words were celebrated by Anjali as if it was her first child who had uttered their first words.

A child she was unable to give through all of her married life.

And perhaps his family was cursed against joy for the moment Arnav saw his mother in Anjali, he saw his father in Shyam.

The easy money he made as a barrister faded quicker given his lavish expenditure in trying to out-host the British and the Indian royalties. He belittled Anjali's lineage as much as he could and tried to prove that he was a bigger industrialist than the Tagores.

Lawyer he was, businessman he wasn't.

And thus at age eighteen Arnav had to run to London, no longer chasing any dream, but at least attempting to make the fortune his brother boasted of having.

-- -- --

1893, London

London was far more accommodating than India would ever be. This was what Arnav believed until, of course, an intellectual sparring with Boudi's cousin - Rabindranath - would get him thinking about perspectives.

To think of it, majority of India's existing regressive laws were nothing but British Victorian laws.

Then who was regressive?

It had been a lazy afternoon where Arnav was entertaining his thoughts, alone, as usual when a telegraph changed his life.

URGENT STOP SHYAM DA MARRYING AGAIN STOP

Arnav tossed the telegraph aside, grabbed his documents and hailed the first ship - premier class - to India.

He only had two goals.

Stop Shyam Mullick from marrying and ruin everybody who stood as an obstacle to Bo- Didi's happiness.

-- -- --

A/N: Yes, babua is here and so is his very very painful history! Lemme know what you all think :)

Tagging @shiyaravi @maansiloves @featheredclover @chutkiandchotte @laad-governess @msbhagirathi @phuljari @hand-picked-star @barshifan (updating it slowly and steadily)

[sapphoschoices]

Ngl, the Desire & Decorum family is kind of wild it you really think about it and it's even worse if you marry Annabelle, get Briar with Edmund, employ Mr Konevi and adopt all the animals

Like there's MC

MCs younger half brother Harry Foredale

MCs older step brother/Harry's half brother Edmund Marlcaster

MCs childhood best friend, ex-ladies maid, and current step-sister-in-law, Briar Daly

Edmunds ex-fiance who is now his and MCs sister in law after marrying their younger brother, Theresa Sutton

Harry's ex-fiance who is now (in spirit) married to his older half-sister MC, Annabelle Parsons

MC and Harry's grandmother, Dowager Countess #1, Dominique Foredale

Edmunds and Harry's mother, Dowager #2, Countess Henrietta

MCs legal lavender marriage husband, Bartholomew Chambers

Their barrister??, Yusuf Konevi

A horse, an pug (which I'm pretty sure would not have looked like that at the time), and some random baby deer???

Plus if you get Mr Harper and Cordelia together, you then also have

MCs wife (in spirits) sister and the estates ex-master of horses, and they're married with a whole baby on the way

Wild

[mtlibrary]

Provenance mysteries: Opera, quae exstant L. Annaei Seneca

This edition’s provenance mystery features a three volume set of the collected work of Seneca: Opera, quae exstant L. Annaei Senecae ; cum integris Justi Lipsii, J. Fred. Gronovii, & selectis variorum commentariis illustrata ; accedunt Liberti Fromondi in quæstionum naturalium libros & [apokolokuntosin] notæ & emendationes, printed by Daniel Elzevir in Amsterdam in 1672. It includes commentaries by the noted Dutch humanist Justus Lipsius and botanist Johannes Fredericus Gronovius amongst others.

As can be seen in the photograph, the book is bound in vellum over boards with a gold-tooled armorial crest on the front (and back) boards. The coat-of-arms has the motto ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense,’ part of the British royal motto, and also used by knights and ladies of the Order of the Garter. The coat-of-arms is probably easily identifiable by someone with the knowledge and skills, but remains a mystery to this writer. There is no other provenance information in the book itself, and no record of its acquisition by the Library.

The book was published during the period when Daniel Elzevir worked with his cousin Louis Elzevir in Amsterdam, printing and publishing a range of classical Latin texts in octavo format, such as this one. The gilt armorial stamp and vellum binding sets this book apart from many of the books in our collection, which tend to have undecorated calf bindings. Vellum and parchment bindings are commonly found in continental libraries, but their presence is not as common in seventeenth century English libraries. Vellum was an expensive material to use as well, suggesting that this was a high status item for its owner.

The book features in the Library’s current exhibition: Mapping the Early Modern Inns of Court. This exhibition highlights some of the areas that the ‘Mapping the Early Modern Inns of Court’ group has explored in seminars and publications: recreation (fencing, revelling, and gaming); literary culture at the Inns; religion and preaching; learning the law and verbal skills; travel and exploration endeavours. Barristers regarded Seneca as a model orator and lawyer, and they frequently studied, quoted, and translated his works. They were taught Senecan verse while still at school, and continued to study, and translate his works as adults.

As ever, if you recognise this armorial device or have further comments please get in touch: library@middletemple.org.uk.

Renae Satterley

Librarian

August 2024

[apinchofm]

Kidding prompt #20 - Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference.

For Fredwina? 🩷🩷 thank you!

20. Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference.

The soiree was long over and Friedrich was still sitting with Edwina on the bottom step of Lady Danbury's staircase. The prince confused her at times, with his boldness and straightforwardness in his pursuit for want of her.

She stood, walking a few steps when she stopped and turned to see that he was still there.

"What are you doing?" Edwina asked, curiously draping her arms over the barrister.

Friedrich smirked, moving so he was in front of her, "Ensuring you get upstairs safely."

Edwina sneaked a look down the corridor, no sign of her mama and Lady Danbury and she boldly bent over the bannister to plant a kiss on Friedrich's lips. The prince smiled into the tender, if not quick kiss, chasing her as she pulled away.

"Good night," Edwina said sweetly.

"Good night." Friedrich echoed, but he knew he would not sleep peacefully that night.

[modern-harrypotter]

Young Adult Chronicles - 3

Part 3 of the Young Adult Chronicles! Meet the married kids - a whole bunch of “high school” sweethearts! Timeline is a little wobbly but it’s okay 👍

✨👇 Further Details Below 👇✨

Seamus and Dean got engaged a few months after the War finished with the Battle at Hogwarts, and got married on the one year. Harry had officiated, with plenty of press considering Harry shoved off the Ministry Gala to be there. Dean is an artist and taking commissions for muggle or magical services. Seamus is a house husband. They have three Irish Wolfhounds named Dionysus, Aphrodite and Hera.

Millicent and Daphne married in the same year, but they followed a more pure blood courtship, so their engagement and wedding was more of a private affair at the Ministry. They had a baby via surrogacy, with a male from the Bulstrode line and Daphne’s egg. Similar to In-Vitro Fertilization but with more wizard shit. Their daughter is Gabriella Jane Bulstrode-Greengrass, and she is only a few months old. Millicent and Daphne don’t work as they are busy with their baby. Millie is in the works of getting her Transfiguration mastery and Daphne works away at managing the estates they have. Both are heirs and are considered Lady Bulstrode-Greengrass. They often can be found attending various garden parties or outings with other ladies amongst the notable Purebloods who are more progressive.

Draco and Harry had a similar situation, with a small marriage at the Burrow, surrounded by their friends and family. Hermione officiated with Blaise and Ron as their best men (respectively). There was no press, no notice and no announcements. Harry was going to have a quiet wedding if it killed him. They never have announced it since then. Draco wants to announce it, if only so the letters flooding their mailbox would cease. The warding on it to deter the shameless witches and wizards begging for the more uncouth aspects of a relationship can only do so much. Draco would gladly take the Howlers over the sexual fantasies people kept sending his husband… A man can only take so much…

On a side note - Harry and Draco have considered adopting a child as well, but are in the mindset of waiting until Draco is home more instead of being elbows deep into his barrister work. Especially since Harry is teaching DADA at Hogwarts, they don’t have enough time to raise a child. They do have a cat named Lily (Orange Maine Coone) after Harry’s mother. They also help raise Teddy with Remus and Tonks as well!

Hermione and Pansy were recently married, and they had a very big wedding, celebrating the success of Hermione taking over the Ministry. Her political reforms have shaken the wizarding world of Britain but it’s been peaceful. They have no children and no plans on having children, but Hermione’s cat Crookshanks is still kicking!

Ginny and Luna aren’t married or engaged. They are solely just dating. They don’t have plans to marry, but they are young and there is no war forcing them to grow up any faster than they already have and are taking it slow and enjoying life.

Neville, Blaise and Ron are not married on paper, but they have taken each other’s last names which is the same for them. Neville and Blaise had a fight over who’s last name Ron would get, but eventually Ron pointed out that if Neville took Blaise’s and Blaise took his, then it was only fair that Ron would take Neville’s too make it even. He didn’t care for the Pureblooded aspect of what being a “Longbottom” or a “Zabini” would bring him, but rather he cared that each of them took another last name to tie them all together more seamlessly. No children but Ron took over for Madame Hooch as the flying instructor and he loves it! Neville is apprenticing under Professor Sprout for his Herbogy major and Blaise is happy being a kept man and maintaining their ever growing forest of plants and animals. They have two dogs, and a cat! (Named Felix (Yorkshire Terrier) Leigh (Teacup Poodle) and Harold (American Shorthaired Tabby (brindle coloring), in honor of the dearly departed Trevor. Neville insisted on the more human names because it’s a little funny.) Harold stats at Hogwarts with Neville and Ron in their shared office and room, while Felix and Leigh are at home with Blaise.

Lavender and Parvati are married! They live in France actually, but keep in touch with their Hogwarts alumni. Parvati is the Divination teacher now, after Trelawney retired after the War. Lavender keeps up their house and is neighbors with Fleur and Bill and their children! Lavender and Parvati have two children of their own - Twins named Nicholas and Calista. (Nick(ie) and Callie for short. They have a few aunts and uncles, like Uncle Ron, Blaise and Neville, Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur, Auntie Daphne and Millie, Aunt Hermione and Pansy, Uncle Harry and Draco, Uncle Theo and Mausi Padma. They were adopted into a magical family after their muggle parents gave them up after an incident of accidental magic almost set their house on fire. The French Ministry of Magic located and regimes the two magical children. The twins are 4 years old as of the “modern day”. Lavender and Parvati raise them to be bilingual in English and Hindi, but they are also learning French in primary school. They do know they are adopted but they love their mothers dearly!

Padma is living her best life learning Wandlore and getting her certifications in wand making. Ever since Ollivander told her that she had a knack for intuitions and the wand that chose her would be best suited for divinations- she spent most of her spare time studying Wands and how to make cores throughout her time at Hogwarts. She hated arithmancy as the tiring subject often caused her to derail from homework into the applications of her profession. She is set to open her own shop by the end of the year and allow Ollivander to retire from wands. He is insistent on helping her run her own shop though, primarily clerk and stockings.

Theodore has taken over the History of Magic classes. He has revitalized the curriculum to be more modern than 800 year old battles. When the First and Second Blood Wars arise, Headmistress McGonagall has school wide assembly with former students speaking about their experiences. Harry doesn’t speak much at these, instead has a class dedicated to answering questions from his students when Theodore covers the topic.

- Lots of headcanons but that’s the beauty of an AU.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Kinktober Day 26

Kinktober Masterlist

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Any minors interacting with ANY of these Kinktober prompts will be blocked.

Notes: Alexa, play I Could've Danced All Night from My Fair Lady

Also this is a Colombina mask

And these are combinations

Warnings: Flouting of Victorian mores; riding; piv unprotected sex

One night. You tell yourself that you’ll go for a single night. It's dangerous as it is, and there's a chance that you could be caught, and fired. God knows your prospects would be limited then. Everyone in London society knows one another, and certainly an outsider would be caught out immediately—but you can’t resist the temptation. 

It's the one night in your life when you can be someone fascinating and mysterious, not an otherwise ignored and nameless ladies maid.

That first night of the masquerade is an absolute thrill. Your dance card is filled by some of the most prominent names in town—dukes, counts, ministers, barristers. The whispers of fascinated, envious women follow you from the dance floor, to the refreshments table, and back to the dance floor again. You keep your distance, offering minimal answers, hiding your coy smiles behind your fan. Before the clock can strike midnight, you hurry away, hailing a hansom and stopping far from the home that you live and work in. 

You scurry into the cellar, hurriedly stripping out of your borrowed finery and changing back into your working clothes. You tuck the dress into a pile of your mistress’ laundry, and hurry to finish your chores. When you lay down, you can’t fall asleep. The memories of being twirled around in men’s arms, in drinking fine wine and eating good food, swirled about your head, as if taunting you. 

There are another two nights of festivities…But you certainly can’t attend. 

This evening had been far too risky, and it would be more difficult to sneak there and back in a borrowed dress and your golden, bejeweled Colombina mask. 

-- 

It’s all over the society pages the next morning—the masked mystery woman that swept everyone’s attention. It sends excited flutters through your belly, and makes warmth rise in your cheeks. You can hardly meet the eyes of your fellow servants, nor speak, lest you give away your truth and excitement. 

-- 

The second night of the ball is just as exciting as the first. The whispers increase, and follow you; you flutter through the evening, reveling in the ease of your movement on the dance floor, and the flow of conversation with men that would never give you another look otherwise. 

It’s a lark—it’s a laugh—until you’re drawn into the arms of Sherlock Holmes. 

It's impossible not to recognize him; he's flouted the masks that the many of you have donned. You know who he is, of course. Everyone knows the detective. Everyone is aware of his sleuthing prowess, his ability to get the things that he needs out of criminals. You're grateful for the gloves on your hands. You’re certain your sweaty palms would give your panic away—but perhaps he finds it in another way, as his eyes skim your face with curious fascination. 

“You’ve caused quite a stir,” He comments. His voice takes you by surprise—it’s lower and warmer than you thought it may be. 

“Have I?” 

“I think you’re well aware that you have.” 

“I’m merely dancing.” 

He chuckles. 

“It is not your dancing that inspires conversation, my lady.” 

My lady. The term is one that’s been lobbed in your direction repeatedly, but there’s a certain type of warmth to Mr. Holmes’ voice. You wonder if he’s trying to put you at ease—to work your truth out of you. It raises your hackles. 

“Oh no?” 

“You may act coy, but you know as well as I that you’ve captured the attention of Mayfair.” 

“I hardly pay attention to gossip, and it seems below you, Mr. Holmes.”

“I pay no mind to gossip.” 

“Then what has captured your attention?” 

“A good mystery.” 

Your face heats. As the dance ends, you prepare to part ways, but Mr. Holmes curls his arm around yours, guiding you from the dance floor. 

-- 

In the few minutes spent in My. Holmes’ company, you find yourself flustered and nervous. He asks questions that seem fairly innocuous to you, but are almost certainly pointed to him. 

You’re aware of Mr. Holmes’ focus on you for the remainder of the evening. You can’t help but note the way he watches you, and are certain that he speaks to everyone with whom you’ve spoken. Tonight, you hurry out earlier than that the evening before. You do as you did before, hailing a hansom and having it stop a ways away, skulking through dark alleys and corners to reach home. You’re careful as you disrobe, tucking the dress away and hiding the Colombiana mask in your quarters.

There’s only one more night of festivities. You’re not sure if you dare return, especially now that Sherlock Holmes seems to be interested in you—at least, interested in who you may be behind the mask. 

--

“Will you answer the door!” Your mistress calls irritatedly, forgoing the bell that she would typically use to summon you. You scoff, pushing away from the table, and from your midday meal. The footman must be occupied. You hurry up from the kitchen, rounding to the front hall yanking the door open. 

It’s a mistake.

You recognize the man immediately. 

Sherlock Holmes turns to face you, expression bright and expectant. You can’t help but stare for a moment. How has he found you already? How did he know—

“Good morning,” He nods. “I’m looking for—” Oh, Lord above, Saints preserve you— “Mrs. Haskins.” 

Haskins. Mrs. Haskins? You are not Mrs. Haskins, and isn’t he looking for—

Holmes’ brows raise as you stare wordlessly at him. 

“Is this not the right address?” He plies into your silence. You nod hurriedly, taking a step back and holding the door as he walks past you, into the foyer. You close the door, then take hold of his hat. 

“Who is it!” Mrs. Haskins calls in from the drawing room. You plan on leading the way and introducing him, but Mr. Holmes lightly waves you off, heading into the drawing room. You stare after him, breath leaving you as you begin to panic in the front hall. Surely he’s going to tell Mrs. Haskins that you’re the mystery woman from the last two nights of the ball. 

When your name is called just a moment later, you’re certain that the jig is up. You walk gravely into the drawing room, as if going to the gallows. But you find the two of in fine fettle, smiling and chuckling. 

“Tea,” Mrs. Haskins orders you simply before turning her attention back to Mr. Holmes. You dip a minute curtsy before hurrying to leave. 

--  

Mr. Holmes’ visit is a short, but harrowing one. You can’t make out too much of the conversation through the door; what you can catch on isn’t enough to draw any conclusions. You see Mr. Holmes out, passing his hat over to him and hardly meeting his eyes. He doesn’t leave right away. He stops, tipping his head and searching your face. Your eyes flicker nervously to his. He holds your gaze for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly before he looses a soft, “Hm.” 

And then he gives you a short nod, turns, and leaves. 

As the door closes behind him, you nearly bow in on yourself, your stomach churning with panic. 

-- 

There’s no good reason for you to return the third and final night of the masquerade. You’re tempting hubris. 

But there you are, in another borrowed dress and your Colombina mask. You find yourself whirling around the dance floor with suitor after suitor. You’re trying to catch and hold every moment of mirth, certain it’ll be your last. 

When you find yourself in Mr. Holmes’ arms again, you can’t help but hold yourself with stiff, nervous reserve. He seems to clock your tension, and rather than chat with you as you had the night before, you dance in silence. However, as last night, he takes hold of your arm, leading you from the floor. He steers you around the corner, onto the veranda. He lets go of you, tucking his hands in his pockets and taking slow, meandering steps. Your arms curl around yourself against the night chill, your eyes darting around. 

“I’ve worked many a case in my time,” He says, “But in all my years, they’ve never been crime-free.” 

“Crime-free?” You frown. 

“Mm.” He turns to face you, brow raising. “From what I can tell, you’re not doing anything illegal. You’re attending a ball. You haven’t given anyone a false name–or any name, in fact. Nothing has come up missing from anyone that you’ve danced with, ad there haven’t been any reports of above-average crimes or robberies on the other side of town.”

“You thought I might be a distraction.” 

“The principle of the magician’s assistant,” He nods, “Directing the audience to focus on a beautiful woman while the trick is carried out in plain sight.” 

You scoff in irritation, turning your face from his.

“I was wrong,” He concedes, taking a few steps closer. “But I will admit, I cannot ascertain your purpose, and it…Concerns me.” 

You’re quiet for a moment, lowering your eyes to his chest, your head shaking a little bit. 

“Why must every divergent action be deemed malicious?” You ask softly, more to yourself then to him. “Why can’t someone simply want a change? A chance to be someone other than themselves, for just an hour or two?” 

You feel Sherlock stop just in front of you, hardly a breath away. He grasps your chin, tipping your head up to meet his eyes. You search his expression as he’s searched yours. You’ve no clue what he may be thinking—what he may know about you, or what he may want to know. 

“Is that what you wanted?” He murmurs. You nod a touch, but not enough to pull free from his grasp. Your tongue swipes over over your lips absently. Heat bolts through you as his eyes lower curiously to your lips. 

“And at midnight? Will you disappear again?” He murmurs.

You nod. 

“I should.”

“And what will you do with your remaining time? Go back in,” He takes a step closer, his chest brushing yours, “Or allow us to take full advantage of your anonymity?” 

You’re quiet for a moment, taking in the full meaning of his words. 

“Do you take me for a loose woman, Mr. Holmes?” 

“Only if you take yourself for one.” 

--  

The mask stays on—it’s your only stipulation. He concedes, taking pleasure in riding you of your mistress’ finery. It falls into a crumpled mess on the floor of his sitting room. He draws you into his lap, loosening the top few ties of your corset before yanking open the buttons of your combinations. You give his chest a shove, with a spirit and a vigor that you’ve never felt before in your life. He stumbles back against his settee, a laughing huff pushing out of him as his back hits the puffed cushion. You clamber onto his lap, shivering as cool air brushes your cunt through your crotchless combinations. 

Sherlock hooks his arm around your middle to steady you, his mouth seeking yours with heated desperation. Your mask knocks into his forehead as you seek and share one another’s kisses. You lean back just a touch, hand lowering to work at his belt and the fastening of his pants. As you do, Sherlock ducks his head, mouthing and sucking at your breasts where they’re exposing. You shiver as he draws one of your nipples into his mouth, lapping and teasing it with a groan. You press up into his lips, hips pushing down against his as your cunt throbs with need. 

Sherlock’s hand lowers to between your legs, teasing and swiping at your neglected clit. The feeling punches a sound out of you, your mouth falling open in shock, head tipping back as you savor the waves of pleasure pushing over you. Sherlock releases your tit with a thick slurping noise. He grips your hips, teasing his cock against your tingling pussy. You tip your head down to look at him, nerves clenching in your stomach. 

He searches your face for a moment, gaze smoothing from your mask to your eyes to your lips, then up again. You rest your hands on his shoulders, giving them a squeeze and steadying yourself. He nods in turn, curling his arm more tightly around you. Your mouth falls open as he eases his cock up into you. His fingers flex in the fabric of the chemise top as your cunt opens and flutters for him. You see him clench his jaw and hear him draw a deep breath in through his nose. 

A grin curls on your lips as you feel a sense of power wash over you.  You’ve never made a man still himself like this before—you’ve never made a man need to control himself like this. It’s a feeling that you fear you could grow addicted to. 

Sherlock seems to sense your growing pride. He lets out one of those damnable thoughtful hums before he shoves his hips up into you. Your sense of power is lost as easily as it’s gained. You gasp, your grip on Sherlock’s shoulders tightening. He leans up, sucking harsh kisses to your neck between his grunts and harsh pants. The fabric of his clothing brushes roughly against your exposed skin as you writhe together.

Sherlock turns his head, sinking his teeth into your shoulder as his hips drive and screw up against yours. The feeling makes you shudder, a whimper falling from your lips as he takes full control of your pace and movement, shifting and turning you like you’re a rag doll. You gasp as a feeling coils in your belly, and slide your hands up into his hair. He grits out a groan, looking up at you. His lips are flushed and plumped from your kisses; there’s a sweet pink blush rising in his cheeks. 

His eyelids flutter as he grinds into you with short, harsh thrusts. You draw in a sharp breath as the coiling feeling springs, sending you over the edge. You tip your head forward, the edge of your mask knocking against Sherlock’s cheek as you curl closer. The two of you go still, and the room is quiet, save for the mingling or your and Sherlock’s breath. You draw away a touch, smiling as Sherlock’s arm tugs you back against his chest. You reach down, patting his cheek gently before you carefully rise to your feet. His arm falls away from you, finally. 

You stand on wobbly feet, primly righting your straps, top, and the bottom of your combinations. You walk over to where your dress was discarded, crouching and picking it up to put it back on. 

“Best get that back to Mrs. Haskins.” 

You freeze at his words. You turn slowly, eyes wide, hands shaking and tightening in the dress' fabric at his comment. Sherlock is watching you knowingly aas he buttons up his pants. You begin to open your mouth, to make your excuses, but he waves you off as he stands. 

“I won’t tell,” He swears. Your brow furrows, shaking your head in confusion. 

“Why not?” 

“What you’ve done hasn’t hurt anyone.” 

He reaches up, hands hovering on either side of your mask, waiting. You nod a little bit and close your eyes as he gently unfastens the mask and lifts it from your face. He turns it over in his hand before he meets your eye from beneath his lashes. 

“...How did you know?” You ask softly. Sherlock smiles, raising his hand and dragging his knuckle gently along your cheek. 

“I'd be a fool to forget those eyes.”

Tag list: @leaveinthelurk ; @missredherring ; @fangirlfreakingout ; @stevie25 ; @jvalentinesworld-cokes-hyna ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @karie-me-home ; @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly; @guyfieriii (tried to tag and it won’t let me D: ) ; @moonlightburned ; @amneris21 ; @shiftingsands14 ; @cloudohell ; @blueeyesatnight ; @inlovewithhisblueeyes ; @reaperofmen ; @winchestershiresauce ;

[bethanydelleman]

Can the Prices be considered part of the gentry? Mrs. Price was part of it when she was young but what about Mr. Price?

And assuming they're not, does Fanny become gentry when the Bertrams take her in? She keeps her last name and they're set on not raising her like their own daughters so I'm not sure if Fanny was actually adopted or just taken in.

Okay, so as a former Navy Marine Officer (which is distinct from a Naval Officer, think military on a ship), Mr. Price would probably be considered gentry or at least have an entry into the local gentry, but here is the problem: it's not just your birth/profession, you need to act like gentry.

The Prices do not. Mrs. Price does not entertain from her house at all. Yes, Mr. Price's drinking buddies come by, but we are explicitly told that Mrs. Price meets her friends outside after church. Gentry visit each other's houses and sit down inside. We also know she basically doesn't leave the house during the week. So they are not participating in gentry society.

The Bates, poor as they are, do participate though they have trouble reciprocating (they would not be able to host dinners). Mrs. Dashwood actually both hosts and visits, so she is a full participating member of the gentry (though she deliberately establishes a very small circle of friends, probably so she can afford to host properly for a few).

I have a whole post about how complex the bottom section of the gentry seems to be, but I would say here that if the Prices decided to act like gentry, they could be accepted, but they don't and have no real connections, so they probably would not be considered gentry.

As for Fanny, as far as I understand she is not adopted, this whole thing is very informal. Even with Frank Churchill, it's not totally clear if he is legally adopted or just tacitly confirmed to be the heir:

He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle’s heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age.

Avowed means "stated publicly" but it does not mean "legal" and it seems clear to me in the novel that Frank could still be disinherited (then again, Edward is and he's a real son, so I guess even adoption isn't rock solid...).

Anyway, in raising Fanny, it seems that while she benefits from her uncle's social standing, it does not erase her actual origins. After all, Mary kind of gives Henry the line they will use to introduce Fanny as his wife:

She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world. (Ch 30)

which does not mention her parents. Better to focus on the rich uncle and not the Price Family.

Lastly, it is not entirely clear if the Ward sisters were gentry, their uncle is a lawyer which might mean a gross, middle-class lawyer who works, not a gentry lawyer (barrister)... However, their former status doesn't really matter, it is far more important where the husband stands in society. While Lady Catherine may feel fancy with the courtesy title she has from being born as an earl's daughter, her marriage into the gentry makes her gentry as far as I understand. The Ward sisters married into the top, middle, and bottom of the gentry, that is where they exist. That is part of the reason why marriage was such a huge choice for women!

[haggishlyhagging]

[Note: Woolf wrote the below as one paragraph. Unfortunately this website’s formatting is incompatible with such repleteness.]

My aunt, Mary Beton, I must tell you, died by a fall from her horse when she was riding out to take the air in Bombay. The news of my legacy reached me one night about the same time that the act was passed that gave votes to women. A solicitor's letter fell into the post-box and when I opened it I found that she had left me five hundred pounds a year for ever. Of the two—the vote and the money—the money, I own, seemed infinitely the more important. Before that I had made my living by cadging odd jobs from newspapers, by reporting a donkey show here or a wedding there; I had earned a few pounds by addressing envelopes, reading to old ladies, making artificial flowers, teaching the alphabet to small children in a kindergarten. Such were the chief occupations that were open to women before 1918.

I need not, I am afraid, describe in any detail the hardness of the work, for you know perhaps women who have done it; nor the difficulty of living on the money when it was earned, for you may have tried. But what still remains with me as a worse infliction than either was the poison of fear and bitterness which those days bred in me. To begin with, always to be doing work that one did not wish to do, and to do it like a slave, flattering and fawning, not always necessarily perhaps, but it seemed necessary and the stakes were too great to run risks; and then the thought of that one gift which it was death to hide—a small one but dear to the possessor—perishing and with it my self, my soul,—all this became like a rust eating away the bloom of the spring, destroying the tree at its heart. However, as I say, my aunt died; and whenever I change a ten-shilling note a little of that rust and corrosion is rubbed off; fear and bitterness go. Indeed, I thought, slipping the silver into my purse, it is remarkable, remembering the bitterness of those days, what a change of temper a fixed income will bring about. No force in the world can take from me my five hundred pounds. Food, house and clothing are mine for ever. Therefore not merely do effort and labour cease, but also hatred and bitterness. I need not hate any man; he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me. So imperceptibly I found myself adopting a new attitude towards the other half of the human race. It was absurd to blame any class or any sex, as a whole.

Great bodies of people are never responsible for what they do. They are driven by instincts which are not within their control. They too, the patriarchs, the professors, had endless difficulties, terrible drawbacks to contend with. Their education had been in some ways as faulty as my own. It had bred in them defects as great. True, they had money and power, but only at the cost of harbouring in their breasts an eagle, a vulture, for ever tearing the liver out and plucking at the lungs—the instinct for possession, the rage for acquisition which drives them to desire other people's fields and goods perpetually; to make frontiers and flags; battleships and poison gas; to offer up their own lives and their children's lives. Walk through the Admiralty Arch (I had reached that monument), or any other avenue given up to trophies and cannon, and reflect upon the kind of glory celebrated there. Or watch in the spring sunshine the stockbroker and the great barrister going indoors to make money and more money and more money when it is a fact that five hundred pounds a year will keep one alive in the sunshine. These are unpleasant instincts to harbour, I reflected. They are bred of the conditions of life; of the lack of civilisation, I thought, looking at the statue of the Duke of Cambridge, and in particular at the feathers in his cocked hat, with a fixity that they have scarcely ever received before.

And, as I realised these draw-backs, by degrees fear and bitterness modified themselves into pity and toleration; and then in a year or two, pity and toleration went, and the greatest release of all came, which is freedom to think of things in themselves. That building, for example, do I like it or not? Is that picture beautiful or not? Is that in my opinion a good book or a bad? Indeed my aunt's legacy unveiled the sky to me, and substituted for the large and imposing figure of a gentleman, which Milton recommended for my perpetual adoration, a view of the open sky.

-Virginia Woolf, ‘A Room of One’s Own’ in Alice S. Rossi, The Feminist Papers: From Adams to de Beauvoir

[barkingbonzo]

Rhapsody Angel (Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons)

Rhapsody Angel is the code name that the Spectrum Organisation has assigned to Dianne Simms, the daughter of World Government official Lord Robert Simms, who was a protege of Her Grace, the Duchess Lady Penelope "Penny" Creighton-Ward (whom she succeeded as de facto director of the Federal Agents Bureau) after she had worked as a solicitor and barrister in Manchester, United Kingdom. Some fanon speculation has her pursuing a relationship with Captain Scarlet.

[asgoodeasgold]

Matthew Goode's on-screen royal connections

There is a big royal event today or so I have been told so here is Matthew Goode in royally connected roles (some more tenuous than others, indulge me 🤣):

1) Antony Armstrong-Jones married a princess

2) King Sigismund of Hungary aka The Red Fox (but he was a bad'un)

3) Jeremy Hutchinson Queen's Counsel (that's a senior trial barrister in the UK)

4) Matthew Roydon, Queen Elizabeth I's shadow (spy)

5) Lady Mary and Henry Talbot looking beautiful for the ball given in honour of King George V and Queen Mary's visit at Downton.

📷 Netflix The Crown (2016) s2:07, Medieval (2022), The Duke (2022), Sky/Bad Wolf A Discovery of Witches (2021) s2:09 my edits

📷 My edit from promo pics for Downton Abbey the movie (2019) courtesy of matthew-goode.net

[renee-writer]

He Didn't Have to Be Chapter 6

AO3

“Judah, this is Ned, our family’s barrister. He is going to help make you an official Fraser.”

 

He was a short man with brushy eyebrows and a genuine smile. At daddy’s  introduction, he bends down and shakes my hand. I shake it back like daddy has taught me, firmly, letting him let go first.

 

“It is a pleasure to meet you Judah. Now let me tell you how this works. We will go before the judge. She is a very nice lass so you needn’t worry. She will ask you if you wish Jamie to adopt you. You answer, “ Yes my lady.” It is how judges are addressed as Lady or Lord. She will talk some to Jamie and then sign a paper saying you are Judah Franklin Randall Fraser.”

 

“That is all? It is that easy?”

 

He smiles again and ruffles my curls. “Aye, as all of you wish it.”

 

They dress me in my first kilt for the occasion. Mum tames my curls back and places Anya in a pretty dress.

 

“All of our family will be there.” She told me. I feel a flutter in my wame. This is important. I let my breath out and stand even straighter then I had been.

 

Daddy beams at seeing me. “You look like a right Scot, so you do.”

 

“Aye daddy, I am ready to become one.”

 

We sit in the front row. Behind are my grandparents, aunt and uncle, cousins. Mum and daddy are on either side. Mum holds Anya.

 

I stood when they did, when the judge, my lady, I recall and repeat it to myself so I won’t mess up, enters. We sit back down.

 

“It is days like this that make what I do worthwhile,” She said, “I have a petition here for the legal adoption of Judah Franklin Randall by James Fraser. I see all parties and them some are present,” she smiled down at my family, “Is that correct Mr. Gowan?”

 

“Yes my lady.”

 

“Wonderful,” She turns to me, “Judah, I see you are six.”

 

I realize it is a question and answer like I was told too, “Aye my lady, almost seven.”

 

She smiles and I relax.

 

“Very good. Old enough to know your own mind. So, do you wish James Fraser to adopt you?”

 

“Aye my lady, with all my heart. He is already my daddy.”

 

She smiles hugely at me.

 

“Very glad to hear. I will need to talk to your daddy now.”

 

“Aye my lady.”

 

She turns to him. “James Fraser, you agree that you will be taken the child, Judah, to be your son? You will share in all the rights and responsibility’s of his raising? That he will be treated in fact and legally as a birth child, with all associated rights, including the right to inherit?”

 

“I fully understand, my lady. He is now and will forever remain, my son.”

 

“Claire Fraser, you agree to allow your son to be adopted by James Fraser and agree that his name will now and forever be, Judah Franklin Randall Fraser?”

 

“Yes my lady.”

 

“Wonderful. Then by the power granted me by Crown and county, I so do order it. Judah Franklin Randall is now the legal son of James Fraser and is named Judah Franklin Randall Fraser.”

 

She signs the paper and it is so.

 

A cheer raises from behind us and I am cuddled by all my family. Everyone is crying and I know they are happy tears. Uncle William lifts me up, laughing.

 

“Now I shall have to teach you Gaelic, my lad, as I did your daddy.”

 

Daddy laughs and lifts me out of his arms. “Dinna believe it mom mhac. It was your granda who taught us both.”

 

“As long as I learn it, it doesn’t matter, eh?” I am content. My last name is now the same as all my family’s,  except Auntie Jenny and Uncle Ian and their children. They are Frasers as well, in my eyes, just called Murray.

 

Mum weeps and grandma and Auntie Jenny, embrace her. Even knowing she is happy, I remember being concerned at seeing her cry.

 

“Dinna fash, the lasses get very emotional at such times.”

 

Uncle Ian slaps daddy on his back.

 

“Eh, and aren’t those tears in your eyes as well?”

 

He smiles at him. “It is my right. It isn’t everyday a man has a son.”

 

I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. “I love you too daddy.”

 

The whole lot of us head to Lallybroch to continue the celebration.