#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

Renaissance: Leonardo da Vinci Muse

Renaissance: Guido Reni Muse

Renaissance: Michelangelo Muse

Fashion Model

Pastry Chef

Gothic Romance

Gibson Survives

Romeo & Juliet

Prince Charming

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]

—𝐀 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄.

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

CLOSEUPS:

[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]

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!

[rmelster]

But I know she shall live forevermore, if even in your face, in the shadow of your brow, or the coil of your smile, in the brightness of your wit… And that you will be loved for all she gave to you.

Very rough sketch of the lady Grace, the lord Allenbrought’s wife and thus, Barnabas’ mother, who was said to take after her, in her elongated, narrow face, her Roman nose, and her long, nimble hands, for which both were widely deemed unattractive. Remarkably intelligent and well-read, the lady Grace was however haunted by the untimely death of her mother, the contempt of her father and the passing of her only sister following the childbirth of “a wretched child”, when she herself was awaiting the birth of her own son. When, after the birth, it became apparent that her newborn had albinism, she was struck with obsession and paranoia. Her husband tried to soothe away her fears, but when it became apparent that her presence supposed a threat to the life of the baby, he was forced to sent her away. He never saw her again.

[lordbettany]

BITE-SIZED HUSBAND BAHAHAHAHAHAH

WIP: The lady and lord Allenbrought, circa 1835.

@lordbettany

Edition:

[rmelster]

oh, you flatter me 🤭

She is the lady Allenbrought, lord Allenbrought’s second wife in a self-indulgent fic I am writing. I am still coming up for names for her. I really like drawing her, as I love 1840s fashion and I think she is very pretty :D

This is a pretty rough and preliminar design, because I wanted to make a tiny drawing of her ‘secret’ wedding with the lord, and she had to be wearing travel clothes.

A wip 🤭