thou art brighter than flaming jupiter;

Miss Helen Halliday, aged two and twenty, of a heroic disposition.

[misshhalliday-blog]

“I’ve just finished another poem, if I can bother you for a minute to read it. The parson thought it not very well-penned, but I do try to ignore him when at all possible.”

[annie-valrob-deactivated2023091]

“Oh, my apologies, miss. I hadn’t the faintest idea that I was walking so close behind.” 

[misshhalliday-blog]

Helen paused a moment to regard the gentleman. “I always tear my dresses,” she eventually conceded, though she was clearly disappointed. “Even if you had not trod on it, I would have caught a pin in it or torn the sleeve.”

[whtamii]

Sinclair… needed a moment.

Just one, just long enough to regain some form of composure, built swiftly behind the veneer of his blue, implacable gaze. Because Miss Halliday’s sudden attack caught him as unprepared as a shot ringing through a clear, bright morning. It did not hold the same measure of lethality, of course, but it threw him off his guard, leaving him equal parts scandalized and flustered.

A little. (A lot.)

He really could not recall a single time when any woman had simply grabbed a fistful of her skirts to facilitate her positively stomping towards him to chew him off in public, for some imaginary crime he had certainly not committed ––– or rather, had not committed consciously.  It wasn’t that he was baffled by such a direct attack. Nine-and-twenty years are aplenty when it comes to meeting with all sorts of folk with varying levels of diplomacy, and the company that Sinclair chose to keep, at times, under certain…circumstances… might be deemed questionable.  He’d been subjected to enough cut-throat remarks to render him nearly insusceptible to them, and enough had passed over his own tongue to even give him some appreciation for a well-executed delivery.

So, no. It wasn`t that. Rather, he was baffled by her utter lack of manners? delicacy? composure?  in her direct attack of his person, undertaken in such a rush as to not even take leave of her companions before cutting the distance between them and attacking him in the open.  Just how many people’s attention had been drawn to this little spectacle? He did not need to know, did not want to know, did not divert his gaze to the sidelines, to count them. But he could take a guess, and it rendered him acutely uncomfortable, making a flush creep slowly up his neck and threaten to claw its way onto his face.

Such country manners…

“I will not say that you are mistaken,” Sinclair answered in turn, the edge to his tone flirting with the implication that she most certainly was. “However, I believe that particular comparison is unfortunate, Miss Halliday. You could have chosen more wisely.”

One needn’t be all that wise or well-informed to know that the late Queen had not been exactly celebrated for either wit, social graces, beauty, her… inclinations (what a scandal~) or any other particulars relating to her person. She had, in fact, very little to recommend her, save her birth. Of course, it may be possible that Sinclair did not truly mean to draw any parallel between Miss Halliday’s…. ah, charms… and Marie Joséphine de Savoie’s… but that possibility was unlikely (if one judged by the rising of a single, sardonic, eyebrow).

[misshhalliday-blog]

It would be a lie to say that Helen didn’t enjoy seeing him so discomposed at least a little bit. Of her immediate family, her brother Jonathan was the only one who had any particular compulsion to behave in a reserved manner; she was more accustomed to people being open and true.

Mr. Lockwood, then, was of course a particular curiosity to her. Of all the recent arrivals to town, she understood him the least, and not for lack of trying. If she could unsettle him, perhaps she could expose him as well. Even the most well-mannered people had a true character underneath all the social niceties. And Helen hadn’t forgotten their last argument, either. His propriety could clearly be abandoned, if the stage was set correctly.

“Unfortunate, you say?” She didn’t, at that moment, begrudge him for assuming she knew nothing of the French monarchy. More than likely, the young ladies he was acquainted with would take no pride in being current on French affairs - or if they did, it was with a mild hauteur.

“No, you do not comprehend me, sir,” she continued. “I did not mistake your attention as adulation. If the comparison was unflattering, then let it reflect on your actions and not mine.” She smiled as she smoothed her skirts out, and folded her hands behind her back when she had finished. All the hostility of her posture had been traded in a moment for something that might easily be misclassified as agreeableness or sweetness.

“But you have still not told me what I did to earn such attentions, however unfortunate, and so I will ask again. Have I done something to displease you?”

[louisahastings-blog]

Louisa smiled tightly and inspected the lace around her sleeve– frayed a little, a hand-me-down from Camilla, who had sweetly done her best to preserve the thing for future sisters’ use. The idea annoyed her. “How should you expect some poor fellow to fall madly in love with you if you insist on refusing the offers of his peers?” she asked smilingly. 

[misshhalliday-blog]

“Oh, it doesn’t discredit me. Men always want to plant their flags most where other men have failed before.”

[whtamii]

Clearly, spring was well and truly settled, if one were to judge by the bustle about town, and the renewal of social insipidities such as these.

Not for the first time, Sinclair pondered over how much easier his life would have been, if only he was the sort of man who could dispense with the profound need for decorum. It would spare him, at least, from moments such as these, spent in the company of those to whom he was either indifferent, or, even worse, those whom he wished to avoid* (there was some hope, however, as to the latter group; they might find this assembly as tedious as he did). 

But he wasn’t. Thus, he couldn’t. Wouln’t. Didn’t. What he could do, however, was to amuse himself as best as possible.

 It was a little ironic; there used to be a time when such assemblies were not odious to him – but Sinclair was decided not to think on those memories. He would not, absolutely, resolutely not think about them (about…). That was all dead and buried. He would thrown the (damned) recollections past his consciousness and slam the gates of his mind (will) closed behind them. Hard. As if they never existed.

There were many ways in which one can amuse themselves at such a party, if they were inclined to put some effort into it. There was, of course, dancing, which was sometimes undertaken with flighty eagerness, and sometimes merely out of duty, depending on the preferences (and often, the sex) of the person. There was also rational conversation, on the sidelines – and its opposite, as well as everything in-between. And finally, there was the good-old, tried-and-true, never-failing-to-entertain amusement of ‘people watching’. Sinclair, it seemed, preferred to engage in the latter mode of passing the time, and did so quite intently.

(It would be rude to say that he is STARING – so we shall not. But he rather was. Staring, that is. Fixedly, clearly intent, with unblinking eyes. )

[misshhalliday-blog]

Helen could bear a great deal. In fact, she prided herself in how generally unaffected she was by what people thought of her. To be self-conscious only led to self-doubt, and self-doubt to inconsistency of character, a trait which she could not imagine anyone valuing in themselves or others. So, for the most part, if she found herself observed in public, she did her best to rise above it.

But she did have her limits.

On any usual day, Helen would’ve been in high spirits at the assembly. She enjoyed company and conversation, and was popular enough in Dunchester to always have something to occupy her attention. Tonight, however, she was in a somewhat sour mood. It was a persisting affliction; she had noted it in herself these past few months, but couldn't attribute it to any particular source. Tonight, she could name some points of irritation. She had found herself without a dance partner for most numbers of the evening, she had quibbled with her cousin Louisa, she had torn her new gown on the first night she had worn it. Little things that, any other day, would hardly rate her notice. Tonight they seemed to heap on top of one another.

And another thing that wasn’t helping: Mr. Lockwood was staring at her. He was a serious and reserved kind of man, and noted to be unfond of her, so the first time she had caught his eye she didn’t think much of it. She offered him a thin smile that when passed between them was just as impolitic as it was polite, and returned to her conversation. The second time she noticed that he was still looking at her, she began to feel a mounting irritation. He, undoubtedly, would have something critical to say to her, and imagining what it could be was no comfort.

After glancing up a third time and finding herself still in his sights, she made up her mind.

Without pardoning herself from her conversation, Helen stood and grabbed a fistful of her skirts as to unfetter her movement, crossing the distance in six long strides. As she came to stand in front of him, she planted her hands on her hips in a accusatory sort of manner.

“Good Lord, Mr. Lockwood,” she said, just loud enough that anyone adjacent might hear her address. “With the way you stare at me, one would think me the Queen of France. Will you tell me what I’ve done to earn such scrutiny? Or - no - I quite insist that you tell me, and I shan’t leave until you have.”

[misshhalliday-blog]

“You’ve stepped on my dress and torn it. Look, just here.”

[louisahastings-blog]

Louisa’s eyebrows shot up and she resisted the urge to fold her arms over her chest in a huff– it was poor showmanship, but that did not mean it was not appealing. “Why, Helen, I am surprised at you! I am but a child yet, and you are nearly three-and-twenty– surely you have more need of a husband than I, being nearly an old maid.”

[misshhalliday-blog]

“An old maid indeed! I am not so very much older than your eldest sister, and I’ve had three offers of marriage already. No, do not worry yourself for me, Louisa. I’ve come due for someone to fall madly in love with me once more.” She couldn’t help but laugh at her own joke as she considered her coffee.  “As for you, you may be considered a child or you may expose yourself in society. No-one may comfortably do both.”

[duplicitiies-blog]

Well, that certainly caught his interest. “I don’t believe I can say no to such an offer.” The book shop in Dunchester was woefully under stocked and if Miss Halliday’s father’s library was indeed how she described it he certainly couldn’t refuse. “Atticus Tallmadge, at your service.”

[misshhalliday-blog]

She smirked at that, considering the book she had pulled off the shelves. “As it turns out, I do know you, though only by reputation. You’re with the Mont Blanc party, are you not?”

[louisahastings-blog]

Annoyed at the reasonability of her response, Louisa wrinkled her nose and sipped her coffee. “Too busy playing matchmaker to catch a gentleman of your own?” she said insolently, tilting her chin. 

[misshhalliday-blog]

“Any man worth my interest will come to me on his own. I wouldn’t stoop to trapping him. But why ask? Would you have me make you a match? There is no man in the neighborhood I would consider for my own self, but that does not mean there are not those who would make you a good husband.” 

[louisahastings-blog]

Flushing to the tips of her ears, Louisa hastened to correct herself, simpering, “I only meant, dear cousin, that I so enjoy seeing the elegant turns my sisters make, and have no hope for being able to reproduce them.”

[misshhalliday-blog]

“We can’t all be naturally talented at every thing we try. Your turns would improve in elegance if you applied yourself. Still, the task would be difficult without a partner, as we’ve both found ourselves. Perhaps the quadrille is not for us after all.”

[mae-martin]

[duplicitiies-blog]

“Miss Halliday.” He repeated, bowing slightly. “A pleasure, I’m sure. Of course! No mention of Gothic novels - our meeting was perfectly respectable in every way.” He found the shelf with the German novels and their translations, carefully looking for the book he sought. “You’ll allow me? And what if I didn’t wish to give it?” Atticus questioned, a smirk on his face.

[misshhalliday-blog]

“You’ll want to tell me your name, sir, because my father’s library is much more navigable than this shop, and very current. I’ll lend you the book in question gladly, and might even walk to my home and back before you find it here.”

[duplicitiies-blog]

“Two whole pages?” He asked with mock incredulity. “My, I am impressed. Perhaps you are a medical marvel with such a strong constitution. Oh, yes?” Atticus lent forward slightly in anticipation. It certainly wasn’t a bad suggestion, the book was probably there. Clearly Mr Bartlett needed to keep better track of his system. “That actually makes a lot of sense. I’m sure that I’ll get hang of it at some point. Thank you, Miss..?” He trailed off.

[misshhalliday-blog]

“Halliday. Though if anyone is to ask, we’d best say we were introduced by my father, and that there were no Gothic novels involved what-so-ever. If you can agree to this term, I’ll allow you to tell me your name.”

[louisahastings-blog]

“Would you pour me a spot of coffee? I’m not one for the quadrille, unfortunately– it’s a pretty girl’s dance, don’t you think?”

[misshhalliday-blog]

“A pretty girl’s dance indeed, and thus quite unsuited for you or I! Is that what you mean to say, dear Louisa? I won’t allow the slight on my cousin, let alone on myself.”

[duplicitiies-blog]

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss.” Atticus replied with a smile. “Although I do have to say, I will not tell a soul if you won’t.” He added in a conspiratorial whisper. “But I do have say, you have not yet fainted. Have you seen the book, though?”

[misshhalliday-blog]

“No, indeed. I have a stronger constitution than any given lady. You might have to read me a full two pages before I fainted. But you can never be too careful about these things. As for your book...” She tucked her own book under her arm and lead him to another shelf. “You might check here, with the German volumes. Mr. Bartlett sometimes keeps the translations with their originals. You’ll grow accustomed to his idea of organization in short order.”

[duplicitiies-blog]

Atticus searched through the shelves in the book shop, mumbling to himself as he went. According to Mr Bartlett, the bookseller, there should have been a copy of E. T. A. Hoffman’s latest novel somewhere in the shelves. “Excuse me, have you by any chance seen a book titled The Devil’s Elixirs?”

[misshhalliday-blog]

“The Devil’s Elixirs!” Helen exclaimed in a suitably Gothic tone of voice. “That’s really a very horrid book, sir. You shouldn’t be asking ladies about it. They might faint.”

[misshhalliday-blog]

a famous good scheme || [ helen + francis ]

Helen had been a little out of sorts for weeks now, and she feared people were beginning to notice. Her cousins knew her well enough that they would likely be able to identify her sour mood at a hundred paces, so she had avoided them, her father hadn’t bothered her about making social calls once in the last week, and even the parson had commented on her sallow complexion yesterday at dinner. All this grief was largely borne over Francis’s big notion of joining the Navy.

Not that she would blame her brother for her unhappiness, not directly. She had told him before, and meant it truly, that he could never cause her grief. His absence was another matter altogether, though, and she didn’t like thinking about it. He had at least agreed to stay a little longer. That was time for her to change his mind.

Today, the house was quiet. Helen lay out on her bed, fully dressed for the day but still idle, listening for sounds of life downstairs, but there were few. Her father was dining at an estate two towns over and would not be back until the following day; Jonathan was in London on business; the parson came and went as he pleased with Helen never asking after his whereabouts. Francis should be in the house, unless he had left without telling her. She didn’t think he would, but things had been altered between them lately.

Heaving a melodramatic sigh, Helen sat up and observed herself in the mirror. She did look a little sallow, and her hair needed fixing, but she was presentable enough for her own household. She stood and smoothed her skirts, heading downstairs. Once there, she stood in the middle of the foyer, hands on her hips.

“Francis?” she called, loud enough that he might hear her no matter where he was in the house.