• The Bluestocking •

"It is time to effect a revolution in female manners, time to restore to them their lost dignity, and make them, as a part of the human species, labour by reforming themselves to reform the world."

[missvane]

Goodness, MISS OPHELIA VANE has arrived in London. SHE is 25, of the SOUTHAMPTON VANES. Though they are RETURNED to the Season, we can only describe them as FIERY and INTELLIGENT, dear reader. Accompanied by HER FATHER AND CAT, LANCELOT, they have settled in and are accepting social calls. But be warned: they are known for their ARROGANCE.

Biography | What’s Your Type | Getting to Know You | 

[missvane]

ernestpembroke​:

Ernest laughed, that fondness he so often felt with Ophelia filling his chest at her teasing. It really was too bad she was a woman, it’d be so much easier if she were a man, then they wouldn’t have to pose for society or else sneak out of it. It’d also be nice if she were less worried about her reputation but Ernest would not force scandal into her life (at least, not on purpose, not after being asked not to).

“Yes, of course! Hm?” He looked over his shoulder at a disgruntled McNutt and then shook his head. “No, not at all,” he leaned towards her and whispered, “we didn’t come together, he only has a lot to say and well, you know how polite I am.” He smirked and offered his arm. “I would much rather be in your company, especially since we can now speak clearly, although … I really am curious what was in our drinks. I would try it again.”

•

His laugh was infectious, and Ophelia found herself smiling back, quite glad to have found his company. “Well then I shall save you from an afternoon filled with idle prattle.” She took his arm, and they were off, leaving Mr. McNutt to find a new victim. Walking beneath the overarching oak canopy, the pair meandered through the dappled sunlight, headed for nowhere in particular. It was still odd to find him here amongst the upper echelon of society. It almost felt as though Ernest, rather than Jack, was the act he put on. 

“I do believe we are owed an explanation, don’t you?” It had been a rather odd feeling, but not entirely unpleasant. Certainly worth trying at least once more. “I would imagine it was some kind of numbing agent... Something a dentist would use, perhaps?” She turned a conspiratorial eye towards Ernest, and lowered her voice. “Maybe we can track him down and procure a bit more?”

[missvane]

harry-cadogan​:

22 August 1800 Afternoon, mostly

He took Merlin, three shirts, two trousers, and a spare hat, upsetting both Mother and his valet in his hasty exit. For a moment, the thought to call on Jeremiah or Archibald or even Richard came to mind: companion for the road, a spare set of hands in his quest. Any would be willing, he felt certain. It was for love, or at least some summer-fed delirium. How could there be any other way?

In the end, he declined. Brushing and then saddling Merlin, Harry led the roan bay out of the stables within the hour, and made it to the open road not long after that. He was an expert rider, and as the pair hit their stride on the road south, they seemed to share a singular thought:

This, finally.

—

22 August 1800 Approaching summer twilight

There was an inn just beyond Afton; he poured himself into a bed that night.

—

23 August 1800 A reasonable hour of the morning

The road was heavy with summer traffic, caravans and carriages riding to Bristol. Merlin dotted around most but on a particularly gaudy pair of carriages, determined to ride aside, they remained stuck.

With a click of the reins, Harry led him off the path and into a glen, and made up several beats of time.

—

23 August 1800 Outskirts of Southampton

His hat wilted, horse tired, and the bread and cheese he had taken that morning long-since eaten, Harry stopped on the outskirts of the city. The pair – horse and man – took to water like they had been in a desert, and not the English countryside, and were asleep not long after.

—

24 August 1800 Forsyth Tavern Outskirts, Southampton

Harry woke to birdsong and fell back asleep for several hours.

He finally rose with a start, and a pounding in his head. Trudging to the basin of water, he caught a glimpse of himself in a wavy mirror: hair bedraggled, skin pecked with the dirt from the road. With a groan, he washed his face.

That quickly lead to washing his neck, which lead to a shocking line of dirt and clean skin. Peeling his shirt off, he discarded it on the floor, and began to sponge over his body: his forearms, biceps, the expanse of his chest. The water began to cloud in the basin, cold upon his skin as he continued until even the space between his toes shone clean.

Harry drank two heavy cups of water, and went back to sleep.

When he awoke, the heat of the day had burned off, the room beginning to fill with the cool damp of summer evening. He rose in blue shadow and dressed to the light of a single flame, brushing his hair until it shone, selecting a jacket and a dark red ribbon to tie back his curls.

At the tavern board, he drank a honeyed ale and ate more than his share of potatoes and turkey, before departing – much to the chagrin of at least two of the taverngoers, with whom he had made easy friends – into the night.

The estate was a sore sight, and he was pointed – with a knowing, crooked smile by its owner – toward a glimmer of water down a hill. Leaving Merlin at the paddock, he walked on foot: first through stone paths, then low grass, then high reeds.

He stopped at a splash of gold amidst it, and forgot for a moment how to breathe.

“Do you hate me?”

It came out as a whisper, choked, his voice foreign to his ears. Harry took three steps forward – strides.

He had read stories, tales, princesses in walled gardens, fearless knights in pursuit. With her eyes shut, she looked last every bit of it.

“I came to find you.”

Ophelia had dozed off under the lazy summer sun. Her dreams came in fractions, spliced by the sound of song thrush and the evening breeze carrying the far off scent of the sea. She dreamt of London, of Sarah and her creams, of Jack and Ernest, of the Queen’s Pomeranians... She dreamt of Harry, of course, of picnic blankets and ginger beer and willow trees, his hand upon her waist, and the sound of his voice.

Her eyes blinked open to a purpling sky, and the unique disappointment of waking at a most inopportune moment. Her heart stammered at the loss, quite desperate to return, when—

I came to find you.

In all her life, Ophelia had never felt her heart leap so violently. His voice rang out in the evening quietude, strong and clear. For a moment, she could not turn to look, fearing she’d find herself jolting awake, alone at the edge of the pond. But the impossible hope of finding him there seized her all at once, and in one swift moment Ophelia pushed herself up and turned. 

He was a mere few feet away, looking lost and somehow perfectly at ease among the reeds and wildflowers. At first, she was unsure how to proceed. She had imagined this moment countless times over the past week, and yet now that Harry was there, before her, she was stuck. 

Without much thought, Ophelia took a step. And then another, and another, until she was before him. And only then did she burst with a flood of... outrage. Hands upon his chest, the woman shoved him. Once, “You!” And then twice. “Bastard!”

“What took you so long?” She demanded, heart thundering in her chest. The feeling of it left her breathless, wild, and color blazed in her cheeks. 

[margaretmulgrave]

Dated August 25th 1800

To Miss Vane,

I had intended to write sooner but found myself otherwise preoccupied. I hope this letter finds you well, as I was concerned when arriving at St. James at our discussed time this Sunday passed to never see you.

You do not strike me as a lady to shirk engagements, especially since you seemed so keen to speak to me. Please know that you are in my thoughts, and I look forward to hearing from you whenever you are able to write.

Thoughtfully,

@missvane​

[missvane]

28th August, 1800

Lady Harcourt, 

I cannot tell you how much horror has stricken upon realizing I abandoned our stroll through the park without so much as a whisper of warning! Not only that, but in blind selfishness, I failed to remember it at all! All I can say is that I genuinely apologize, and can only hope you went on to enjoy a beautiful promenade with your dog.

I am woefully disappointed to not have spent more time with you and your great aunt during our time in London, but perhaps we can arrange to see one another again soon. 

 As for the reasoning of my sudden departure, I must admit it was in some sense, a matter of urgency. Our family home near Southampton caught fire, and my father was determined to return to it at once. I was swept up in a carriage with little more than a book and gloves before teatime. 

My mind has been elsewhere in the following days... On a gentleman, of all things. And well, I have been quite consumed. 

I would also like to take this opportunity to congratulate your union with Lord Harcourt. And I would be a poor friend if I did not inquire after your happiness. It has been days yet, but is married life all that you had hoped for?

Your friend, 

Ophelia Vane

[missvane]

harry-cadogan​:

18 August 1800 129 Keen Street (though rather close to the property line) Late

He threw a stone at the window and waited for a reaction. One, two.

The moonlight filled the garden and Ophelia his thoughts: particularly her scent, and if it was the same as the garden, or if he just so associated her with the violets and tulips and lilacs that grew there, that they had become inextricably linked in his mind. 

Staring up at the dark window, he reached for another pebble and tossed it. Rap, it hit the window, tumbling to the ledge and then the ground below. And again, he waited for an answer.

He tried six more times before yawning, and opting to foray into the larder in lieu of a goodnight kiss.

—

19 August 1800 129 Keen Street, Second Bedroom After noon, before luncheon

Leaning out the window, Harry peered down into the garden. The neighboring house was differently-kept (which was to say better kept, but Harry had little interest in tending to grounds he did not own). From this vantage point, he could make out the edge of a dining table through the first-floor window, the sliver of her doorway from the second-floor. He stared into it, his eyes fighting against the brightness of the day. 

But the house was all stillness and peace. He saw the wisp of a maid’s dress, and sighed. Harry Cadogan had no interest in maids.

—

19 August 1800 Hyde Park A little after that

The park was bustling, even for the late stretch of the calendar. Every Sunday for weeks on end, the bells at St. George’s rang out, announcing marriage upon infinite marriage. “You would think that would declutter the place,” Harry muttered to Lord Kinnaird, the pair strolling along the wide lanes. The Scotsman only laughed.

“But truly!” Harry continued, undeterred. “What is the sense in staying here once your journey has concluded? There is naught here save for matchmaking and water-milk!”

“Parliament,” said Kinnaird, with a concillatory bob of his head. “Meetings of the House do hold some sway.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Ri–”

A flash of blonde caught his attention, and he tapped Charlie’s arm quite suddenly. “Excuse me.”

Bounding down the lane, Harry canted into a light jog as he caught up to her. Blue dress, blue ribbon, blonde waves that seemed to shimmer like sand beneath waves. Relief swept him. “Finally!” He proclaimed, stepping alongside and then just past. “I have been looking ever–”

The woman beside her – older, he realized latently, and unfamiliar, he noticed a second too late – gasped, and pulled the girl closer. Harry’s face fell as the woman did not materialize into Ophelia, but instead one younger, with childhood still in her cheeks. “I– I apologize,” he stuttered, but they hurried away with distaste all the same.

He found he could not care, for the emotion overwhelmingly sweeping him was not shame, but sadness.

—

19, 20, 21 August 1800 Morning, afternoon, and quite late in the evening

There began to be a pile of pebbles on the ground outside Ophelia’s window. 

—

22 August 1800 Mid-morning

“Have you called upon the Vanes of late?”

Asking Primrose was a last-ditch option, and he hoped that doing so over morning tea would sweeten her response.

It did not. She stared, and buttered a scone, and rolled her eyes.

“They left London six days ago,” said Primrose. Harry nearly spat out his tea.

“Do not lie!” 

“I am not.”

“Hah!” Harry scoffed, eyes wide and wild in disbelief. “That cannot be so. It simply–”

Primrose turned away, returning to the latest Whistledown.

—

A bit later.

He knocked on the door twice, and then a hesitant third.

The house next door was pleasingly similar, all Grecian details and proper, English practicality. It had never once made him feel small, but uncertainty swept over him, then. For the first time, he questioned if he was unwelcome.

A maid answered the door, and he felt his mouth dry. Just beyond, he could see white draping across the furniture. The air held not even a hint of her perfume.

“Is–” he began, not knowing what to say, for he knew the answer. Harry cleared his throat.

“I am looking for Miss Vane.”

@missvane

16th August 1800 Early morning 

“Miss Vane...” She did not move, sprawled on her back, the soft fluttering of a snore. “Miss Vane!” The small rise in volume did little to stir the woman-- she simply rolled onto her side, pulled the sheets up to her chin. Finally Bridget reached forth and shook Ophelia, her tone sharp, “Miss Vane you must wake up at once!”

She groaned, eyes flickering open, heavy with sleep, and fixed the lady’s maid with a most unkind stare. “What on earth calls for such an ungodly hour? I’ve hardly--”

“I don’t mean to be alarming, Miss Vane, but your father has asked you to be awoken and prepared for departure at once... You’re headed back to Southampton by noon today. There-- Oh! Well, there’s been a fire at Ranport House!”

__

The paper is messy, far messier than she would have allowed under any other circumstances. There is a smudge of ink, lined with the print of her thumb, in the lower left corner, a drip of ink at the top near his name, her penmanship is uneven and drawn together...

My dearest Harry,  I do wish I could have spoken to you in person, but you could not be found at your residence. In fact I do wonder where you might have been at such an early hour, but I will divert that question to never mind. Instead, I am forced to simply write the circumstances in which I find myself this morning. Our country home has purportedly caught fire. No one will say the damage for sure, but Papa is determined to return home at once. I do believe he is quite anxious about the event, and with no chaperone remaining in London I, too, am forced to retreat to Southampton. 

It pains me to leave you, for I already miss the sound of your laugh and the brightness of your smile. I shall not think of other, more intimate affections or I will surely make myself truly miserable--

“Ophelia! We must be going, darling! Now!”

“Alright! I’m coming!”

If you are at all compelled, Harry Cadogan, do come find me. I will be waiting.

Yours,  Ophelia Vane 

On her way out the door, Ophelia hands the letter off to one of the staff, instructing them to take it next door immediately. But in an awful twist of fate, the correspondence is not delivered to the right of the Vane residence, but to the left, where the footman quickly disposes of it. 

19th August, 1800 Ranport House, Southampton, England Afternoon Tea

The house was abustle with workman, their heavy boots loud, their hammers even louder. The south wing of the house had been damaged. Largely the kitchen and servants quarters, though the flames had licked into the dining room. It would be quite some work to get it restored, but really, they were quite lucky. 

Ophelia wished the whole thing had burned to the ground.

Not really, but she was sulking, dropping sugar cube after sugar cube into her tea, mixing it, and starting again. 

“Would you please stop that?” Her father looked at her over the rim of his spectacles, a book on Greek architecture open in his lap. 

She stopped, but would not look at him. The stones of disappointment were heavy in her belly, an array of emotions poised to crack open her chest every time she paused to think. It had been three days and he had not come, had not written. Reaching forward, Ophelia sipped at the sickly sweet tea. 

Finally, she glanced up at her father, finding his dark, keen eyes upon her. A near match of her own, save for the prickle of tears that caught at the corner. 

“I did not even get to say goodbye.”

24th August, 1800 Early Evening

Ophelia sat in the grass near the edge of the pond with half a stale loaf of bread beside her. Tearing off chunks, she tossed them into the water, watching as the mallards dashed to scoop it up, their flat bills clattering in thanks. 

Her eyes were dry, and the sun warm on her face, but Ophelia’s thoughts remained stuck in London. She thought of the gardens, the wrought iron fence that had once separated them on a warm summer night of whispered confessions. 

Had she been foolish in thinking his delay in asking for her hand was out of respect? He had said when the time came, she would know, but now she was here and he there, and time was nothing but a mocking reminder of his silence, his absence. 

In a surge of sudden frustration, the woman threw the remainder of the loaf into the water, sending the ducks flapping to the other side of the pond. And with a sigh, she laid back on the grass, eyes closed to the bright sky. 

[missvane]

ernestpembroke​:

@missvane​

He didn’t go to parks very often but every now and again the allure of nature would pull him in. It was dreadfully hot but the trees all offered their shade so he could not complain. He was smoking a cigarette, incredibly bored while a Mr. Mcnutt spoke to him about the poetry he wrote (he had noticed Ernest’s book, a collection of sonnets) but Ernest really could not have cared less. He scarcely hid it, either. 

He took another long drag while the gent began explaining his philosophy and just then, he caught sight of a familiar face. 

“Miss Vane!” He called out, interrupting the poor man. “Excuse me Mister …” Ernest shook his head, he couldn’t say his name with a straight face. He walked over to her with a grin. “We keep running into each other, do you see? I can talk again.” No longer numb tongued and ditzy the way he’d been the last time they were in one another’s company, though that had been one of the better parts of the night as evidenced by the bruise on his cheek. 

•

Ophelia could feel the summer sun waning into early autumn. It was a sudden change, a more languid heat, lazy in it’s final blaze of glory. It washed the park in golden light, catching upon the blades of grass, the leave chuckling in the wind. She sighed, glad for the opportunity to stretch her legs. It seemed that in these final days of the season, everyone at once was rushing to fill their diaries with teas and luncheons and evening soirees. It was exhausting to say the very least. 

Her thoughts were scattered, listless as her movements as she made her way down the path. It was rather jarring then, to hear her name shouted from somewhere in the distance. She pulled up short, her hand snapping up to look into the direction of the sun. 

Ernest materialized from the light, and a smile captured her features. “I do see,” she greeted, her eyes flickering across his features. “We’re all in trouble then,” Ophelia teased. “Would you like to walk with me? Or...” She glanced in the direction from which he’d come. “Are you preoccupied?” 

[theseasonhq]

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🧣  Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Feel free to reblog and answer memes until end of day Sunday. After that, save what’s left over in your inbox for the next Meme Friday. Enjoy!

This one is just for fun! 

Put ☎ in my ask for your muses info in my muse’s phone:

NAME: RINGTONE: PICTURE: LAST TEXT RECEIVED: LAST TEXT SENT:

[missvane]

and @conradmowbray !!!

[missvane]

ixnay-on-the-ipshay​:

“Protection, not – not confinement! By Jove, must you so willfully misconstrue everything such that-that it is all some-some insult to or-or attack on you?” 

Dimly he recalled that-that Sir Rupert Vane had been widowed, and for a while now; he wondered what the lady before him had lost, bereft of a-a mother’s guiding hand in her youth. 

“The reality of-of your existence, as you have so dramatically put it, is one of-of privilege and respect. The rules and strictures that apply to you – why, they apply in-in different aspects to the gentlemen; we, who no matter wh-what accusations you might fling or-or how utterly impertinent we find you – are honor-bound to defend you against any such imposition on your person.”

His earlier anger and irritation had flared, burned down to embers – leaving only the ashes, and him tired. 

“As I have said to you before, Miss Vane – I am not your enemy. From the beginning, I – I have only sought to-to advise and-and protect you. From yourself, where necessary – and-and let me tell you, it has been necessary.”

His collar was damp, but at least his hair had dried; he ran a hand through it, exasperated. 

“Had you heeded those warnings from the start, would everyone have been so-so quick to assume the rumors of you were true? Had your behavior been wh-what is expected of a lady – had you been-been more considerate – had you been kinder in your interactions –”

Unkind, someone had accused him; a year ago, true, but still galling.

“But we must all reap what we sow,” he finished in a dull voice – no longer certain of whom he spoke, “and live, best we can, with the-the consequences.”

The embers in the hearth glowed bright, then faded to orange – then dull red. He strode over to poke at it, coaxing the last bits of flame out.

“We leave her too many openings for attack,” he said abruptly. “Whistledown, that-that is. I should very much like to-to see you featured less in the damme letters.”

•

Ophelia blinked. Once, and then twice, lips parted to retort though nothing came forth. Protection, he said. And not in his normal derisive fashion of speech, but with a sort of frustrated intent. Meaning what he said quite thoroughly. She pressed her lips together, glanced towards the floor and back up to Lord Effingham, finding his features shifting in the light of the fire. 

“Might it be possible that you and I, on opposite sides of this divide, might experience the relationship between man and woman quite differently? Is it not possible that you feel it is protection, and I feel that is stifling and suffocating? Perhaps... those can both be true.

“Privilege-- and I recognize it as such, does not mean happiness, sir. Nor does it mean liberty, nor safety.”

But there was a point to his grandiose idea of gentlemanly duties, even if they reduced women to nothing but creatures in need of protection. And there was further reason to be gleaned from his description of her behavior. She bit back her instinctual defense, allowed him to speak. 

“I never asked for your advice, Lord Effingham. Nor do I seek it. Perhaps you might yourself with less enemies if you allowed people to be as they are? I certainly might find you more appealing if you weren’t attempting to steer me like some naval vessel.”

She rose her eyebrows, challenging him to imagine the idea, if only for a moment. 

Some silence followed. The sound of embers being jostled to life, cracked open to reveal their vibrant centers. 

“Right. Well, maybe...” she took a breath, smoothed her own damp skirts. “If we could trust one another instead of pointing fingers...” she shot him a look, “We might actually be able to put a stop to this ridiculous writer.”

A shriek of laughter floated in from the party, and Ophelia glanced towards the door, before finding Archibald once more. 

“Now, before Whistledown thinks to write of this very encounter, I should go.” Ophelia gave him one final appraisal. “Stay... dry.”

End!

[missvane]

16 August, 1800

To the lovely Lady Mulgrave, 

I do hope you have managed to stay cool in this relentless heat. I am sorry I missed you at the Colchester’s soiree. It seemed the night got away from me, and before I knew it I was jostling home in my carriage. I would truly enjoy speaking with you again, if you would entertain it. I can hardly sit still these latter days of the season. It appears I am anxious for some form of change. Be it location, or marital status, or simply the color of my dress. 

Would you be so willing to join me on a promenade at St. James this coming Sunday? I look towards your response, and do pat your sweet Barnaby for me. 

With affection, 

Miss Ophelia Vane 

@margaretmulgrave

[missvane]

💭 Ernest

Daring, riotous, earnest.

[missvane]

💭

Cerebral, caring, honest.

[missvane]

💭

Responsible, assertive, trustworthy.

[missvane]

💭 + Archie & Sarah!

Archie: Insufferable, pig-headed, handsome, judgmental

Sarah: Pioneering, true, magnificent

[theseasonhq]

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🧣 Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Feel free to reblog and answer memes until end of day Sunday. After that, save what’s left over in your inbox for the next Meme Friday. Enjoy!

Send me a ship (real, AU, or otherwise!) and I’ll fill out the questionnaire.

— SHIP QUESTIONS

PRE-RELATIONSHIP

How did they first meet?

What was their first impression of each other?

Did any of their friends or family want them to get together?

Who felt romantic feelings first?

Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

If you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think?

What would their lives be like if they had never met?

GENERAL

Who initiated the relationship, and how did it go?

Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like?

What was their first kiss like?

Were they each other’s first anything (kiss, relationship, etc.)?

What’s their height difference? Age difference?

What’s their relationship with each other’s families?

Who takes the lead in social situations?

Who gets jealous easier?

Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear?

LOVE

Who said “I love you” first?

What are their primary love languages?

Who uses cheesy pick-up lines?

How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?

Who initiates kisses?

Who’s the big and little spoon?

What are their favorite things to do together?

Who’s better at comforting the other?

Who’s more protective?

Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?

What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?

What kind of nicknames do they call each other?

Who remembers the little things?

DOMESTIC LIFE

If they get married, who proposes?

What’s the wedding like? Who attends?

How many kids do they have, if any? What are they like?

Do they have any pets?

Who’s the stricter parent?

Who worries the most?

Who kills the bugs in the house?

How do they celebrate holidays?

Who’s more likely to convince the other to come back to sleep in the morning?

Who’s the better cook?

Who likes to dance?

[missvane]

+ @conradmowbray

[theseasonhq]

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🧣 Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Feel free to reblog and answer memes until end of day Sunday. After that, save what’s left over in your inbox for the next Meme Friday. Enjoy!

LEAVE A 💭 IN MY ASKBOX AND I’LL TELL YOU THE FIRST THREE WORDS THAT COME TO MY CHARACTER’S MIND AT THE THOUGHT OF YOURS.

[missvane]

+ @conradmowbray !!

[missvane]

🔥

🔥 Would my muse ever be up for a threesome?

Yes, I think so! There would have to be a lot of communication beforehand, and it could certainly not be anyone they knew or would have to see often. But the idea is certainly intriguing as long as she feels secure in her relationship.

[missvane]

🌼

🌼 Would my muse prefer a big wedding or a small wedding?

She’d prefer a more intimate affair, but if her partner preferred something bigger, she’d indulge it. She’s not the type of person to have dreamed of her wedding her whole life, so she doesn’t feel particularly strongly either way.

Thoughts, Harry?