Emelie van Dalen @emelie-van-dalen - Tumblr Blog

lucy-needham:

“Pirates?” Lucy lit up for a half-second, then laughed. The thought of ships filled her with dread, all of her experiences driven by the most dire necessity, journeys made in darkness and haste. Lucy believed pirates on the surface, just as she would believe swirling tempests and siren calls. It only took one glance, sidelong, to know better. “Surely not.”

She shook her head. “They are here, I promise. You have to look for them on the margins. Or find a waltz with one, where you’re close, and they can’t escape. Then you ask questions.”

Casting her gaze up at one of the painted dragons, Lucy’s eyes narrowed in consideration. “You may find more luck strolling the gardens.” She pivoted, then, facing back the direction that they came. “Shall we?”

“Self-proclaimed pirates,” Emelie said again, smiling as if she was dragging along some grand secret with her. However, despite the lack of truth to most of the stories, they had been told either over drink or to impress her, and impress they did. Emelie did not wish to share some of them, for they were far too absurd, and she loved some of them because of the way they felt crafted just for her amusement. That’s what she wanted, tales that were extreme and beyond.

Emelie laughed, though it was soft and sounded more like a giggle. She shook her head. “I’m lazy, dear Lucy, I wish to be entrailed, to be amused, lured in, drawn in.” She held the back of one hand to her forehead. “Is that too much to ask?”

“May I?” she asked, a dramatic smile turning to one of less joy. “And you, my dear, what have you found? Any one to your liking? Any gossip? Stories? New paintings I must come and look at?”

#C: Lucy #c: lucy1 #event: regatta ball

damien-keyes:

–

Ems had a glow in her most polished smile that could cause the sun to seem like a distant, dim star. He raised their joined hands and prompted her to twirl. A spontaneous move inserted in a carefully crafted and fairly subdued dance. The hem of a new dress, generously created by one of Lady Faithfull’s London friends, skimmed over the floor.

He could not help but grin at her thoughts on the night and her theatrical emphasis to go along with them. It reminded Damien of their best moments. Arm in arm, running wild down a long marbled hallway, wildly laughing at what they’d done. Their brand of mutual love based on admiration over romance. “They’ve beat the Dutch, have they? Oh, dear. What torturous world have we willingly entered?” Said with a touch of playful drama too.

Another round of dancing around the room. Dreadfully dull– the steps, not the company. He aimed them to the furthest corner near the stairs leading to the second floor. and slowed to a walk. A glimpse had been offered to the ball of two strangers new in town. A beautiful pair who knew the dance inside and out. As they would soon know the season.

He extended a hand as they took the stairs up. “We’ve experienced quite a few extremely prosperous times, haven’t we?” So many roles they had played. Together. Always, together. Initially against each other until they found a common thread of connection: a revolution of their own design that only they controlled.

No matter the multiple stages they played on and whatever crowd they accepted lavish applause from, Damien and Ems would always be the ones ready to burn the place down.

They wanted something better. If the world wanted to keep a tight grip on its gold, they worked in tandem to pry it away. One charmed the coachman while the other stole from the carriage. Interchangeable shapeshifters of feigned love and lust who slipped away in the morning fog.

“The North’s wealth pales in comparison to London. And it might take some work, a little patience.” When it came to money, Damien had a reservoir of untapped patience. “Who is easier to wrap around a finger– someone on guard who sees life running at them from all sides? Or someone who lives in a…” A gesture to the glass house they wandered through. “…bubble waiting to impress the next person who walks by.” Pretentious, she had said. The perfect storm, Damien saw.

Emelie could not help but laugh as he twirled her, muffled by the back of her hand, wishing not to have her laugh echo along the room. She held herself up as she fell back in step with him. He was charming, a charming devil, with teeth that shone whenever he had the need to blind his prey. Those who would melt into his eyes and see only wonder and adventure there, and like a snake he would lure in those who were too easily convinced of good intentions. She looked at him and felt words press to her skull, begging her to describe him in prose, begging her to try and nail him down, unable to do so without pen and paper.

“Willingly? You give me too much credit, clearly but a smile from you and I was convinced to follow you, no matter where you would take me,” she said in a playful tone, but keeping her hands to herself, she would not be the reason for rumours, not these kinds at least.

She followed along, as she always did, not because she did not know how to lead, but because following was expected of her gender, and she fell in step to meet those expectations because the more fun it would be to break them. She took his hand, allowing him to guide her, looking at him like she might at one of her sisters, glad for his company, aware of her own love for him. “And we remain as we enjoy those spoils, do we not?” she asked.

She had gazed at the people around her, and saw easy targets, less sober, more entranced by the beauty and spoils of those around them. She watched and counted the amount of people she could convince to follow her, she watched and counted the ladies she could lure into her arms. She smelled opportunity more than she appreciated its spoils. It was the battle she loved more than the effortless victory, it was the storm she adored for its destruction, and not the image of the rebuild and the loss that followed. It was not about the destruction of lives and reputations, it was about the plans and ploys that needed to be set perfectly in place to manage it. For her, at least. She knew Damien, but she never knew exactly what his goals were. Which made working with him only the more interesting. “A challenge, Damien, dear, is all I ask for. Pretentious they are, vast their fortunes are indeed, but so easily acquired. I want them to be cautious, I want them to think nobody can or will take from them. And then to take from them.”

#c: damien #c: damien1 #event: regatta ball

ixnay-on-the-ipshay:

May 1799 | post-Bennetton Regatta Ball | Van Dalen Town residence

He had been used to worse schedules while on ship, days and nights on watch through storm or worse, with far more danger lurking on the horizon – yet somehow this-this regatta alone had felt far more grueling. There were things he had not expected to encounter – from what had happened to Freddie on the boat, to the strange discussions with various acquaintances between dances –

Yet not all the unexpected encounters had been, hrm, unwelcome. He had taken advantage of the lull in the days immediately after (the members of the ton were only mortal after all) to work up the nerve and follow up on the introduction made. He had never visited a poet before – was not sure what was expected – and given his prior, hrm, disasters in the floral arena, had decided against bringing flowers.

He had also not expected to be shown not to a receiving room or a parlor, but what appeared to be – an office?

Still – a bow – then, “Miss Van Dalen – thank you for-for your invitation and offer. I would very much appreciate your, hrm, expertise on certain matters – matters briefly brought up at the ball previous.”

@emelie-van-dalen

The room breathed her inspiration, dark wallpapers, heavy curtains, a place to escape. Yet, the sun beaming in through opened windows, the place had light to it as well. Emelie adored the duality, and she loved that she had been allowed to do with her office as she wished, among which was: considering it as her own office. The individual led in was one who had come by her own invitation. It wasn’t anything new, Emelie told those in the house that she loved to draw inspiration from the stories of others, that’s where her poetry came from, not that she was actually writing poetry for them.

Her smile was refined and charming, she gestured for him to take a seat, remaining behind her desk, hands clad in black gloves that were supposed to absorb some of the pain from writing too much, her small pair of reading glasses on her nose. “It is my pleasure, please, take a seat, so we can discuss matters further.” She placed two hands under her chin. “If you want a poem, I need to know as much as you wish to disclose.”

#c: ixnay #c: ixnay1 #event: regatta ball #//SORRY FOR BEING SO SLOW

lucy-needham:

Several bleak poems. Lucy laughed. The journey to Edinburgh was not so short, and much of it gloomy and gray. Had she any skill with words, she may have captured it in a similar light. Instead, jagged sketches of rolling hills and waterfowl would suffice.

“I always fare well with London, and it with me,” Lucy’s voice was light, almost unaffected. There was so little truth exchanged in polite conversation, the substance of it hardly mattered at all. It all became a game, a clever twisting of words and cadence, the tease of alliterative verse and the way that riddles could be composed within the strictures. She was poor at it, lost herself to it often. It belied a mind that was underused, cleverness yearning for fresh air. But of course – Lucy smiled.

The pagoda drew up before them, and she paused with Emelie to admire it. Out of place amidst London, it towered over the gardens adorned in vibrant colors and small dragons in statue. Playful– no. Whimsical –no. Just different.

“I thought you may enjoy seeing this,” she gestured to the pagoda. “Though, perhaps the night has already given you enough inspiration.” Lucy cocked her head a bit, brows lifted. “There are several Earls, Marquesses, even a Duke in our presence tonight. Have you met the good Captain Lord? His stories – if you can get them out of him – seem unsurpassable in their content.” Though, she did not add, that was sometimes a low bar.

Emelie gave Lucy a smile, though some jest snickered behind her eyes as she thought of the stinky streets of the city, the chaos, the constant brustle of attention and activity, which she loved. Her hometown had been similar, though much more within the limits of a small town, quiet and slightly pretentious. Greatness was at everyone’s lips, thus that was how they acted, while in London several layers of society still met and mingled.

A tug at her lips, she nodded. Buildings and sights rarely gave her as much inspiration as they might the artist beside her. Instead she found her brain tugged on by what happened around her, the interactions of people, the interactions of people with the buildings around them, the stories from long ago, the myths and legends. “Captain Lord? I have not, but he seems like an interesting catch. I’ve listened in on conversations, they’ve been… sociable. After speaking with self-proclaimed pirates on the ship that brought me here, I have yet to grow accustomed back to the more… dull talks of such an evening. Where are those with grand stories, Lucy? Have they all found wives and husbands?” she laughed.

#c: lucy #c: lucy1 #event: regatta ball

miss-caroline:

-

“I… hadn’t heard that myself.” Caroline looked down into the cup. A little made sense, it was a party. Strong was a different story. She had no real frame of reference of how these events should go, beyond that one wedding to which she’d been invited. Should she be concerned about potential fights? She cast a glance around the room, taking note of who was currently holding a glass.

When she’d imagined what things were like in high society, she’d pictured significantly less fist fights. More tea. Cleaner clothes. Less carriage accidents. Somethings stood up to expectation, however. Such as the particularly strict manners, and the way she always felt as if she were about to say the wrong thing.

“But I’m sure a sip or two won’t do anyone harm.” She brought the cup to her lips, barely wet them, but didn’t actually take a drink. “I spoke with Mr. Keyes earlier, and he mentioned you’re hoping to showcase your poetry?”

Emelie smiled, some grin on the side of her face that suggested she was enjoying herself - within the limits. She waved her hands slightly. “Only a rumour then,” she noted, as if ignoring the issue entirely. She hadn’t had a glass, and one wouldn’t hurt.

“Such I agree with,” she said in response, leading the two of them towards the punch. “Ah, this might be, I do dream of being published, and Mr. Keyes is helping me with it. The English seem to be far more attracted to my poetry than they are back home. And what are your hobbies, miss Fenn?” she asked.

#c: caroline #c: caroline1 #event: regatta ball

anastasiavolkov:

-

“Excellent.” Anastasia straightened her dress, making sure to appear as demure as possible before she linked an arm through her companion’s. She led her to a server and whispered conspiratorially, “Stasia Volkov, if you’re interested,” she greeted, offering a conspiratorial grin.

Stasia swiftly plucked two glasses on wine from the server’s tray, handing one to her counterpart. No, she’d need another glass. With a swiftness she led them away and towards the gardens, but not without swiping a second glass for her second hand. Maybe they’d stumble upon something “abhorrent” within the gardens, other couples attempting to find privacy (for shame!) If not, it was still bound to be beautiful.

“Are you here to make the rounds, or are you in want of a husband?” She was direct in her question but it seemed like as good a question as any to break the ice. ‘There are definitely some fine gentlemen about.”

“Emelie van Dalen,” Emelie said in return, though keeping her voice a whisper so to gain the attention from those around them trying to catch their quick conversation. “Volkov, is that a Russian name?” she asked. While her father held a high place in society, none of the Van Dalen’s had any interest in politics, to such a point where if asked, she was neither a supporter nor an opposition of the Monarch of the Oranjes. She simply wished for her family to do alright and the Batavian Republic to be the end of war and distress.

Emelie thanked her for the glass of wine and with a tiny smile watched her fill both her hands with glasses, it was a wonderful sight in that it was in a way a disruption of high society etiquette, oh how she adored that. The simplicity of such an act and the grand gesture it made.

She grinned at the forward question as they descended into the quiet of the gardens, trees painting the sky like brushes beside them, plants and flowers groomed to fit an orderly pattern instead of their more natural chaos.

“I’m looking for good matches for my sisters,” Emelie answered in honestly, and then shrugged at the idea that there were fine gentlemen. Her eyes had mostly found the round and elegant shapes of women.

#c: anastasia #c: anastasia1 #event: regatta ball

damien-keyes:

May 1799, Bennetton Regatta Ball Kew Gardens Dance 3 @emelie-van-dalen

They plotted their separate courses through the room on arrival. Even from opposite sides of a glass room, the two still worked hand in glove. A pink reflection would smile at him in a window. Damien would turn and see her spinning in a dance they had practiced all week. Emelie would throw her head back in feigned (and likely tedious) laughter, holding sway over a crowd, and Damien would smile at her from a distance.

Finally they joined up again to dance. Afterwards, they strolled through the gardens and paused. Alone, with no chatter to whisper under, only the sound of the fountain they stood near.

“You’ve become a fine dancer, Ems.” No worries in that department. Emelie had always been a quick study. “I made a few notes for us between my own quadrilles. First of all… there are two princes present tonight. And yet not a princess in sight. S’pose two commoners like us have more on our minds than royal intrigue, yeah?” While an interesting idea to toy with, their goals were based on the short term. “I have stumbled across a few widows and a couple of people involved in the arts. So tonight hasn’t been a complete loss. What have you found?”

She loved Damien on many levels, adored his presence since the very moment they had connected. Or in their case: she was the one to make the first move. Aside from their gender there were many differences, for Damien plotting and planning seemed to come natural yet there was always an air of ploy about him. Whereas Emelie had no need for such play, she had always felt inclined to manipulate those around her to better her standing or that of her family. It was less about money than it was about reputation, one she had already betrayed when she fell in love. Never again.

“Thank you,” she said in return, matching Damien in stride, still keeping her kind smile in check since they never knew who would be watching. She looked at him slightly wondering if he already had a plan, if he was capable of not thinking of something as the information fell into his lap. She shrugged amusingly. Two princes, she had two sisters. It was an impossible dream but she allowed it to settle in her stomach for a while. “Tonight is a total loss,” she noted. “Alas aside from my introduction and all the looks I have gotten, I have seen little that pricked my fancy, Damien. I thought the Dutch were pretentious at their social gatherings, but this is just exceptionally tiresome,” she said dramatically.

#c: damien #c: damien1 #event: regatta ball #//no gifs because I'm at the office

lucy-needham:

Dear Lucy. A clever twist of the phrase so often written in script. It wasn’t lost on her, the corners of her lips quirking upward. She approached.

“A pleasure, then,” Lucy returned, nodding her head in a graceful bow. The punch made her limbs feel longer, her feet lighter, and as long as she walked right up to the edge and did not spill over, she managed to behave herself. It was a fine line, and one she sometimes missed. Time helped.

Casting a glance around them, Lucy spied no onlookers, no curious faces around a hedge. She reached for the other woman’s hand and tucked it into the bend of her arm, stepping next to her and then past, leading the pair down the path. “How was your journey?” Lucy began, the soft lilt of her Scottish accent becoming evermore prominent as the evening wore on. Lady Gow would be ashamed. Mirth teased on her features, the rosiness of her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes. She glanced to her companion. “Was it as dull as you feared?”

Emelie wondered if Lucy’s behaviour meant a greater subject was on the horizon or if she simply wished for privacy while they were speaking. Of course she hoped for the first, drunk on the idea of secrets. Not that she felt the need to use any of it against Lucy, but Ems knew herself well enough to know she would, if the situation called for such a response. “I have several bleak poems written about the monotonous journey,” she informed her friend. Though friend was such an ill-presented title, she wished language had more different forms of it. Not alike acquaintance, but as there were seven forms of love according to the Greeks and they all had their titles, she had yet to find a source that spoke of seven types of friendship. She felt the familiar itch of wanting to write down her thoughts in verse. She already knew she would be written till far in the morning when she returned.

“But easily a dull subject, so we must not speak of it. How have you fared here in London?”

#c: lucy #c: lucy1 #event: regatta ball #//ehe yes this shall be fun ;3 #//no gifs because I'm at the office

miss-caroline:

Bennetton Ball Near the refreshments 12 May 1799

Caroline hadn’t been looking for the other young women so much as keeping a eye out. Unsure if the best strategy would be to avoid Damien and Emelie entirely (a task near impossible if they were all going to be attending the same events throughout the summer), or if she should make an effort to get closer. Not too close. Just enough to stay informed of any potential rumours that might circulate about herself.

“Miss Van Dalen,” she said, forcing herself to smile. One hand gripped the edge of the table. Her gaze flitted over the fine swaths of material cascading to the floor. Pretty in pink. Caroline felt a sharp stab of envy. She held out a glass.

“Would you care for some punch?”

@emelie-van-dalen

Emelie was amusing herself profoundly. Alas the company was different from what she had grown accustomed to in the Netherlands, far more fevered upon being coated in niceties than the social events in Liverpool. Her sisters seemed to be enjoying themselves, whereas her level of English brought little mistake and only the barest sign of an accent, her sister threw around Dutch counterparts of works without shame, resulting in others helping them along with the translation.

Clever girls, Emelie thought happily.

She had been walking out of an uninteresting conversation when a soft voiced woman approached her with a question. “Absolutely miss Fenn,” she responded. “I’ve heard the punch is strong in alcohol,” she mentioned, her backhanded way of saying: are you certain your small frame can handle it?

#c: caroline #c: caroline1 #event: regatta ball #//no gifs because I'm at the office

anastasiavolkov:

First Dance | @emelie-van-dalen

The music began to swell, and Anastasia wanted to move- call it intuition, or perhaps the years of ballet had it so ingrained in her to begin a performance with the twinkle of opening notes- but she grew restless. Part of her did not want to sharer her craft for free, and yet this may also be an opportunity to garner a greater audience for her shows.

That could wait, though. Mystery was also aptly important.

She turned to her closest companion, whispering conspiratorially, “Shall we grab a glass of wine and take a turn about the gardens? I fear that if I indulge a gentleman so early I’ll never get the chance.” And what was traveling if she couldn’t do some sight-seeing? She could probably persuade a server to fill her glass to the brim.

One thing Emelie had learned in her years following her father to meetings, to dances, to balls, to grand gatherings, was that sometimes it was good to not be the center of attention. To watch people around her with a keen eye in observation. She liked to notice the little things, she wondered at the detail, marvelled at humanity. And in her marvelling she found new ideas for poems, new words, new feelings.

She smiled at the offer extended by the lady next to her. “I will never turn down such a fine offer,” Emelie said, holding out her arm for the other to take, her dress swirling a little as she turned towards the woman. She smiled finely, longingly. Mostly for the company.

#c: anastasia #c: anastasia1 #event: regatta ball #//THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR WRITING THIS ;-;

lucy-needham:

The Regatta Ball Nearing 9pm Gardens of the Great Pagoda

It was a work of wonder that they had managed so much light beneath the twilight. Even the stars seemed brighter as Lucy departed the glass conservatory, winding around the open waters. Her footsteps were light, even if her shoes remained a bit unsuited to the pea gravel lining the paths.

She’d last written nearly six weeks ago – a quick thing, dashed off at the very last possible moment, willing good weather and favorable winds for her letter to reach the Netherlands before its recipient departed. In it, she’d mentioned the Pagoda, an imposing structure adorned with small dragons, and a time – 9pm. The Van Dalens were a distant relation, to be sure, but that seemed to be all that Lucy had. And Emelie, well. She wrote back, which was a good start.

Turning the corner away from the Queen’s Garden, Lucy made her way down a path lit by hooked lanterns, their light bouncing off the tiny leaves of the hedgerow. Away from the ballroom, a chill swept her, the night air coiling against the red satin of her gown. She vaguely remembered possessing a shawl, at one point. Perhaps Isla had taken it back to her tent.

The lantern light etched a figure at the end of the path, the Pagoda appearing in the distance. Lucy smiled and lifted a hand in small greeting. “Miss van Dalen? Emelie?”

For one so visual, letters were a frustratingly restrictive medium. She approached.

“You got my letter.”

@emelie-van-dalen

Emelie, at the very moment of appearing at the ball, had flung her presence around the room without even holding a single conversation. She was merely there to be introduced, and she felt like her dress, her hair, her vibrant smile and adoring looks would be enough to at least ensure she would be approached later on. Her sisters did their best to copy her movements, but they simply didn’t have the natural intensity that Emelie possessed. They would learn with time.

At a point Emelie gave a curt nod to her sisters before setting out on her own. She wasn’t new to receiving mail, though most of it fan mail or requests for new poems. Rarely ones that were requests of actual conversation.

Slightly raising her dress as she made her way over the path to the Pagoda, Emelie wondered at the family relation that she was bound to meet. She had grown so accustomed to traveling between places, to being on the road, that she was no longer surprised that letters reached her even when they were bound for other places. Letters addressed to her in the Netherlands might find her when she was in Liverpool, or when visiting in Leiden the letters send to Liverpool were delivered neatly to her home address.

She simply turned when a voice called her name, giving a curt smile, not one of her bright ones, at the woman who walked over the gravel path towards her. “We’ve already exchanged letters, dear Lucy, formalities are much less tiring when on paper,” she informed the lady. Although Emelie had a love for words regardless of what form they were in. Whether letters, speech or song, words should mean something.

#c: lucy #c: lucy1 #event: regatta ball

REGETTA BALL - Emelie van Dalen

Emelie stared at her reflection in the makeshift mirror, wondering but only for a moment what people might think of her appearance. She thought she was gorgeous, years of hearing it from her parents and from her former lover had solidified her own perception. But she was among strangers now, whereas her beauty used to be validated along with her personality.

In all honesty, that was the most work.

-

When she had been young, Emelie had cared very little about what other people thought about her, she was prone to run around forests and lakes. She had almost lived on the streets of her hometown. Every day was a brustle of classes, playtime, and important meetings. Emelie had been introduced at a young age to the world of her father, being the oldest, any intelligence she could soak up and share with her brothers and sisters was a lesson her father no longer needed to teach. Thus she was as much a teacher as she was a student.

Commanding a room became like second nature to her. If not for her perfect posture and vibrant smile, then her knowledge of all different subjects: from trade to travel, from geography to poetry. She knew her history, she knew her manners. She could bring men to laughter and women to be swept up in emotions. She told stories of her childhood with grandeur, she spoke of her father’s business as if there was not a second out there.

But after her father realised about her one great love, and both families slowly became aware of the scandal, Emelie no longer felt the love for being the center of attention as she used to.

She needed a new goal, a new thing to look forward to.

Life gave her two in fact.

Her poetry, something she had done by the by since she was very young, got some attention and soon she had webbed her way in the lap of an agent and publisher. Someone who was more alike her than she had ever thought, as likely to use the perception of others to his advantage. He offered her not just a place to bring her poetry to light, but a companion with whom she could play with the masses.

And her sisters. They both needed husbands, and Emelie felt like it was her most treasured goal to ensure they got the best ones. They deserved it. She loved them so much that at times it hurt, and for them to find love with men who weren’t good to them, that was impossible, that was unacceptable. She didn’t care who she had to fight to get it, but her sisters would marry well and would be loved.

-

Raising her chin a little, the pink dressed flowing down to the ground, she found herself accepting the idea of beauty again. A dangerous beauty however, a beauty that had a plan.

#outfit #muse

EMELIE VAN DALEN

BIRTH NAME: Emelie Sarah van Dalen NICKNAME: Ems AGE+DOB: 31 years old, November 24th 1768 GENDER: Cis-female PRONOUNS: she/her NATIONALITY: Dutch ETHNICITY: Unknown HOME TOWN: Leiden, the Netherlands and Liverpool, the United Kingdoms CURRENT LOCATION: London, the United Kingdoms OCCUPATION: Published Poet RELIGION: Protestant ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good/Neutral FAMILY: Emelie has two younger sisters: Eveliene & Leonie FACECLAIM: Zazie Beetz

+ Passionate, expressive, charming, observant, mesmerizing +/- Intelligent, ambitious, outspoken - manipulative, petty, insensitive

Rumours: Emelie writes poems for other lords and ladies as a side hustle She only ever goes up to a man to talk up her two sisters. She seems to be eying the ladies more.

#intro #theseason;introduction #//hello all this is Ems #written by me: Nico

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