#theseason;tuesday

[king-nyx]

I was going to write tonight, but instead I'm freaking out about SunDrunk

[ernestpembroke]

@lordedmund​

Ernest was dreading the end of the season. He wasn’t eager to return home, although it would be nice to see his cousin it still meant he wouldn’t get to see many of the friends he had made, too. Particularly, it meant he wouldn’t see much of Edmund. He grew used to spending so much time with him, seeking him out as often as was reasonable, never feeling that he was becoming a nuisance. He didn’t want to go home and trade all of that in for writing letters.

And yet he already wrote Teddy a letter. He battled with himself over not saying any of it in person but the idea terrified him. It may not have been as romantic but . . . Well, Edmund was the one good at that, as far as Ernest was concerned. The heart of an artist instead of the heart of a coward.

The note had gone through multiple rewritings before he decided he couldn’t improve upon it. It read:

Dearest Teddy,

I hope you will forgive me for approaching this question in a letter, the alternative seems to me quite impossible. I cannot remember the poem it is from but Villon (I believe in his exile) once wrote, translated “I am dying of thirst beside a fountain” & soon, I do not think I will be by the fountain. So this must be written.

I am a viscount & future earl, you will be a viscount, & neither of us by my understanding are in need of money but even if we were, surely, our union would still be suitable to the other. Without regard to money, titles, or property, I have come to understand that my feelings for you surpass the limit of what I imagine most feel towards temporary lovers. What I mean to say is that given my passion for you, a union between us seems to not only be smart but promising of a bright future. I do not wish to die of thirst beside the fountain anymore but even less so to perish away from it. Away from you, my own one.

I will be returning to Salisbury in a fortnight but am more than willing & indeed find it preferable to instead go with you to Scotland. I do not wish to wait nor to put our fate in the hands of anyone else.

With love,

---

Rather than do as planned, have the letter mailed off, Ernest found himself with a burst of unexpected courage. He thought it over too many times, would Edmund say no because he sent it off so coldly? Would it seem like an afterthought? And didn’t he want to see his face if he said yes? The possibility of him saying no weighed heavily, too but . . . Edmund, as much of a rake as Ernest knew him to be in the past, always seemed like a romantic to him. A letter proposal was unacceptable to be sent away like that to someone like Edmund.

But he couldn’t say the words, either. He knew they would die in his throat, that Edmund would smile or kiss him or look at him like he was art and that he would find it impossible to say anything worth the air he used for it. He pocketed the letter and went to Edmund’s so that he could call on him, sending the butler off to notify Edmund of his presence. As he waited, he twisted the sealed letter between his hands, just barely gentle enough that it did not tear.

[lady-castleton]

⸻ Aug 1800 . Tuesday evening . outside Brooks’  [OPEN starter to first taker!] 

Most of her life to date had been spent waiting. Usually for men: for someone to make a demand through a closed door, for a secretary or the like to respond to an inquiry, for a harbormaster to tell her when a ship was due to set sail. 

Now she was waiting for a footman to run back with an answer. Rank had not changed the general situation much, merely the level of comfort in which she waited. 

“This must be the last one, my lady.”

She gave a slight nod in acknowledgment without turning away from the window. Mrs. Henley’s fingers flickered like a bird’s wings as the lace she was crocheting took shape. She could not imagine working with thread or textile in the stuffy heat of the carriage, and wished she could lean fully out of the window, just so she could breathe. 

Finally, footsteps approached; she had the door opened before the second of the footman’s sharp raps.

“So sorry, m’lady. They hadn’t the faintest recollection of the man himself, only that he clearly had been here, for how else could he have run up a tab for drinks and board?”

Something of her disappointment must have leaked through in her silence. The footman shuffled and touched his hat. “Should I go back and try again, m’lady? They didn’t think it right to be answering questions about another gentleman to a servant, begging your pardon.”

“A lady does not step foot into gentlemen’s clubs.” Mrs. Henley’s voice emerged from the depths of the carriage, as stifling as the air within it, the judgment flashing like the light glinting off the needle. 

Not if she wishes to remain a lady was the unspoken reminder.

“Peregrine Saunderson, Viscount Castleton. You are certain you said those very words, and they confirmed he was there?”

“Yes, m’lady. But again, they didn’t say anything further, and got all forbidding after that. Something about gentlemen’s business being a gentleman’s only, and none other’s?”

Her thoughts were slow in the heat, as if they too were melting into puddles. 

A rap from the top of the carriage distracted her. “My lady,” the driver said, apologetic, “We’ve lingered too long, the carriages behind will be wanting our spot. Should I take us around again?”

“M’lady?” This from the footman, now shifting from one foot to another like an anxious bird in livery. “What do you want I should do?”

“The carriage will be noted outside the club,” Mrs. Henley said, detached. “And perhaps listeners will realize the same carriage was outside White’s and Boodle’s as well.”

What she wanted to do, she could not do, and others were refusing to do. The problem with a lifetime spent waiting was that when time called for action, she was out of practice. 

She peered out, up and down the street, as if an answer would present itself there. 

She was running out of time. 

[in-singh]

A Tuesday in August | Mid-Morning | Miss Penniworth’s, Spitalfields

    A clock chimed in the corridor of a town home in a dilapidated London slum. Peter glanced at his wristwatch before dousing his hands with antiseptic. “Well, Miss Karp, your stitches look to be completely healed. I do not see any reason you cannot resume work,” he explained pleasantly. At the silence that followed, he looked to the young woman. “That is…if you so choose.”

“A’do, sir!” came the meek voice in reply. “My aunt has been writin�� an’ asking for funds all month, sayin’ Georgie needs new shoes. I’m nearly out of money, so the sooner I get back to work, the better.”

The voice belonged to a Miss Hattie Karp of St. Giles. She was nineteen years old, just barely older than his sister, and was already a mother of two. The thought alone made Peter shudder. “‘Sides, I make tons more here than at the factory, ‘ats for sure.”

Peter pressed his lips together in contemplation. Making his rounds on the East End was never easy. There was always a sickly babe or child fighting croup. 

In this case, he was checking up on patients in one of the many brothels in London. It was extremely difficult to treat the ladies who worked there, ladies who could’ve so easily been daughters of the better off and not had to turn to a lifestyle of such debauchery. Still, it was Peter’s duty to do right by his patients, and to withhold any judgement that didn’t concern their health.

“How is the new little boy?” He asked, leaning against the wall. The smile that lit Hattie’s face made Peter feel much better.

The young lady, now fully dressed, sat on the edge of her bed, beaming. “Very good, sir. His father writes almost weekly. Well, his secretary writes. Joseph is nearly five months old and growing every day.”

“Good, good.” Peter replied kindly, crossing his arms.

He had been in Birmingham at the time of the birth, but had been in correspondence with the midwives who had delivered the child. A large baby, nearly ten pounds and healthy as a horse, according to their notes. Hattie named him Joseph. He was the son of a widowed Viscount with five daughters. The gentleman had been a bit contemptuous at the news, but welcomed his son with open arms after learning it was a long-awaited heir to his title. Joseph was sent for only a week after his birth, but his mother was happier for her child’s gain than sad for her loss.

They are soon interrupted by Miss Penniworth herself who glides into Hattie’s quarters with a tray of brandy and cakes. Her (probably fake) jewelry jangled against her large bosom with her every step. “Dr. Collins, sir, stay for a drink.” She practically sings, sitting down on the bed and pouring herself a glass. “One of my new girls has offered to serve you as our Hattie’s payment.”

“She’s right pretty, she is.” Hattie eagerly informs him.

Their offer sends shivers down Peter’s spine, but he brushes it off casually. “I’ve told you, ma’am, you need not pay. Tis my duty as a medical professional.”

He never took any kind of repayment, especially anything so physical, though the madam always urged. Simply knowing that he was helping someone in need was always worth more to Peter than money or sex.

“Well then, we shall see you next season, my dear.” Penniworth drawled, downing the rest of her brandy in one sip.

That was all the thanks Peter needed to hurry out. He hopped back into the curricle and was back at Collins House in time for luncheon.

[margaretmulgrave]

Tuesday, August 19th, 1800

Mulgrave House

Margaret loved Tuesdays for their lack of fanfare. She could truly do as she pleased with little expectation from anyone.

That particular late morning as she rose and dressed for the rest of the day, hair loose save for a few pins to keep the unruliest curls back. There was no use calling Beth in, the few servants at the apartment in London were still scurrying to get wardrobes and items packaged for return to Blenheim or Nuneham respectively.

She didn’t notice the new stack of correspondence on her vanity that the ladies maid brought in at an earlier hour, the only thing on Margaret’s mind was a nice strong cup of tea. She smiled faintly in a feeling of contentment as she practically glided from her room to the hall, and began to descend the stairs. There was a faint murmur of voices through the closed drawing room doors and Margaret wondered what Aunt Helena was up to.

“…your Grace.”

Margaret halted, taken by surprise in overhearing the formal title. Not directed at her though, muffled back in the drawing-room. Who was calling? Why had no one woken her? She descended the last few steps, turning into Beth as the girl exited the concealed room with an empty tea tray.

Margaret grabbed the sleeve of her dress, pulling her a few feet away, motioning for her to keep quiet and miming the question of just who was being served in the sitting room?

Beth's eyes were wide as she glanced between the lady and the ornate wood door. “The Duke and Duchess of Marlborough, miss. They arrived a few hours ago while you were still sleeping. I went to wake you with the mail but his Grace insisted to let you be.”

Bless Papa. Margaret exhaled, building anxiety already starting to ebb. Her parents had to arrive at some time, of course. It was her father’s way to try and make it a surprise. Her mother saying nothing.

“Thank you, Beth.” Margaret offered, before bracing herself and pulling the sitting-room door open to expose her parents and Aunt Helena perched on adequate seating with freshly served tea and cakes.

“Papa,” Margaret smiled, making a conscious effort not to rush into the room, “It is polite to write you know.”

Maxwell laughed heartily and set his teacup down as he stood from the lounge. “Not surprised to see me then?” He pat his pockets, looking for a cigarette that was no longer there and quickly gave up, waving Margaret forward instead. “Look at you! London has done you well, yes?”

“Eventful.” Margaret answered, “But I am ready to return home.” She stood with her father for another moment before finding space next to Aunt Helena across from the other pair. Margaret began to fill her own cup, “You should have woken me.”

“No, no,” The Duke scoffed, “There is still plenty of time. Everything in order then for the wedding? No last-minute errands to attend to?”

“I’ve…taken care of everything. You will behave won’t you, Papa?”

“What?” He chuckled again, glancing over at his wife with an amused gaze, “Have I lost my temper already.”

Margaret pursed her lips, “You know what I mean. Lord Harcourt is nervous enough.”

“Like I give a damn about Harcourt.”

“Maxwell.” A cool, gentle scold from her mother. Margaret blinked at her, at both of them, really. It was so easy to ignore the fact that they hadn’t all been in the same room together for over a year. That Margaret had missed bits and pieces of them, of home. She had been so angry with them, and the longer she didn’t see them it manifested into a longing and now…nothing.

They hadn’t looked at her in over a year. Letters and directives sufficed to get her to London, and now all was well because she’d completed the Season successfully. They were getting just what they wanted. Margaret swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat with more tea, letting the quietness stretch until it snapped.

“What is this business of you not having a bridesmaid, Margaret?” Amelia’s voice was like ice still, and Margaret could only cling to her teacup for a buffer. “It is very unorthodox. Not to mention all the pressure…surely there is some lady –“

“I have managed quite well.” Margaret interrupted, before adding in a mutter, “Lady Mother, with Aunt Helena’s assistance. There is no lady available or in appropriate condition to attend to me. I had hoped…my cousin –“

Amelia scoffed suddenly, “Frances. That girl. You are too sentimental, Margaret. Given the circumstances, you are better off standing alone. I will assist with any dressing the day of, in that case.”

She was shocked by the offer of involvement, and then upset, looking at Aunt Helena with a deep frown. But the elderly woman shook her head in silent dismissal. Let it go, Meggie. All she could do was turn her gaze back to the dregs of her tea, “Of course, mother.”

“What happened with Miss. Fitzroy?” Her father piped up - roused back into the conversation.

“I told you, Maxwell. I showed you the paper, Saoirse’s letter. That girl…”

Margaret couldn’t help but slump in her seat. Dejected, bothered, upset. This Tuesday was not like the others.

[lucyofedinburgh]

A Tuesday in August.

Lucy swept through the halls of 29 Albemarle, her dressing gown following her in a silken wave. Up the staircase, past the drawing room, up another staircase -- her footfalls were soft, fleeting. She did not carry the same clomping Prussian decisiveness of her housemate.

To her writing desk. The quill nearly vibrated in her hand as she put it to paper.

Lady Lipton,

I do hope this correspondence finds you well. Summer in Sussex has always been a favored memory of mine. Should you ever wish to join me in London, I would be delighted to take tea.

I must entreat you to pass the following letter to Lady Fitzroy, in your care.

Warm regards, HRH Princess Lucy

- & -

Frances,

Enough frolicking; we are leaving for Prussia. Return at once. I will pack your things.

Lucy

---

Crossing into the room adjacent -- once her room, now re-fitted for a taller, blonder, prickly thing, Lucy went to the dresser and began to pull out a series of underthings and scarves. “Pack these,” she said simply to the house-maid lingering in the doorway, her features alive with horror.

She only received a stuttering reply, which furrowed Lucy’s brow further as she glanced to the girl. “Dorothea--” she hissed. “Do not look so mouse-ish!”

“Y-- Yes’m.”

Flinging the wardrobe open, Lucy began to filter through the dresses there. Frances’ taste remained impeccable, though she had a few thoughts about her overuse of lavender.

Her nose wrinkled.

“Dorothea.”

She could feel the woman’s shoulders tighten.

Lucy turned, holding a bonnet in her hand. The ribbon fluttered cheerfully.

“How was Lady Fitzroy to travel without her traveling hat?”

[ladywinsomes]

—th August, 1800

Dearest Mama,

Tis been quite some time since I have written, and I apologize deeply. The missives I have received from home are most enjoyable. I am utterly thankful that you are convalescing so well. You’ve missed quite the lively season, I’m afraid. At least from my experience. Whistledown has been riotous, which is precisely why I am writing to you.

I must tell you this myself so that you will not be surprised when your copy of Whistledown makes its way to West Sussex…You will be seeing my name appear in the most recent sheet. While it is just as it is written - gossip - I fear that some of it is indeed the truth. I have been meeting up wi seeing a gentleman somewhat informally. You must believe me when I tell you it is quite proper. Just conversations in the park and at various societal events.

Kenneth Ridel, is his name. He was an acquaintance of my late husband, a friend from university. We met at one of the many house parties held at Henstridge. In fact, I knew his wife. He is also widowed!! I suppose I should have started with that information. Oh, Mama, and he has a young son who is simply scrumptious! His wife passed not long after the birth, poor dear. Lord Ridel is an excellent father, from what I can tell. Very dedicated, and not just for a single father. He is an excellent man. Nothing could have prepared me for how I feel when I am around him. It is so unlike what I felt when I was with Heathcliff. Kenneth Lord Ridel is steady and thoughtful, and I have every reason to believe his feelings are just a strong as mine. I do fear that my feelings are much stronger than I can understand. He makes me feel like a person, like I am valued, not just in beauty but in character. Nevertheless, we are seemingly the topic of Scotland at the moment.

Oh, he is also a Marquess! I suppose that this is why I am receiving letters from scorned lassies. Yes, Mama, they are sending me letters. Can you believe that? Maybe this should have been a clue five years ago — that no one cared to be jealous when I became betrothed to Heath. I don’t know for sure what Lord Ridel’s intentions are, but I do know that they are pure and they are good. As are mine, so you need not worry. If Papa suddenly finds himself reading the gossip sheets, I would appreciate if you could tamper the dramatics of this information. For it is not dramatic or improper - it is simply two people who enjoy being in one another’s company. I do hope it turns into more though. He is already more honorable and pleasant than Heathcliff ever was, and he makes me most happy.

I hope this letter does not scare you into coming to Ton. Your health is more important, and I assure you am I very safe and smart. I love you, Mama, and oh, I miss you more than words can say.

Give Papa a kiss from me! You have my warmest regards.

Your darling Lydia