Realistic or Modern Regency & Romance (1800s slice of life IC)

[PixieDust]

Old Friar’s Abbey is quite the sight as it stands, bathed in the moonlight of a cool spring evening. The cathedral at its centre practically glows as though charging with the excitement of every possibility that might present itself to its youthful guests. This night, all are welcome, be they of the highest station or a lowly sheep-herd. This night, none shall be known by their countenance. This night, anything might happen!

Welcome to Regency and Romance. In this, our first big event, your character has been invited to attend a masquerade ball for young people of all respectable stations in society. None know by whom they were invited, but it is rumoured that The Old Friar’s Abbey might be the haunt of a Tudor monk, how thrilling! Don your handsomest attire and let the merriment begin.



A melody to soothe the soul

 

[PixieDust]

If permitted to say so himself, Henry Cavendish was quite delighted with himself for coming up with such a marvellous event and even more delighted with his dear friend Fitzwilliam for bringing it to fruition. Presently, the young baron stood, dressed in his handsomest masquerade attire, no longer as the Honourable Henry Cavendish, but as the embodiment of the sun god Phoebus Apollo, ready to dance the night away with a handsome stranger or two.

Phoebus grinned over at the musicians as they finished warming up. That particular sound was one of his very favourite in the world and it had the affect of augmenting his desire for frivolity even more.

The usually gloom filled ruins were bound to be filled with sights and sounds and attractive people in no time. Just the very idea of it was thrilling to Phoebus.

“Indeed this will be a grand old time. This was certainly one of my more brilliant ideas. What is not to love about an excuse for revelry?” He said to himself.

The difficult part for the young man was waiting for guests to arrive, but he busied himself inspecting all the food and beverage tables and charming the young musicians with his earthy charisma.

The Barony

Henry.

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[idalie]

LORD FITZWILLIAM WELLESLEY ⁠— the marquess of townshend
tags: PixieDust ; location: old friar's abbey masquerade ; interactions: henry

The Old Friar’s abbey proved itself a monument to turmoil. Blackened walls and crumbling columns, jagged as relics of saints raised their palms upward in eternal compassion, moss growing thick where nature had sought to reclaim what remained of long-haunted halls. Tales of the dissolution’s bloodshed and Henry VIII's tyranny were the sort of stories that stimulated the mind with thoughts of ghosts, restless spirits, and slaughter⁠—for the young Marquess of Townshend, these were prerequisites for a good party. Illuminated by oil and gas lamps, candles hidden away in alcoves once reserved for catholic artefacts and splinters of the crucifix; the abbey had to it a soft, orange glow, flickering against the balmy air of May.

Amid the fading light of day, sky gradually deepening with the presence of few stars bright enough to pierce the velvet underbelly, dusk came to a draw. Quietening birdsong interspersed hedgerows, woodlands occupied by the prowling of a lone fox in the undergrowth, wary of lights and strings as the band struck up entertaining melodies. Here, in the country where fields rolled and the small plumes of smoke from farmer’s chimneys blazed, cups o'erflowing with wines and spirits from Huntingdon’s cellars and Wellesley’s own private reserve, mankind occupied that home of beast and creature both.

Lord Wellesley stood head and shoulders above most, donned in white and gold, light irises catching the shadows that pooled within his Cavalier’s mask. Crowned by an aureate laurel, perhaps he was more reminiscent of a spirit, for whom represented the height of Rome’s hedonism; honey and blood. Ozymandias, king of kings, how quaint to be found in the shell of what once was⁠—but the night was young for flowery prose and inspiration of fairer face, if only he went to seek it.

Whilst guests began to trickle in, tentative of the invitation; some clearly wearing their plain but smart Sunday best as poor parish girls and tidy merchants took glee in the games of rich bachelors, Fitz sought out a rather different sort of company. Spying Henry as he busied himself with on-going last-minute preparations and smooth, easy talking of the musicians, Fitz disengaged from his musings and wonderment of their little event to head over.

“If it isn’t Hertfordshire’s most desirable!” The Marquess announced, cane flipping up from the heel of his Hessian boots to lodge beneath his arm for the time being; its handle a scene of ivory-carved brutality of lioness and lamb, fitting neatly in the palm of his cream-gloved hands. “Capital idea, the masquerade that is, I’d hate to be on the parish papers for low morals and illicit gatherings⁠⁠—I’ve a reputation to uphold,” A low, indulgent laugh escaped the roll of his chest, echoing dully against the interior of Fitz's mask.

Clapping Henry’s upper arm with an amused familiarity, the young Lord fell into routine as wit tied his tongue rather than sense, “And tell those boys back there to strike up a Viennese waltz. There’ll be no chaperones tonight, save for those unhappy few, I’d be glad to make the most of an absence of dowagers, spinsters and irate fathers.” The Marquess’ eyes creased, evident to be smiling even as his features remained wholly concealed. “Tonight is for conquest, and I toast it to ours, let’s not remind ourselves of a certain frog and his La Grande Armée.”

 

[BELIAL.]

Lady Philomène De Lacy

Location: Masquerade Ball - Old Friar's Abbey
Company: Minney (NPC Sister), Open for Interaction!
Tags: N/A

Rosy cheeks, rose-tinted lips and a curved smile sat below a gold and black mask, beckoning forth any curious individual to guess what lay beyond. Yet it was not the allure of mystery, truly, that had encouraged Lady Philomène to attend. She knew fully that anyone who knew her, even at a distance, would be able to tell her apart from any other porcelain skinned ingénue. It was an excuse to decorate, and costumes were some of her favourite for the performance of it all. Dripped in gold trimming and ornamental foliage, Mina was the very picture of a Goddess of Goddesses. She believed this whole-heartedly, never lacking in finding confidence in her sense of fashion or flair for dramatics. Mina also knew if she was not careful, a few flutes of champagne would display this proud bravado-- which wasn't very ladylike whatsoever.

Though, really, she wasn't one to reprimand that side of her. Where was the fun in it, anyway?

Her sister had begged to attend, and she had been invited after all, though her health had been spotty as of late. In bed most days, Minney hardly had the air in her to go down the stairs of their country home, let alone to attend any social event. Mina, who without a doubt would bend over backward for her sweet sister, did hope that no flare-ups would occur. If the night were to be ruined, it would be far more embarrassing than the aforementioned liquid ego. The abbey was a unique place for a Ball, and held in it the beauty of eccentricity. To ruin it all would be a blunder inescapable.

She'd keep an extra eye on Minney, dressed in lavender tones and calling herself "Hebe", at very least. Pulling her sister around, discussing each other's businesses in hushed tones and pseudonyms, did seem a fun way to pass the time before a company formed, or dancing began.

"Of course,"" Mina went on as they entered, adjusting her stole with pampered ease, "the handled mask does provide something for the hands to do, as you have opted for the evening, but you will be bound to hold it at all times. Unless, that is, you don't wish to maintain your persona."

Her rambling was often chiding at its worst, or well-behaved lecturing at its best. Mina did love to talk, and her sister entertained such a character trait.

"I do! This one was just the most fitting that I saw. You don't think I made the wrong choice, do you?" 'Hebe' asked, her voice rising painfully. 'Hera' shook her head, offering a smile to the younger girl.

"Not at all, dear sister. It's a calculated move. Offering your hand to dance, or to be kissed, leaves no hands open while holding the mask. A gentleman would not force you into such a position for very long. You would not beg for your hand back, as he would return it. And if he's painfully droll, you can remove yourself as quickly as you'd like. Being very picky is the thing to do at such an event. I fear there are those among the common rabble with us tonight." Mina peered about behind her mask, eyeing where clusters of patrons formed and where others roamed the length of the Abbey.

"I find that romantic, surely," Minney contested. "What if some swooning gentleman proclaims his affections for you, but by daylight he's revealed to be just a pumpkin picker!" She laughed a little, heart-singing in enjoyment. Mina snorted.

"I would be offended, and perhaps a little disgusted," Mina said with a long-drawn inhale, eyeing her sister with masked vitriol. It only made the giggles fall faster from Minney. "But amused. I have invited some poor, but very honest, dear miss who would benefit from such a magical treatment. To give her one night... Now that is romantic."

And off they chatted, being careful to maintain the other's pseudonym, all the while gazing at all who shown beneath the low-light's dreamy fervor.

 

[PixieDust]

Presently, Moira stood behind a divider in the grand dressing room she and her sisters Harriet, Charlotte and Margaret were in, staring at the bold red dress they had chosen for her as though having second thoughts.

‘Oh grow up, Moira it is only a dress!’ She mentally chided herself and with a deep sigh she slipped into her outfit for the ball, a vision in scarlet with delicate, flower shaped, red and gold earrings and her dark auburn hair left to flow freely in deep waves down her back. She rarely left her hair down and as she stood there in the statement outfit, she could not help but feel inexplicably....powerful. With her red and gold mask in one hand and a matching fan in the other, she peeked around the divider cautiously before stepping out from behind it with a newfound confidence.

Of course, the young woman was always poised, but now that she was Athena, she felt far more in control of her own fate for the night.

She let out a gasp of delight as she took in the beautiful attire of her siblings; all fair-haired and opting for soft shades of blue, pink or yellow, quite out-of-step with her own garb.

Charlotte in particular -the sister with whom Moira shared the most similitude of temperament- resembled a beautiful cherubim with her golden curls that framed her rosy face and wide brown eyes.

It was she who, tonight, donned Moira’s usual palette of pale yellow, with a simple white and gold mask in the shape of a butterfly. It was she who Moira knew would enrapture a young man tonight and perhaps then their home and futures would be safe.

“Oh my, you all look simply beautiful!” She exclaimed, placing a gloved hand over her mouth.

“Us?” Lottie said in dulcet tones, “Why Em, it is you who has outdone us all.”

“Indeed, you look sublime ‘Athena!’ Why I doubt anyone would recognise you.” Harriet added.

It took a little more coaxing from her sisters for Moira to be persuaded to attend the masquerade in such controversial attire, but soon enough, the foursome had stepped out into the moonlight and into their carriage.

Though henceforth known as Athena and wearing her red and gold mask, Moira could not help but bring a vestige of her true self along: a fountain pen, hidden in the bodice of her dress.

Her younger sisters wittered on about whom they might come across at the ball, with whom they might become temporarily enamoured, and whether there might be any Lords in attendance. The eldest Tennyson daughter made haste in tuning out the idle talk of her siblings. She had only accepted the invite as an unencumbered opportunity to observe her peers.

**

Athena was in awe of the solemnly dramatic cathedral ruins they had entered with its high ceilings and gothic architecture. It truly was the perfect setting for a masquerade and it set her thoughts whirring with possibilities for dramatic prose.

The faint orange glow of lights, the sight of guests from all sorts of backgrounds and the delightful music made Athena’s heart feel lighter than it had in quite a while.

Now that her outfit was complete, mask and all, she seemed to glide through the room as though weightless. The woman in scarlet was quite a striking sight in contrast to the pastel clad women she had entered the room with. She shot an uncertain glance over at Charlotte before leading the way into the fray.

The Landed Gentry

Moira.

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[The Awakened Moon]

Charlotte was particularly excited for the event of the evening. A mysterious masquerade ball in which she didn’t know who had sent her the invitation. She wasn’t sure who she expected to see, but she knew she could expect at least one of her dear friends, Miss Moira Tennyson. Which made her all the more excited.

Her nerves, due to the excitement, resulted in her constant fuss over her low styled braided bun. Her fingers played with the thin gold hair jewelry that was entwined with her hair. Lilian, her older sister who decided to accompany Charlotte, gently swatted her hand away from her hair. “Stop. You’ll ruin your hair before we even arrive.” Charlotte compliantly rested her folded hands in her lap as she smiled gratefully at her sister then looked out the window of the coach.

“Oh my…”

she whispered quietly to herself as the display of the Old Friar’s Abbey came into view. She had never laid eyes on the cathedral before, but she had easily heard tales of a possible phantom that may or may not be roaming the ruins. Such a perfect setting for a ball such as tonight’s.

The two sisters’ coach came to a stop at the entrance and the door opened, a hand waiting to help them get out safely. Charlotte stepped out and smoothed the skirt of her powder blue tulle gown. She brought her white and gold mask up to her face before anyone could see her, making her entrance into the abbey with her sister.

“From this point forward, I must be referred to as Selene and you as Circe”

Charlotte muttered to Lilian. Her sister had on a beautiful off-the-shoulder pale green costume and a white mask embedded with white pearls. Lilian, being the epitome of beauty in Charlie’s eyes, would have no trouble of finding a gentleman at some point in the evening. But Charlotte was worried for herself. The community knew of her failed past relationships, as no one could keep themselves from a satisfying trade of gossip, even as frivolous as that. But Charlie was the same, so she shouldn’t fret too much.

’Selene’ felt the most alluring she had probably ever felt in her life. She was sure her ensemble would catch an eye or two. The shoulders of the gown alone was enough to catch someone’s attention. But Charlotte’s favorite part about her dress was the little flower details on the waist and the skirt, as well as the glitter throughout the material. It tied in perfectly to the Greek goddess she was portraying for the evening, a beautiful goddess of the moon. Somehow, her dress gave her an optimistic feeling for the evening. One that could turn out to be a possibly amorous evening filled with flirtatious conversations that may or may not lead to anything of importance. She started to glance around quickly, wondering if she could recognize anyone she knew even with the masks covering everyone’s faces. But her eyes fell upon the tables with the display of foods and champagne.

“Circe, would it be too early in the evening for refreshments?”

she asked playfully as she eyed the flutes. 'Selene' took her sister’s free hand and pulled her to the tables before she could even respond.

miss

charlotte.

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

sasha.

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There were few things Sasha enjoyed more than dancing. Unfortunately, the opportunity to dance usually came only when one attended a ball, which was an event containing as many things Sasha hated most crammed into it as possible—introductions, awkward small talk, girls with notions and their parents, who often disapproved of the notions but seemed to think he’d started them.

But this ball, Fitz had insisted with enthusiasm, enlisting Sasha on his mission to put it together on Henry’s behalf, thisball would be something else entirely. A masquerade, outside of the all-seeing eyes of society, with all the fun and none of the fuss.

About as daring and illicit as Fitz and Henry’s sort got, Sasha supposed, but he wouldn’t complain. He wasn’t that much older than either of them, but he felt like he was sometimes, the older brother or senior officer tasked with keeping them all in one piece. He hoped he wouldn't wind up feeling like a chaperone by the end of the night as well.

But so far all was well, and guest were entering, the abbey ruins looking appropriately eerie and romantic in the flickering golden light. Lord Wellesley was declaiming boldly about toasting conquest as Sasha joined him and Henry, the spurs on his tall cavalry boots jingling softly with his step.

"A toast, my dear Ozymandias, and no champagne?"

Sasha asked.

"That won't do."

Sasha had been sure to leave a few champagne bottles upside down in ice buckets, and he chose one of them now, holding it in his left hand by the base. He turned so that the neck faced away from the rapidly growing crowd in the abbey before drawing his sword and, with a single stroke, lopped the end of the bottle and the cork off, producing a satisfying pop as it flew away to bounce harmlessly off the far wall of the abbey.

Sasha was already feeling more favorable about the whole masquerade. No one would have ever let him get away with sabrage at a normal ball.

"There we are. Fetch a glass, let's have a proper toast.

The Snowstorm: Waltz

Georgy Sviridov

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[idalie]

LADY CHARITY FAIRFAX ⁠— the viscount's daughter
tags: n/a ; location: old friar's abbey masquerade ; interactions: n/a

Charity was by all means a woman of good standing; temptation not often seizing her as it had the prospect of a masquerade, located midst the crumbling ruins of a long-desecrated monastery. Her time since returning to Hertfordshire had been spent entertaining the odd country gentlemen whose wealth oft no-more exceeded four thousand pounds a year, proving themselves comfortable albeit hardly adequate to provide relief to Fairfax’s financial distress. Migraines dogged her anxieties, wondering whether a man of income could ever materialise to her in the convivial atmosphere of a tightly knit community that so represented a slight blurring of nobility and gentry. Summer estates and events on great manor grounds were popular, of course, but to permanently reside in the rural provinces—well, what would her friends and acquaintances in London say?

When not occupying the centre of such loud, fashionable movements as the ladies of the Ton, it was a destined exile to become frumpy; having the latest fads trickle down a little too late to be considered exclusive. Charity bemoaned her fate many evenings, limply sprawled on her mother’s chaise as Viscountess Fairfax combed and rag-tied her ringlets, speaking instead of village gossip and correspondence from distant cousins. The world seemed much smaller, when it was fed to you in snippets of newspapers and letters, recounting dances one had missed, or marvelous sights abroad. In Hertfordshire, it was as if no war could’ve ever existed, overseas or otherwise.

Thus excitement, a party worthy of mention to her cosmopolitan circles and equal opportunity ripe for scandal that’d feed ladies tea parties for months⁠—a masquerade inviting even the lowliest fellow to the abundance of dull noblemen.

Calling upon the use of a tailor, one of her garments that’d spent last season in London was refreshed anew with bold pinks and soft silk; giving the appearance of faux-Grecian where the blushing fabric clung to Itty’s shoulder, exposing white beneath. Satin roses ran across her lower skirt, reflecting the crown atop her head where wisps of hair cupped at Itty’s lightly rouged cheeks; daring to not plunder her mother’s vanity further, lest she be discovered for the borrowing. One was forever relegated to that of a child, unless by marriage or inheritance, a woman of standing became lady of her own home; though looking upon her mother’s tired eyes, one wondered whether being answerable to a husband was truly the freedom she sought.

A man who was good-tempered, gentlemanly, dark-eyed and sweet about the mouth⁠—with a hearty hatred of the card-tables, but Lord forbid he had the piety of a dour priest. And an income that exceeded five thousand a year. In a metropolitan landscape, it was not much to ask. But the purgatory of which her father entrapped her, Charity believed it no less than a miracle.

Gloved hands fluttered an embroidered fan, up between the gaps of her mask where the metal had been shaped to appear as if lace in design, something left in the bottom of her luggage from the odd society attendance that wasn’t gossip circles and dinner parties. Charity had been raised locally long enough to know the tails of ghosts, that of a Bloody Monk’s chant as he wandered up and down restlessly trying to locate his prayerbook⁠—others rumoured King’s soldiers had once slept in the ruins during the civil war, until Cromwell’s men slit their throats in the dead of night. All nonsense, albeit as far as morbid curiosity went, Itty was rather enthralled at the notion of meeting a spirit⁠—and not just the sort that came in a glass.

Music teased from the strings of the band, gaslights flickering, as she wrapped a thin cotton shawl about her shoulders to duck into the fray of arriving guests; gravitating toward the excess of drink for a taste of liquid courage to carry her over the first hurdle. That being ‘Hello’ and ‘By perchance have you considered dowries to be burdensome?’ with a greater charming ease than most. However, more than anything, Fairfax wished to dance as though no such debt lingered upon the back of her mind, as she'd done during her debut some years past. When Faith remained by her side, kept warm beneath the Dowager's wing. It wouldn't hurt, perhaps for the night, to spin til' her slippers walked off without her in them.

 

[BELIAL.]

Nicholas Hawkins

Location: Masquerade Ball - Old Friar's Abbey
Company: Charity
Tags: idalie

It was not his intention to look a gift-horse in the mouth, or to question the decency of what sort of stranger had sponsored him an outfit to a masquerade ball he hadn't even planned on going to, but the whole matter had painted a sordid taste in Nicholas' mouth. It was fear, paramount, of an event full of people he was sure to get annoyed at. There were times in the past that he would have relished in a cross-class mingling, floating about the rankings of peerage and nobility, even, finding such delight in the little joys of people decorated akin to pompous birds. It would have been beyond humorous, and a night to remember, but now it simply felt like standing at the edge of a great pit.

He wanted to go, surely. But did the somersaults in his stomach make up for it? Did the feeling of being so out of place, a syndrome that never could be cured, have an applicable sedative in fancy liquor and senseless dancing 'neath moonlight? It would not, he knew this, as fanciful as the notions were. There would be beautiful ladies, a thing any other man would beg to be in the company of, and a chance to be rid of most of society's standards and boundaries. Though, truly, Nicholas hadn't felt quite the burden of society in some time, not since he'd absorbed his grief into a thick, black coat. Country niceties were not the same as city niceties, as much as the overlaps did tend to look the same under an observant lens, and Nicholas did not hold himself to any sort of behaviour that was not casual or natural. He had no patience for titles; though he could bite his tongue when an employer showed their presence.

Yet, he had swallowed his pride and his misanthropy and decided to go. For all his doubts and misgivings, there was the idea of a rich man's liquor marinating his throat that seemed far more appealing than swallowing a couple of watered down pints at the pub instead. Perhaps, even, he would run into people that he actually knew.

No. That would be worse. The outfit anonymously bequeathed was of fine green velvet, too tight in some areas and too loose in others. Finely made but worn in the past, that he knew. It's not as if he'd expected something fancy and new to be attached, but the idea of a casual loan had made him feel even squirmier. He looked a different man, someone he wouldn't have recognized even without the mask, and it did send a chill down his spine. Perhaps it would be better no one he knew caught sight of him, lest they lament he continued to dress in his rags on the regular instead of investing in something fine like this.

He liked his clothes. Plain, fit good. Simple layers. He'd gotten near tangled in the coat-tail's more than once while dressing. Nick was glad then and there that he was not some Lord or Hon that needed to be bound and tied in these clown clothes on a daily basis.

Arriving at the Abbey among the throng of partygoers entering in a crowd, he took in the sights. An old ruin he'd seen more than once while out on horseback, it was a delight to see it under different lighting and decorated as such. The natural features of the Abbey's architecture were highlighted, not suppressed, which surprised him. A warm bath of gaslight enveloped him as he stepped to the side past the entrance, hands crossed at his elbows, unsure of where to go or who to be.

He could spend all night simply standing, watching and waiting, with no words for anyone. It could be a character, that stoic man, that no one would bother.

But that man would be oh so sober, and the notion of that was more nauseating than joining any dance. He'd take the risk.

Tromping across he edged past giggling groups and standing bodies, sweet scents floating in the night's free air. Many beauties could be seen, too, swathed in fine colours. He heard the pop of a champagne bottle not too far away, setting his mouth awash with the idea of tasting it for the first time.

Able to secure himself a glass, something to felt far too delicate in his rough hands (even if they were beneath a layer of fine kid glove, that of which felt worse against his skin than the mask), he caught sight of a woman in hues of white and pink, her gold mask flashing against the flicker of a gaslight nearby. His lips tightened, an inhale signaling his attempt at courage. She appeared to be waiting for a drink, but plenty of others had already hovered about, leaving little room. He supposed a help would be a great conversation starter, as sick as the notion made him feel.

He took a quick swig of the champagne, swishing it about his teeth. The tastes exploded on his tongue, something he'd never had before, and Nicholas already felt a swell of pleased enjoyment race through him.

Elbowing through he found another glass and, hoping he didn't trip, made his way to the woman. Holding out the drink he offered his best smile, though he knew it to be far forced than most.

"'Ere. You prob'ly weren't goin' to get anywhere near there without ruinin' what you're wearin'." He knew he sounded monotone and mocking, at best, and chastised himself for it. Shifting his weight he gave a nod to her. "That bein' an...em... fine dress and all. I... I don' know a thing of myths or fairy people beyond what any babe's taught. So don't let me guess who you're bein', or we'll be 'ere all night."

He had not known exactly what the dress code was, or what the theme was, but he'd gone with what he knew best. The Bible. A few helpful words from a friend who was well-read enough to describe antiquated myth had led Nicholas toward the first person he'd thought of that wasn't the big man. Jason.

 

[World In A Puddle]

Two girls sat near the hearth, the older hemming a shawl, the younger looking into the flickering flames as their mother watched on, the old rocking chair she sat upon creaking gently as the sun began to kiss the horizon.

"Do you reckon Lizzie will find someone at the mask...maqs...how do you say't 'gain Minnie?" The youngest, Emma, glanced at her sister, playing with the hem of her skirts.

"Masquerade. An' no. Our Lizzie's too much a ninny for tha'."

The two burst out in a fit of giggles, ignorant of their mother's gaze and the loving amusement within it. It was rare for them to experience these moments, with so much work on their hands. A few piles of clothes from nobility and commonfolk alike remain unwashed, but the masquerade and the excitement it brought had stalled their work; a delight to everyone but Lizzie, who's head never seemed to be occupied with anything else but work. There was a clatter of objects from the other room, an annoyed tsk following the sudden crash before Lizzie stepped out, red-faced and somewhat out of her depth.

"My fingers are to clumsy for this sor' of thing," Lizzie looked on with embarrassment, holding up a hair ornament, golden and decorated with leaves and pearls, far richer than she has ever owned. She was oddly dressed for a laundress, fitted in a white muslin gown, trimmed delicately with gold, the sleeves puffed liked clouds. A shawl hung from her elbows, richly embroidered with many-hued flowers, each delicate and bright against the fabric. Her sisters had become quiet, looking somewhat in shock from their place atop the hearth, eyes taking in their older sister's appearance with awe. She shifted uncomfortably, gaze snapping to her mother who reached out a thin hand and took the adornment from her. Soon, Lizzie found herself in the hands of her mother, who's clever fingers twisted her auburn strands into a neat lower bun, allowing wisps of hair to tickle the bare skin of her neck.

The invitation had come as a surprise to her; when she'd first met Lady De Lacy, Lizzie would have never thought that the noblewoman would speak a word to her, she was simply hired help after all. Yet, they had talked some, useless talk that Lizzie had thought amounted to nothing. Only it had produced something; a messenger, rather indignant at having to arrive at the steps of a laundress's home so early, with a bundle and card in hand. She had asked him to read it to her, much to his chagrin, and was shocked to find herself invited to a masquerade. She wasn't privy to the reason Lady De Lacy had invited someone such as herself to join her ; in all honesty, the movements and methods of the upper classes were lost to her, for they seemed to have no real reason to go about their fun and frilly activities.

She had contemplated not going, eyeing the bundle from afar as she lathered linens and wools with lye, rough fingers kneading the cloth with practiced ease. It would be easy to say no, would it not? After all, she was sure that Lady De Lacy had done it simply in the name of charity, and thus quickly forgotten about her. Their sort tended to conspire all sorts of ways to improve their reputation and fuel their pride. Her mother, though, soon learned of the invitation, and was quick to insist on her attendance. She wanted her daughter to take a break, to experience life, and prodded her eldest with a variety of reasons as she pushed her into the side room to change.

And so Lizzie soon found herself at the entrance to the Old Friar's Abbey, now hidden behind a bronze mask embossed with leaves and ripe heads of grain, her true identity lost to a new world beneath the aged stone pillars. She felt out of place, boxy and awkward next to the plethora of noble women somehow delicately draped in fine clothing and jewels, holding themselves up with an air of grace and class that she could never dream of possessing. The air was festive enough, buzzing with energy, ripe with possibility and as she gained her bearings, settling into her new role, she allowed herself to venture further in.

The Laundress

Elizabeth

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[Elucid]

​

MR. ABRAM J. ROY - being an enigmatic speculator from far off London; spending a happy evening at a country masquerade .
tags: PixieDust | wickedlittlecritta | BELIAL. ; location: Old Friar's Abbey masquerade ; interactions: BELIAL.

As the wonderfully replete carriage, crammed to the brim with red and black leather chests creaked and hobbled across the well worn but muddied road to Hertfordshire, the coachman let out yet another heartfelt apology, "Yer, have 'aught us at a bad time monsieur." he paused, tightening the reigns and letting out a short yelp; encouraging the horses to pick up the pace as the back wheel becomes victim to yet another slight ditch. "The roads 'ere ain't often like this. made the journey to London in under an hour, I have; I swears it!"

This man seems to think that you're a Frenchman. That is the only thought that Abram's head could muster in response, burdened as it was with the trials of a long journey. He hadn't tried to disabuse the man of the notion; primarily because, to do so would require further explanation - perhaps even a request for the dreaded 'life story'. But there was another reason, he'd never been mistaken for a Frenchman before, a Moor, a Turk sure but never a Frenchman. It felt nice? Especially when he thought about how long the ruse could be kept up when in the county proper, but he gave up the madcap idea just as they turned past the Boreham woods to the East and made towards Hertfordshire proper. There was work to be done, Chalsey House had been rented out for the season, with the requisite staff and furnishings; but Abram knew that it'd take a week still for him to be truly settled in just the way he'd like. Besides the preliminary concerns behind getting situated in the county, Abram was to make contact with one Johnathan Pope; a solicitor working for E.D. Sassoon & Co., engaged in fighting multiple claims of maltreatment and delayed pay by lascar seamen. The recent Committee Report on Lascars and other Asiatic Seamen had introduced new requirements for reimbursing lascar workers, namely that such workers be provided with "a bed, a pillow, two jackets and trousers, shoes and two woollen caps." News of these new requirements had made Abram's job that much harder, as he had been employed to (amongst other things) convince the seamen to accept a cut in pay and amenities for at least till the end of summer - in time for Sassoon & Co. to move the majority of their maritime interests to London from back home in Bombay. As the lithe man dressed in the fine fashions of the London gentry remained brooding at the back of a truly stately carriage, Chalsey House in it's full splendor came into view; its easily distinguishable baroque architecture, spacious gardens and quiet surroundings made it a suitable place for a gentleman with good prospects such as himself. It seems that the horses agreed with such a judgement, sounding a particularly animated neigh as they and the carriage itself came to a sudden halt. "'ere we go then monsieur, I'll bring your luggage in don't yer worry." Says the portly coachman as he flexes his elbow.

It takes the better part of the evening for Abram to situate himself in one of the larger rooms in the manor; to be refurbished into his study. A grand old mahogany table is brought to the room, followed by what seems like a battalion of servants carrying a number of tomes; some of which look near a hundred years old. After having been satisfied by his new surroundings, Abram began the tedious process of replying and penning letters - informing his employers of his arrival, intimating his neighbours regarding the renting of Chalsey House, and requesting to make their acquaintance over tea, as demanded by propriety. Soon after, a manservant brough by an intricately penned letter inviting the recipient to a masquerade at the Old Friar's Abbey. While the eccentricity of the event had piqued his interest a bit, Abram figured that the work that he had piled up while in London needed his attention first. Although this course of action was swiftly abandoned when he overheard a maidservant nervously discuss the fine dress she'd been sent for the masquerade; with a retinue of hangers on barely hiding their envy. Abram had assumed that the English as a race were defined by their adherence to petty notions of class distinctions; such an event would seem to prove otherwise and thus warranted at least a brief visit. Thus, in a flurry of activity an appropriate set of clothing was chosen from a large black leather chest with intricate floral designs, the carriage readied (with a new coachman this time) and the new occupant of Chalsey House began to make his way to the first event of the season, taking the slightest whiff from an intricate silver snuff box he'd made a point of always keeping at hand.

The first thing that comes to one's mind when faced with a sea of immaculate and enticing young debutantes should probably not be questions about the appropriateness of the venue, but alas that is exactly what Abram notices first; a dilapidated Tudor abbey betraying its former grandness. Perhaps not the best place for such revelries, that is if one cares much for their mortal soul. Like everyone in attendance, he'd been dressed as a figure of myth - Heracles the great warrior demi-god. More so because the mask he had at hand seemed vaguely Greco-Roman, than due to any sense of likeness or admiration he'd have for his chosen mythical figure. As for the attendees, it felt as though the mixed character of the gathering was rather moot, considering how easy it was to pick out those born into wealth and title - distinguished by an air of self-assuredness and aplomb, as if to say; I belong here. The duo of Ajax and Ozymandias seemed to embody the point. He wagered that the latter must've assumed his namesake for some strange fascination with the poem's rhyme scheme rather than having any sympathy for the message it conveys. Having surveyed the venue a bit further, Abram seemed to have made up his mind about the whole endeavour, making plans to take his leave. That is, until he discovered a duo engaged in merry conversation. One of the young women had caught his attention; draped in a gold and white dress, sticking out from the rest of her peers and yet embodying that same proud bravado. He wished to make her acquaintance, perhaps due to an innocent enough desire to meet a new person; but Abram was no charmer, he had little skill with idle chatter and felt resigned to his preordained lot. But then again, was this not the perfect place to try one's luck at socialising? Failure would result in little consequence, except confirming what he'd already assumed about himself. And so, having fought an internal battle of will, he made his way to the two women, securing himself a glass of the champagne that was now flowing freely and taking a healthy swig to impart courage.

Addressing whom Abram assumed to be the younger of the pair, he began "Apologies my lady, but I cannot countenance such slanders against my chosen profession. There is great fortune to be made in the trade of pumpkin picking. Three generations of my esteemed family have been engaged in the business; exporting pumpkins to the Indies, where I am told the fruit is in great demand for the purposes of various shamanic rituals." He let out an awkward chuckle, hoping to let the pair know that his attempt at a jest, was just that, and that he wasn't in fact a pumpkin picker by trade.

 

[sappho_]

Winifred Somerset

Lady of Belleview Manor.

Sappho.

mood

excited; nervous

location

old friar's abbey

oufit

dress, gloves, jewelry, fan, mask, hair

tag

PixieDust

If being honest, the Lady of Belleview Manor could barely remember the last time she had received an invitation to an event. There had been a great many happening throughout all times of the year but seeing as she was not the most well received by many other upperclass guests, her invitations never seemed to arrive. Moreover, this event was more exciting than most. Her face was to be hidden behind a mask and her name was to be changed. How exciting it was!
Winifred's idea was simple in her mind. She would become the "Queen of Flowers" written in Sappho's poetry and she would borrow her name just for the night. An older silk dress and a pair of white gloves were embroidered with dainty little flowers. Thankfully, they had been sewn by Marianne's gifted hands. Her lady's maid knew that Winifred was not to be trusted with embroidery needles, lest she somehow destroy the dress that she was trying to upgrade. Winifred truly felt above her station with the elegant clothing pulled over her lithe form.
"I am quite nervous," Winifred admitted, her eyes meeting Marianne's in the mirror. She watched her friend work away at doing her hair, carefully rolling the soft bunches of curls on either side of her face.
"There's nothin' to worry about, I promise," Marianne spoke with such confidence that Winifred found it hard not the believe her. "Besides, no one said you have to stay all night."
Winifred nodded, letting at a sigh as Marianne's gentle hands clasped her pearl necklace around her neck. "That is true but, I would not want to make a bad impression. Most of the ladies already regard me as strange for having no marriage proposals at my age. And the gentlemen, well, they fancy marrying me and then sending me off to Bedlam to have Belleview for themselves."
Once Winifred was dressed, Marianne helped her into her phaeton and her driver set off to Old Friar's Abbey. The little old building, if it could be called that in its ruinous state, was already swarmed with carriages and guests making their way inside with haste, faces all covered. That reminded her to slip the floral mask in her hand over her face.
"Enjoy the party, Lady, er, Sappho," her driver chuckled as he helped her out of the phaeton. "Thank you, sir."
As soon as she entered into the ruins, the scene dazzled her. Everyone was dressed to the nines and the most beautiful music drifted through the cool air. She hardly knew what to do with herself and maybe that was why she bumped straight into another lady dressed from head to toe in a dramatic red outfit.
"My sincerest apologies, miss," 'Sappho' said quickly, hoping to have not angered the other lady.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[sappho_]

Philippe Beauséjour

french military noble.

orpheus.

mood

slightly annoyed

location

old friar's abbey

oufit

outfit, gloves, mask, cane

tag

n/a

"Philippe." The man ignored the whisper like a mosquito buzzing in his ear. A flick of his wrist turned the page of a yellowing book that he held in his hands. Philippe was so absorbed in the delicately printed words that the only thing that shook him was a smack to his head. "Was that really necessary?"
"Actually, yes. If you haven't noticed, which you obviously haven't, I've been pestering you for nearly ten minutes and you just now stirred from whatever spell this dreadful book has put you under!" Juliette cried in annoyance. Philippe tried to go back to reading his book and the young lady promptly snatched it from his hands and tossed it across the room. "Juliette! What has gotten into you!"
"What has gotten into me is that we were supposed to be dressed an hour ago and you look like you've just awoken from your beauty slumber," his younger sister huffed. Philippe sighed, leaning his head back into the plush cushion of his armchair. He dreaded going to this party. Normally he would love parties, he would love the chance to converse with his peers, but today was not one of those days. He would be lying if he said he was not still exhausted from his travel. The journey from France to England would be tiring for anyone, let alone a man cursed with a constant limp and recurring sickness.
"Philippe, please. You know I cannot go without a chaperone. This is my last chance to have fun. Please just let me," Juliette begged. He wanted to refuse so he could continue to rest his body but he couldn't. She was so young, too young to be worried about marriage and homemaking. She deserved this chance to live her life. That was one thing that Philippe could give to her.
So the two of them were dressed in matching outfits of baby blue with bronze masks, Philippe's in the shape of a wolf's face and Juliette's shaped like a swan. "When we arrive, you must refer to me as Echo and I will call you Orpheus," Juliette explained with a smile across her lips.
"As you wish, Echo," Philippe responded with a similar smile.
The siblings made their way out of the carriage they had rode in and into the crowd. The building was not much of a building anymore but that was no matter. Cheerful music sang, bouncing along the stone walls and colorfully dressed ladies and gentlemen conversed and danced. For a moment, Philippe was able to forget about his legs and Juliette's future. Maybe, just maybe, tonight would be a good night.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.