sollie
Member
Ch 1: The Whitmore Ball
coded by xayah.ღ
Last edited:
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Fantasy 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤 & 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 - 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲
- Thread starter sollie
- Start date
sollie
Member
Josephine Finch
coded by xayah.ღ
idalie
ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʙᴀʙʏʟᴏɴ
CPT. ARTHUR DARLING — the hussar
tags:
sollie
; location: hatfield house ; interactions: marchioness whitmore
tags:
sollie
; location: hatfield house ; interactions: marchioness whitmore Whitmore Estate was a grand, sprawling thing; lounging across acres of manicured gardens, exquisitely representative of the latest landscaping fads imported from the continent—save for the clear uniformity that dogged the old Capability Brown designs with scattered, if not pleasing, copses of deciduous forestry. These were places of reined nature, contained in their flowering borders by the gardener’s shears and attentive pruning, overseeing the roses unfurl to fragrant shapes of top-heavy petals. Almost reminiscent of the ladies of Antoinette’s headless court, sizable skirts replaced by the droopy stems, Darling could remain pleasantly enraptured with a well-constructed promenade and their floral appeal.
He often reflected upon his tardiness as an amusement, that slow meandering stride of his, a lazy swing in his step and drowsy smile; it was a smug form of lateness the Captain embodied. As though a cat having ruined his mistresses’ supper and knowing he’d never suffer the consequence as much as the cook. At the effects of his unchivalrous and downright untimely appearances, he’d soothe and flatter, bearing gifts for which the expense proffered enough sincerity that none truly held him accountable, mollifying in entertaining snippets of, “My own mother found me absent at birth—you ought have known her surprise!”
However, as with tales that owe their changing fates to irregularities, Arthur attended in an unexpected degree of punctuality. Accompanied by his old superior, Major Lloyd of the 18th, there were few who the young Captain respected, or perhaps feared, to the extent of that ageing officer. A minority criticised that Major Lloyd relied too heavily on the flog, yet none had said as such to his face, twisted into a permanent mask of obscurity and pinched bitterness only noted in devotees of the old testament.
His wife, once the spinster daughter of a rector weighing up whether she ought devote herself to a convent, had a similar and frightening ailment of thin, pursed lips and a subtle squint. A match not made in heaven fearing blasphemy, nevertheless, Darling confessed if the Anglican’s had a purgatory—perhaps they’d of been better suited to enjoy the bleak lack of anything side by side. The grey, plain couple had their few grey, plain children and appeared content enough, that their lack of affection was marked by the lobotomised tranquillity of matrimony.
Although an uninspired tale of love and duty, they were almost enviable.
The carriage ride was weighted by silence and the occasional bumbling conversation of Napoleon’s latest ventures, interrupted by the Major’s scoffing, tutting, and sharp hisses of displeasure where the carriage jolted his already long-wrecked legs. It’d been anything but convivial, owing to the vehemence of which they denounced Bonaparte, to the headlines of parliament, and quietly uttered displeasure over the recently instated regent.
It seemed only Wellington had a head on his shoulder’s worthy of equal with Old Boney, and even his victories were all for nought as the evacuation of Corunna rounded them up on the Spanish coast. Of which his disparaging remarks on the state of the English cavalry brought any Hussar to garner a chip on his shoulder, as they’d proclaimed themselves some of the finest horsemen that side of the Channel.
The hansom pulled up, gravel gratingly crunching under its wheels as the men alighted first before Mrs Lloyd was aided by her husband, making their entrance amid the influx of guests.
Clad in their dress uniforms, the officers proudly displayed their sabres slung across the hip, ready to relinquish them at the slightest hint of dancing, albeit rather intrinsic to the martial impression set by fellow soldiers and cavalrymen. Midnight blue jackets bore intricate silver brocade, snaking gracefully across the chest and accentuating the tall collar sitting close beneath the chin, righting posture with itchy starch and impressive stance. White breeches and tall, polished hessian boots that defined steady calves made up the latter half of their wear, yet the defining knowledge of their rank provided them to be distinguished above standard issue.
First port of call would be Marchioness Whitmore in the flesh, one of the only women that Darling supposed could stand a chance standing toe to toe with Queen Charlotte through a sheer, disciplinary force of nature she possessed. One might seek it out in her meddlesome matchmaking and control of the social sphere, and whilst Arthur had avoided it at all cost in the past, it now seemed he’d beg to fall upon that same grace she afforded her other favourites. He’d not expected the star of the season, nor even the young Miss Whitmore—however much he thought her a handsome and fair girl from afar—the plain daughter of a baron would do at the rate he managed to disenfranchise courtships. And the clock ticked.
Inheritance was no laughing matter, not where money and land were within reach. A Captain’s salary was good money, he couldn’t deny that, but the estates and fortune under his father’s name and secured in the will would taste all the better if he’d look less like a failure and more the amiable heir. And that first step, happened to be a wife of better nature than he.
If one were to ask his truthful ideal of a spouse, all humble wordsmithing of bland and smart would exchange for a portrait of a Belgian showgirl.
Approaching the hostess with their well-wishes, stooping into gentle inclinations of bows, Darling presented his gloved palm to greet the Whitmores, proffering a small shake, “Lady Whitmore, ever the pleasure—you look utterly resplendent, I’m vexed how you appear to grow fairer at each event, don’t tell me you haven’t had any young, lovelorn artists waking you at all hours?” The Captain smiled, lips pulling to a grin of silver and pearl, softening the deepening lines that haunted his tiring gaze, “I might extend wishes of good health for the family, so I took the liberty of having a few select teas imported—they’re a riot in the Orient, delicate on the senses, people praise their restorative effects almost religiously—dare I not blaspheme in good company.” A chesty laugh rolled across his shoulders in a tremor.
He often reflected upon his tardiness as an amusement, that slow meandering stride of his, a lazy swing in his step and drowsy smile; it was a smug form of lateness the Captain embodied. As though a cat having ruined his mistresses’ supper and knowing he’d never suffer the consequence as much as the cook. At the effects of his unchivalrous and downright untimely appearances, he’d soothe and flatter, bearing gifts for which the expense proffered enough sincerity that none truly held him accountable, mollifying in entertaining snippets of, “My own mother found me absent at birth—you ought have known her surprise!”
However, as with tales that owe their changing fates to irregularities, Arthur attended in an unexpected degree of punctuality. Accompanied by his old superior, Major Lloyd of the 18th, there were few who the young Captain respected, or perhaps feared, to the extent of that ageing officer. A minority criticised that Major Lloyd relied too heavily on the flog, yet none had said as such to his face, twisted into a permanent mask of obscurity and pinched bitterness only noted in devotees of the old testament.
His wife, once the spinster daughter of a rector weighing up whether she ought devote herself to a convent, had a similar and frightening ailment of thin, pursed lips and a subtle squint. A match not made in heaven fearing blasphemy, nevertheless, Darling confessed if the Anglican’s had a purgatory—perhaps they’d of been better suited to enjoy the bleak lack of anything side by side. The grey, plain couple had their few grey, plain children and appeared content enough, that their lack of affection was marked by the lobotomised tranquillity of matrimony.
Although an uninspired tale of love and duty, they were almost enviable.
The carriage ride was weighted by silence and the occasional bumbling conversation of Napoleon’s latest ventures, interrupted by the Major’s scoffing, tutting, and sharp hisses of displeasure where the carriage jolted his already long-wrecked legs. It’d been anything but convivial, owing to the vehemence of which they denounced Bonaparte, to the headlines of parliament, and quietly uttered displeasure over the recently instated regent.
It seemed only Wellington had a head on his shoulder’s worthy of equal with Old Boney, and even his victories were all for nought as the evacuation of Corunna rounded them up on the Spanish coast. Of which his disparaging remarks on the state of the English cavalry brought any Hussar to garner a chip on his shoulder, as they’d proclaimed themselves some of the finest horsemen that side of the Channel.
The hansom pulled up, gravel gratingly crunching under its wheels as the men alighted first before Mrs Lloyd was aided by her husband, making their entrance amid the influx of guests.
Clad in their dress uniforms, the officers proudly displayed their sabres slung across the hip, ready to relinquish them at the slightest hint of dancing, albeit rather intrinsic to the martial impression set by fellow soldiers and cavalrymen. Midnight blue jackets bore intricate silver brocade, snaking gracefully across the chest and accentuating the tall collar sitting close beneath the chin, righting posture with itchy starch and impressive stance. White breeches and tall, polished hessian boots that defined steady calves made up the latter half of their wear, yet the defining knowledge of their rank provided them to be distinguished above standard issue.
First port of call would be Marchioness Whitmore in the flesh, one of the only women that Darling supposed could stand a chance standing toe to toe with Queen Charlotte through a sheer, disciplinary force of nature she possessed. One might seek it out in her meddlesome matchmaking and control of the social sphere, and whilst Arthur had avoided it at all cost in the past, it now seemed he’d beg to fall upon that same grace she afforded her other favourites. He’d not expected the star of the season, nor even the young Miss Whitmore—however much he thought her a handsome and fair girl from afar—the plain daughter of a baron would do at the rate he managed to disenfranchise courtships. And the clock ticked.
Inheritance was no laughing matter, not where money and land were within reach. A Captain’s salary was good money, he couldn’t deny that, but the estates and fortune under his father’s name and secured in the will would taste all the better if he’d look less like a failure and more the amiable heir. And that first step, happened to be a wife of better nature than he.
If one were to ask his truthful ideal of a spouse, all humble wordsmithing of bland and smart would exchange for a portrait of a Belgian showgirl.
Approaching the hostess with their well-wishes, stooping into gentle inclinations of bows, Darling presented his gloved palm to greet the Whitmores, proffering a small shake, “Lady Whitmore, ever the pleasure—you look utterly resplendent, I’m vexed how you appear to grow fairer at each event, don’t tell me you haven’t had any young, lovelorn artists waking you at all hours?” The Captain smiled, lips pulling to a grin of silver and pearl, softening the deepening lines that haunted his tiring gaze, “I might extend wishes of good health for the family, so I took the liberty of having a few select teas imported—they’re a riot in the Orient, delicate on the senses, people praise their restorative effects almost religiously—dare I not blaspheme in good company.” A chesty laugh rolled across his shoulders in a tremor.
coded by archangel_
Last edited:
BELIAL.
wanna bewitch you in the moonlight
Marjolaine de Lacy
Location: Hatsfield House
Company: Aunt Hortense Petty-Fitzmaurice (NPC)
Tags: N/A (Open!)
Location: Hatsfield House
Company: Aunt Hortense Petty-Fitzmaurice (NPC)
Tags: N/A (Open!)
coded by archangel_
