#stmstarter

[ira-vaisman]

Time: 9th of June Place: Masquerade Ball Status: Open

Ira looked at the person for a long moment with such a straight, dry face that even with a mask it was perfectly readable, then raised his arms to the side. “Wall. And you?” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

Skin-deep

Time: 9th of June Place: Masquerade Ball Status: Open

Alexander had danced at least four dances already, and his name was on at least another four dance cards. And although he loved dancing and had enjoyed himself quite enough, he felt miserable. 

Looking around the room, looking like a lost little puppy, he kept half-turning around himself. “I’m never going to find her like this!” 

[soleil-timide]

Open !! Where: June 9th, evening Where: Masquerade Ball

Florence marveled at how much easier it was to maneuver now that she was not in a ballgown. It was far easier than a plain, every day dress too. It was perhaps too much to hope that Alastair and Valentin would permit her to wear men’s clothes at home (it was perfectly scandalous) but it would be nice every now and again. Especially if she was needed to lend a hand with something. The masquerade was also great fun..with no one knowing who anyone was, the immense pressure to be perfect was somewhat lifted. It was easier to converse with people, now that there was something that could be commented on with ease. “Oh, but your costume is so clever!” she exclaimed, genuinely delighted with how the other person had chosen to outfit themselves for the evening.

[cescapist]

Send it Soaring

DATE: 5th of May, 2pm PLACE: Grounds, St. Maur Castle STATUS: Closed @dinah-stmaur  with @trott-ing

Chaotic. That was the best word to describe the past few days. Benny had never been fond of the run up to any sort of trip (most of the time he wasn’t too keen on the trip, either, missing St. Maur the whole way through.), but there had been a certain frenzy to the packing this year which he hadn’t seen before. Mr. Norris had been bustling about, constantly caught between his usual excitement at seeing them all go for two months and his habitual grumpiness when something or other went wrong. The family valet had been packing up the men’s tails and top hats, and tutting with frustration over Benny’s shrunken waistline and the last-minute adjustments his suits required. His sisters’ and mother’s maid had dropped and smashed a porcelain-backed hand mirror in the panic of packing their toilette, and had spent the rest of yesterday pausing now and then whilst folding dresses and making towers of hat boxes to press her fingers to her eyes and weep. Mrs. Meddley had been an utter delight as usual, brewing up gallons of tea to soothe frayed nerves, especially for the poor maid. And in the middle of it had sat Benny, bent over his desk and trying his best to catch up on some of the work he had refused to do whilst bed-bound with heartbreak, all whilst sneakily perusing the book on business he had pilfered from his father’s library.

Yes, it had been very chaotic. Thankfully, there was only one afternoon left of it before they set off on the morrow. Benny’s books were shoved at the bottom of a trunk for absent-minded browsing whilst staying at their aunt’s house in London, and the rest of his day was clear for his own use. And he had used it wisely: to catch up on a much neglected friend, carrying out a much neglected task.

“And then just wrap the twine like this,” Benny said, demonstrating to Dinah the correct way to bind the two dowel rods together. They sat upon the very same blankets they had nigh-on two months prior, when they had eagerly planned to fly kites in the Spring winds, unaware of all the business and personal dramatics the storm and its aftermath would blow into their lives. Since then all attempts to come together to make kites as planned were puffed away the moment they had formed. All, of course, until that very Thursday, when despite the tempest around them Dinah and Benny managed to find an aligned moment of calm, right in the very centre of it all.

“And then tie it with the other end, nice and tight, like this,” Benny continued, snipping his thread with scissors and pulling the ends into a tight, secure knot. Approximately twenty feet behind him, footmen scurried back and forth carrying trunks full of gowns and jewellery for the many formal events the St. Maur sisters would be attending, lugging them into the horse-drawn cart heading for the train station.

[thenewlyfreed]

DATE: 21st of June PLACE: Hyde Park STATUS: Open

“Actually, I’m afraid I’ve never played it before.” Deepak looked at the bat presented to him with caution. He knew that Cricket was the sport to play between the British and his ancestral countrymen, but the streets of St. Pauls in Bristol hadn’t been rife with opportunities to play anything other than skittles, grandmother’s footsteps, and stick in the mud or tag. “Sorry to disappoint.”

[valentin-talbot]

T( r )ails

Time: 28th of January Place: Driveway at a great house [which one is up to player who picks up] Status: Open for all [either servant in question or family member who perhaps saw him hovering by the door, or something]

-

The tails Valentin wore tonight barely fitted him anymore.

It was strange. He had gotten them when he was nineteen for a cousin’s wedding – back when dinner’s had been long and plenty, when they were attended by Marquises and Dukes, and the Talbots had shone almost as brightly as only a promiseful future can. Nineteen. Six years ago. That wasn’t that long ago, was it? He couldn’t have grown that much since, could he?

He hadn’t brought the tails to Oxford with him, as they prefered loose linen suits and vests unbuttoned there. At Oxford there were sons of Marquises and Dukes as well, just like there were plenty and long dinners. And yet. No tails. As though they knew that freedom to some meant cufflinks undone. Afterwards, the last six months in St. Maur, Valentin had mostly worn the clerics the old Father Harlow had left behind. It was loose and had no buttons either. 

Tonight, the Talbots were invited for dinner. ‘A pity dinner,’ they’d told Valentin after informing him of the invitation yesterday morning. He’d thought it rather friendly of the family to invite the Talbots. After all, even smaller scandals were known for cutting connections. But he supposed that ‘friendly’ was, in their society, nothing but a synonym for ‘pity’, so he had not argued. 

Now he was pacing in front of the great entrance door, in his ill fitting tails.

They used to fit better. Six years ago.

Just like the Talbot name.

The question was, had the Talbot name changed? Or had Valentin perhaps grown out of it? Had he gotten too used to the freedom of Oxford, of his little Parish? Had he fallen? The Talbots, his siblings, children to a Baron, used to be of social and political power. Now they’d fallen into a life even a working class mother with seven children around her ankle wouldn’t envy. Yes. Yet he was the one with a job. An ‘Honorable’ would not usually take a job, except perhaps a symbolic one, like General in the army. But Valentin was working. Properly working, every day of the week, almost every hour of the day. Just like the working class. Just like that mother with her seven children. 

Had the Talbot name changed? Or had Valentin perhaps grown out of it? Both, perhaps. So how was he to wear those black tails proudly and march through this entrance door as though he was still nineteen? 

He kept pacing – until he realised where from and where to he was pacing: the great doors; the stairs leading down to the servants entrance; the great doors; the stairs leading down to the servants entrance...

What if…

No, this was insane. 

But perhaps..?

No.

Just in that moment, the servants’ door opened and someone came out of it, and yes, perhaps it was insanity that made Valentin leap towards them, but either way, without thinking he called out: “Sorry! Excuse me, hello. Gosh, this’ll sound ridiculous but, well, would you maybe, I mean, do you think I could possibly, perhaps, if you’re okay with it, well-...” All courage and words left him – or perhaps sanity returned – and he finished his little ramble with a clumsy finger pointing at the servants’ entrance.

[perfcct]

Good Taste

DATE: 19th May, Early Evening PLACE: Buckingham Palace Ballroom STATUS: Open to all attending the Ball

She’d been waiting for this moment. Augustine was often remarked upon as the picture of her mother, when she was her age. They had the same eyes, the same mouth, the same figure, even the same blonde hair. And, just like her, she had a love of public appearances.

Call it vanity. Call it narcissism. Augustine did not care. She worked hard to be the woman she was. To show it off in public, before Royalty, in the company of her peers and in front of what few gentry had managed to scrape in, made it all worthwhile. She stood at the edge of the newly remodelled ballroom in a dress of creamy satin and shimmering embroidery, neck long, chin up, each finger precisely posed. Her dance card was carefully held against her palm. Her lashes, darkened for the night, fanned over her cheek with each slow blink of her eyes. All she had to do now was wait, and like moths to flame, she knew the suitors would come.

In the meantime, there was conversation.

“The King’s taste is impeccable, is it not?” she asked with a slight tilt of her head which sent her diamond earrings sliding down the side of her throat. “One can hardly recognise the room compared to how it was last year.”

[elsie-lillies]

WHERE: The Excalibur Club WHEN: May 8th - 12th, 1904 (specific date of your choosing) WHO: Open to all

The play had just started its run at the Garrick Theatre, and Elsie was coming off of its first week yet she found herself lacking feeling the same emotions—negative or positive—that she could see in her fellow actors or even the crew as another curtain was drawn at the sound of a thunderous applause from their audience. She smiled all the same, of course, clutching yet another bouquet of roses that would soon perish, accustomed to coming down from one stage only to get up on the next. Her role was of the famous actress welcomed by a troupe who had double her experience but half her fame or half her experience and even less than half her fame and still be thankful for their warm welcome. She was to ignore the hungry looks of those who wished to be her or be with her, as if their desires weren’t so clearly spelled in their piercing gazes, the forced line of their smiles or their honeyed words, and so she did.

There was truth in her performance. She might not be able to feel the excitement they felt, unable to find inspiration in another the way they seemed to find it in her, but she was still thankful to be surrounded by them. They were familiar in the way that only people of the theatre were. Yet, their familiarity was both comforting and stifling when she felt that even among her kind there was no soul who understood her.

Elsie longed to feel something beside the emptiness she was trying to fill, one glass of whiskey after the other, but nothing came. Only one person after another, daring to approach her as she sat alone at the far end of the table. Some came braving their shyness, others made far too cocky by the spirits they had drank, none managed to arouse anything within her.

“How about this,” she said, her soft-spoken voice never rising above the clattering music of a drunken crowd, just as her eyes did not rise to meet who had been approaching, “you tell me something interesting, and the next two drinks are on me.” She smiled a smile full of honey and hope as she finally turned her gaze towards them, her eyes never betraying her own hunger, simply settling gently upon their features as the caress of a gentle lover.

[scandalous-heart]

Finishing Touches

Place: Royal Academy Summer Exhibition Time: 9th of May Status: Open

Abbernath Weston took a step back from the painting and gave a nod of satisfaction. Perfect.

The little dog in the bottom right-hand corner now had a little moustache. He screwed the lid back onto his pen.

He wasn’t a complete maniac. And he wasn’t drunk either! (Though naturally he wasn’t entirely sober). It wasn’t a particularly good or valuable painting. His little addition might even add value eventually. It wasn’t as if he’d been so crude as to scrawl rude words across it (that hadn’t ended so well the last time he’d tried it) his artistic intervention was actually quite subtle by his standards. Besides, he knew the artist and he’d been a twat of the first degree. The kind who probably would have found this little vandalism very funny indeed if on someone elses painting.

Above all else, if they were going to make these things so damn dull, it should be expected that he’d find alternate ways to entertain himself.

He was about to put his pen away when he caught the eye of someone beside him a little way off. People tended to do that these days, avoid standing too close to him and avoid his eye contact. If he wanted to snare them, he had to work for it. He smiled.

“What do you think?” He asked, gesturing with his pen to the little moustachioed dog. He gave a small chuckle at his own joke as he once more admired his handiwork, and then he held the pen out towards his new friend. “Care to leave a mark of your own?”

[margaretstmaur]

𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘, 𝐈 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐄

WHEN: 2nd February WHERE: The drawing room of St Maur Castle WHO: Members of the St Maur household (servants/family).

Margaret was seated by the window, needlework abandoned in her lap, her gaze drawn out to the grounds beyond.

The day was splendid - the sky blue as a robin’s egg; salt peppering the breeze - and, indeed, Margaret desperately wished she could be elsewhere: off to town, perhaps, to buy a dress, or to take her horses out for a second time that day. And yet, Margaret knew better than anyone that her life was regimented for a reason. She never resented this fact. But she was allowed to feel bored.

Sighing, she picked up her needlework and studied it. For weeks she had been working on an intricate Arthurian scene, complete with Camelot and knights and prancing horses. It was objectively beautiful, being both skillfully accomplished and aesthetically pleasing, yet Margaret felt disastisfied with her labour. 

The far door to the drawing room opened and Margaret looked up, at the last moment permitting her expression to remain glum. There was power in shielding the private parts of herself; in controlling what others saw. Margaret delighted in toying with such expectations: what mood is Lady Margaret in today? Will she be obliging, or the obstinate princess of her childhood? Occasionally, she permitted people a glimpse past her armour, though she did so safe in the knowledge that no one truly knew who she was. She was Lady Margaret St Maur. That alone was enough.

Margaret did not move from her rather unladylike seat in the armchair and instead held up her needlework for viewing.

“Does this look dreadfully ugly?” she asked, a challenging smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “Or do you think I’ve a chance at a Salon?”

[dinah-stmaur]

An Adventure in Reading

WHERE: Riverbank, close to Fairford WHEN: February 29th 1904 STATUS: Closed | @cescapist​

It was a nice Monday morning where, if not for the chilly air, one might be tricked into think that spring had already arrived. It was only the promise of it but that made it no less beautiful, yet what had Dinah in high spirits was the hour that would soon follow, where she’d be able to read her favourite book to someone else and ask for their opinion, ask if maybe she was not as mad as a hatter after all.

She had meant to meet Benny Forester sooner, yet two weeks had passed since they had talked about this meeting of theirs. Her own recklessness had been the cause of the delay, what with ending up on the Mercia Herald with her very own first scandal. It was still ridiculous to her how badly people had reacted, how many had gladly espoused what were mere assumptions—wicked assumptions at that—as facts. But she could live with that, she could hide in the library and read and pretend she lived in as many different worlds as books she could read, what she could not do was ignore her sister’s disappointment and for that very reason she had asked Benny to push their talk to another date.

After all, she knew Mrs Forester to be a harsh woman and she wouldn’t very well approved of her or of Benny if they had met like nothing had happened. Even if nothing had happened, and nothing was suppose to happen anyway.

She shook her head to clear her mind of all these thoughts. The past didn’t matter, what matter was that she was here now. Sitting down on a warm blanket settled on the grass, her maid not too far from her on her own blanket, Dinah was fixing the third blanket that had brought with them for Benny. She had a little stack on books with her, even if she only meant to read one to Benny.

“Do you think it’s okay?” she asked, addressing her maid. “I didn’t want it in the shade or it’ll be too cold, but then I don’t want the sun to blind him either... maybe a should check if..” Dinah had turned, about to crawl from her blanket to the next, when she noticed a long shadow on the grass approaching. “Oh! You are here!” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

Bindweed

Time: Evening, 19th of May Place: Buckingham Palace Gardens  Status: Open

Alexander heard his sister Harry’s footsteps approaching, but his eyes were resting on the Calystegia flower before him, entranced.

The whole section of this garden was filled with their white petalled sight and sweet scent. A scent which he had so often encountered in the grand gardens of even grander hostesses, that its memory was connected to fresh night air and the refuge he found in it as he sought to escape the stiff air of the Summer ballrooms. He’d done the same tonight. It was a marvellous ball, with excellent music and beautiful dresses twirling in the ecstatic high of love, but even the greatest of nights needed a moment of silence. Respire.

Respire amongst the bindweed.

Between his fingers he held one such flower, watching it close its petals as it readied itself for the night, the process so slow, so delicate, yet so inevitable, with nothing to do but to watch and accept. It was this thought that prompted him to say: “I wonder if our parents watch us grow the way we can but watch these flowers close and open, morning and night. It takes them so much energy, they’d need so much less sunlight if they did not do this, and yet, they keep on closing and opening, all in a hope to shield themselves from the cold night air. And all we can do is but watch and admire their endurance, their discipline, their acknowledgement of vulnerability and open love for the sun…”

[soleil-timide]

Time: Morning, Feb. 23rd Place: High Street Status: Open

Outings were few and far between ever since their staff were dismissed. With no money to pay a lady’s maid, Florence could only leave when the housekeeper, did. Truly the older woman was the only companion she had left. Even then, the youngest Talbot couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Hudson would allow for such a thing if they weren’t in such dire straights. It still felt odd to be leading the way when in her heard, Florence knew much of her time would be spent hovering at the older woman’s elbow, watching and learning. It wasn’t especially to the housekeeper’s liking, but neither was the family’s state of affairs. With no help to be found elsewhere, she simply had to make do with Florence, now that she’d returned from France. This is temporary, mind, has already become a constant refrain. Once you’ve married, you’ll have kitchen staff. After your wedding, the mending will fall to a maid, depending on what’s being mended. Let’s review… The Baroness Talbot was not in a position to continue her daughter’s education, so Mrs. Hudson took that on her shoulders too.

Florence couldn’t be more grateful, even if every mention of marriage only got a shy smile and a laugh. Marriage seemed so far away, especially given the state of things. Surely she’d turn up to an event and be turned away. Or worse, completely shunned until she left in humiliation. These were no circumstances for a debut if you asked her (of course, no one did). The prickling sensation at the back of her neck reverberated down her spine wherever they went. It seemed inconceivable that one would get used to the eyes trailing one’s every move. To her credit, Mrs. Hudson had been rather insistent that Florence need not accompany her to town. A cajoling smile and bright eyes had swayed her to the youngest Talbot’s side eventually. Best to face things head on, with shoulders perfectly squared, Florence had reasoned. It was far easier to decide it than it was to come to terms with the consequences of it. Her heart had sank as people who might have greeted her with a smile once upon a time scurry away. Whispers and snickers were her less than elegant train, never far behind as she made her rounds.

The youngest Talbot shifted her cloak, trying to ease the morning chill as she inspected the vegetables. The vibrant fruits were ignored in favor of vegetables, and the housekeeper had shared that the imperfect ones were often a little cheaper and better flavored. Until they could manage a good garden, they’d have to do with what was found in the market. Plucking a few onions, she turned to ask the housekeeper’s opinion before making a final selection, only to come nearly chest to chest with another shopper. “Oh! Please pardon me..,” Florence exclaimed softly, a light blush staining her cheeks as she took a step back and glanced around. Satisfied that Mrs. Hudson was well within the needed proximity to maintain her duties as a chaperone, the youngest Talbot turned back to the other person. “I was hoping for an opinion on onions,” she explained, regretting the words as soon as they were out.

[cescapist]

February Cold

Date: 7th February Place: Outside of St. Mary’s Church, Churchyard Status: Open

Sundays were perhaps Ebenezer’s least favourite day of the week. They had been a source of frustration since childhood. Whether this was due to the discomfort of wearing his most formal clothes, the boredom of the sermons, or simply that Sunday promised the absence of a hearty dinner, Benny could not say. All he knew was that they chafed him, as sure as a high collar beneath his chin, as sure as sock suspenders after a long day of walking, as sure as a woollen scarf on the back of his neck.

This Sunday was no different. Primped and polished, Benny stood with his hands folded at his front, the kid leather of his gloves creaking a little as he squeezed his fists rhythmically. His arms were stiffly shoved into their coat sleeves, and he writhed on the spot in some sort of strange dance. Whilst dawn was, thankfully, appearing ever earlier, winter seemed determined to throw its all into its last month. February mornings had become bitterly cold, so much so that one had to stamp one’s feet on the way to church lest their toes grow numb, and when hymns of praise were sung the congregation’s shared breath plumed smoke-like below the vaulted ceiling. After two hours of listening, of singing, and of mumbling amens in union, the usual churchyard socialising was passing at a slug’s pace. Ebenezer was doing all he could not to jog on the spot to keep his extremities from freezing off. Though, judging from a few pointed looks his way, he was not doing a good enough job.

Mummy did so dislike it when he misbehaved at church.

The sun, still so low and yet so close to reaching its winter apex, broke ‘round the steeple of the church, finally allowing some weak warmth to lay itself over Ebenezer’s face. He closed his eyes to it, arching his neck as if craning towards it as would a flower.

“Christ,” he sighed, more to himself than to anyone else, as if blaspheming not ten feet from the door of a church was as natural as breathing. Then, hearing the step of a heel upon the nearby path and fearing that his mother drew near, he continued, “-Thank You, for this blessing of sunshine.” His fists unclenched. He spread his fingers at his side as if receiving a blessing. And he hoped that whomever it was who stood close to him either took him for a true and Faithful man, or shared in his humour, and could smile at his act.

[samuelforester]

Voices

Place: Outside of the town’s bookstore

Date: January 29th

Status: Open

“And as you know, you are not your brother just yet, Mister Forester”

These words had swarmed around in his head all day, ever since these words were said to him mere days ago. During his walks back to the house from evening strolls or back from town, discussing the news with his father, and every time he had sat down to read the book he purchased on that day at the bookstore; “You are not your brother just yet”. And when it had turned night time, Samuel was propped up on his bed, writing feverishly in his journal. Yes, he wasn’t his brother, but he knew better, he was learning, he was advancing, and he'd be damned if he was going to settle on “being his brother”.

Morning time, two more days had passed, and Samuel was feeling the lack of sleep when he was finally awake. After breakfast, and looking through the morning post, he went back to his chambers, drafting a few replies to the three letters he received. He tried once again reading that book, until he could not bear it anymore. He had to return it, to avoid those words being spoken to him whenever he opened it.

And so, he made his way back to town, book in hand and determined to give it back. A simple task, or so it seemed. Once he reached that bookstore, and looked through its windows to see all the people inside, he seemed to freeze in place, with a hand hovering midway to open the door. He was not his brother. His brother was more courageous than he was, his brother would not struggle with opening a door. 

As he stood there, feeling the cold sweat starting to clam his hands, someone tapped his shoulder. With a small, and hopefully not too noticeable, yelp, he jumped a little in place, quickly turning around to see who it was. “I am NOT…” And.. he dropped the darn book on the ground. He bent down to grab it, still not seeing who was the figure tapping him, until he finally looked up.

[valentin-talbot]

A-Dressed

Time: Rather early in the night, 9th of June Place: Masquerade Ball Status: Open

“I think,” Valentin said, sliding up to the person in his shiny pretty dress that really shouldn’t fit him as well as it did -- thanks to Marian Alvey’s hard work -- and sounding bright and excited, “we should dance.”