Kassandra Rose
Elder Member
Dearest reader,
The time has come for us to place our bets for the upcoming social season. Consider the household of the disgraced Bennetts. Two misses foisted upon the marriage market like sorrowful sows.
Miss Madeline Bennett's recent fall from grace continues to echo through every drawing room in town months after it was revealed she ran away with another missus right under her mamas nose and is already attempting to claw her way back to feast on proper society. Of course, a lady's disgrace does not merely tarnish her own name. Like the tars of the Thames, it also leaves a horrid smear on anyone nearby.
While there is no parasol in the world strong enough to shelter a ruined woman, the fallen Miss Bennett can only hope she shall find refuge somewhere. As one makes one’s bed, so must one lie in it, and it may be that Miss Bennett has made hers within the Pantisocracy. It continues to confound the authoress how one may consider living unchaperoned and in improper company of any advantage.
Far better odds might exist in the household of Viscountess Brenton, who we have yet to see associate with their extended family. Oh, the Brentons, a shockingly prolific family noted for its bounty of perfectly handsome sons and daughters. How very perfect indeed. The Ton may be surprised to hear that the Viscount may yet pry his next daughter from her books and into the market. A man who’s never been spotted in the gentleman's club. A geriatric groom. A barely-beyond infant sister who may yet seek to thrust herself into womanhood. Sensational? Quite. But true? This author may traffic in chatter and speculation, dear reader, but misinformation? Never. Best of wishes, Miss Astraea, who knows when and where one's fortunes may change?
Today is a most important day and for some a terrifying one-- for today is the day that London's marriage-minded misses are presented to Her Majesty the Queen. May God have mercy on their souls. It is only the queen's eye that matters today. A glimmer of displeasure and a young lady's value plummets to unthinkable depths. But as we know the brighter a lady shines the faster she may burn.
No less -- Ambitious mamas, rejoice! For the soon-to-be Baron Locke is to grace our fair city with his presence. And, oh, what an impressive presence it is!. The author wonders which brazen matchmake shall rise to such a challenge, for this competition is well underway.
Yet, perhaps gentle reader, a warning should also be in place. As it would not be a season if we did not see a return of the notorious Marquess Hayward, who will spend all season courting a defenceless lady while never presenting a ring. Is there something wrong with the Marquess, or is his estate just as unstable as his seasons present?
It has been said that of all bitches, dead or alive, a scribbling woman is the most canine. If that should be true, then this author would like to show you her teeth. These are Les Cris de Ton. You do not know me and, rest assured, you never shall, but be forewarned dear reader, I certainly know you.
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Join a world built on the principle of Bridgerton and inspired by the writings of Austen and the lives of the Romantic poets. In a mix of fact and fiction, this world explores the constraints of polite society and the scandals that oft imploded beneath the pressure. Whether you wish to write the assembly rooms navigating the fierce marriage market, a soul surviving scandal, or a tortured poets of the arising Pantisocracy, the world is indeed your oyster. But be warned, gentlest reader, Les Cris de Ton sees all.
Recruiting literate to advanced literate writers.
For example, please, refer to the short writing samples below:
Such magic holds words; contracts bind the corporeal and speeches can steal souls. Against the convictions of polite society, it could be argued that words are, in fact, the essence of womenkind; life-bearers. Man’s life begins in certification and ends etched eternally within granite. Indeed, the late Lady Brenton had taught her daughter to read by her own headstone, and embraced the child only in her book bindings.
Thus, that young Astraea Brenton made ouija boards of literature was a surprise to none who knew. That she had today published some argument on knowing, however, remained of uttermost secrecy. Although, it was in no lesser design associated with the pursuit of her mother’s passing spirit; some fuji or automatic writing to channel the spirit of the woman she never knew, in a way that might make her the likeness of a mother in more than merely image.
At that point, it must be acknowledged that Astraea was neither vacant of mind nor a medium of spirit. For, she possessed so much spirit, there was scarcely any room left for the wisdom of her ancestors, at all. Each day, she filled it ever more, with the presence of Homer, Ovid, or perhaps even Marlowe, and when the world caught aflame, by some fire of Locke, Kant and Voltaire, the reflection of such bore at the centre of her eyes; Some temple flame, she had every intention of carrying her turn in this relay men knew as life.
Yet, whatever her merits, it did not appear to matter how many tongues she mastered, classical or modern. She almost always lacked the correct ones to navigate the confines of polite conversation, as though caving tunnels that only narrowed and narrowed until her lungs could no further expand. Better more, she was almost absolutely certain the directions bequeathed to her were wrong, and that she should not like at all to follow the path to which they pointed her, one clambered by fluttering lashes and the momentary flight of feathered fans.
It was, her step mama had noted, the greatest of shames that her speech showed like rotten teeth, and that Astraea was almost handsome when she remembered to keep her mouth shut firm, but it never lasted long. Men, she had pertained, did not seek a bride to be roused with ugly truths, but to retreat to the delicate purity of Eden. Astraea had merely figured they ought to find a good book, then, which was what she did when she was feeling dejected and did not feel it were almost half the quest of having to attain such a bride, of whose existence she was indeed dubious.
With such defence, she had never truly felt so hideous for her words until she sighted react of them, this very moment, in the white-knuckles of a nearby Lord; her fingers braced the paleness of her throat, as though she envisioned such hostility seeking to relinquish the words at their source.
Not quite included in her brother’s conversation yet Miss Brenton turned at once, feigning engagement in posture. She were certain, now, that to further sight the response to her papers were to incite some Orpheusian fate. Still, she continued listening as though waiting for the footsteps of Eurydice, knowing too well that such an act was merely a harbinger of pain.
Never had she felt quite so ashamed as hearing the hars and the hums of her ridicule. It was only when she latched onto some indication that the scorned fellow was indeed the Lord Heyward himself that she felt some relinquishment in the heat of her cheeks; thus, the shame that burned upon them was dwindled by the lightness that such response spoke of his poorness of character and not, in fact, her own. For, it was most disagreeable of disposition to be incapable of taking criticism with grace and well-manners, and a sure lack of character to be able to constitute a response that further strengthened one’s arguments with an informed rebuttal worthy enough to nullify and challenge one’s opposition. So she told herself, as her breaths seethed like a kettle in her chest.
Thus, that young Astraea Brenton made ouija boards of literature was a surprise to none who knew. That she had today published some argument on knowing, however, remained of uttermost secrecy. Although, it was in no lesser design associated with the pursuit of her mother’s passing spirit; some fuji or automatic writing to channel the spirit of the woman she never knew, in a way that might make her the likeness of a mother in more than merely image.
At that point, it must be acknowledged that Astraea was neither vacant of mind nor a medium of spirit. For, she possessed so much spirit, there was scarcely any room left for the wisdom of her ancestors, at all. Each day, she filled it ever more, with the presence of Homer, Ovid, or perhaps even Marlowe, and when the world caught aflame, by some fire of Locke, Kant and Voltaire, the reflection of such bore at the centre of her eyes; Some temple flame, she had every intention of carrying her turn in this relay men knew as life.
Yet, whatever her merits, it did not appear to matter how many tongues she mastered, classical or modern. She almost always lacked the correct ones to navigate the confines of polite conversation, as though caving tunnels that only narrowed and narrowed until her lungs could no further expand. Better more, she was almost absolutely certain the directions bequeathed to her were wrong, and that she should not like at all to follow the path to which they pointed her, one clambered by fluttering lashes and the momentary flight of feathered fans.
It was, her step mama had noted, the greatest of shames that her speech showed like rotten teeth, and that Astraea was almost handsome when she remembered to keep her mouth shut firm, but it never lasted long. Men, she had pertained, did not seek a bride to be roused with ugly truths, but to retreat to the delicate purity of Eden. Astraea had merely figured they ought to find a good book, then, which was what she did when she was feeling dejected and did not feel it were almost half the quest of having to attain such a bride, of whose existence she was indeed dubious.
With such defence, she had never truly felt so hideous for her words until she sighted react of them, this very moment, in the white-knuckles of a nearby Lord; her fingers braced the paleness of her throat, as though she envisioned such hostility seeking to relinquish the words at their source.
Not quite included in her brother’s conversation yet Miss Brenton turned at once, feigning engagement in posture. She were certain, now, that to further sight the response to her papers were to incite some Orpheusian fate. Still, she continued listening as though waiting for the footsteps of Eurydice, knowing too well that such an act was merely a harbinger of pain.
Never had she felt quite so ashamed as hearing the hars and the hums of her ridicule. It was only when she latched onto some indication that the scorned fellow was indeed the Lord Heyward himself that she felt some relinquishment in the heat of her cheeks; thus, the shame that burned upon them was dwindled by the lightness that such response spoke of his poorness of character and not, in fact, her own. For, it was most disagreeable of disposition to be incapable of taking criticism with grace and well-manners, and a sure lack of character to be able to constitute a response that further strengthened one’s arguments with an informed rebuttal worthy enough to nullify and challenge one’s opposition. So she told herself, as her breaths seethed like a kettle in her chest.
Money he'd never spared a thought, nor his position in society. Poetry came to him with the ease of bleeding. A poke or prod and it stained the page. Women to warm his bed came with the effort of plucking petals from daisies. Men merely the strength it took to rap a code upon a doorframe. He was a double-edged sword, one side sharp, the other blunt. Quick death by the wit of his tongue, the cut of cunning, or the brutality of truth's unfiltered bitterness. He didn't much care.
Society was artificial. Fake smiles to faces turned to genuine grimace at their backs. Hair tamed to hide the wildness of feminity. Cuffs linked to give the appearance of order to the men. Everyone so utterly pale from hiding under the umbrella of their "unspoken" rules. Missing out on the unruly touch of the sun on the scandal of exposed flesh. They thought as one unit outcasted those who did not take their cues or mimic their signals.
If it weren't for his coffers and good humor Corbin would have joined the others at the bottom of the pit of shunned squalor. See it was all a balance. As much as they denied it, they enjoyed a good character. A topic to titter over at their teas which he was all too happy to be the subject. He dealt in attention and scandal more than he did his father's material trades.
He'd always been an oddity. A funny little boy possessed by grim gothic tales. The gruesome fairytales penned by brothers of the same disposition possessing all his youthful affections. Death bewitched him equally to the living. His household believed he'd pursue the interest into an admirable position of doctor. They'd never thought he'd use his pen as a scalpel to dissect his mind.
Despite those morbid interests, he passed as normal enough. His mind wise, but his demeanor boyish. He held hobbies in the follies he was subscribed by wealth. Drinking, smoking, and lust. Enough friends to count them off on the fingers of his hand. Though perhaps they were merely the ones who could endure him at length.
He sought intellectual discussions that dissolved to heated debate in his passionate presence. For all his serious words, he was not all that stern about life itself. He was known for satyr and good humor. Handsome enough to drag an entire room into his gravity.
A talent he exerted now. Drink in one hand, pamphlet in the other. Music and gossip gracefully twined through each guest of yet another ball. There was no one new to see, yet they looked at him with such novelty. Curious about the man who ravished the lifeless inked words more than the warm bodies roaming about him.
"Ridiculous, shallow thought," he snapped the pamphlet in the air, gesturing towards the companions huddled around him. "Clearly even they knew it was a shamefully dimwitted take. Hiding behind anonymity's skirts." He ranted, eyes trudging a worn path across the words. A counter argument to his recent publication. He sipped his whiskey without breaking the staring contest with the sheet, as though he were scowling at the author themselves.
Delivered with the rise of the sun, Corbin had taken the entire day to wind himself up over the piece. Springing all his pacing thoughts onto the partygoers the moment they'd gathered. It wasn't unheard of for one to experience reproach of their ideas, but no one had ever dared such a transgression against him. Cowards, too afraid of his backlash. They knew he wouldn't hesitate to confront them face to face. Argue so furiously they tripped and fell on their face. Their embarrassment to become the talk of the town for days to come.
"I mean who would dare, none of you have the balls," he chuckled, smirking at his companions who joined him happy for the slightest parting in his cloudy disposition.
Society was artificial. Fake smiles to faces turned to genuine grimace at their backs. Hair tamed to hide the wildness of feminity. Cuffs linked to give the appearance of order to the men. Everyone so utterly pale from hiding under the umbrella of their "unspoken" rules. Missing out on the unruly touch of the sun on the scandal of exposed flesh. They thought as one unit outcasted those who did not take their cues or mimic their signals.
If it weren't for his coffers and good humor Corbin would have joined the others at the bottom of the pit of shunned squalor. See it was all a balance. As much as they denied it, they enjoyed a good character. A topic to titter over at their teas which he was all too happy to be the subject. He dealt in attention and scandal more than he did his father's material trades.
He'd always been an oddity. A funny little boy possessed by grim gothic tales. The gruesome fairytales penned by brothers of the same disposition possessing all his youthful affections. Death bewitched him equally to the living. His household believed he'd pursue the interest into an admirable position of doctor. They'd never thought he'd use his pen as a scalpel to dissect his mind.
Despite those morbid interests, he passed as normal enough. His mind wise, but his demeanor boyish. He held hobbies in the follies he was subscribed by wealth. Drinking, smoking, and lust. Enough friends to count them off on the fingers of his hand. Though perhaps they were merely the ones who could endure him at length.
He sought intellectual discussions that dissolved to heated debate in his passionate presence. For all his serious words, he was not all that stern about life itself. He was known for satyr and good humor. Handsome enough to drag an entire room into his gravity.
A talent he exerted now. Drink in one hand, pamphlet in the other. Music and gossip gracefully twined through each guest of yet another ball. There was no one new to see, yet they looked at him with such novelty. Curious about the man who ravished the lifeless inked words more than the warm bodies roaming about him.
"Ridiculous, shallow thought," he snapped the pamphlet in the air, gesturing towards the companions huddled around him. "Clearly even they knew it was a shamefully dimwitted take. Hiding behind anonymity's skirts." He ranted, eyes trudging a worn path across the words. A counter argument to his recent publication. He sipped his whiskey without breaking the staring contest with the sheet, as though he were scowling at the author themselves.
Delivered with the rise of the sun, Corbin had taken the entire day to wind himself up over the piece. Springing all his pacing thoughts onto the partygoers the moment they'd gathered. It wasn't unheard of for one to experience reproach of their ideas, but no one had ever dared such a transgression against him. Cowards, too afraid of his backlash. They knew he wouldn't hesitate to confront them face to face. Argue so furiously they tripped and fell on their face. Their embarrassment to become the talk of the town for days to come.
"I mean who would dare, none of you have the balls," he chuckled, smirking at his companions who joined him happy for the slightest parting in his cloudy disposition.
Roses flitted about her dreams. Covered every surface and adorned her clothes. Their hues of varying match to her cheeks and the ribbons that had been tied into her hair, and she sat amongst them in weighted mourning. Tears becoming raindrops, falling from her cheeks and rising to the heavens to cascade upon her head. She always dreamed in this nonsensical way, of bees large enough to carry one to the America’s or dresses that fused in with one's flesh. ‘Beware!’ they always seemed to warn, ‘Danger!’ they always seemed to plead. Their signs of trials were ever clear this morn, in her rose covered mausoleum, ‘death is afoot’.
The sun beamed upon her parasol though she longed for the moments her steps swayed her outside of its covering, the feel of the sun upon her cheeks drew her to wispy breaths. How long she had yearned for time away from home, cursed her elder sister for running away and forcing them into a life behind aged walls else shameful eyes bore upon them. She had not one thought to spare for those that cast her sister's judgment upon her person, as she was not a noddy that could be taken away as Madeline had so proven herself to be.
Still, the nights hauntings left her skin gooseridden as she spied the roses along the path. She yearned to rip them from their plantings and cast them into the pond, ‘good riddance’ she’d say to them, ‘you can not come for me!’ But their thorns seemed as hands that crawled them across the grounds, dug into the fabric of her heels, and declared themselves to be known. Eleanor could nary escape their looming, always somewhere to be found and like a curse even if she took to ridding one it seemed two more would appear in its place. Roses had become her ghost, haunting her morn and night. Though her mama assured her they were just bad omens to be dreamed of when one was sick, she had to offer the refute that life was of never ending sickness for them. Though her nose did not itch and her eyes did not water, coin was a plague of which she’d already deemed herself fluent.
It was seldom her elder brother did not remind her the weight her finger bore, its emptiness a bag waiting to be packed, a carriage ride to a better place. Eleanor fiddled with it now, tracing the space a ring would eventually sit as if silent prayer, ‘for this finger I thee give my soul in exchange for a rising of my family, meals upon table, and a beg for the culling of roses’. Another bloomed dagger caught her eye, its pink hues matching the flush her cheeks had taken. “Right your parasol darling, you’re giving yourself away to the suns bruising,” with silent agreement she adjusted herself, straighter in posture now and empty hand in rest against her midsection.
It was true that in her years of waiting to be of age to join a season, that she had done all that a lady was meant to do. She’d learned all she was meant to learn, feasted her soul on books of brilliant teachings. She’d perfected needlework, even found a way to learn the harp and piano though they’d no instruments in her familial home. She was to be the prize of the families festival, and she was crafted down to the ringlets that sweat laid to her face. Eleanor Bennett was porcelain upon a cabinet, faced angularly so one might not see the growing crack in her surface
Her fathers voice drew again, this time not to she as his steps stopped along the gravel. He was hidden by the fabric that was keeping her shaded, and as he conversed with someone that seemed of his past she took the opportunity to lay her parasol back upon her shoulder, exposing her sun kissed cheeks to the midday rays once more. Begging their sunshine to cleanse all the suffering from her heavy worn limbs, she yearned to be as free as the tom cat just searching its next patch of sunlight with nary another care or diligence. Heaven seemed to whisper from the beams, and under it she blossomed as though she had forgotten all that her dreams dare whisper to her.
The sun beamed upon her parasol though she longed for the moments her steps swayed her outside of its covering, the feel of the sun upon her cheeks drew her to wispy breaths. How long she had yearned for time away from home, cursed her elder sister for running away and forcing them into a life behind aged walls else shameful eyes bore upon them. She had not one thought to spare for those that cast her sister's judgment upon her person, as she was not a noddy that could be taken away as Madeline had so proven herself to be.
Still, the nights hauntings left her skin gooseridden as she spied the roses along the path. She yearned to rip them from their plantings and cast them into the pond, ‘good riddance’ she’d say to them, ‘you can not come for me!’ But their thorns seemed as hands that crawled them across the grounds, dug into the fabric of her heels, and declared themselves to be known. Eleanor could nary escape their looming, always somewhere to be found and like a curse even if she took to ridding one it seemed two more would appear in its place. Roses had become her ghost, haunting her morn and night. Though her mama assured her they were just bad omens to be dreamed of when one was sick, she had to offer the refute that life was of never ending sickness for them. Though her nose did not itch and her eyes did not water, coin was a plague of which she’d already deemed herself fluent.
It was seldom her elder brother did not remind her the weight her finger bore, its emptiness a bag waiting to be packed, a carriage ride to a better place. Eleanor fiddled with it now, tracing the space a ring would eventually sit as if silent prayer, ‘for this finger I thee give my soul in exchange for a rising of my family, meals upon table, and a beg for the culling of roses’. Another bloomed dagger caught her eye, its pink hues matching the flush her cheeks had taken. “Right your parasol darling, you’re giving yourself away to the suns bruising,” with silent agreement she adjusted herself, straighter in posture now and empty hand in rest against her midsection.
It was true that in her years of waiting to be of age to join a season, that she had done all that a lady was meant to do. She’d learned all she was meant to learn, feasted her soul on books of brilliant teachings. She’d perfected needlework, even found a way to learn the harp and piano though they’d no instruments in her familial home. She was to be the prize of the families festival, and she was crafted down to the ringlets that sweat laid to her face. Eleanor Bennett was porcelain upon a cabinet, faced angularly so one might not see the growing crack in her surface
Her fathers voice drew again, this time not to she as his steps stopped along the gravel. He was hidden by the fabric that was keeping her shaded, and as he conversed with someone that seemed of his past she took the opportunity to lay her parasol back upon her shoulder, exposing her sun kissed cheeks to the midday rays once more. Begging their sunshine to cleanse all the suffering from her heavy worn limbs, she yearned to be as free as the tom cat just searching its next patch of sunlight with nary another care or diligence. Heaven seemed to whisper from the beams, and under it she blossomed as though she had forgotten all that her dreams dare whisper to her.
1x1.
♡coded by uxie♡
