#the lady Allenbrought

[rmelster]

A wip 🤭

[valhallaimcomin]

Hi!

I have not finished it just yet, but as I am so impatient, I really wanted to show you this piece I started working on quite recently :D

—The lord Allenbrought’s proposal.

So basically the context goes: At some point between 1842 and 1843, good ol’ Lord Allenbrought began a (very, very secret) quest to remarry; he had many a reason to keep his schemes well-hidden. Canonically speaking, his plans were to remain unfulfilled, since he caught tb by autumn/winter 1843, thusly passing away in early 1844; but he had pretty much planned to.

SO, because I love this man and I thought it would be interest to see how things would have fared had he made it to the altar, both for him, for his estate and for his child. Here I picture him with his (soon to be) lady wife, and with the lady’s grandmother.

(Also, as a fun detail, he’s holding a tiny cornflower -also named “bachelor button”- that in the Victorian flower language, symbolises his long years of bachelorhood, and which he grasps barely, as if he were to let go of it at any moment.)

(PS, one of my first group paintings. The absolute disregard of the laws of perspective n’ body position is giving mannerism)

I'd like to imagine, if I may, him looking at his reflection on a grand mirror one morning with a cornflower in one hand and going, "Ah, yes.. Ladies, I'm single and ready to mingle." 🤣

This is brilliant!! That blue on black looks so eyecatching. I love it! Don't worry about the technique. It will all come to you with practice. But, i have to admit, it does add a certain charm to the drawing. What did he say to make the lady look at him like that? Maybe he was upset because they didn't offer him tea and biscuits and made a sarcastic comment 😅

@rmelster you are amazing as always <33

[rmelster]

YESSSS!

Lord Jacob Allenbrought

[tommi-art]

The (2nd) lady Allenbrought and little Barney just sharing a moment of peace (watching the Lord Allenbrought playing the harp). It is likely the lady Allenbrought will send him to see the birds in the garden because she needs to “have a word with his Papa” 🤭.

HAHAHAHAHA HERE ME OUT: a comedy in which a bunch of ladies try to get alone with Lord A, but little Barney pops up from the strangest places and ruins the moment 🤣

[aneurinallmoods]

AneurinAllMoods' content list

✨ List of all my Aneurin Barnard moodboards which were originally posted on my main blog, AneurinAllDay. New ones will be posted here ✨

April 2024

Doctor Holford x Tommy Shelby

Medieval Artist

Fallen Angel

Merman

May 2024

Mr Rochester

Unicorn

Courtesan

Renaissance: Botticelli Muse

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Gothic Romance

Gibson Survives

Romeo & Juliet

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June 2024

Lancelot and the Lady of Shalott

Barry Lyndon Part I

Barry Lyndon Part II

Labyrinth

St George and a pet dragon

Chess x 6

The White King VS The Black King

Three Welsh Romances x 3

The Mabinogion x 4

Prince Eric (The Little Mermaid) x 3

Sleepy Hollow

Detective

July 2024

Zorro

Prince Florian (Snow White)

Prince Adam (Beauty and the Beast)

Prince Henry (Cinderella)

Prince Phillip (Sleeping Beauty)

Silent Film

Dracula

Jonathan Harker

Carmilla x 2

Black Phillip (The Witch)

Christian Daaé (Phantom of the Opera)

Sound of Music

Eros

Himeros

Anteros

Pothos

Lord Jacob Allenbrought (The Raven Volumes by R.M. Elster)

Narcissus

Pianist

Lovecraft: Cthulhu

Lovecraft: Necronomicon

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

August 2024

Lamia

Itsaslamiak (Sea Lamia)

Cyberpunk

HR Giger

October 2024

Alien

December 2024

Under the Christmas Tree

Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

Gingerbread Man

Christmas Pudding

Mince Pie

Yule Log

Mulled Wine

Roast Dinner

Hot Cocoa

A Very Cilly Christmas

Christmas Stocking

Poison Berries

Claude Monet

Belle of the Ball

Snow White

The Snow King

Swan Lake

The Sugar Plum Fairy

The Nutcracker

The Steadfast Tin Soldier

A Christmas Carol: Ebenezer Scrooge

A Christmas Carol: The Ghost of Christmas Past

A Christmas Carol: The Ghost of Christmas Present

A Christmas Carol: The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come

A Christmas Carol: The End Of It

January 2025

Dark Academia

[rmelster]

Equestrian portrait of the lord Allenbrought and the lady Allenbrought because why not.

[rmelster]

—𝐀 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄.

“I hope this first glance does not disappoint, miss…”

CLOSEUPS:

[rmelster]

—𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆.

“He is a fine lad, good and well-mannered” wrote he, “And weren’t it because he is the plainest creature I have ever crossed paths with, he would instead be the most darling. Alas! God, in His infinite wisdom, gave him the robust health he denied me, but also such an abundance of chin, such a spindlinness of limb, such a scarcity of gesture, such a want of cheeks, that when I look at him, it is as I were seeing a little old man; he does look quite like a barn owl with those peculiar glasses he needs to see. But I must not lament myself: The gift of a son, handsome or ugly, is a blessing I am most undeserving -and grateful- of.”

—Dr. Barnabas, bitterly recalling a letter in which his father, the lord Allenbrought, in which he described him.

>>[…] In the inventory also figured a “three-quarter length oval portrait of a woman, in ridding habit, wearing gloves and a veiled hat with a large ostrich feather… Finished by 1836”, which by all accounts was owned by the previous, late lord Allenbrought… […] Similarly, in a closed chest in a very secluded chamber, it has been a withering ridding habit of dark blue, forsaken of its mistress, bearing an uncanny resemblance to that of the aforementioned portrait. […] It has been arranged for it to be sold.

—Personal commentaries on the inventory of the Allenbrought Estate, circa 1847.

A stately woman stood in the midst of a stormy background, her long, stern face turned to him as if she had noticed how he had irrupted there. A cloud of stormy silk fluttering about her hat, the arm holding part of the dark blue skirts. The child shrunk underneath the contempt of her pale green eyes.

—A young Barnabas discovers, by chance, his mother’s portrait.

— 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭, 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧:

[rmelster]

WIP: The lady and lord Allenbrought, circa 1835.

@lordbettany

Edition:

[rmelster]

𝐒𝐍𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐓 - THE HEIR (A TRV’S SNIPPET)

“Not even after so many years of hunger and uncertainty Barnabas could have never conceived such a scene; he thought he dreamt in the midst of the nightmare, but his eyes did not betray him. It was a feast. A roasted salmon, the plumpest he had ever seen, lay on a crispy bed of lettuce like a pink-fleshed maiden lying languidly on green silks; there was an adult partridge, placed standing over a plate with bushes of artichoke and tender beetroot’s sprouts, as if it was still a living prey, blissfully unaware of the executioner that would soon take its life, and there was a roaster rabbit too, whose eyes carried the gaze of a martyr. Like a banquet, there was fruit in abundance, with trays of lustrous apples to his hand’s reach, plump grapes of unthinkable succulence, and the wine flew like water; when his host, sir Malcolm, and his guests, his own relatives, deemed it necessary, the service swiftly took away the trays and replaced them for jellies shaped like palaces and pastries that carried the sweetness of foreign lavishness. But there was such an indolent waste, such a lascivious carelessness, that Barnabas was not able to take a bite; he just remained still, as lady Grace nibbled a piece of salmon then another of roast, with it finishing either dishes; as his uncle ate like an animal, carving the back of the bird, breaking the bones with a bestial pleasure and eating with a gluttony that made him quiver. Neither him nor sir Blakemore intervened, both of them too disgusted to even utter a word. The histrionic eyes of the roasted rabbit stared into him for the remainder of the dinner.”

@theboarsbride

[rmelster]

Lady Grace seeing how everyone has died poisoned but Barnabas keeps eating those damn poisonous fruits and is untouched!

[rmelster]

Lady Priscilla Allenbrought, née Cordray.

[aneurinallday]

The Elster Man

The antique shop on Allenbrought Street was, to me, the most magical place in the world. Even though it was the first paying job I’d managed to get after university, I was in no particular rush to move on - it was preferable to the waitressing job I’d had at school, and it appealed to my love of the vintage and forgotten. For as long as I could remember, I’d been fascinated by the concept of antiques, so this was the closest I thought I would ever come to a dream job.

I’d only been working there for about six months, but to me, the shop had become a safe haven - a secret hideaway, where I could curl up with a blanket and a cup of tea, and lose myself in a Georgian adventure or a Gothic romance, while the minimum wage trickled into my pocket. The ticking of the grandfather clock was like a lullaby to me, and sometimes I would doze off with the book in my hands, until being woken by the sound of the bell above the door, signalling a customer’s entrance.

My life changed on a Monday afternoon - always the quietest time for our shop, since people were too busy with work or school to come and gawk at antiques. The owner was sick, so it was just me: the only employee, diligently manning the till, sweeping the floor, and dusting the shelves. I’d only had two customers that day - an old man searching for photo albums or soldiers’ diaries from the Second World War, and an elderly woman looking for vintage ornaments - but I didn’t mind. I liked the peace and quiet.

As I pottered around the shop, I was struck, as I often was, by the cosy, cluttered charm of the place. The shelves were stacked high with a beautiful chaos of miscellany - ballerina music-boxes, candlesticks, lampshades, silverware, egg cups, biscuit tins - while the walls were hung with framed photographs and wooden cuckoo clocks.

Sitting on chairs were stuffed animals with button eyes and porcelain dolls with real human hair, and looming over everything was a large, ornately carved grandfather clock, whose pendulum swung to and fro almost hypnotically. Every object had been crafted by skilful hands, whose owners were long-dead; and I took my role seriously as the caretaker of their legacies.

I finished rearranging a teapot, teacups, and saucers on a tray, then looked around for something else to do. I took advantage of the down-time to start unpacking a delivery we’d received the previous Friday: several beat-up cardboard boxes of items from Elster House, an eighteenth century manor-house somewhere in the south.

In order to fund the upkeep of the twenty-bedroom, twelve-bathroom mansion, the aristocrat who lived there was in the process of converting it from a private residence into a public attraction. Tourists and history buffs would come flocking to admire the topiary and old paintings, and hopefully leave a few coins in the donation box. But first, the attics needed to be cleared out.

And so here I was, kneeling on the floor, elbow-deep in a cardboard box stuffed with old bits-and-bobs, sorting the tat from the treasures.

Porcelain figurines of blushing cherubs and graceful Regency ladies gazed down at me as I worked. With a keen eye, I inspected each piece closely, looking for any scratches, scuffs, or discolouration that might decrease their value. I set aside a gilded snuff-box, and my gaze fell upon a rectangular tin at the bottom of the pile.

It wasn’t an antique, but a fairly modern storage tin, maybe from the 1970s or 1980s, painted with a rather gaudy floral design. It looked out-of-place among its Victorian companions.

I picked it up, and turned it around several times to admire the pattern. Then I attempted to open it, struggling to dig my fingernails under the lid. Gritting my teeth, I exerted more pressure. The lid finally gave up with a wheeze of escaping air, and the contents were revealed: a mess of old photographs, grey or sepia-toned, unmistakeably and authentically Victorian.

I scrambled to my feet, wincing as my stiff knees protested. I hurried to fetch a pair of cotton gloves, specially bought for protecting old, fragile documents from skin oils. Hastening back to the box, I sat cross-legged, put on my gloves, and reached into the tin.

The first photo I picked up was an unremarkable portrait. A young man sitting in a chair, wearing full Victorian garb, staring off into the distance in an aloof, regal fashion. His expression was dignified and stoic, his pose statue-like. When Louis Daguerre had succeeded in reducing a camera’s exposure time from hours to minutes, the popularity of portraiture had exploded; but having one’s photograph taken had remained a serious event, and smiling hadn’t yet become acceptable.

I peered more closely at the faded image. The man was strikingly handsome, in an angular and somewhat haunted way, his dark hair slicked with pomade. His large, shadowy eyes seemed full of secrets and deep, unknowable thoughts. A Gothic beauty, complete with an aura of mystery. Judging by his fine clothes and aristocratic bearing, he was probably an ancestor of the current owner of Elster House. The plain background and lack of other objects ensured that my gaze focused on him.

I turned the picture over. Written on the back in elegant cursive were the words:

Richard Mariah Elster

His Lordship on a fine Friday

October 13th 1843

To my chagrin, many of the photographs were heavily damaged - covered in splotches and scratches, the corners faded and curling. It seemed as though they’d been tossed carelessly in the tin with no regard for proper storage, yet a loose chronology seemed to exist. As I flipped through, I realised that they were all of Lord Elster. It was a collection dedicated to one man - one beautiful young man (or young to my admiring eyes, at least).

In most of them, he was alone, sitting or standing in various attitudes; but in some of them, he had companions - an elderly couple that I assumed were his parents, a male contemporary who was probably a university friend, a young woman whom he may have been courting. All of them seemed to pale in comparison; my eye was always drawn to him.

Each picture was its own little enigma. Who was he, and what circumstances had brought him to be photographed that day? Was he marking a significant event in his life, or had he simply wanted to show off his new clothes? My gloved hands carefully turned them over, checking for writing, but most of what I found was illegible.

As I searched, my fingers found something that wasn’t paper - something soft and ticklish. I withdrew a lock of dark brown hair, long and curly, bound with a red ribbon tied in a bow. I handled it with the utmost care, afraid of damaging the centuries-old strands. Then, on an impulse, I sniffed it. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I could detect the lingering, sweet fragrance of perfume. I wondered if he’d requested it as a keepsake, or if his lover had offered it as a token of her affections.

Picking up another picture, I experienced a momentary shock to see Lord Elster’s dead body propped upright, bereft of its head; but I quickly identified it as a joke photograph. In the 1880s and 1890s, there had been a humorous fad for “headless portraits”, in which the subject posed for two photographs in succession, and both photo negatives were combined to create the illusion that they were holding their own severed head by the hair or cradling it on their lap. Sure enough, the lord’s “decapitated” head was sitting nearby while his hand pretended to stroke its hair. I snorted with laughter, and put the picture aside.

The one that followed wasn’t a single image, but a collection of eight, arranged in two rows of four. I recognised it as a “visiting card” from the 1860s or late 1850s. At the time, it had finally become possible to take quick, casual photographs and print them onto a single sheet of thin paper, usually showing a person in the same setting but in different poses and attitudes. The low cost and simple production of such photos had led to their boom in popularity, as they could be easily traded among friends and family - one of the earliest examples of social media.

In all images, he was standing with a top-hat and cane in his hands. Sometimes he was posed in a serious and stoic manner, but sometimes he appeared grinning and playful. The images were too small to make out details, but I was struck by his humour - a long-dead man captured forever in a moment of amusement. It was a jarring reminder that people had been just as silly seven generations ago as they were now. Looking at him, I realised I was smiling.

But when I put it aside and saw the next picture, my smile died and my heart dropped. The young lord was sitting in an armchair, his eyes closed, his face slack, his mouth a sliver of blackness as it hung ajar. He looked like he was fast asleep, but I knew that he was dead. The sight came as a gut-punch to me. I’d been piecing together the jigsaw of his life, and in a strange and maybe stupid way, I felt like I’d gotten to know him. Now he sat in front of me, dead, motionless, his existence reduced to a scrap of paper.

There was nothing written - no date, no tribute, no expression of grief. I wondered what had happened to him. Had he died peacefully or violently? In bed after a terrible illness, surrounded by the tender care of his loved ones? Or in the middle of the street after a sudden accident, surrounded by gawking strangers? Morbid curiosity compelled me to peer closer at the photograph, looking for any clue as to what may have killed him - but he was fully dressed and immaculately hairstyled, hiding any possible sign of injury.

He was undeniably dead, and in accordance with the customs of the time, his family had decided to take one last picture of him.

I hadn’t come to work that day expecting to get emotional. Perhaps it was just the dust, but my eyes had begun to sting. I moved on, eager to shake off the image of his lifeless face.

The following photograph was decidedly less formal - probably a private memento. He was standing up, one foot crossed in front of the other, leaning his arm on the back of a chair in a casual manner. His hair had grown longer, and hung in easy-going curls to his neck - quite unusual for the time period, when most men had worn their hair short, slick, and sensible.

He appeared to be in an exquisite garden lined with marble columns, with a fountain in the background, but I couldn’t tell if it was a real place or a studio backdrop. Maybe it was a corner of the Elster estate, or maybe it was just paint on a canvas.

I held the precious picture in both hands, glad to see him alive again, then gently put it aside.

What I saw next caused me to freeze for a moment, as if my heart had skipped a beat. The young man was sitting naked on the floor, and smiling at someone out of frame. His long, dark curls were gathered loosely back, exposing his pale shoulders, and his expression was one of eager delight. Compared to the formality and pomp of its companions, the image was shocking in how alive and intimate it was. The subject was aroused, happy, and in motion.

I turned the picture over. Scribbled on the back in messy cursive were the words:

My darling, delicious Rick. A souvenir. Nothing tastes sweeter.

Something about the penmanship made me think it was a man’s. I felt a sudden guilt. This photograph was never meant for my eyes - it was a secret message between two lovers, who in their time period would’ve lived in the shadows.

Moving on, I jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire - the next picture was even more scandalous. His unrestrained hair tumbled in disarray about his face, and he was wearing an embroidered dressing gown that hung open, revealing that he was nude underneath. He was draped over a chaise longue in a languid pose, one bare leg crossed lazily over the other. To my modern eyes, the pose was no more shocking than a Greek statue, but for the time, it must’ve been outrageous.

Staring at him, I abruptly realised that it was his hair I had sniffed. His perfume I had imagined a whiff of. For some reason, the fact was embarrassing.

On the back of the scandalous photograph, I discovered the words:

To my dearest Rick. I found this and had to share the memory.

Wednesday 6th June 1866

This time, the handwriting felt feminine to me - painstaking, graceful, the result of years of strict schooling. I wondered how many lovers he’d had in his life, and which one he’d married to continue the Elster line.

Wait…1866? I squinted at the number. No, I’d definitely read it correctly.

I returned to the first portrait, dated 1843, and examined his face with a more critical eye. If I was generous and assumed he was in his early twenties at the time, he still looked remarkably youthful two decades later. Perhaps the hand holding the pen had made an error, or perhaps Richard was simply blessed with good genetics. Oh well, this mystery was above my pay-grade - correctly identifying the pictures would be the museum’s job.

I was approaching the bottom of the tin, and already wondering which museum to call first. These photographs belonged in a safe place, not a dusty antique shop, and I felt curiously protective of them. This man had been happy, beautiful, and by the looks of it, exciting; and the thought of him being forgotten hurt.

Suddenly, my eye was caught by a pop of colour. Something blue amid the grey and sepia. I reached for it, drew it from the pile, and my blood ran cold.

It was a Polaroid, and the face smiling back at me was Lord Elster’s. From what I could see, he was wearing a blue denim jacket over an unbuttoned tie-dye shirt, and his hair was gathered back in a loose mess. Seeing him in colour came as a shock to the system. Even in the faded, washed-out Polaroid, his curls were a rich and lustrous brown, his eyes a deep green. Even his pale skin seemed to be a dozen hues of pink.

My hands had begun to shake. It was the same person. Unmistakeably so. Indistinguishable, down to the slight asymmetry of his eyes. Even an identical twin wouldn’t be such a perfect match.

I knew it was him, but I also knew the idea was impossible. Although colour photography had ceased to be experimental in the 1930s, it hadn’t become the norm until the 1960s, and the Polaroid Corporation hadn’t dominated the world of instant cameras until the 1970s. If the man in front of me was the same man who’d sat patiently for a portrait in 1843, he would be almost two centuries old.

The sound of the shopkeeper’s bell jolted me from my reverie, a resonant chime informing me that a customer had entered. Sure enough, I heard the door swing shut with a decisive thud, and a male voice calling cheerfully:

“Hello?”

“One moment, please,” I answered, quickly returning everything to the tin and putting the lid back on. I heard his bouncy, blithe footsteps striding across the floor towards me, and realised I was covered in dust. I brushed myself off and emerged from behind the shelves, the floral tin in my hands. “How can I help - ” I began, but then I saw his face and the words died in my throat.

“Ah. I was looking for that. Thank you.”

His voice was youthful and sweet. He plucked the tin from my unresisting hands, paused, and peered closely at it. I realised I’d failed to rotate the lid back into the same position I’d found it, resulting in the flowery pattern being disrupted. My mouth opened and closed, but all speech had deserted me.

“You’ve been nosy, I see,” he said, “No matter.”

He smiled brightly, and slapped a stack of bank-notes down on the counter without counting them.

“There. Whatever awkward questions you have, this should be all the answer you need. If you feel it’s insufficient, please feel free to swing by Elster House whenever you’re in the area. I’ll give you a guided tour without the entrance fee, and I promise you’ll leave happy.”

He turned, and with a flick of his dark curls, was gone.

For @rmelster

[rmelster]

—𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇: 𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈:

𝐓he doctor's job was not meant for the faint of heart.

The weather had turned particularly dreadful in that tract of the country; the wind moaned between cadaverous trees, and dense, greenish fog coiled about the place like the breath of dead. Traversing that solitary path, it was inevitable for Barnabas to remember the past days of his boyhood at the Onstyles Boarding School, and the uncanny shadows that the reflection of the light upon the gothic windows produced, the cold that seemed to have nestled in his marrow and that not even the gentlest embraces could melt away. The living and the ghosts alike.

The butler had introduced himself as Keyes. His true name was Roderick, but it did not matter truly; he could as well be called Alfred, or Frederick, or Algernon, and to such call he would diligently respond. The listless, absent voice, the phlegmatic character and his fretting, still hands dressed in silken gloves, all appointed him as one of those born to servitude, who know no more personhood that the role they are employed in and who have no more allegiance than their masters; A devoted manservant whose grave would rest at the feet of a nearby church and who nobody would remember to visit. In his silence, Barnabas read his worry; whatever ailed his mistress, he thought, it was grave.

At long last, a large state bearing all the Georgian grandeur appeared in the midst of that foggy land, and the hooves of the horses slowed their pace. That was the ancestral seat of the Walding, but now, only the Honourable and his wife Catherine lived there; his relatives, instead, had fancied the life at the city and its many pleasures.

Once inside the house, Keyes insisted in helping him out off his coat and attempted —failing, for he was a small man and Barnabas wasn’t— to take off his wide-brimmed hat and his scarf. Then, with a faint gesture, he asked him to follow him. The butler guided him through what appeared to be an endless stretch of corridor, where dozens of vacuous paintings of balls and hunt scenes plagued the walls. When they faced a door, the butler pointed at it.

“You are to enter alone, doctor” he indicated him. Barnabas did not question him, and bidding farewell, he opened the door and stepped into the room.

The dim-lit chamber appeared before his eyes as a sanctuary. There rested a piano, a dilated stretch of a library inhabited by leather-bound volumes; with their glassy eyes, the heads of slain hunt prizes gazed at him as he stepped. But the portrait, it was what caught his attention the most; a beautiful woman in a forest, wearing a green dress of the latest fashion and holding a lace parasol, a small dog playing at her feet, presided the room like an angelic presence. At first glance, Barnabas knew, with that rare and unshakable certainty that only in very few occasions he had felt, that that woman was the mistress of the house.

And sitting by the hearth, still as the furniture, her husband awaited.

Meredith Walding, on his behalf, was lacking the serene grace that one would expect in an Honourable. He had a heavy brow and coarse, pocky cheeks, a somewhat burly built and hair of a moth-like brown; and though he oughted to be no older than forty or forty two, circumstances seemed to have casted the shadow of an older age upon his countenance. A little Toy Spaniel napped at his feet, and the fire burned warm in the fireplace, yet, neither the warmth of the wholesome creature slumbering by his side nor that of the hearth seemed to melt the wintry cold of that white, impassive face. He turned to look at him, and the flames shone against the glass of his monocle; there was more of a gravedigger than a husband in him.

”Doctor Allenbrought” he shook his hands; he found them cold “I am glad you have come. I hope my call is no bother to your usual schedule.”

“It is not, my lord…” he politely replied “May I ask where is your lady wife?”

“Still sleeping, as she should. She had a dreadful time last night. The family physician, doctor Selwyn, tended her, but she insisted on seeking another.”

“I see” Barnabas responded, “Though it would be far easier to give wife a diagnosis if I was granted an interview with her.”

“At the time being, however, it is not possible” he responded.

“I must insist, my lord. If I don’t see it for myself, I may sin of mistake your lady’s illness...”

“I think you do not understand me, doctor” replied he, and his voice turned steely “Disturbing my ailing wife with pointless questions about her maladies would only distress her further. Our doctor has agreed that this is but an unfortunate result of nerves. And you have not come here for th-…”

The floorboard creaked under heavy steps, and the hinges shrieked as someone suddenly pushed the door open. Both men turned their heads, just in time to see a disheveled woman leaning against the threshold. She was very sorry to look at, so anguished and pale was she. Her long black mane and her white nightdress gave the impression of appearance beyond the grave, haunted green eyes fumbling in the darkness of the room. Barnabas needed not to turn back and gaze at the portrait over the fireside to recognise in her its beautiful subject, worn by illness now.

“You’ve woken up” the Honourable said to her, “You seem to forget what doctor Selwyn told you last night: You should remain bedridden.”

“And you should know better than to treat me like an invalid, Meredith” the woman replied sharply, “Yet you do.”

Only then did he felt it proper to introduce himself to the woman.

”Good morning, my lady” he made himself noticed “I am doctor Barnabas Allenbrought. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

"Oh, hello” the lady suddenly seemed aware of his presence “Forgive me for this abrupt welcoming, doctor. I was not told that you had come.”

She turned to look at the Honourable, almost as if she recriminated him.

“Please, Meredith, allow me to at least serve the doctor something to eat; we owe him for the inconvenience," she urged him.

“If you say so, my loveliest” replied he, stern as a stone.

“As for you, doctor, I shall meet you in better fashion than this. Please, follow Keyes, he must be outside” she said, before leaving the room in a hurry.

Once again, Honourable and doctor were left alone. Now, he looked at him as if he were a pest.

“I hope you are pleased with this favourable change, doctor Allenbrought” the Honourable commented curtly. Prudent as he was, the doctor refrained himself from answering, and instead, left the room and looked for the butler.

Much sooner would have the walls of Jericho surrender to the enemy, than Barnabas Allenbrought had trusted a man like Meredith Walding.

Warm griddle cakes sprinkled with cinnamon, a curl of cream sailing in a cup of chocolate; his improvised hostess had not been prodigal with him. As Barnabas sat at the table, he could not help but to reflect in the queer behaviour of the Honourable. It was clear

The lady Catherine joined him after a moment; no longer did she wear the nightdress, but a morning dress and she wore her hair in one of those coiffures where the hair is parted in the middle and braided on tight plates on the back. The green waves of her skirts danced with her steps, and at the sight of it, he could not fathom the effort to slip under layers and layers of petticoats and dressing her long hair just to receive a mere doctor. Her face, once pale with sickness, appeared now deceitfully splendid underneath rouge.

“My lady” he stood to greet her. She offered him a weary facsimile of a smile before sitting.

“I hope you can forgive my husband’s temper, doctor Allenbrought” she said compassionately, as she sat in a nearby chair; the green taffeta of her dress creaked, and so did her breath; her voice, although polite, was hoarse “He loves me to madness, and thinking me ill is driving him to be the bitterest version of himself…”

“I understand” he comprehensively replied “I shall not comment on it. It is you what brings me here today.”

“I know.”

He sipped the chocolate before placing the cup aside.

“May I ask why did you want another doctor? Weren’t you tended by one before?”

“I was, yes. Doctor Selwyn, he is the family doctor. He assured us that my malady is of nervous nature, and passing” were her words.

“Did you found his opinion unsatisfactory?”

“No, I just…” the lady seemed to hesitate for a moment, before replying “I just deemed it necessary to hear another insight. Perhaps foolishly.”

He denied. If he presented himself reproachful and condescending, the only thing he would get from that interview would be their wasted time.

“Never is such a doubt foolish. Now you I am here. Tell me, what ails you?”

The lady fidgeted with her hands.

“It has been a couple of weeks since I fell sick. I have cough and all appetite has deserted me. I shiver even under warm coverlets and I feel as if my skin was sore even under silk; and oftentimes I gasp because I cannot breath well. And sometimes…” she gulped, and looked away “Sometimes I feel like something horrible is going to happen to me.”

“… A sense of doom, perhaps?”

“Yes” her breath stilled, and he kept silence.

“May I ask whether something happened before you started feeling unwell?” Barnabas inquired “To rule out the ‘nervous nature’ of the question, that is.”

“I… I Believe not, doctor” she said, “Everything has been uneventful.”

“Are you sure of it? Any upsetting even that may have triggered it?” insisted he.

“Nothing grave enough to make me sick” she assured him. He dared not to incur in whatever trouble had arisen in the Walding marriage that was “nothing grave enough”; having rightly assumed that what pained the lady Catherine had little or nothing to do with matters of the heart or ‘a result of nerves’, as that doctor Selwyn had hinted, he proceeded with the next question.

“And what was the treatment was suggested? We’re you provided with a receipt?” He hoped no lengthy measures had been taken. Laudanum was popular among those who suffered from an excitable predisposition, but was no more a cure than it was a poison.

“Nothing but the strictest of rests. I feel as if I was being bound to my deathbed. My maids look at me as if I were dying” she gulped, and looked away, “and I suspect I am.”

“Don’t say that, milady” he hastily cut her off. Nobody knew better than he the effects of the distressed mind in an already waning body. If someone suffering from illness was led by others to believe themselves to be at death’s door, if their affliction was acute enough, the state of things could possibly lead to such unpleasant resolution. Same was the fate of those suffering from an indisposition; he, who had arrived to the world among ill omens, had been treated as an invalid, being frightened with tales of long-dead relatives illnesses, and thusly, though born whole and healthy, he had ended up to become one. It had taken him too many years to rid himself of it, “I assure you, it is not the case.”

“Then what it is?”

“A product of this gloomy weather and scarcely nourishing meals, most likely” he replied, “But nothing that is unsolvable.”

He stood up as he felt someone approaching. The Honourable Meredith Walding, that was. He bid slight farewell and headed to the entrance, accompanied by his host.

”I suspect your wife is suffering anemia” he did by the door.

“What is it?”

“An illness of the blood, when it lacks iron. I must recommend her to eat heartily, and take long walks when the weather allows it; and I strongly advise you against keeping her bedridden. If she enjoys any small merriment, whether it be theatre, picnics or idly reading by the fire, I would suggest you to indulge her; it may not improve her health but I will surely raise her spirits. I shall come on a day of your preference to see if she has improved, if you are willing to.”

The lord grunted in what appeared to have been affirmation.

“And… I hope you forgive my boldness, my lord, but to treat your lady wife with the pity one would have for a dying woman will only result in her, in fact, feeling like a dying woman.”

The Honourable pursed his lips in a way that could have had any other man recoil prudently, but again, he nodded. Through his monocle, he shot him a gaze of barely feigned contempt.

“The coachman will carry you back to your hospital. Good morning, doctor” he gruffly dismissed him. Barnabas nodded, and covered himself with his coat; he knew himself an unwelcome guest in the house of the Honourable, and had decided not to prolong his otherwise fruitless visit.

“Take care.”

As the door was closed behind him, he heard the sound of an agonising cough.

‘Anemia, that is’ he uttered.

It would be too late by the time he realised how sorely mistaken he was.

Tormenting, once again, my poor mutuals, of which my Liege @lordbettany / @marianadecarlos / @theboarsbride

A few supporting drawings:

(The portrait of Catherine, the Hon. Mrs. Walding)

( a very rough drawing of the Hon. Meredith Walding)

[rmelster]

HEAR ME OUT:

The Lord Allenbrought (pliant, ignorant and tragic Lord Allenbrought) tried to fight back against the power of the priests and landowners and assert his personal independence by trying to get married! His previous wife, lady Grace (Carmichael) was a stronger and even-headed woman who imposed herself upon the priests and landowners, and when the Lord Allenbrought was left alone, he lost his only true ally. He was coddled as when he was a little boy, told that everyone would handle all (his newborn, his duties as a lord, his everything)… But when he realised how they were manipulating his son (and later, how they were mistreating him), he started seeking independence, trying to get married to an eligible lady at any cost.

[rmelster]

—𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 (A The Raven Volumes story).

1866. Doctor Barnabas Allenbrought is called to the sickbed of Catherine Walding, once Corisande, a beloved theatre actress who left her days of acting behind after unexpectedly becoming the wife of the Honourable Meredith Walding. Now weakened by her illness and the melancholy of not having provided her husband with a much desired son, little of the graceful youth that once stole the limelight of Drury Lane is left in her waning body; but when the doctor smells the reek of murder in his patient’s deathbed, he will delve deeper into a world of treachery and hypocrisy, before it is too late to bring punishment to those who have bring the honourable lady death.

Based in a fleeting idea @marianadecarlos gave me!