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handeaux · 5 months

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Artists and Models: Lots Of Inuendo But Little Romance Among Cincinnati’s Bohemians

Artists and their models have attracted uncharitable suspicion for centuries. A nude woman behind closed doors with a bohemian man? Fervid imaginations erupted in the form of novels, movies and Broadway shows to insinuate all sorts of hanky-panky.

In Cincinnati, the male gaze was no less intense, though, in typical Midwest fashion, Queen City men indulged in their fantasies vicariously, enlisting disreputable journalists such as Lafcadio Hearn to actually infiltrate a painter’s studio. Hearn’s exposé in the Cincinnati Enquirer [18 October 1874], headlined “Beauty Undraped: What A Wicked Reporter Saw In An Artist’s Studio,” was very much on-brand for our most peculiar scribe. The premise of the article involved a local artist informing Hearn that a “ravishingly beautiful female model” had been procured for a sitting by one of Hearn’s artist acquaintances. Hearn’s source was most likely his pal, artist Henry Farny.

Of course, Hearn cadged an invitation to the atelier and did his best to imitate a student artist or a wealthy patron or both. Inside, while a couple of students sketched on paper tablets, the master daubed a canvas mounted on an easel. Hearn was gobsmacked by his first glimpse of the naked nymph:

“She lay at full length upon a long sofa, unclad and unadorned save by the matchless gifts of nature, her white limbs lightly crossed, both hands clasped over her graceful little head, and her luxurious blonde hair streaming loose beneath her in a river of tawny gold.”

By the close of his brief essay, Hearn was overcome by the vapors and had retired to a convenient divan, cigar dangling from his tremulous lips.

For the artists themselves, nudity was business, just another product line like flowers or landscapes or grandiose portraits of corporate magnates. Posing was also business for the models, and good times yielded fewer models than recessions. The Cincinnati Post [27 March 1907] headlined a report “Prosperity Causes Famine In Models.” The recent boom in business, according to the newspaper, created a scarcity of models because so many other, less demanding, jobs attracted women and men who declined to sit motionless for hours underdressed in a drafty studio.

“All the artists are busy preparing for the spring exhibition, and without models they can’t paint pictures.”

In Cincinnati, only Wilson Russell, who apparently possessed a classic “dad bod,” was committed to posing full-time. Russell was recruited to portray “Burgomasters and peasants, devils and St. John the Baptist.” His repertoire serves as a reminder that nudity was rarely a necessity in the art world. Cincinnati artists churned out all sorts of subjects, from religious icons to genre scenes, from civic murals to family portraits.

Posing was hard work. The Commercial Tribune recounted the declining career of a once in-demand model who fell asleep while posing and had been ignored by artists ever since. Even a strapping young man was unprepared for the rigors of artistic modeling:

“An artist was lately searching for a youth with a finely developed physique to pose for the figure of a stalwart Roman. After many discouraging efforts, a young athlete was found. He performed feats of strength for the edification of the artist. Notwithstanding his accomplishments, after he had been posing for, perhaps, fifteen minutes he became so fatigued that he gave up in despair. He has not since been seen about the ateliers.”

Sometimes it was the artists who turned models against posing. Arline Haworth, an in-demand model, told the Cincinnati Post [13 November 1903] that women artists were the worst:

“Who wants to pose for women? They open the windows, give you a cold, scold you when you get tired and discuss your weak points most unfeelingly right before your eyes. Those girl students at the Academy won’t paint me, I guess. Not while there is a man artist left in this burg.”

Others found the chores of standing stock-still more appealing. If you look up at the sculptural frieze above the cornice of Memorial Hall, you will see multiple statues of soldiers and sailors, all of them replicating the virile form of James Rollins, known as the “best man-model” in the city. Rollins told the Post [23 February 1909] that years of posing had cured his chronic pleurisy. Rollins posed for painters and sculptors on the side. In his day job, he was a butler for one of Cincinnati’s Blue-Book families.

Cincinnati artists, in their own way, promoted a diversity of subjects. African Americans frequently posed for local painters. Martha Ward, an African American woman, was among the go-to models at the Cincinnati Art Academy for many years before her death in 1904.

Native American models also enjoyed artistic favor, especially for Henry Farny and his Fourth Street colleagues Joseph Henry Sharp and John Hauser. Farny was particularly attached to a Sioux tribesman known locally as Indian Joe, but among his people as Ogallala Fire. Farny got his friend a job as janitor at the Cincinnati Art Club on Fourth Street. The Art Club offered generous flextime and Ogallala Fire could take off for weeks at a time if a decent vaudeville gig came around.

Modeling was among the routes followed by young folks, mostly women, to careers on stage or in films. One of the ingenues discovered by the Cincinnati art crowd was Autumn Sims, who left small-town Indiana for the lures of Cincinnati’s Fourth Street, where she was proclaimed the “ideal type of American beauty.” Throughout the 1920s, in addition to gracing the downtown studios and the Art Academy classrooms, Miss Sims parlayed her good looks into a handful of film roles and prominent placement in a couple of magazine advertisements for cosmetics.

Cincinnati had some scandalous models, such as Elizabeth McCombs, who graced hundreds of life-sized posters advertising Cincinnati’s Fall Festival. Miss McCombs had the eye of many Cincinnati artists, but she also acquired a taste for beer and for the better things in life. She was pursued by a German baron, who decided that money was more important than beauty and transferred his affections to a Cincinnati heiress. When the police raided an after-hours saloon on Liberty Street, Miss McCombs was hauled into court and attempted to disguise herself but everyone in the courtroom knew her on sight.

Although they continually complained about the dearth of women models, Cincinnati artists were not desperate enough to hire just any young thing who strolled through the door. Farny told the Post [1b August 1904] about one such applicant who wandered in from deep in Kentucky, drawn by the allure of romance. To quote Farny:

“She was a six-foot, slab-sided woman with a face like half-ripe blackberries, and sunburnt hair, twisted in a hard, tight knot at the back of her pear-shaped head.”

The applicant refused Farny’s offer of a position as a cleaning lady, her head full of the romance she had read about in some dime novel or unsavory magazine.

Other applicants were more warmly received, although some were considerably timid about the prospect of that romantic stuff. The Post [11 July 1907] reported the arrival of a young woman, identified by the pseudonym “Miss Peachblossom” at the “Little Bohemia” on the top floor of the Harrison Building on Fourth Street. It was summer and female models were nonexistent in Cincinnati, so when she knocked on the door of David Rosenthal, she was immediately admitted and offered an opportunity to sit the very next day. She appeared promptly on time, in the company of her mother and a maiden aunt, who sat on either side of the model while the artist painted, determined that Miss Peachblossom would be exposed to as little romance as was humanly possible.

#cincinnati artists #artists & models #henry farny

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kwebtv · 11 months

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Richard Arnold Roundtree (July 9, 1942 – October 24, 2023) Film and television actor and model, who was best known for his portrayal of private detective John Shaft in the 1971 film Shaft as well the eponymous television series (1973–1974). He was also known for his features in several TV series, including Roots, Generations, and Desperate Housewives.

In the 1986-1987 season he starred in the short lived series Outlaws.

During the 1990's Roundtree kept featuring in TV series: on September 19, 1991, he appeared in the episode "Ashes to Ashes", from the second season of Beverly Hills, 90210. Around 1997 he played a leading role as Phil Thomas in the Fox ensemble drama, 413 Hope St; in 1999, he portrayed Booker T. Washington in the 1999 television movie Having Our Say: The Delany Sisters' First 100 Years.

In 2004, Roundtree guest-starred in several episodes of the first season of Desperate Housewives as an amoral private detective.

Starting from the same year, Roundtree appeared in the television series The Closer as retired colonel D. B. Walter; in 2006, he starred in the science fiction drama series Heroes as Charles Deveaux, the terminally ill father of main character Simone Deveaux (Tawny Cypress). He then appeared as Eddie Sutton's father-in-law in several episodes of family drama series Lincoln Heights. In 2008 he also appeared in the TV series Knight Rider as the father of FBI agent Carrie Ravai (Sydney Tamiia Poitier). Starting from 2013, he co-starred as the father of lead character Mary Jane Paul (Gabrielle Union) in the drama series Being Mary Jane, aired on BET.

In 2019 Roundtree had a recurring role on Family Reunion. (Wikipedia)

IMDb Listing

#Richard Roundtree #TV #Obit #Obituary #O2023 #Shaft #Outlaws #Roots #Generations #Family Reunion

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netflixpaused · 6 years

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#hulu #the hotwives of orlando #veronica von vandervon #andrea savage #tawny st john #casey wilson #phe phe reed #tymberlee hill

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mindnumbing-brain-candy · 4 years

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#Beckett Mariner #tawny newsome #Brad Boimler #jack quaid #D'Vana Tendi #tendi #noel wells #Sam Rutherford #The Dog #jdate molly #st lwd #star trek lower decks #star trek lwd #star trek #lower decks #John Dies at the End

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feartube2000 · 4 years

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Space Force

Il 18 giugno 2018 il governo statunitense ha annunciato la creazione di un sesto corpo delle forze armate statunitensi la cui missione dovrebbe essere quella di difendere i satelliti dagli attacchi ed eseguire altre operazioni spaziali. La serie racconterà la storia delle donne e degli uomini che si ritrovano alle prese con i nuovi compiti. Titolo originale Space ForceCreatore Steve Carell,…

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scarletarosa · 4 years

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Stolas

One of the goetic demons and a prince who serves under the High King Leviathan in his kingdom of desolation. This information was shared to me by Stolas and also gained through working with this fascinating infernal god.

Rulerships: Scrying in darkness, premonitions, omens, and astronomy

History: Countless ages ago, Stolas was once one of the Angels (entities who serve the Source and Queen of Heaven, the supreme deities). He was one of these Angels who were a god and was created with the task of being an infiltrator; his primary purpose was to be sent among the world of humans and take inconspicuous humanoid or animal forms in order to observe how people lived within nature. Every now and then he was to give his report to the Throne of the Universe, through which commands from the Source were given. So Stolas would particularly watch over rural areas and small towns, but some larger cities as well when the others became less common.

As time went on, humans became extremely greedy and corrupt. Stolas witnessed their cruelty towards nature, wildlife, and how they even massacred the entire elven race and other races of beings that once dwelt on the Earth. These acts of malice darkened Stolas’ heart greatly and he returned to the Throne to give this report. Yet the actions of the humans did not stop, and Stolas grew even more bitter until he eventually left and became reclusive. It wasn’t until the War with Jehovah began that Stolas reemerged, as he had heard about there being many casualties among his friends. As it turned out, Jehovah, an Aeonic god from the Void, was seeking to usurp the Throne of the Universe and have it give out his own commands instead.

Stolas saw what was occurring and then noticed how the Earth had become far more dark while he was away. A new religion was spreading across their world that sought to blot out all the deities, massacre their worshippers, and hold the Tyrant high as if he were the Source. Disgusted and angered, Stolas immediately left to join his companions in the Rebellion being led by Lucifer, becoming part of the most horrible war of this Universe’s history. Yet Jehovah, due to his great might as an Aeon (a deity who creates the physical and metaphysical Universes), eventually defeated the rebels after a terrible battle. They were all thrown into the wasteland of Hell where the strongest of the Fallen ones became the three High Kings: Lucifer, Satan, and Leviathan. Stolas was recruited by Leviathan, the draconic Watcher, and was eventually appointed as one of the princes.

Rank: Prince

Elements: Air and Akasha

Colours: Black and Silver

Appearance: A giant black tawny owl (but with ears), elongated legs, and glowing silver eyes. During battles, Stolas is able to make the feathers of his wings as sharp as blades, allowing him to pierce through his enemies. When appearing in his humanoid form, Stolas is a man in his late 20′s with short black hair, black eyes, and very pale skin. His clothing is all black with dark pants, shoes, shirt, and a black jacket. He is a bit eerie in appearance and looks as if he is a ghost.

Personality: Stolas is very curious and enjoys taking up many hobbies. He is pretty much always calm and quiet, disliking anything that it too loud or active. In his free-time, he often enjoys either observing people or indulging in one of his many hobbies such as clock-making, collecting animal bones, betting (especially on horse races), collecting acorns, stamps, keys, buttons, and other sorts of small things that interest him. He also likes quiet animals, antique cameras, old-fashioned photography, studying herbs and rocks, cloudy weather, and enjoys places of silence as well, especially cemeteries.

How to call him: Speak to Stolas as you would with any other god, be polite and considerate. Contact him through telepathically speaking in your mind, directing the words to him (you can do this verbally, but if malicious spirits hear, they may pretend to be him). When inviting a Goetic demon to you, try to dress well for them since they are divine and royalty.

What he can help with: assistance in night-time scrying, teaches astronomy, teaches information on herbs and crystals, gives premonitions on important matters, and can bring great misfortunes upon one's enemies (if justified)

His Enn (for meditation or devotion): Stolas Ramec Viasa On Ca

Offerings: chamomile tea, sour cherry juice, sake, limeade, pickles, horseradish, parsnips, tangerines, green apples, kiwis, cherries, watermelons, chestnuts, almonds, pinecone seeds, cognac, miniature eggs (of glass, metal, etc), owl statuettes, smoky quartz, cats eye stone, moonstone, blue agate, moss agate, ocean jasper, malachite, jade, parchment paper, black ink, unusual or transparent beads, buttons, animal bones, antique mirrors, acorns, stamps, keys (modern and skeleton), valerian, St. John’s Wort, belladonna, datura stramonium, poisonous mushrooms, black candles, and somber incenses (ones that cause a sense of calmness).

*don’t offer him anything with caffeine or lots of sugar since he does not like anything that causes activeness

#stolas #goetic demons #goetia #infernal gods #demonic gods #demonology #demonolatry #luciferianism #theistic satanism #deity work

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calicoskiess · 3 years

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heart of gold (chapter one)

pairing: robert plant x florence bennett (oc)

warnings: domestic abuse, misogyny, description of (past) injury, just... absolute fuckery

words: 3.3k

summary: trapped in a loveless marriage to a powerful man, florence bennett lives every day in despair. after a chance encounter with a golden-haired actor, florence finds that her life will never be the same again.

author’s note: so. this is a nice little period piece, because what else am i gonna do with the history degree i'm studying for. please note that the views of one mr. bennett (and friends) are not my own. hope you enjoy :) feedback, as always, is appreciated!

masterlist

playlist

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Nightgown swaying in the soft breeze of a crisp fall morning, Florence stands outside the door of the ornate music room. Notes of beautiful melancholy and bitter hope filter softly through the wooden door, slightly ajar, a broken barrier to the outside world.

Looking through the small crack, Florence gazes upon the face of her friend and confidante, John Paul Jones. Too enthralled in his playing to notice the distraction, he never lets up, heavenly melodies echoing against the marble walls.

John was rather short, thin, with straight tawny hair that framed his strong jaw, softening his face. His stormy gray eyes and high cheekbones give the immediate impression of royalty, of which he was not. A lowly servant of the master of the gorgeous manor, Mr. Allen Bennett, John’s time was divided between his seemingly never-ending list of chores and his music.

An orphan from an early age, John was adopted into the local church and took what little knowledge of the piano that remained from his childhood and put it to good use. Listening to the man playing now, it is apparent that he had kept this skill sharp.

“That is a beautiful song, John,” Florence giggles, a beaming smile on her face at the sight of her friend sitting at the sleek grand piano. “I would appreciate you teaching me to play this well, though I know that my lovely husband would rather die than to see me touch a single key on this beautiful instrument. The bloody bastard.”

“Ah, what lovely words from a lovely woman… Florence, I don’t necessarily disagree with you, but I’m not sure we should be insulting your husband in such an open space.”

“John, my dear friend, I do apologize for my sharp tongue, but I believe it is warranted,” Florence says, taking a seat beside John, smoothing her lace nightgown. John’s fingers still press softly on the piano keys, as he plays a simple tune. “I’ve seen the way he treats you and the servants. As much as I wish to change this for you and the others, I am powerless. This is the only way I may hope to keep my sanity.”

“Very well,” John says, a soft laugh punctuating the end of his sentence. “Though I hope, for your sake, that he doesn’t catch wind of this, or else we are both in trouble!”

“John, pardon me, but I do need to take Florence off your hands for now.”

John’s hands pause, the room falling into silence.

A soft voice belonging to one James Page filters through the open door, interrupting the moment between the two friends. A lean man of average height, with a shock of long midnight curls and eyes a kaleidoscope of colour, James Page is yet another servant indebted to the cruel Mr. Bennett. Whereas John tends to steer clear of the man, and subsequently, punishment, James witnesses Bennett’s anger much too often. Unwilling to submit to Bennett’s furious dictatorship, he often receives the brunt of the man’s mistreatment.

Upon entering the music room, a dark bruise is visible, blossoming on the man’s eye, surely another ‘reward’ for his defiance. James sends the pair a shy smile, and with twin looks of concern, John and Florence take in the state of their friend.

“James! My goodness, your eye looksー”

“It’s nothing, John.”

“Nothing? That certainly looks likeー”

“It is nothing that hasn’t happened before. Please leave it, Florence.”

“A-Alright… What did you need, James?” Florence says, absentmindedly twiddling her fingers, a nervous habit of hers.

“Well, my friend, a certain someone is going to be requesting your presence very soon. I thought it best to warn you ahead of time, so you can prepare.”

With a smile thrown to John over her shoulder, Florence bounds over to her raven-haired friend, hooking an arm through his. James, comfortable with the casual touch of the woman, leads her to her room with a final wave to John.

Navigating through the maze of grand halls of the manor, the wealth of the owner is more noticeable. Shades of red and gold flirt with rich browns, lit by immense crystal chandeliers. Priceless paintings adorn the walls, trapped, much like the lady of the house, in embellished shining frames, just expensive enough to throw shadows on the pain and suffering that happens under the surface.

Not yet rid of the worry that James’s beaten appearance had brought her, Florence unlinks their arms. Ensuring the door to her bedroom is shut, she pulls James closer to her with a hand on his elbow. Her other hand flies to his face, assessing the damage done to it.

“James, I am aware that you do not wish to submit to my husband. That is your choice to make. I will stand by you, always.”

“I appreciate this, my friend.”

“But you must be careful. You don’t know what he is capable of, and neither do I,” says Florence, a grave look of concern gracing her features. “James, I need you here with John and I, not 6 feet underground in an unmarked grave. I know it is not in your nature, but please do try and be careful?”

“I will try,” James’ hand raises, landing in his long dark hair. Raking his nails across his scalp, his lips lift into a crooked smirk. “Though this is an interesting development.”

“Pardon me?”

“The wife of the madman has a heart. And I thought this trope was only found in the books shelved in that gigantic library of yours.” James’ chuckle echoes across the grand hallway. Usually filled with suffocating silence, the halls of the manor serve as another reminder of the terror that fills its occupants. “Now, I understand that you have afternoon tea with Mr. Bennett and his mother, so I will leave you to prepare.”

And with that, the stubborn servant is gone with a click of the closing door.

Minutes later, Florence, finally dressed in a ruffled scarlet dress, a sunhat perched on her head, reaches out to turn the doorknob.

A second too slow.

The door is opened from the other side, and the woman is met with the face of her husband, mouth contorted into a permanent frown.

Allen Bennett was a short, burly man, with close-cropped hair and dark eyes. What he lacked in height he made up for in power and prestige, swindling people out of their money in back alley deals at night, and running the city as mayor by day. This man is not to be crossed, and he knows it. Everybody does.

Gazing at his wife with disinterest, he scoffs, immediately glimpsing the beautiful dress she is wearing. His eyes almost glow in their anger.

“Hm. I thought I had told you that dress looks atrocious on you before. Take it off right this instant. You are not a whore, my love, so you will not dress like one.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Wonderful. I expect you in the foyer in 20 minutes, not a minute later. We must attend a meeting with my mother. I am sure you have been notified of this.”

“Yes, dear.”

With a quick peck on the lips of his wife, Mr. Bennett is gone, and the unfortunate Ms. Bennett feels as though she can finally breathe again. Changing into a sky blue number, she is struck by the thought that this cannot last forever. This treatment of the servants and of Florence herself. The control this vile man has over everyone. The unhappiness and unease he supplies wherever he goes.

This simply cannot last, can it?

-------------------

“Florence. Are you listening, dearie?” A grating, sickly sweet voice breaks the woman from her reverie, a storm in her sea of dreams. Florence takes a sip of her tea and smiles apologetically at the older woman across from her. The woman, satisfied once more, launches into a tedious story about her shopping excursion the day before. Feigning delight at the tale, Florence’s eyes travel around the sun-lit tearoom, with its gleaming surfaces and tall, gold-lined ceilings. Truly a beautiful creation.

“... And, my son, as I was exiting the shop on St. Thomas’s Street, you know the one…” Florence catches the eyes of her husband, glaringly angry as per usual, and at this, she realizes the older woman had paused in her story once more, shooting her an irate scowl.

“Mrs. Bennett, I must apologize for my inattention. My mind was indeed elsewhere, I am terribly sorry.”

“It’s quite alright, girl. Does my son deal with this offensive daydreaming as well? If he does, we must fix this immediately!” Mrs. Bennett titters, cigarette dangling precariously from her lips.

“Mother, it’s quite alright. You mustn't worry about this,” Allen says, leering at his wife as though she was a prize to be won. “My wife knows her place. At least I do hope she does…” The mother and son erupt into giddy laughter at the horrible joke, Florence following uncomfortably, quivering smile creasing her face.

“My goodness,” Mrs. Bennett wipes her eyes of phantom tears with a lily white handkerchief. The woman takes a drag of her cigarette, and huffs a plume of smoke in Florence’s face. “How old are you now, dearie?”

“A month ago, I reached my 23rd birthday. Allen bought a beautifully crafted sapphire bracelet for the occasion.”

“So thoughtful, my son. You are of age, of course. May I ask when you two are planning to conceive?”

“Well, as of this moment, we were notー”

“You may still be… young, but the only use you are to us, my dear, is to create a wonderful child,” Mrs. Bennett, eyes scrunched up in mock kindness, takes the young woman’s hands from across the table and strokes her thumb across the elegant wrist. “I know you would be a very capable mother. As a result of this, I am expecting a lovely grandson or daughter to call my own.”

“O-of course… Thank you for your counsel, Mrs. Bennett.”

“My pleasure, dear. Now, my son, where was I…?” The woman says, launching into her story once more. “Ah, yes…”

Florence, try as she had, could not take her mind off of the words of the matriarch. As a young girl, she had wished to be a writer, a musician, maybe. What she had not planned for was a truly unhappy marriage to an evil man, doomed to the static life of a housewife. She had loved Allen once. In the beginning. He had supported her and her dreams, and she had loved him in return. She had loved his humour, and his chivalry. His treatment of others. This was but a ruse, of course.

A year after their courting had transformed into a union, Allen Bennett had changed. Florence had finally met the man behind the mask of charisma and kindness. She had gotten too close, and now she is stuck, like a bird with a shattered wing, unable to escape.

“Thank you for a lovely time, Mother, as always,” says Allen, placing twin kisses on her heavily rouged cheeks. “Come now, Florence, we must return home immediately.”

“Thank you Ms. Bennett, for your advice and hospitality. We must do this again sometime.”

“Lovely idea, dearie. Hopefully, the next time I will be able to finish my story without you nodding off!” Ms. Bennett drawls, smirk hanging off her lips like the fancy cigarettes she so often smokes.

Formalities over and done with, the couple step out into the fresh afternoon air and into the waiting carriage that had brought them. Once inside, Mr. Bennett shoots out a strong hand, clutching his wife’s arm in a bruising grip. She lets out a surprised gasp, caught off guard by the sudden pain dealt to her by the man.

“Florence, Florence, Florence… What on God’s green earth will we do with you?” says the man, squeezing harder with each repetition of his wife’s name. “You are incapable of paying attention. You can only dream of meeting my mother’s expectations, the way you have acted today.”

“Allen, I am tryingー”

“You are not trying hard enough! You never have! Why I married a whore like you, I have no idea.”

The vice grip on Florence’s arm grows ever stronger, and she feels wretched anger in her heart, climbing up her throat. With a gaze of fire, she retaliates. “Allen, let go of me! I have done nothing wrong, and as a reward I receive your anger and a bruise to boot!”

Gazing into Allen’s eyes, Florence is confused, frightened even, at the horrible amusement dancing in them. Quick as lighting, before she could even register the action, the woman feels a sharp pain grace her cheek, and, with growing horror, she witnesses Allen’s raised hand begin to lower.

“My dear, you must know your place in this house,” whispers Allen in a venomous tone, bringing his wife ever-closer to him. “You will stay quiet and obedient. There is no other option for you, I’m afraid. Alright?”

“Y-yes.”

“Lovely. Tonight, we must attend a play at the theatre you love so much. This is an important appearance, very good for business. Please do try not to ruin it.”

Florence nods minutely, pressing her palm to her burning cheek. A crimson streak spoils the otherwise pristine white of her glove. She had forgotten that Allen wore rings.

“You will not speak to anyone. You will appear happy and in love, the image of a perfect wife. You will dress in your best garments,” Allen rattles off, smugness dripping from his features. He’s proud of this; proud of the power he holds over her. The power he holds over everyone. “That is all I ask of you. A list of tasks that someone as useless as you could complete with ease. Is that clear?”

“Yes, dear.”

-------------------

“Flo—”

“John, I—”

“My Goodness, your cheek! What happened?” The dulcet voice of one John Paul Jones rang through the quiet of the hall. Florence, caught in her attempt to make it to her room unnoticed, deflates and faces her friend.

“John… I’m sorry, but I do not have time to talk right now,” Florence rushes out, face pinched as she checks the time on the ornate grandfather clock in the corner of the foyer. Must have costed a million, though it meant nothing to Allen, of course. “I am attending a performance at the theatre with Mr. Bennett, and time is… of the essence, I’m afraid.”

“I understand, I truly do, but Florence… was this Mr. Bennett’s doing? You must tell me what happened.” John gestures to the woman’s cheek, which is tinted red from the force used against her.

Sighing, Florence takes John’s hand and leads him into her room, once again the door is shut and promptly locked. She takes a seat on the immaculately-made bed and gestures for her longtime friend to follow suit. John sits, smoothing out his work-wrinkled shirt, and looks down at Florence expectantly.

Taking the man’s hand, she looks into his gemstone eyes, and recounts the story of what had transpired early that day.

“After all that had happened, I was, in my opinion, justifiably angry, so I took a page, pardon the pun, out of James’ book. It seems that my beloved was not a fan of this particular chapter, and he made that quite clear.”

“And the cut? The blood on your glove?”

“I had forgotten that Allen had the propensity to wear rings,” Florence whispers with an acerbic giggle, eyes pained and downcast now. “I doubt that I will be forgetting this anytime soon.”

John meets the woman’s gaze, and notices the beginning of tears brimming her eyes. He takes Florence’s hand in his, a silent offer of comfort that she would never refuse.

“John, as much as I adore your company,” says Florence with a peal of wet laughter. He knows Florence is avoiding the subject, but he lets her. She’ll talk to him, eventually. “I must get dressed for the performance. Hopefully, after we return, I could witness some of your incredible talent on the piano?”

“Of course, of course!” John exclaims, standing now, as, once again, he gently takes hold of Florence’s hands, now rid of the soiled glove. “But Florence, before I leave… Please be careful. James and I, we couldn’t bear to see further pain come to you. Please, for us, be cautious.”

“I will do my best, John. Thank you.”

John presses a quick kiss to Florence’s cheek in passing, and exits the room, and the woman is left alone again. Slipping on a lovely ensemble painted lilac and silver, the woman lets her thoughts wander.

She’s been alone quite often lately, after all. Her only friends in the house are John and James after all, the other servants too frightened by the man she married. Florence certainly does not blame them. She can’t say that she minds the solitude either, if it gets her away from Allen.

The intricately paneled door opens with a sharp click, and Allen waltzes in, leering at his wife, as if the thoughts drifting through her mind were audible to the man.

“Ah, Florence. I am glad that you've finally learned to dress yourself. Thank God himself for that.”

Florence, cheek still stinging from the blow dealt to it earlier, has only the mind to nod and smile as warmly as she can manage. This is taken as permission by Bennett, who caresses his wife’s uninjured cheek with the tips of his fingers, as if he thought her to be precious. Florence bristles at the touch, a string of rather unladylike words at the ready, but she holds her tongue, remembering her promise to John. She would be cautious, act like the perfect wife. She would be safe.

“Come now, my love,” whispers Allen, into his wife’s ear, beckoning her closer with a finger under her chin. “We have a show to attend.”

Palm outstretched towards his wife, Allen helps Florence into the waiting carriage, uncharacteristically gentle, as he always is in public. Public image means everything, and Allen Bennett is picture-perfect in that respect.

“My love, I remember how you love the theatre. I do hope this play captures your attention.”

“As do I, dear,” Florence says, voice wavering ever-so-slightly under the scrutiny of her husband. “Though I do not know if I have knowledge of this particular play.”

“I believe it’s called ‘The Voysey Inheritance’. It details the scandals of a family thought to be perfect, polite and proper. Interesting, is it not?” At that, Allen has pasted on a cheshire grin.

Sounds familiar, Florence thinks, silently cursing her husband and his monstrous greed. If only she had known, walking into this. Known about the sides, dangerous, that he hadn’t shown until it was too late. Until she was trapped.

Finding their seats, the couple take in the gorgeous marble pillars and the ruby, velvetine seats. The shining wood of the stage is visible from the upper flights, where elite folk like Sir Bennett make themselves at home. The massive carmine curtains remain closed, shielding the growing audience from the scenes that are set to come to life. Florence has always loved the beauty of this theatre, and, though it has been years since she has last stepped foot inside of it, she is charmed anew.

The lights of the theatre dim, signalling the start of the show. Florence grins into the still darkness, excitement for the performance growing. Casting her eyes to the stage below, she puts aside her worries. She completely forgets about the vile man sitting next to her, mind filling with the orchestral opening music of the play. She is home.

The curtains open slowly, and Florence loses her breath. There, on stage, is the most beautiful man Florence has ever laid eyes on. She cannot focus on the words flowing from his thin lips, for she is distracted by the halo of golden curls surrounding the man. His romanesque nose is prominent and his eyes, stormy skies in an ocean of blue, are captivating. His curls, spun silk, bounce across his broad shoulders, as he commands the stage. The actor’s luxurious suit glints navy in the blinding lights on him, accentuating his muscled body. He is not phased in the slightest by the attention firmly placed on him. Completely in his element.

He enchants her, as though he was a wizard, and she, the poor soul under his spell. A snake charmer that she’s read about in books found in the gigantesque manor library, and her, the sin-riddled reptile under his control. He is forbidden fruit, and she wants a taste.

The performer is ethereal, and Florence cannot take her eyes off of him. She must find out who he is, somehow.

------

taglist: @jimmys-zeppelin @salixfragilis @timetraveller4 @earthfire-75 @thatiloveyouso @jonesyjonesyjonesy @jimmypages @kyunisixx (let me know if you want to be added!)

#heart of gold #robert plant #led zeppelin #led zeppelin fanfic #robert plant fanfiction #robert plant fanfic #robert plant x oc #classic rock fanfic

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bartallen · 3 years

Note

10, 14, and 18 of the book asks please!

10. Favorite nonfiction book?

The Owl Who Sat on Caesar by Martin Windrow. it's a memoir by the author about the 15 years that he kept a tawny owl as a pet in his home, including his observations of her behavior and facts about the owl species. don't keep wild animals as pets, as a disclaimer, but the book itself is a really good read.

14. Do you prefer: paperback or hardcover? Ebook or physical? Text or audiobook?

i think it depends on the length of the book but i definitely overall prefer paperbook, i ABSOLUTELY prefer physical books, and i prefer text over audiobooks

18. Favorite and least favorite books read for high school classes?

i absolutely fucking hated reading The Scarlet Letter. i can't even explain why i just Hated that thing. as for my favorite: Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel. Haven't brought myself to watching the show/movie/whatever adaptation they did because it hits a little too hard in pandemic times, but it's one of my favorite books ever and definitely the best i ever read for a HS class Bookworm Asks!

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fic-wars-and-challenges · 3 years

Text

Merlin War on Harlequin: Example Prompts

Hello all! The mods thought it might be a good idea to give you an example of the kinds of prompts we are working with. We want to make sure everyone understands that this challenge is meant to be lighthearted and a little silly, and make sure everyone understood what we meant by “Harlequin Romances”.

So without further ado...

Examples

Ravished by Amanda Quick

Moving from the cozy confines of a tiny seaside village named Upper Biddleton to the glittering crush of a fashionable London soiree, Quick offers an enthralling tale of a mismatched couple poised to discover the rapture of love. There was no doubt about it. What Miss Harriet Pomeroy needed was a man. Someone powerful and clever who could help her rout the unscrupulous thieves who were using her beloved caves to hide their loot. But when Harriet summoned Gideon Westbrook, Viscount St. Justin, to her aid, she could not know that she was summoning the devil himself. . . . Dubbed the Beast of Blackthorne Hall for his scarred face and lecherous past, Gideon was strong and fierce and notoriously menacing. Yet Harriet could not find it in her heart to fear him. For in his tawny gaze she sensed a savage pain she longed to soothe . . . and a searing passion she yearned to answer. Now, caught up in the Beast’s clutches, Harriet must find a way to win his heart–and evade the deadly trap of a scheming villain who would see them parted for all time.

Hush, Hush, Hush by Becca Fitzpatrick

Romance was not part of Nora Grey's plan. She's never been particularly attracted to the boys at her school, no matter how hard her best friend, Vee, pushes them at her. Not until Patch comes along. With his easy smile and eyes that seem to see inside her, Patch draws Nora to him against her better judgment. But after a series of terrifying encounters, Nora's not sure whom to trust. Patch seems to be everywhere she is and seems to know more about her than her closest friends. She can't decide whether she should fall into his arms or run and hide. And when she tries to seek some answers, she finds herself near a truth that is way more unsettling than anything Patch makes her feel. For she is right in the middle of an ancient battle between the immortal and those that have fallen - and, when it comes to choosing sides, the wrong choice will cost Nora her life.

His Second Hand Wife by Cheryl St, John

Noah Cutter was a man of his word- Scarred in body and soul, rancher Noah didn't consider himself fit company for anyone. But when his brother's philandering finally caught up with him, honor dictated that Noah claim his brother's widow as his own. Noah was about the most intimidating man Katherine had ever seen. Yet though one man's false promises had already dashed her dreams, she instinctively trusted this stranger. And Kate suspected she'd be a fool this time if she didn't take a chance on Noah for the sake of herself-and her unborn child!

So there you have it! A few examples of what we are leaning towards. Reminder that this is open to the entire BBC Merlin Fandom, all ships welcome. They can be poly, they can be queer, they can be het, they can even be gen if you can figure out how. For any other questions, here is our FAQ. We hope to see you there!

#bbc merlin #merwainethur #mercelot #merwaincelot #arwen #merthur #morgwen

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filministic · 2 years

Text

Space Force (2020-…)

#tv #Space Force #космические войска #netflix #Steve Carell #John Malkovich #Ben Schwartz #Diana Silvers #Tawny Newsome #Jimmy O. Yang #Lisa Kudrow #Jessica St. Clair

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younglarva · 4 years

Audio

Auld Lang Syne - Booker T & the MG's • Alexander - The Boots • Put A Label On It - Booker T & the MG's • Calypso Boogaloo - Sparrow • Fancy Feet - Tito Puente • One Mint Julep - Ray Charles • It Ain't Necessarily So - Barney Kessel • Mambo Burger - Jack Bongo Burger • Mucha Muchacha - Esquivel • T.P.'s Shing-a-Ling - Tito Puente • Bees Knees - The John Barry Seven • The In Crowd - The Ramsey Lewis Trio • Church Key - The Revels • Trophy Run - The Super Stocks • Goin' 88 - The Grand Prixx • Toes On The Nose - Eddie & The Showmen • Elektron - Tanzorchester Des Berliner Rundfunks • You Came a Long Way from St. Louis - Barney Kessel • Top Score - Keith Mansfield • Richard Diamond - Buddy Morrow • Hammer Blow - Skip Martin • Wie A Glock'n... - Marianne Mendt • I Got A Feeling - Tawny Reed • Hippy Hippy Shake - Pat Harris & the Blackjacks • Super Good (Parts 1 & 2) - Myra Barnes (Vicki Anderson) • Parrty (Part 1) - Maceo & the Macks • Save Me - Nina Simone • Rouge Rouge - Christie Laume • The 2000 Pound Bee (Part 2) - The Ventures • Club Of Lights - Oscar • Right Track - Billy Butler • Comin' On Strong - Tony Ritchie • I Surrender - Bonny St.Claire • If I Really Bug You - Jose Feliciano • Partie De Dames - Liz Brady • If I Had A Hammer - The In Group • Beat Girl - John Barry Orchestra • Bring Down The Birds - Herbie Hancock • Blow Up A Go-Go - James Clarke • This Is Soul - Paul Nero • I Can See For Miles - Big Jim Sullivan (Lord Sitar) • Outa-Space - Billy Preston • Machine Gun - The Commodores • Şu Samsunun Evleri - Arif Sağ • Supercolpo Shake - Nico Fidenco • Happy New Year - Mabel Mafuqa • [download]

original broadcast 12.31.20

#new years eve #new years #partymusic #lawn party #pop #1950s music #1950s aesthetic #1960svintage #1960s #1970s aesthetic #1970svintage #go go jazz #go-go dancer #loungemusic #soul #jazz #jazz rock

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feuillesmortes · 5 years

Photo

Although Margaret’s surviving portraits show her favour for black, they do not reflect her passion for fine clothes and jewels.

A telling reflection of [Margaret Beaufort]'s attitude towards her status can be seen in her jewellery collection. It seems that her lifelong fondness for clothes may have been equalled by a love of jewels [...] The historian Maria Hayward has shown that at the time of her death Margaret owned plate and jewels worth a staggering £4,213 4s 3½d (£2,805,820), in addition to numerous household items that were worth another fortune; at her death, the total value of her goods was believed to be an eye-watering £15,000 (£10,000,000). Outward display meant everything — something Margaret is likely to have become aware at a young age through the example of kings and queens.

She was particularly conscious of the way in which clothes and jewels could be used to create an impression of dazzling magnificence, so important for communicating to those at court and in the streets the security, stability and rank of a royal house. Margaret often employed the services of a Stamford goldsmith and in keeping with her piety and her desire to show her religiosity, many of her jewels had a religious theme — popular in the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries — such as the cross of gold with a crucifix, enamelled gold images that featured John the Baptist and St Jerome, a piece of the Holy Cross set in gold with pearls and precious stones, and items that included the Virgin Mary, St Katherine and St Margaret in their design. In 1505, she would also receive a gift of beads that had been blessed by the Pope.

[...] Many of these costly pieces would have been used to adorn Margaret's clothes, which her inventories show were equally lavish and, according to her accounts, purchased with great regularity. Robert Hilton supplied many of her clothes, and black was evidently her favoured colour. Given that the dye for this was expensive, it was a further indication of her immense wealth. Among her wardrobe were gowns of black velvet edged with ermine, mink and sables, gowns of satin, and others that were made of crimson and tawny velvet. There was 'certain apparel of cloth of gold, silks and furs', and petticoats of scarlet furred with both black and white lambs. Other accessories such as slippers, gloves, sleeves, bonnets and frontlets also appear, painting an image of a woman who cared greatly about her appearance.

— Nicola Tallis, Uncrowned Queen: The Fateful Life of Margaret Beaufort, Tudor Matriarch

#margaret beaufort #goth mother goth son #nicola tallis #uncrowned queen: the fateful life of margaret beaufort #tudor tag #a queue is a dream your heart makes

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lady-plantagenet · 5 years

Text

A Bygone Era - Chapter 1

A fictionalised account of Isabel Neville’s life from the point of view of her and those close to her.

So far told through the points of view of: Anne Beauchamp 16th Countess of Warwick.

5th September 1451

As each gust of wind veered and swooped around the pointed turrets of Warwick castle, it would not surrender its strength before first claiming a tawny leaf from the hazel trees. The emerald blush of the castle grounds: the summer green that made the tableaux of the landscape ever more poignant just a few months ago, was now fading into a browner more lifeless hue.

Having seen twenty-five summers, the countess was hardly a young lass at the cusp of womanhood. Her half-sister Margaret was six years younger than she when she bore her first child, Elizabeth even more so. Labour was harder for those years past their first flowering. The pain in her back and hips seemed to sting her everytime she drew breath, her head felt uneasy on her shoulders as the exertion of the birth seemed to have pushed all the air out of her. However, there were none to pity her or lay at her feet praising her for the beautiful daughter she had just provided - the Earl of Warwick needed a son.

Even my wretched ladies seem less eager to attend to me. Especially Martha. She thinks herself above me now, for the whelp she bore her minor knight of a husband was a boy.

‘Jesus wept’ snapped Anne ‘may I not be washed and given a morsel of food or even the child?’

A tremble hit Martha and Agnes before they bound down the castle stairs, one with a washbasin nestled under an arm and the other clutching at a gilded platter. Not since she was a little girl had Anne raised her voice beyond a ladylike drone. Those two did not know that, hence the agitation.

‘Begging your pardon milady’ said a breathless Agnes while handing her some bread and salt and Isabel, rosy and clean from the nursemaid’s scrubbing.

Anne tilted her head letting her long auburn tresses fall over into the silver washbowl that Martha brought. While the labour of childbirth was scrubbed off her, she looked at the babe before her. Isabel slowly opened her eyes with a lack of enthusiasm so uncommon to a newborn babe. They were the phantasmagorical green of the turbulent sea.

A beauty that would rally the men of the field to pick up swords and fight god himself it was not.

Though not even an hour unto this world, Isabel’s fair face had no suggestion of roundness, but was a slender oval. The small mouth had a suggestion of full lips and the thin tuft of hair on her head appeared flaxen - though Anne knew it would darken to Richard’s chestnut brown in little time.

A beauty of ice instead maybe. A Despenser, Montacute, Beauchamp and Neville fit for a king or at least a duke who would be immensely drawn to those features, so like those of a statue. Let the golden haired, sky-eyed buxom jezebels catch the eyes of peasant boys and mercenaries. My Isabel shall rouse the very rose of Plantagenet with a face that only generations of careful breeding since the age of the conquest could produce. Because with these she shows herself a daughter of Warwick - and what man would not rally behind that?

At first Anne thought she could hear the pitter-patter of raindrops, but the sound grew sharper resembling a thundercloud heralding a Warwickshire late summer storm.

As the sound of the bailey’s gravel amplified the countess’ entire body shot up so fast that she could feel a surging pain through her spine. The kingmaker had arrived.

The years have proven that the lack of a heir did nothing to dull the earl’s affections for his wife. As he leaped from his horse in one refined movement and took Anne into his arms, she once more felt like a newly wed bride greeting her betrothed outside Bisham Abbey.

She winced as he roughly pulled her into a arduous kiss marvelling at how deliciously crude this gesture was in contrast to his previous elegant one. He may be an earl but he is also a soldier, and above that a man quenching his thirst after months on dry land. And how could he not? At just a couple of inches below his height and still lithe and thin after just moments of childbirth, Anne had the elegance of a water nymph. As Richard was stroking her cheeks he could not help but gaze in awe at the bonny eyes whose colour so much resembled the burnished emerald of her ancestral land.

‘My son how fare he?’ He asked with impatient excitement ‘A strong lad is he not?’

Anne’s chest tightened as if the gusts of wind from a few hours ago were filling her lungs like saltwater would a drowning sailor’s. It is my entire fault. I should never have told him I knew I was carrying a son. All mothers share the same musings about their firstborn, they can not all be right.

‘My Lord husband’ she began adopting a more formal tone ‘It is a girl and I have decided to call her Isabel after mother’

To her relief his smile reappeared. ‘How fitting. The second Lady Isabel Neville’

Anne looked noticeably confused.

‘Ah you do not know then? Isabel de Neville was the daughter and sole heiress of the Norman Geoffrey de Neville and wife of Robert Ritzmaldred a son of the Earls of Northumbria and Etheldred II’ he grinned ‘By the time Lionheart was crowned and fighting his wars in the foreign lands of the east, no one could then gainsay the Plantagenet dynasty so Geoffrey took the Neville name as his own to sit at the high tables of the Norman nobility’

Her husband was so taken up with his tales of Saxon princes and Gospatric of Northumbria that she had to lead him through the great hall and up the winding staircase like a mother hen guiding a sleep-heavy child to its bed. I have done this before she started to remember I was nine and he seven, and we were right here on those stairs. If truth be told my mother had invited Lady Alice to introduce her son as my betrothed in guise of a St Crispin’s day luncheon invitation. By then I have perfected my curtsey and broke the nasty habit of handling my skirts, so I was finally considered worthy of social presentation. They bid me go show him all around the castle grounds and I played hostess thinking I had merely gained another playmate - though he might not have been so easily duped. To think where we are now.

In her apartments Isabel lay satisfied in her cot having just received her milk and with Margaret and the nursemaid hovering over her dotingly.

‘Ah dear wife’ proclaimed Richard ‘it seems her and Margaret would make splendid companions - she had always wanted a sister’. With one small step he picks her up and kisses her on the forehead. The little girl giggled at that, her wide smile squeezing her cornflower blue eyes in satisfied lines.

Ah yes the bastard daughter. Richard’s little indiscretion. The newborn girl that greeted me at Middleham where we first appeared as man and wife, before all our sisters, John and dear Henry- could it really have been eight years past? It feels like just yesterday I buried my dear brother.

Anne became a stone statue as Agnes was at work binding her straight auburn strands into a china blue crespine whose cauls were covered in wide copper netting to complement her Burgundian gown. The dress’ saffron skirts were piercing beams of summer against the burnished autumn hue of the kirtle that latched tightly against her pert chest. The image of his darling wife rushing past the stony keep and into the courtyard seeming more woman than countess with her hair tumbling about her, must have made the earl’s heart wrench with delight for this sun goddess of a woman that he now possessed. I chose his favourite dress, but for that remark I shall choose the most matronly headdress - the one he hates. I shall take it off when he begs my pardon for all this inappropriate cooing over the bastard.

With the classic lack of concern customary of a pre-occupied magnate, Richard did not notice his wife’s minuscule act of defiance. Ever since the death of little Anne two years past, one of England’s greatest earldoms had burdened her husband with its great expectations. Ever since parliament declared her sole heiress over her half-sisters, Richard’s mind was constantly operating in tandem between the world before him and the world next morrow.

Thankfully he eventually sensed the tension surrounding him soon enough to act swiftly and pick up Isabel. The baby’s eyes that only moments ago seemed to lay frozen in her face, lit up with an excitement spreading throughout her whole expression, culminating in a joyful squirm as her father cradled her. Anne started to worry that the disappointment surrounding her sex had started to be rescepted by Isabel. She was now relieved to see the prevention of that.

‘Dear god Anne’ said Richard not tearing his eyes off Isabel ‘What a jewel you have given me’

The heartfelt display thawed the ice that previously had a hold over Anne’s heart as she let out a smiling sigh of relief that after months enraptured in the gripping power plays and intrigues of a royal court, Isabel did not disappoint.

‘As beautiful as her lady mother’ he continued before flashing a knight’s dazzling smile. A smile devoid of vulgarity and void of mummery. A smile so chivalrous that it belonged in Camelot.

He knows to appeal to my vanity the wicked man. Shame on him and his courtier’s tricks.

Before she could damn him further he gently tugged at the hem of her sleeves, bringing her close enough to folder her in his arms with Isabel. She made her peace. ‘Remind me, my sweet, what is the meaning of her Christian name?’ He asked

‘Pledged to God’ Anne smiled ‘As we all are’

‘As we all must be. The war against France has weakened our king. That shrew of a maid of Orleans has marked the demise of any chance we may ever have to hold true power in France’ he started complaining vociferously. And now he recommences. I find it passing incredible how nearly everything I say he takes as a prompt to indulge himself into one of his soliloquies. Today he bemoans England’s fortunes in “the useless war.” ‘... with any luck our recapturing of Bordeaux would at least render this war not a complete loss.’

‘I hear Talbot shall be leading the command. If Gascony were taken back that would bring glory to-’

‘The glory of the Lancastrian rose is of no concern to me Anne’ Richard interrupted suddenly ‘I need this wasteful war to cease so that my father may regain his men and deal with Percy once and for all.’

‘For shame my Lord husband! You mean to tell me you’re heart does not yearn for the chivalry of defeating the lily of France?’ teased Anne playfully ‘Does your heart not beat red for Lancaster and the quest of justice to fulfill their ancestral claims?’

Any other day Richard would respond to Anne’s coyness the way she liked. It was one of their oldest customs. A couple of japes would be passed back and forth always leading to him jokingly proclaiming her a disobedient woman while slowly lifting her skirts and punishing her as if she were an unruly wench eagerly accepting what punishment her lord sees fit. Today something was different and Anne admittedly felt a little more than hurt.

‘Nay wife. Red for the bear and ragged staff. The only cause I believe in. My father was right; this simpleton of a King is incapable of responding to our petitions. We are of royal blood and wardenship of the West March does make us far more capable of keeping Percy tenants in good support. If the Lancastrians of Westminster choose to preoccupy themselves with the lost cause which is the French crown I see no reason to continue blindly serving this line of usurpers.’

Anne froze. Though far from an emotional man, Richard usually delighted in being the cause of his own flights of fury. She would sit on the ledge by the solar windowpanes attentively as he would in his lectures damn half a dozen men and complain endlessly about anything between Beaufort’s incompetence and the treacherous Percys. The series after the Scottish wars was the most heartfelt.

Today’s sermon was delivered in a frigid manner devoid of any of the four humours nor spite. It was the discourse of a man already deep in planning

Choleric or not, Richard was ravenous, downing one slice of capon dipped in melted spiced butter after the other. His return was especially rejoiced by Cook Royce whose pregnant mistress’ cravings for the mundane poussin and squab had left him with no opportunity for great culinary creative expression.

The Goyart tapestries on the soot grey walls of the great hall have been changed for the richer and more sombre Flemish tapestries. Her favourite depicted a fair haired maiden lying sombrely on the juniper grass guarded by maned lions. She pointed her mirror towards the unicorn as if to reveal to him his own magic, though his horn did not reflect in the mirror like the rest of his comely face. Ah the scintillating nature of magic. God reveals himself in ways that elude most. She thought back to all the miracles she thought she had witnessed in her girlhood. Blue roses appearing in winter, the butterfly with transparent wings, even the draft and light from the glass window working in conjunction, turning her to the appropriate page and shining blue light upon the bible passage so her governess would not realise she was not attentive...

‘Ah yes, do you like them Anne? They were part of the Dowager Duchess of Bedford’s dowry, given to the crown in part payment for the dishonour that was her illicit marriage’ Richard said after finally lifting his head from the plate

‘The lady Jacquetta led quite a scandal’ started Anne ‘How is she fareing shacked up with her squire?’

‘Last I heard he was made Baron Rivers’

‘A fanciful title’

‘Still not one a mere country squire merits. I highly doubt it will ever bring in the income to sufficiently maintain the widow of Prince John in the luxury to which she grew accustomed.’

‘The luxury she grew accustomed to as the daughter of Peter of Luxembourg would prove to be the more insurmountable standard for Woodville to reach.’

‘What are you trying to say my lady?’ Richard began teasing ‘Do our English comforts no longer satisfy yours or the Duchess’ lofty needs?’

‘I only say, husband, that just as the Italian duchies are rife with classical art, bards singing dulcet tones and those technologies - whatever they would be, Duke Philip has his own cohort of artists and inventors. The ‘Burgundian School’ is so accomplished our very own John Dunstaple has joined their ranks...’ Richard’s fatigue was waning his attention until his wife stood up from the oak long table and spun around. The flashes of the yellow silk at the skirts extending out with each movement and encircling the amber coloured kirtle as if she were the sun itself come down from the heavens to grace and bring calm to her particularly agitated earl. ‘...and this.’ Anne finished referring to the Burgundian fashions. For dramatic effect she pointed her elbows high to present the same pomegranate pattern adornishing the trimmings of the long jagged sleeves - and as he later noticed - the lining of the deep v-neckline of the dress.

‘Jesus wept’ Richard exclaimed ‘What could have possibly possessed me and drawn me away from noticing the beauty of your gown, for so long?’

By then all the food was dispensed with and the hall was clear of servants. In the privacy of the ancient great hall and enraptured with the smell of fresh rushes the Earl of Warwick drew his wife onto his lap. Anne happily obliged as eagerly as a moth to a flame and threw her arms around his neck tangling her long fingers in his shoulder-length woodland brown hair as she kissed him. Improper public displays like this were a rarity and almost never passed between the Earl and Countess of Warwick, but betwixt the lengthy separation, a wife’s adoration and splendid supper neither could help themselves.

I see Isabel’s birth has not made him wroth at me. Perchance he will one day grow to love her as much as I do.

As if capable of reading her mind Richard drew her in even closer for a longer more ardent kiss. Not the polite type a knight would give his elusive ladylove.

‘No verbalisation of mine could ever express my gratitude for your birthing of such a perfect babe, I shall love Isabel as dearly as others love their sons’

‘God will give us a son soon my love, I promise you that....’ Anne started

‘Even if he does not, lest we forget the running tradition of female heiresses in both our lines’ Richard gently said while his fingers traced the hem marking the end of Anne’s kirtle and the tender skin above her breasts. It was no secret that her vast inheritance served as a point of pride for her husband; few knew it was also an aphrodisiac. ‘The finest men in the kingdom will vie for her hand in marriage’.

Anne nestled her weary head in the crook of his neck adjusting so the sharp corners of her caul do not dig into his neck before saying ‘She is too young to even contemplate such a thing.’ She was playing the doting mother. I would not admit to anyone that just hours after her birth I had been lining up a list of names in my head. Most women would think that only shrews and wicked mothers work in that way. But these women were not born to be heiresses like I was and Isabel is. Her and I are of a different breed.

‘Margaret of Anjou is taking very young girls into her service nowadays. Jacquetta Rivers’ eldest Elizabeth had been appointed lady-in-Waiting since she was just ten and three’

‘It never ceases to amaze me how many lives those Woodvilles have’ Anne chortled ‘not even the biggest scandal of Christendom could bar them from the court or king’s favour.’

‘For all of Lady Rivers’ ambitions this is the highest her or any of her brats could ever rise to. For all her fabled beauty, last I heard Elizabeth is pre-contracted to marry a modest Leicester knight like her father. Now just imagine the great marriages Isabel will have to choose from, when the time comes for her to be brought to court’ said Richard

‘Just imagine’ replied Anne wistfully ‘the greatest lady of the land - second only to the Rose of Anjou herself.’

Read the other 4 Chapters here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268239/chapters/53175664

#isabel neville #george duke of clarence #wars of the roses #the white queen #the kingmaker #anne beauchamp #fanfic #richard neville earl of warwick #anne neville #fanfiction #house of york #please r and r :)

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