#sims 4 historical story

[inlovewithregencyera]

transcript under cut : )

Paelford House

July 8th, 1818

*Aurelia sniffling and starts softly crying*

*Aurelia starts violently sobbing*

July 8th, 1808

Auglire Castle

Robert: Sugarplum?

Robert: Sugarplum, where are you?

Robert: And why is it so damn dark in here?

Robert: Sugar?

Robert: Aurelia, please come out. It's your birthday and I have a surprise since nobody else in this damn castle seems to care.

Robert: Aurelia..?

*Aurelia sniffles*

Robert: There you are my dear. Whatever is the matter?

Aurelia: Leave me be Uncle Bertie. I wish to be alone today.

Robert: No, no I won't do that. It's your birthday and your foolish da-forgive me, your foolish parents can't seem to remember. Your mother is still in her bed and not dressed and your fool of a father has been off riding since the crack of dawn, which is never good, he always does that when something is troubling him.

Aurelia: He's been going off riding for long periods every morning since....you know.

Robert: Yes, I know how he reacts to death but he has other children to attend to as well. Mama says he's worse than when our Father died. Had I known it was this bad here I wouldn't have been in the city so long...

Aurelia: *wiping eyes* Well, if you should know, I asked that for my birthday nobody did anything or mentioned it, so it's not their fault. All I asked for was to be alone.

Robert: Well, I'm not respecting that wish. You don't need to be alone, especially on your birthday. None of them have any sense to realize that.

Aurelia: *sniffles* But I WANT to be alone. No birthday will ever be the same again without her. I hate my birthday.

Robert: Well I love your birthday and would like to celebrate it with you and that's why I've came all the way from Winshire. Since those fools haven't prepared you a cake, you and I will go to the sweet shop and get sorbet.

Aurelia: Why should I enjoy any sweets if she never will again? It's my fault, I-

Robert: No, sugar, quit saying that. If you'd like to blame anyone then let it be me, I can bear it. I can't bear you thinking it's your fault though.

Aurelia: But it is…

Robert: *sitting down* No, no its n-*back cracks* NOT!

Aurelia: *softly giggling*

Robert: I'm glad my pain amuses you. If I could break every bone in my body a million times just for you to be happy, I would.

Aurelia: You don't mean that.

Robert: I mean it with my whole heart.

I love you, and I do hate seeing you sad. I too, know how it feels to lose a sister, you know?

Aurelia: *sniffles* Yes, yes I know.

Granny doesn't speak about her that much, neither does Papa.

Robert: They do that because it's easier for them. It's been nearly forty years, and I assure you not a day goes by where they don't think of her. I think of her everyday, and was only eight when she passed.

Aurelia: *softly* What was she like?

Robert: *smiling* Georgiana was a lot like you, believe it or not. She was kind, compassionate, and a little shy. But she didn't really prefer naturally feminine hobbies such as embroidery, cross stitching, or anything to deal with music and that upset our Mama a lot. My Father adored her, because she shared his interests. Before bed, she would often scare your Papa and I with silly ghost stories and don't tell him I told you this, but he once got so scared he wet himself in his nightgown.

Aurelia: *hysterically laughing* Really?

Robert: Yes sugarplum, really. He was around your age when this happened.

Aurelia: *sitting on lap* Uncle Bertie?

Robert: Yes sugarplum?

Aurelia: Does it get any better?

Robert: What do you mean?

Aurelia: Will I ever stop feeling so…sad?

Robert: The pain won't go away, but in time, you'll learn how to manage it better. You won't feel so sad everyday when you're older, it'll just be some days.

Aurelia: But will I ever feel happy again?

Robert: Of course you will sugarplum! You will have many happy memories in your lifetime, trust me. The happy ones outweigh the bad ones, I know it's hard right now, but I promise you eventually it'll get better, *kisses cheek* alright?

Aurelia: Alright. Can we still maybe get sorbet..?

Robert: We will go right now. *picking up* I'll even buy you a whole cake for yourself, how does that sound?

Aurelia: *gasp* Really? But what will Papa say?

Robert: He won't know. Perhaps we will buy him one too, he might need it.

Aurelia: I think Papa needs more than a cake!

Robert: At this rate...I think he does too. We will worry about him tomorrow though, today is your birthday, not his.

Bridget: Aurelia…?

Bridget: *grabbing face* Aurelia.?

Aurelia: *pushing away* Why are you in here..?

Bridget: I couldn't sleep well, my room is too hot. Yours is always cooler...

Aurelia: *sniffling* You always say this when you want to sleep with me.

Bridget: Well, perhaps I do, but I can't because you're upset! What's wrong?

Aurelia: Why does everyone have to die?

Bridget: Is this about Harriet?

Aurelia: Uncle Bertie.

Bridget: Oh, I miss him too Aurelia. What made you think of him today?

Aurelia: I remembered how he took me for sorbet on my birthday ten years ago.

Bridget: Aurelia, it's alright. *caressing cheek* You know he wouldn't want you to be like this, you can't say he would.

Aurelia: No, *wiping eyes* no he wouldn't.

Bridget: It'll be alright Aurelia. Tonight will be the best birthday of your life and I'll make sure of it!

Aurelia: *sniffles* Oh please don't say this will be the best one. I'm already sad today, I would like to at least hope for one birthday in the future where I wake up happy and not cry.

Bridget: Fine. It will be ONE of the best birthdays of your life. *grinning* Is that better?

Aurelia: A little.

Bridget: You shall dance with your future husband, and all is well!

Aurelia: *smirking* I do hope you’re right.

Bridget: When am I not?

Aurelia: Well..

Bridget: *giggling* No do not answer that.

Now, let us both go back to sleep!

Aurelia: I suppose you mean not to sleep in your own bed?

Bridget: Yes! *climbing in bed* It's too much trouble to walk back.

[jackiejellyg0126]

The Brief Life of A Young German Soldier

[aheathen-conceivably]

The tour was going better than even Josephine could have imagined. Despite the melodramatic resignation with which Antoine had gotten in the car the morning they had left Strangerville, or the brooding quiet he adopted on their drives between performances, he was a different person on stage. 

So much so that when Jo watched him perform she knew that this was where he was always meant to be, even if he had tried to pretend otherwise. After all, she had been the one who had been there from the first moment he had ever sat in front of a piano, advocating for him first at the club with their mother and then with men all over town. She had been the one who had believed in him, even when he hadn’t believed in himself.

And for whatever cowboy fantasy he may have been living in Strangerville, seeing him like this was like watching him come alive all over again - until finally, it was as though the best of the artist he had been under the heavy weight of the Storyville air had been set free, colliding and enmeshing with some idea of himself he had found on the open mesas.

With every cheer and every show it grew stronger; and even as he might have grown more homesick or quiet with her, something else was growing in him. Away from the stage, she would catch him at all hours of the day and night, huddled with his guitar and clutching a pen, working quietly but furiously on compositions and lyrics.

It didn’t seem to matter how shabby their accommodations were, or that each bed and each view was different but woefully the same as the one before. He only had himself and his guitar, and whether that was enough or just a distraction from the fact that it would never be, she was unable or unwilling to discern.

As the weeks wore on, they fell into a sort of rhythm, one governed by constant movements and brief moments of respite. Antoine would wake when Jo turned on the lights only to know without words that they would have to load up the car to get to their next stop, check in another hotel, unload their bags yet again, play another show, and end up back in the same room by evening. Day after day, the same routine was governed by blurred vistas from a car window, tinged with movement and restlessness, just like Jo's soul had always been.

So it was in those brief moments of stillness that Antoine would just simply sit and write, allowing whatever stained carpet he was sitting on to become home for just a moment. Only Jo could still see it even when she was meant to rest - the freshly paved black asphalt shivering in the ever present sun, stretching out all the way to the Pacific Ocean. It was impossible to ignore, not when she knew what was waiting for her just outside.

So she would tell Antoine that she would be home soon, a quick nod telling her that he had barely heard her. Moments later, she had left the hotel in her rearview mirror. Then, without fail, the feeling of freedom rushed over her as the wind roared past her ears and deafened her to every noise swirling around her, even those coming from inside her own head. She never wanted to stop the car once it got going, the asphalt burning hot under the incessant movement of the tires and the charged touch of the accelerator as it gave way under her heel, finally meeting the metal below as the car groaned under her.

But eventually, begrudgingly, she would realize that she had gone too far to be back home by sunrise, or to know where the nearest gas station was, so she would turn around back to the hotel that she called home for only a few nights at a time.

Sometimes when she returned, he would be asleep, run ragged by the driving and shows that only made her more energized than she had ever been in her life. Other times he was still sitting exactly where she left him, guitar clutched in his hand and seemingly surprised that hours had gone by while she was away. Those nights it was like they had both caught the one another in a daydream, Jo’s mind still racing as fast as the car had been and Antoine’s numbed to the outside world by the lyrics that flowed from it like whiskey.

Only when they met each other's eyes did they realize another day awaited them - one filled with the promise or dread of yet another faceless room and a cheering crowd. Then there was little left to do but sleep with the hope that you had the energy to face it.

When the sun broke through the curtains, it brought with it another drive, another hotel, and another show - another day of the movement that had carried them along like waves for weeks at a time. So Antoine would brush the sleep from his eyes, only half aware even as Jo clasped the pearls behind each ear. Then he would rustle up his papers, slow to fit each shirt back into his suitcase as though it shrank with each stop.

By the time they were back in Val's car, the wind took over for the silence of a long drive, grown more poignant by the fact that part of her knew that he didn’t want to be there, and part of him saw that she would push them forward nonetheless.

Except at the end of every drive was yet another show, softening the tension between them with his lyrics that reinforced to her that this was where he was meant to be all along. He never faltered as he played, reminded that despite whatever had kept him awake the night before, this was always waiting for him. Every song and every note like an outlet for his pain, his feelings free to roam through him and escape from him like nothing else.

All their lives, Jo had watched him hide the words he had wanted to say, or the frustrations he felt. She was proud, and even more deeply, joyful that she had gotten him here. Finally, singing on a stage where people listened to him and appreciated him for the artist he was, even if it was in the corner of some dusty bar in the middle of some desert state. She was smart enough to see that if he just allowed it for himself, this was only the beginning. So when Hosa caught up to them on the last leg of their tour and offered her not one but two more tours, she didn’t even hesitate before saying yes.

[rebouks]

Previous // Next

[crickets chirping] [Robin gasped as he woke, scrambling backwards through the brush; he was pretty sure by now that ghosts couldn’t hurt him, at least not directly, but this particular entity was still unknown-.. and very close] Robin: AH! ?: AHHH! [Seemingly just as surprised as he was, the startled sprit mimicked Robin’s exclamation] Robin: Sorry! ?: Thou see me-.. hear me?! Robin: Yeah.. that’s a good thing though, right? ?: ‘Tis certainly different. Robin: Wait, where are you going-.. what’s your name? Heath: Erm, ‘tis Heath-.. methinks. Robin: I’ve never seen you here before. Heath: I’ve seen thou-.. and that curious thing around thy neck. Robin: How long have you been, uh… Heath: Dead? Oh, a while. Robin: It’s a camera. Whatever you take a picture of will be captured just as you see it, forever-.. as long as the photo lasts anyway. Don’t ask me how it works though, ‘cause you wouldn’t believe me. [Heath squinted with simultaneous suspicion and bewilderment] Robin: Here’s one I took earlier-.. that weird orb thing there? That’s what you’d look like if I took a picture of you. I think because you’re not physically here anymore, you don’t show up, but I don’t know for sure. Heath: I’m not entirely certain what thou speak upon, yet it hath an air of witchcraft about it if thou bid me. [phone ringing] Robin: Hang on. Heath: I’m not e’en going to bid what that is. Robin: Sorry, mom.. I fell asleep. Courtney: Where are you? Robin: On the island-.. Devin said I could use the boat whenever. Courtney: [sighs] Can you just come home, please? Robin: Yeah, I’m coming. [Robin stared at his phone briefly before sticking it back in his pocket, he didn’t like phones at the best of times – being unable to read the person he was conversing with, even a little, felt inherently wrong – but this felt worse than usual] Robin: I’ve gotta go. Heath: Well, ‘tis not as though I be going anywhere-.. apparently. Robin: I’ll show you some more pictures next time, I promise! Heath: I suppose that’d be nice…

[silverseaming]

Summer drifts in on a warm wind, the heat climbing so subtly at first that it was hard to notice. By the middle of the harvest, though, the rays beat down with such intensity that man, beast and flower wilt beneath them. Only the wheat is uncowed, tall and golden as a sticky breeze runs ripples through the fields. It’s almost bearable in the morning — beautiful, even — when the sun only peeks over the mountaintops, glazing the crops orange as the sunrise. The stalks are still heavy with dew, Chestnut’s feathering shining with the moisture.

At midday, however, it is decidedly not beautiful. Despite setting out at dawn and having the help of the Mellors and Gillis boys, the need to harvest while the dry weather lasts means Kit can’t avoid the worst of the heat. By now his shirt sticks to his back, calluses throbbing on his palms. Even the faithful Chestnut has abandoned him to amble down to the creek, not that he can blame her. Each pile of straw tossed increases his longing for the sweet relief of cool water. It’s hard work, yes, but it must be done. This harvest, just like their first harvest, cannot be allowed to fail. Not when he’s risked so much for this, not when they need this, need— well, not even only the money. The success, the small joy of all the crops being gathered in, a bounty in one area of their lives, when others have been painfully barren. And enough to buy a Johnson self-raking reaper, he thinks, as he fiddles with the latest knot of twine. At least then Chestnut would have to pull her weight, rather than leaving everything to Kit and his scythe.

Just when he can’t take any longer, sustenance arrives in the form of Meg and Daisy, laden with freshly baked bread, jams, lemonade, and all sorts of other delights. This little ritual has quickly become Kit’s favourite part of the day — not just because of the welcome meal they bring, but for the view of watching them walk over the field, the moment before Daisy’s sticky hands grab at his where they come close enough for him to see their smiles. It makes something tighten in his chest. Gratitude. Guilt. The two never seem too far apart these days. Looking at Daisy it’s easy to forget, simply lose himself in her innocent happiness. But there are moments of sadness he catches in Meg’s eyes that bring up a whole new guilt, the old crashing harder in its wake. It’s all for them. That’s what he tells himself. It’s better Meg doesn’t worry. Not now. “Thank you, love.” Kit says, pulling Meg a little closer. “It’s no trouble,” Meg smiles, “And this way Daisy gets to be out in the fields with Pa, without driving me to distraction.” “Well, you two are my saviours all the same.”

[thebramblewood]

The night where it all began, part one.

Previous / Next

Caleb: Mother and Father wouldn’t approve of you going out alone at night.

Lilith: Which is precisely why Mother and Father need not find out.

Caleb: Surely you can miss one party.

Lilith: I can, but why should I? I’m not like you, Caleb. It takes more than a book to satisfy my pleasure. There’s still time for you to dress. [teasingly] Besides, you’ll never find a proper young lady to court if you refuse to leave the house.

Caleb: And you’ll never attract an upstanding suitor so long as you keep shamelessly flirting in public with married men.

Lilith: Oh, but it’s such fun!

[both laughing]

Lilith: [melodramatically] Poor Mother and Father, burdened with two prospectless children. I almost pity them. They’ll certainly die of shame if the family line ends with us. Of course, they haven’t lost all hope. I may be doomed to crusty old widowers, but they’re still trotting out pretty girls for you. You might just marry yet.

Caleb: [mumbles] Isn’t that a loathsome thought?

Lilith: At least they’d leave you be. There are only so many reasons a young man willingly resigns himself to perennial bachelorhood, and they’re beginning to grow suspicious.

Caleb: We both have our proclivities.

Lilith: Yes. But people talk, and their talk is far less likely to wound you if you’re the one directing its aim.

Caleb: Oh, is that what’s happening when they call you the femme fatale of the ball in the society pages?

Lilith: There are far worse things to be called. Count yourself lucky they’ve only latched onto your social ineptitude thus far, wilted wallflower.

-

Caleb: Be careful.

Lilith: Now, where’s the fun in that?

Caleb: Lil-

Lilith: I can take care of myself.

[royaltysimblr]

Royal Consorts of Windenburg

Lady Anne Wiltshire, Queen Consort - Wife of King James IV

Princess Adelaide of Schwerin, Queen Consort - Wife of King Charles I

Lady Matilda Carlton, Queen Consort - Wife of King Charles II

Princess Ophelia of Lausanne, Queen Consort - Wife of King James V

Princess Carolina of Mannheim, Queen Consort - Wife of King James VI

Princess Augusta of Augsburg, Queen Consort - Wife of King Charles III

Edward Woodville, 2nd Duke of Wilmington, Prince Consort - Husband of Queen Matilda II

Princess Wilhelmine of Platz, Queen Consort - Wife of King Joseph III

Princess Sophie of Dresden, Queen Consort - Wife of King Joseph IV

Princess Leilani of Sulani, Princess of the Isle - Late Wife of King Edmund VIII

Princess Odette of Brichester, Queen of the Isle - Wife of King Edmund IX

Princess Josephina of Corrilea (@theroyalsofcorrilea), Queen Consort - King George I

Charles Statford, 7th Earl of Statford, Prince Consort - Husband of Queen Mary II

Sir Philip Statford, Prince Consort - Husband of Queen Alexandra II

Princess Marina of Brindleton, Queen Consort - Wife of King Albert II

Princess Margaret of Antwerp, Queen Consort - Wife of King George III

Lady Cecelia Warren, Queen Consort - Wife of King William II

Princess Caroline of Brindleton - Wife of King George IV

Lord Oliver Montgomery (@thestenhams), Prince Consort - Husband of Queen Mary III

inspired by the lovely @funkyllama @thegrimalldis and @warwickroyals

[tricoufamily]

how many times can i remake these sims

[antiquatedplumbobs]

Spring 1916

~an excerpt from Elsie Sewell's private diary~

Spring has arrived! The calendar has been saying it had been here for weeks, but today it really and truly made its presence known. The east field is awash with flowers and I simply had to stop and pick a bouquet, they had the sweetest scent and the most delicate yellow petals. Mamma was rather irritated that it made me a bit late coming home, but I can't very much see why. I was back with plenty of time to prepare supper (she had an Aide Society meeting) and the house smelled ever so sweet as I did. No one complained about my victual offerings either.

I am quite pleased to be done with the schoolhouse; sums and grammar were always ever so boring and pointless. It is ever so much better to spend the day with work that actually has to be done, rather than made up to torture us. I enjoy most housework, cooking and sewing in particular, but laundry... There's something about that specific task I have not yet resigned myself too.

I think we all have that particular chore that we dislike more than the others, though none of the adults will admit so to my face. Laundry is a necessary evil though, or we should all go around naked, as Adam and Eve did in the garden of Eden, and the climate her could never allow such an indulgence, so laundry we must do. 

It does feel good to be helping around the house more and take some of the burden off Mamma; I can't imagine how she did all this work on her own for years, it's quite a lot between the two of us. Despite my continued propensity to "dawdle" as Mamma puts it, she still sends me on all the errands, I think she likes having the house to herself just as much I like the walk into town. Sometimes Lydia accompanies me if her mother also needs something fetched.

The general store is the best store in town, it's filled floor to ceiling with everything you could ever need. Dottie's always mighty pleased to see us and if she's busy Mr. and Mrs. Greenfield are always so sweet to me. Sometimes Mr. Greenfield slips me penny candy in with my orders with a little wink.

Dottie, Lydia and I don't see each other as much as when we were in school, but now that we're older when we're finished with chores and housework we have so much more freedom to go on walks or sit down by the inlet. The sun hits the old dock down there in the afternoon and it's so pleasant, especially if there's a breeze coming off the water.

We chat about anything and everything; Dottie always has all the news of the town since she talks to just about everyone at the general store. Mamma says it's wrong to gossip, but she always says that after I've given her all the news. Lydia is such a hoot, she has the strongest opinions on everything and everyone. Just the other day she was informing (lecturing one might say) us on the proper etiquette for accepting a proposal; according to Mrs. Parr proper young ladies should never accept their first proposal, they must refuse and wait for the man to ask again, that's how she'll know he's serious and will make a good husband. Apparently she turned Mr. Parr down thrice. Dottie and I both thought that was completely silly. Mamma said yes to her first proposal and she seems quite content with her lot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

next / previous / first

[stereo-91]

WIP - NOW AVAILABLE - 18th Century English Parliamentary Items

We have tried to create some items from the 18th-century House of Commons since political fever has recently hit various countries. Since we like creating historical CC we decided to make some items from the old English House of Commons.

We have had to adapt it to fit the rules and boundaries of the game but it all works well.

This mini set is great for historical storytelling and allows you to build a House of Commons themed debating room.

This set includes:

1 Speaker's Chair/Throne

2 Parliamentary Benches

1 Functional Debating Station (Needs Discover University Pack to work)

1 Very Large Fireplace

2 Friezes

2 Tall Wall Panels

1 Small panel

2 Window Panels

1 Railing

1 Banister

1 Banister/Railing Post

1 Triangular Panel For Stairs

1 Wall Column

1 Column With Candlestick Holder

2 Fake Balconies

1 Over Door Head Panel

1 Door

Part 2 may follow in future

We Hope You Enjoy

LINK:

[simsjii]

adeline’s bathroom details 🤍

[inlovewithregencyera]

transcript under cut : )

May 16th, 1811

*soft knocking*

Maximilian: Elle..?

Eleanor: *labored rattling* Papa?

Max: *shakily* No dear, I'm not Papa.

Eleanor: *raspily* Max..?

Max: *kneeling beside bed* Yes dear, it's me...

Eleanor: *coughing* Oh, please don't look at me. I'm hideous now.

Max: *sniffling* What..?

Eleanor: I am ugly now, I'll hurt your eyes. Please, just-

Max: How can you say that..?

Eleanor: Well it's the…*panting* truth.

Max: No it's not Ellie. Please don't say that..

Eleanor: I saw myself in the mirror the other night and I can't believe how wretched

I look. It's true!

Max: No, *carressing cheek* it's far from the truth. You aren't ugly, you mustn't say such things...

Eleanor: *coughing* Max?

Max: Yes, dear?

Eleanor: I missed you very much, but I thought you still had classes.. why-

Max: Because you mean a thousand times more to me than my education. I love you Ellie *voice cracking* you must try and fight this. We will be miserable without you…

Eleanor: I love you too. I will try a little bit longer for you. *gently gripping hand*

Max: Thank you, but you must try for Papa, Mama, and Bell too, alright?

Eleanor: Alright. I promise I will try.

Max: That's very good. Did you see the flowers I sent you?

Eleanor: Yes. Bell brought them to me to smell. They 're *coughing* very pretty! I love roses.

Max: Yes, I know. When you're all better, we shall plant a rose bush together, alright?

Eleanor: *raspily* Alright.

*Maximilian wiping eyes*

Eleanor: Max..?

Max: Yes?

Eleanor: If I don't get to plant the roses…maybe you and Bell can plant them for me..?

Max: Nonsense! You'll be able to plant them when you get better, which will be soon. Alright..?

Eleanor: Yes...but if not, then you two must plant them still.

Max: But you will get better soon..*kissing hand* you're very strong.

Eleanor: Oh, *hacking* please don't cry..

Max: You will get better soon. You must believe in yourself..

Eleanor: I'll try, but if not, can you promise me something?

Max: *sniffling* What is it?

Eleanor: If I can't keep fighting this, please don't be cross with me. I'm trying, I *coughing* really am, believe me.

Max: I believe you. And I've never been cross with you a day in my life. I won't start now.

Eleanor: *weakly* Thank you.

Max: I love you Elle. I'm begging you not to leave us.

Eleanor: *softly* I'll always be with you, so it's alright. Whatever happens, just know you are the best brother in the world, and I'm truly thankful for you.

Isabella: *hysterically sobbing* Why did it have to be her? It should've been me, she would've contributed so much to the world, meanwhile I'm a sinner!

Max: There there, it's alright. I'm glad you're here with me. You and I are very unlucky but at least we have each other. You contribute so much to my life, if that means anything.

Isabella: *snifiling* And you mine. I love you, and I have to ask you something..

Max: I love you too, and yes?

Isabella: When you came back, you said you'd never leave her, I remember. But why did you sleep on the floor in her room and not the sofa..?

Max: Correction, I said I'd never leave her side and I never did. That sofa wouldn't have fit by her bed, so the floor it was.

Isabella: *wailing* No one could ever deserve you so much!

Max: She did, and you do too.

Diary Entry of Maximilian Worthington, 1811: The 24th of May was the day that marked the decline of my once-happy family. The spirit that once resided in that of my dear little sister, extinguished from its earthly vessel at half past 2, taking with it not only her life but the joy that filled our hearts and completed our happiness.

[jackiejellyg0126]

1916. Western Front. A basement farewell.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Part 2/3

[trentonsimblr]

Queen Jordyn, First Queen of Trenton - Wife of King Epidarius the Great, First King of Trenton

Queen Olena, Duchess of Glassworth - Wife of King Ekert

King Kellen, King Jure Uxoris - Husband of Queen Edwena

Princess Carolina, Queen Consort - Wife of King Ezequiel

Princess Theódóra, Queen Consort - Wife of King Edmund I

King Hubertus, King Jure Uxoris - Husband of Queen Eleanora

Princess Raziela, Queen Consort - Wife of King Edison

Princess Noel, Queen Consort - Wife of King Enric

Princess Luvunia, Princess of Westburg* - Wife of King Emmitt

King Wendel, King Jure Uxoris - Husband of Queen Elfriede

Queen Magdalena, Duchess of Glassworth - Wife of King Ellington

Queen Lisbeth, Duchess of Glassworth - Wife of King Ezra I

Princess Marise, Princess of Westburg* - 1st Wife of King Edwyn

Princess Antónia, Duchess of Kent** - 3rd Wife of King Edwyn

Queen Amelia (@royaltysimblr), Duchess of Glassworth - Wife of King Edaric

Princess Geraldine, Queen Consort - Wife of King Emmanuel

Queen Seraphina, Duchess of Glassworth - Wife of King Ephraim

Queen Aliona, Queen Consort - Wife of King Evander

Lady Cora, Queen Consort - Wife of King Edmund II

Lord Ricardo, Prince Consort - Husband to Queen Emelina

Queen Gabriela, Queen Consort - Wife of King Ezra II

Prince Nathanael, Duke of Glassworth - Husband to Queen Elizabeth

*Died before husband became king but included because they are the mother to the following monarch

**Antónia did not receive the title of Queen or Queen Consort as she never produced an heir (child with lavender eyes). If she had, Edwyn would have made her Queen.

I jumped on the consort portrait bandwagon inspired by @funkyllama, @warwickroyals, @thegrimalldis, and everyone else that has done one. I also took portraits of all of the monarchs so stay tuned for that post!

[silverseaming]

At the harbour there’s noise everywhere — hurried rushes of footsteps, snatches of conversation, the voices of street-sellers rising above the everyday din with cries of “Fresh whelks! Fresh whel—”, “Apples and pears! Fresh today!”, “Roses, sir, roses for your Mis—!”. Along the quayside cargo masters bark instructions to their men, and crates clatter earthward from the decks or are borne aloft on the shoulders of brawny dockers. Beneath it all is the sound of the shipyard, a constant beat of hammers that Kit can feel in his chest.

Kit pushes on through the crowds, buffeted along by the busy current of fellow humanity. He wishes dearly for the open fields or leafy avenues of Brindleton. There the air is sweet, not thick with the salty seaweed taste, the people don’t rush, don’t crowd together, shout, or jostle.

A journey of bumping shoulders and muttered apologies washes him up on the doorstep of The Lermond’s Cove company, as the modest brass plate beside the door proclaims. The building is smaller than the grand shipping offices, tucked on the end of the harbour frontage, but it’s smart enough, and offers welcome shelter from the bustle outside. A small bell rings above the door as Kit makes his way inside.

“Hello, sir.” The young woman greeting him sits behind a solitary desk, a large ledger arrayed in front of her. The frugality of the outside of the building is continued on the inside, with the only ornaments to the small room besides its occupant being a few framed charts and maps. The whole arrangement gives the impression of being newly established. “How can I help you?”

“I, er, have an appointment with Mr Allen,” Kit says, suddenly abashed.

After checking an entry in the ledger, the young woman gestures down the hallway.

“It’s the first door on the left, sir.”

Making his way to the indicated door, Kit hesitates a second before knocking. He can hardly turn back now, with the secretary watching in the entryway.

His knock is answered by a curt “Enter.”

The man behind the desk rises to greet Kit, extending a hand over the tabletop. He’s smartly dressed, in a well-made suit of the latest fashion. The clothes look new — too new, perhaps. The thick callouses beneath Kit’s hand betray the lifetime of hard work that the suit tries hard to erase.

“Fred Allen,” The man says, by way of introduction. Releasing Kit’s hand, he gestures to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “You must be Calloway.”

“That’s right, sir. As I said in my letter, Mr Miller up in Brindleton heard you might have opportunities going for someone willing to sell their crop.”

“Well, he heard correctly, I guess, though I have to say I wasn’t expecting anyone round here so soon. How’s about you tell me what set up you’ve got going, and then I’ll think about it?” says Allen.

“I’ve got about two-hundred acres just outside Brindleton, wheat and potatoes mainly. Only took over two years ago, but the last two harvests have done well.” Kit picks at a loose thread at the edge of his jacket, wishing he hadn’t done his collar up so tightly.

“You got any hands, or is it a one man show?” Allen asks as he sifts through a stack of papers, running a finger down a column of figures.

“Just me at the moment, sir, but some of the local lads help out around harvest. There’s room for expansion, though, if we come to an agreement.”

“Hm.” Allen seems to be considering, rubbing a large hand across his coarse chin. The more Kit looks at him, the more he struggles to see the businessman through the farmer — or is it sailor? At any rate, Allen’s tanned skin and deep crow’s feet speak of a life that, until recently, was spent working out of doors. The tailored clothes seem almost like a costume. It’s reassuring, perhaps, to know that Allen would understand something of the toil put into producing the crop.

Eventually Allen reaches the end of his deliberations with a great sigh.

“Look, son, I won’t pretend this isn’t somewhat of a cowboy venture, and that I haven’t got as much capital to be free with as certain larger companies. But I think we understand each other, and on account of your being the first to come and see me, I’m willing to give you an offer. I’ll take half your next wheat harvest, and I’ll give you two dollars a bushel if you’re willing to shake on it now.”

“I’m more than willing, sir, thank you,” Kit says. There’s a weight that’s lifted from his shoulders with Allen’s words, the anxious knot in his stomach loosening a little. Somehow, he’s managed to grab hold of the life ring thrown to him, and for a minute the hard work of hauling to shore can be forgotten.

Arriving home that night, dusty from the road, Kit feels lighter than he has done in months. For once he looks at the farm and sees it as something beautiful, rather than a never-ending source of work. There’s a little moonlight dappling through the trees, outlining the farmhouse against the night sky behind it.

For a moment, he leans against the fence of the cow-pen, taking slow lungfuls of the cool night air. Then he turns towards the house, and the faint glow behind the front door that draws his weary feet over the threshold.

Meg’s standing at the kitchen table, placing the finishing touches on a freshly baked cake. From the untidy tendrils of hair she keeps trying to blow from her face and the flour down her apron, it’s been a hard-fought battle with the sponge. The weak firelight from the stove behind her casts her in a rosy glow, and oh, it’s enough to knock the air from Kit’s chest.

“You’re up late,” he murmurs, giving into the urge to take her in his arms. Her body is warm against his, and she smells slightly of strawberry jam.

“I had to remake the sponge,” Meg sighs, finally pushing the finished cake away and leaning into his touch. “And I split the cream. It’s all a horrible mess.”

“Well hang the cake then, because I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up.” Gently Kit spins her round to face him, pulling her close.

“I take it your meeting went well?” She smiles.

“I think so. He’ll take half of next year’s wheat, and for a good price as well.”

“Oh, you wonderful man,” Meg says softly.

Kit’s reply is to lean down and kiss her. Even though he’s only been gone a day, it feels like he’s waited months for that kiss, for Meg’s hands on his shoulders and lips on his. Without thinking, he lifts her onto the table, hands finding her waist and hair.

“Christopher James Calloway, if you want to carry on with this nonsense then you will unhand me and let me clear up before we go upstairs!” Meg pulls away, trying to sound cross, but the barely concealed laughter rather ruins the effect. “I love you very much, but I will not ruin this cake for you.”

“Consider me told,” Kit laughs.