For a man who seeks attention for his art, Fabian is satisfied with claiming a spot in the shadows. And so he does, stepping back into the least busy areas of the palace, away from the crowd once the talks of his designs are over. Olivia is out there, twirling in her gown and jewels, no words necessary for heads to turn. For tonight at least, his job was done.
He finds home in the gallery instead — a choice Fabian has made just about every time he found himself at the Queen’s residence. Except this time he isn’t alone.
“A lovely collection, isn’t it?” He says to Amelia, but his eyes don’t falter from the Metsu which he now examines. “Primarily Dutch and Italian. It speaks volumes to the tastes of kings and queens before her Majesty Queen Margaret.” He turns to her, then. “Do you have a favourite?”
❛ There are said to be Japenese embroidered screens, some of which were diplomatic gifts that date back to the rule of James I. I should like to see them, ❜ Amelia responded, almost bewitched by the beauty and history which encompassed the room. When it came to art, there always appeared to be two kinds of people; they would either seek to adsorb every emotion, decision, influence and history that a piece offered, or they would look blankly at a painting and grow bored from a lack of stimulation.
She knew Fabian by more than mere reputation alone, so she turned from the paintings to greet him properly. ❛ How are you, Fabian? Are you enjoying this most splendid affair? ❜ Amelia tried to mute any hint of sarcasm from her tone. If she had not found the art gallery, she most certainly would’ve been drowning her boredom in copious amounts of champagne.
“As wonderful as tonight is, I do hope we never do this again.”
❛ Doesn’t sound too wonderful if you’re already wishing it away, ❜ Amelia remarked, slightly amused by the man's assessment. There were certainly more enticing events to go to, in particular on New Year’s Eve. Several of her friends had been invited to the hottest party in London, which came in the form of a renovated warehouse. She regarded him with mild suspicion and then let out a short laugh. ❛ Is it too lively or not lively enough for you, Mr Foreign Secretary? ❜ she asked, using his work title as a playful jibe.
Time inched forward, achingly slow, leading up to the event. To the very moment, when the grandfather clock’s hand settled at the hour, and Elle’s feet were planted in the reception hall, heels digging into her specified grooves. Perched - a bride, a wife- very nearly mastering how to adjust her concrete haughty smirk to reveal a relaxed show smile, while simultaneously moulding into the lion’s den. Not quite Caroline’s smooth transition.
Her resolution was to speed up, move past this year, and the flustered chaos that hovered. An energy was thick, heavy on the Firm, hands pulling back the hours and minutes to the New Year. She could see it there, the weight of it: the past, and the tragedies the whole nation mourned. Speculated. Judged. More champagne was necessary, determined to coax the next year forward paired with some discreet, bottled mischief. Rallying to excuse herself from the latest conversation, the duchess ensured her champagne flute was full, calculating the steadiest route to the courtyard. Just as she turned, her champagne met the air, dancing before gravity willed it to splatter before her, and near the figure beside her, crystal shattering and parting like confetti.
Fuck’s sake! Panic.‘I’m so sorry - the champagne must’ve had a mind of its own-’ Words came out quick, pure nerves, ‘Did it land on you, at all?’
If Amelia were at any other event, she’d have likely felt the heightening sensations of too much alcohol in her bloodstream, as she traversed the clubs and high-end bars with a group of people equally as rich and reckless as her. Of course, a large portion of her public image was largely for show, but she enjoyed playing up to the idea of being a girl with too much money, and little care for the world. Still, she had practised restraint since her father had impressed upon her the importance of the evening, and she really didn’t feel like showing herself up at a royal event - even if they were just people.
A stream of amber liquid surged into the air and splashed on the ground in front of her, while tiny droplets seemed into the bottom edge of her gown. Amelia’s brow rose out of surprise, but she shook off the woman’s concerns with a careless hand. ❛ It barely touched me and it’s so late in the evening, I don’t think anyone will notice, ❜ she replied, and then placed her own empty glass of champagne on the waiter’s silver tray. ❛ At least there is no shortage of champagne! ❜
The place shimmered with opulence, there was an old-age beauty the building that seemed to house thousands of memories. A royal palace held many secrets, Amelia was certain of that, and she wondered how many wished to stay buried. What had the paintings seen, and who had stared back up at them? The artwork always spoke to her, far beyond brush strokes and blank canvases, her father said that was why she was so good at piecing together an entire gallery.
Amber bubbles shimmered in her third champagne glass, while the voluminous skirts of her black and white gown stroked the shining floors. Poised fingers tempted a touch at the gilded frames which surrounded priceless artworks, but remained clutched around the stem of her glass.
❛ Rembrandt, ❜ she acknowledged, staring up a portrait. The noise of others seemed to grow louder, as the revelry filtered out into the corridors. ❛ I could spend all night in this gallery! ❜ Amelia exclaimed, although she knew that she would soon be expected to re-join the party - her father was trying to boost his connections, despite holding more wealth than some of the old money.
Miss Amelia Euphemia Dunsany of Westminster, arrives in style accompanied by her father, business typhoon Robert Dunsany. This is Amelia's first public appearance since split rumours circulated the press, following the breakdown of her recent engagement to American businessman Grayson Avery. The London socialite shows no sign of heartache and is all smiles for the cameras.
The Dunsany family were not a household name until the 30s, when Robert Dunsany produced a tin full of delectable chocolates, which only the rich could afford. They were sold in Selfridges and flew off the shelves in an instant. The profits of the Dunsany family skyrocketed, and they were lifted out of their cosy middle-class cottage in Oxford, into a lavish townhouse in Westminister. Despite their rise, they remained grounded by history. There had been a time when the Dunsanys were near poverty, and when the business venture struggled in the early days, almost declared bankrupt. Once the empire was secure, they made smaller tins more accessible to the lower classes.
Alice Hague, had worked in the Selfridges department store, and it was in that very building that she met Robert Dunsany in ‘55 and they began their torrid love affair. Amelia was the only child born from the marriage, which blew hot and cold with every season. Her father was astute, measured and sometimes cold, where her mother was a passionate woman, who was prone to melancholy and gained a habit of drinking too much. In the end, the argued more than they laughed.
Every bit her father’s daughter, Amelia grew to be a pragmatic young girl. On the surface, she was spoiled, and easily pleased by trivial things, but she always saw past the luxury of her life. She walked down the streets in her fine leather shoes and pushed coins into the hands of those in need when her mother wasn’t watching. She had always been content to play two roles, the socialite that everyone expected her to be, and the girl with true feelings that wanted to save the world.
By the time she was a teenager, Amelia realised that the people who helped those less fortunate than themselves, often did so for the sake of appearances. So she decided that all of her good deeds would always be anonymous. It didn’t make her feel good to be praised for doing something as a decent human being, since to her that was a given. She created a pseudonym of Clara Harvey, who donated to many charities and funds for multiple causes.
Amelia knew that given the fame which her father had acquired, people were interested to see what she would do with her life. So she gave them the glamorous socialite which they could covet and admire. Despite her giving nature, that didn’t mean that she detested wealth or the fine clothes in her wardrobe. On the contrary, she loved the fortune and the grandeur, she’s simply liked to use it for more than just herself.
As a child, Amelia wanted to be a ballerina - but her mother wouldn’t allow that. So instead, she was given a painting of three ballerinas on a canvas. After that, she developed a taste for art and started curating pieces throughout her teens. By the time she was old enough to move out of her family home, her father gave her money to set up her own art gallery in the heart of the city. It was her passion project and gave her breathing space away from the noise of London’s high society. The gallery is very popular and has been visited by art enthusiasts, celebrities and members of the royal household. But the papers still enjoy commenting on her social life, more than they do her talent for finding priceless art.
She experienced heartbreak when she realised what wealth did to people. There was little love in money, and those who sought her attention wanted only the fortune which came with it. As the sole heiress of the Dunsany fortune and dynasty, she would one day steer the ship which her father had pushed out into the ocean. Several cheating scandals and a broken engagement later, Amelia was left guarded by her experiences.
VIEWS TOWARD MONARCHY: She has mixed opinions on the monarchy. On the one hand, she cannot judge since she was born into a life of luxury, even if it was her father who built the Dunsany empire from the ground up. But she wonders what exactly they have done in the last couple of decades to earn the respect of others. Amelia has never met the Queen, so she cannot speak about her on a familiar level, but from she has seen and heard, it may be time for something more relatable than the stiff upper lip.
REPUTATION IN THE PRESS: She is every bit the social butterfly feeding off the attentions of others. In public, she is the one to follow and covet. Most papers report on her personal life, rather than her ability to put together art pieces for collections. Amelia is often in the papers, photographed with her fellow socialites at the most expensive bars, with her name on every guestlist in the city. They watch for the scandal, the drunken exits from London’s finest bars, with her arm looped around another strange man - while everyone guesses who her latest squeeze could be.
Amelia gains followers wherever she goes, they adore her care-free nature, and ability to make anyone feel special. The places mentioned in the papers gain more attention, and the clothes she’s photographed in fly off the shelves.
Some say that she’s not serious enough, and gambles with her choices too freely. The older generations frown upon her actions, while the younger covet her every move. The papers accuse her of leeching off of her father’s dynasty, with no skills of her own - even though she has more than proven herself in the art field. They accuse of her of being a society brat and nothing more.
I mean, she was different. She was dramatic and she was exotic. And she talked a lot, and when she talked, she said remarkably interesting things about music, books, film and politics.
High Fidelity (2000), Dir. Stephen Frears
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