WHEN: 15th March
WHERE: The entrance hall to St. Maur Castle
WITH: @frederickconway
There they stood, waiting, like soldiers before battle.
Their papa was stiff in his evening tails, the suit a little tight around his middle. Margaret’s sisters wore new dresses specially tailored for the occasion, with Dinah in a cream evening gown, and their youngest in blue. The St. Maurs were not intended to be out of mourning clothes for another two days or so, but their papa had deemed tonight a worthy enough occasion. Margaret had almost fallen to her knees in thanks when Betty had delivered the news: at least something good could come out of tonight.
Margaret’s hair was pulled back into its usual elegant chignon and fastened with mother-of-pearl clasps. Her wine-red dress clung to her shapely body, accentuating her lean physique, and when she moved the delicate beads tinkled together. A pair of high heels merely defined her height - when in her everyday boots, it was hard to see how tall she really was - and Margaret stood with her head held high and her gloved hands clasped before her. Hazel eyes were pinned to the closed entrance hall door. At any moment the crunch of gravel would signal the arrival of their esteemed guests, the Conways - and at any moment, Margaret would come face-to-face with that awful, rude man she had sparred with in Gosling Park.
Except he wasn’t an ordinary man: he was Lord Conway, inheritor of the mysterious Clevedon Court, making him both landed and wealthy. A pity his manners left an ashen taste in Margaret’s mouth.
Their youngest abruptly said, “Really, why can’t we wait in the drawing room as we always -”
“Shush!” Margaret glared at her. “And stop fidgeting! Betty worked a minor miracle to have you looking presentable. I’ll not have you ruin it because you’re too immature to master yourself.”
As her sister lowered her hand in a huff (it had been scratching around in her hair, which ordinarily resembled a bird’s nest and looked now to be on the verge of resembling it once again) Mister Jameson cleared his throat ostentatiously and stepped forward. A pair of footmen were prompted to open the double doors. And into the illuminated magnificence of St. Maur Castle did Lord Conway step, with his lady mother in tow.
Margaret did not have to work to summon her usual polite expression, although in her peripheral vision she noticed her youngest sister fighting back a laugh. Their papa stepped forward to welcome their guests, exclaiming, “Why, so good of you to come!”
He turned on the spot and gestured to his daughters. Margaret led the procession and advanced down the Turkish carpet, catching Lady Conway’s eye and smiling in greeting. When she met Lord Conway’s gaze, her smile stiffened.
“And may I present… Ah, good, you’re here already.” An indulgent chuckle. “This is my eldest, Lady Margaret.” As if escorted by an invisible motion, Margaret inclined her head, even inch a majesterial vision, for although this Lord Conway had disrupted the delicate fabric of St. Maur, she was still the daughter of an earl, and thus they were of equal social rank.
“Lord Conway,” Margaret greeted, her voice richly pronunciated, class and wealth dripping from every syllable. “Lady Conway. It is an honour to make your acquaintance.” Margaret’s eyes slid to Lord Conway. “I feel I know so much about you already.”
It was only a matter of time, the wide-eyed lawyer mused with some level of amusement. The latest copy of Mercia’s Herald, delivered within the same hour as the Earl of St. Maur’s gracious invitation. Based on columns of days past, he ought to not be surprised - Fitz Cavanaugh’s attention to detail was immeasurable. Still, the amount of detail; from his origin, his mother’s health, and that very invitation. Why, it could put London’s best investigators to shame. Fortunately, Fred takes it all in stride. As is the culture, in St. Maur. Besides - there was something nifty about a quick method of learning the in’s and out’s of the most peculiar town. It seems only fair he join in on the fun.
The stuffy dinner, however, mustered nothing more than a placating sigh at his mother’s exuberance. The ever-spirited nurse could not be blamed; her age and tenacity almost blind her to the critical gaze of proper society. But he’d seen how the likes of St. Maur already acted around her. Particularly, a certain lady who made her ill-opinion well known (in front of an eavesdropping audience, no less!) And yet... It was a mother’s special day, and he could not deprive her of the thrill.
Mister Gupta does his best work; from arranging a special dress, to advising Fred to lean formal rather than modern. It’s what leads him to the double doors of St. Maur, in a crisp shirt with its proper fasteners and whistles. His mother beams with energy, glowing at the theatricality of it all.
Meanwhile, Fred attempts to suppress an eye roll. Announcements? Really? Wasn’t this an “intimate gathering.”
He catches the Lady Margaret’s eye, and passes a rather indecent glance of his own at the red frock. A bold color, especially when contrasted to her mourning dress. With a friendlier grin, he beams back at the Lady Dinah. A kind and familiar spirit, among the crowd.
“I believe we had the pleasure. The Lady Margaret has enlightened me on matters of the Lighthouse Society, and their noble mission.” He addresses, friendly and well-meaning. Despite the embedded slight, he liked the Earl of St. Maur. An easy energy. How he had such a spitfire of a daughter, he would not know. Beside him, he feels his mother pass a rather unsubtle side eye. Then, with her typical mercurial fashion, laughs heartily at Margaret. A pass of fraught forgiveness.
“My child - you look splendid.” The energy continues, with Fred making rounds of introductions to those in attendance. The gracious Earl takes his mother’s arm, and he awaits until they are out of earshot to glance at Margaret.
“The red is becoming on you.” He states, with charitable ease. And then, with a wicked smile, he adds; “It almost matches the redness of your face from our last conversation.”
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