SAINT CHASTITY → patron saint of long-suffering sisters + ill-qualified governesses
(sophie thatcher, twenty-seven, cis woman, she/her) you do not know me but rest assured i know you, MISS CHASTITY ST. GEORGE. you are the SISTER OF SIR EDWARD ST. GEORGE and GOVERNESS TO THE HOUSE OF WHITLOCK. you may be known for your NERVE but it is only a mask for the true nature of your BRASH AND IMPULSIVE ways. however, i am not here to spread slander on the queen’s jewels, though i suspect you are her CABOCHON RUBY. the ton says your name reminds them of A PLUM RED NEGUS STAIN ON YOUR LAST GOOD PETTICOAT, A WRINKLED HANDKERCHIEF SOILED WITH JAM AND INK, A SHARP TONGUE PAIRED WITH A FREE LAUGH. how scandalous! you have been warned, dear reader, that i will prove if this is true and share every last detail. (Clara, 29, est, she/her, no triggers)
Basics:
Character Name: Chastity Marianne St. George
Age: Twenty-seven
Gender & Pronouns: Ciswoman | she/her
Face Claim: Sophie Thatcher
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Blonde
Height: 5'6"
Date of Birth: March 15, 1786
Family: [mother] XXXX St. George (absent), [father] XXXX St. George (alive, resides in the country), [brother] Edward St. George (trouble)
Positive traits: Witty, mirthful, resourceful, gritty, ambitious.
Negative traits: Deceptive, delusional, brash, gossipy, blunt, juvenile.
Likes: Edward, a good joke, cards, gambling (though she has to place wagers by alternative means), caricatures, anything very sweet or very salty, numbers, a bracing walk, spring.
Dislikes: Edward, reading, writing, embroidery, cleaning, early mornings, any boiled vegetable, winter, church.
History:
The trouble begins, as is it always does for youngest siblings, at birth. Chastity has her fair share of quarrels with God but they all seem fair considering the poor start she was granted. Is she meant to be pleased that while her brother is named for prosperity, she's named for a virtue so literally and figuratively dry, she has no hope of sparking interest? No, it had been snake eyes from the start, first in the name granted to her and then in the dual misfortune of being born second, and worse yet, a girl.
What hope could there be for an innkeeper's daughter, little more than a barmaid in training in the eye's of the beau monde's most cynical critics? She might practice her wobbling curtsy all she liked whilst greeting patrons and dance left-footed solo quadrilles round the hearth while sweeping, but even if she was adept at the fluttery, shy smiles girls ought to flash to appear winsome, daydreams and poor imitation did not a true lady make.
The gravity of her circumstance reveals itself during the war. With an absent mother, her father's injury placing him close a journey across the River Styx, and Edward trying not to get his head blown off somewhere on the continent, for the first time it truly sets in for Chastity that to be a woman of little means is to be a breath away from destitution at any given moment. Her love for her father and temperamental affection for her brother are not just blessings one would thank a God they were barely on speaking terms with on Sundays, those fraternal familial bonds are an insurance for a life of if not comfort, respectable safety.
With looks too brooding to be considered irresistibly handsome and pockets too empty to carry sufficient gravity to draw a suitor of significance into her orbit, a young woman like Charity must find other means of distinguishing herself. It's a stroke of luck that Edward very nearly gets his head blown off. An innkeeper's daughter might be an unfortunate bit of tar your pick off your boot, but the sister of a knighted brother? Well. Surely there must be a shared thread of dignity there, a thread that might be woven into a richer tapestry if said sister were to lay claim to a very distant affluent aunt here or uncle of significance there.
Chastity is a name that suddenly has its uses. It suggests a piety suitable for a governess. Years of observation at the inn have taught her enough to be a passable tutor in the very basics of the upper ten thousand's social graces (and really, how much need a person know to instruct someone who still sucks their thumb?) With a meager arsenal of suitability and tailcoat to ride on, Chastity manages to slip her way into service to the House of Whitlock.
Being a governess is an untitled lady's greatest privilege, a heartwarming peek into future domesticity, and a reminder of the blessing of maternity...is how Chastitywould lie if asked. Interior reality presents a different face. Serving as a governess is snotty noses and indolent wailing and for a particularly miserable year, teaching the young lord how to toilet himself. The pay is meager, every surface seems sticky, and somehow it feels Chastity has retreated further into the shadows, not quite lady and not quite servant.
But God grants his most noble battles to his strongest, most tireless soldiers (or something like that, frankly it sounds like waffle to excuse a bad lot), so Chastity persists, eyes wide to spot a window of marriageable opportunity before Alexander Whitlock ages out of her care and she's returned to where she started– a martyr for inn beds that need made and women who can't seem to get ahead.
Wanted Connections (a non-exhaustive list!):
- Childhood friends (either of similar class who may have a sense for how Chastity is stretching herself, or a coincidental more upstairs/downstairs connection from passing through the inn that is now tested by the social mores and pressures of adulthood.)
- Relationships to Edward that complicate her own life (She and her brother are each their own person, but his propensity for debauchery, gambling, and blackmail certainly stand to make her own life more complicated if a friend or foe of Edward's were to realize they were related.)
- Opportunistic relationships (to advance herself, to collect secrets to trade to Edward in exchange for an extra bit of coin, etc.)
- Debts owed
- Opposites, always, especially if the personalities clash
with: @stchastity
where: entrance, whitlock mansion, late afternoon
when: april 1813
Matchmaking, matchmaking, matchmaking. It was all anyone seemed to be capable of talking about. And while Thea was awash with relief that Edith, at the very least, was not someone who desperately longed for marriage, the crux of it all remained the same: matchmaking was boring. It was terribly, dreadfully, atrociously boring. Not only did it suck up all conversations, like some proverbial washcloth, but it ate into your time. Courting. Promenading. Maybe being locked up in that bedroom in Edinburgh had not been that bad, after all.
It is on her way back from one of these royally mandated rendezvouses (was that the plural? she had never been good at french), that she all but barrels into Chastity. Curse her awful timing! Why was she always, without fail, running into people like this? Did she need to start looking over her shoulder? "Chastity," she says, the name sounding almost foreign to her.
"I didn't think you would be here." Oh, come on, Thea! What kind of statement was that? Didn't think she'd be there? She works there. Where else would she be?
God, the universe, deities in Greeks who loved pleasure, whoever was in charge of it all had a curious sense of humor. How else could you explain always running into the person you wanted to see the least at the most inopportune moment?
Abigail– or Dorothea, she still mixed the names up and hadn't decided which was less bitter in her mouth –looked pretty. Healthy. Well.
It was insufferable.
Chastity looked like she had just finished a two person game of sardines and hidden in a bush, which she had. Mussed hair, plain dress, and the harried appearance of someone who needed to fine a particularly loved doll that had disappeared off the face of the Earth.
Nevertheless, she attempted to own it. She tugged a twig from her hair and flicked it to AbigalDorotheaFilthyLiar's feet. Her erect spine braced her against embarrassment.
"Didn't you," she said through her teeth, lips spread wide in the affectation of a smile. Dorothea's lying was awfully out of practice. "Well I'm working, Miss Alwyn. It's an activity that occurs daily when it's a job rather than a hobby."
Tobias wasn’t religious at all but didn’t want to dismiss anyone else’s feelings on the matter even if they weren’t as strong as he thought they presented them to be. Chastity was quite interesting; he wasn’t sure if he believed her level of commitment to God but admired the dedication.
“To assume there’s only one to exist and only one that matters is rather limiting, isn’t it? I never said it was a God that thought that, just a way of thinking. Maybe it would be sinful or disrespectful to Gods to deny pleasures for aren’t they nourishment for the soul?” He shouldn’t say it but the moment presents itself well and he couldn’t resist. “Don’t worry, the pleasure was shared and nobody selfish in that respect.”
He looks at her curiously. “I note that you avoided the question about my stepbrother, but you have some care for him if you pray for him. What draws you to the sinful Thorpe house?”
Limits. Chastity hadn't never done very well with those. They chafed, taunted, a reminder of what wasn't hers to touch and savor. So she strained against them, too ill-resourced to snap them in one, forcing them to chafe and rub her skin raw instead, gnawing at the ties that bound with her own teeth when she was feeling particularly ferocious.
Sometimes she wondered what she would be like if she had been born a man. A buck, vaulting out of windows and making lurid allusions in church? A pink in fine clothes with finer manners? Perhaps a swindler, always with something clever on her tongue and the comforting weight of coin in her pocket.
She would have more choice, was the sure thing. And the luxury of worrying about which God might most restrict her freedom rather than calculating how to keep the blueprint of her life in her own hands, instead of that of men.
Nosy men.
A question of acquaintance was on its face an innocent one, but it felt oddly invasive then, like some sort of secret scribbled in the diary she always daydreamed about keeping but never did had been peeked at. So she did what people had been doing for time immemorial and placed the blame on a power above her head: "The name and prayer came to me from God, who knows all of us most intimately. I can hardly claim a personal connection or affection."
She smoothed her skirt and stood. "I feel your soul has been scrubbed clean, Mister Thorpe. Shall we empty this pew and avail it for other lost sheep?"
"Stockings, ribbons, who would have thought any of them would call for blows?" Arden smirked. He had almost missed her concealed in the shadow of her bonnet, and the sunlight graces her with some kind of victory he isn't sure of when he sees her. Is it a grimace, or just irritation? Possibly something else he will chalk up to being all the same. "I will never doubt the tussle such luxuries can instigate. It is a miracle either one of you came out with a pair that wasn't torn. Can you imagine that?"
Her quick wit is amusing, if not threatening against his own sharpe tongue. A run for his money, indeed. So delicate she appears but Arden has no doubt she is cut of ivory and he wonders how long it will be before she is covered in steel. He mulls over whether it would be to keep away from the world and hide from it, just as this little bonnet intends to do with all who wear it, or if it will be her armor to run head first into world.
Without cracking her nose against another elbow, hopefully.
"I will reserve a few coin if someone decides to spar against you, though I'd hope you have better reflexes the next time around," He says, same curl to his lip. Whoever she is beyond market mayhem still hooks itself on his interest. How different she is to even the most rebellious that he knows. Is it a fine line she walks despite her true nature? "I never did get your name, Lady Bruisewell."
Glancing down to the ground, he adds, "I do hope you wore those stockings if you're placing a bet. I'd think they make you rather victorious and tempt fate into your favor."
Chastity's mouth twisted, as if sucking on a sour hard candy, torn between enjoyment and bitterness. Stocking, ribbons, and grappling ladies. It was, on its face, ridiculous, and had she been a passing witness instead of the subject of ridicule, she might have laughed along with him.
But in the battle for hearts and attention, there were so few weapons to choose from. So yes, it was stockings, and tugging your skirt just high enough to flash a dash of ankle, or pretty ribbon tied around one's neck to highlight its available real estate. It was a pair of earrings filched from the theatre, gold and pearl and far too fine for such a simple day dress, dangling from her ears, now unencumbered by her bonnet.
It was a scarlet sash, tied to a racer's tack for all to see.
She gave him a second look, studied his jaunty eyebrows and the charming curve of his mouth, curled just so. She knew this type, was related to it, had fallen for it, in some ways had been created in its image.
When she smiled it was equal parts knowing and humorless. "Said like a man."
A wave, and she caught the eye of the vendor, exchanging a thruppence for the sash, which she stuffed into her reticule, nestling it with the handkerchief and her meager remaining coin.
Laughter hadn't been the plan, but it was what happened next. Surprised and free with her head tipped back, no hint of sour candy.
Lady. Well, she did like that.
"Her Grace, the Duchess Bruisewell has no need for lucky stockings, confident as she is in her champion, so should Mister Upskirt like to wear them himself to improve his chances, she would be happy to lend them. Though–" it was her turn to look to the ground, "–she holds her doubts that they would flatter his figure."
"Not to mention, with a price already on her head, Mister Upskirt has clearly already decided what he thinks of the Duchess. He could hardly expect her to own a name when the impression associated with it might not be favorable."
open to: @stchastity for miss chastity st. george
location: vendors area, baron's cup, london, england.
The Queen’s matchmaking mess still clung to conversation like perfume— overpowering, cloying, and impossible to ignore. Though, most seemed to have found a way to abide and still get what they wanted. A subtle was brushed over them again, and somehow, they still played into Her Majesty's hand to deliver what she hoped for. Love, no doubt, was in the air with an engagement and elopement shuffling through the crowds with awe.
And then he saw her.
No ribbons in sight this time, but the memory arrived all the same. What a mess to have been matched in a trio, and the very lord she was paired with riding in the race. He wondered what would come of it if he were to fall. Would one of his maidens run to the track to save him with true love's first kiss, or would death give him a better snog worth his soul? Thinking to that crowded market, the scene is no different than today with scraps of silk being thrown into the air at a steal of a price, Chastity's delicate face, and patrons too eager to spend their coin.
“Still favoring silk?” He asked, without introduction. His voice smooth enough to pass for courtesy, and his smile holds the curl of mischief that so many mistook for simple amusement. “Or have your tastes changed since you nearly bled out in the middle of the market over a ribbon?"
It took Chastity a moment to match mischief with memory. Preparations for the races earlier that morning had taken a left turn when she went digging for her sole parasol and found it moth-eaten in a wardrobe. Her bonnet, a simple thing tied with a green ribbon not purchased in the battlefield that was the Mayfair high street, obscured most of her vision beyond her narrow target just ahead: a bonny scarlet sash.
At the sudden address, she tipped her bonnet back back, letting it dangle at the nape of her neck with the tie caught on her throat. Her gloved hand came up to shield her eyes, squinting against the sun to peer into the face of gleeful judgement.
A blink, and several thoughts at once played across her face: a flush of embarrassment, annoyance in a ripple in her brow, a twitch at the corner of her mouth (she would always be susceptible to wit.)
She was joined by none other than Mister Handkerchief— the same handkerchief that now sported the lightest of stains and was tucked into the reticule dangling at her wrist. But he didn't need to know that.
"I'll have you know," she said crisply, dropping her hand and her gaze, though not before she brushed a self-conscious hand underneath her nose, as if it might start bleeding anew, "that it was a pair of stockings, not ribbon."
Fighting over ribbon was silly, but for the right pair of stockings...
With prizes in mind, she inched forward toward the stall just ahead, the sash still the object of her attention. "I have it on good report that horses are the game of the day, not boxing, so if you're hoping I might find myself in the ring a second time I would recommend wagering elsewhere. Unless you're in search of advisement on where to place your bets."
Edward leaned back in his chair with all the languid arrogance of a man who had never once suffered the consequence of his own recklessness, arms crossed and an annoyingly contented smirk playing at his lips as he watched Chastity work herself up into that familiar blend of indignation and determination. She always made such a show of practicality. A house big enough to hide in, a husband dumb enough to ignore—it was enough to make a man nostalgic for poetry. But he didn’t argue. What was there to say? She wasn’t wrong. There weren’t many doors open to women that didn’t come with chains around the ankle. And if a noble’s name was the price of freedom, well… better the name than the man himself, hopefully. Still, Edward didn’t love the idea of her pinning her hopes on Callum bloody Sinclair, of all people. The man looked like a well-groomed hunting hound and probably had just enough sense to sit when told. But he had land. And influence. And unfortunately, he wasn’t yet married. All the makings of a prime Regency catch. Edward couldn’t say he liked it, but he couldn’t fault her, either. At least at Queen Anne’s, Chastity would be surrounded by silk, not ash. “I’ll say this for the modiste,” Edward drawled, running a finger along the edge of his teacup in mock boredom, “she’s got taste, talent, and the good sense not to faint when someone says the word ‘divorce.’ That puts her leagues above the usual snipping hens you’ll find fitting corsets and sniffing at pedigrees.” His mouth quirked into something that might’ve been a smile if it weren’t laced with too much history. “She’s clever, too. Might even be good for you—though don’t make me repeat that in daylight. Would ruin my reputation entirely.”
He made a show of groaning at the thought of another afternoon sipping weak tea and enduring the genteel torment of conversation, but the truth was, he didn’t mind. It gave him the perfect vantage point. A spy’s perch behind a chaperone’s mask. He liked that balance—liked having something to hold over her, too. That had always been their way. Tit for tat, secret for secret, favor for favor. Even now, every look between them felt like a negotiation. “I’ve seen better suitors. Hell, I’ve been a worse one." He flicked an invisible speck off his sleeve, then looked at her with maddening fondness. "But don’t flatter yourself thinking I enjoy it. You’re lucky I haven’t charged you yet. And if you do land the man, I expect a cut of the household income for emotional labor.”
When she brought up Rosemary, he snorted, the laugh low and crooked, like the sound of a man who’d been caught stealing and somehow still won the prize. “Rosemary’s got teeth, I’ll give her that. But you can rest easy. I’ve got the situation in hand. No wedding bells in your near future, no awkward dances or joint family holidays. Not unless she grows a conscience—and let’s be honest, what’s the likelihood of that?” His eyes cut to hers, sharp and gleaming. “And you,” he added, voice softening in the way it only did when he thought she wouldn’t notice, “don’t listen too closely. You won’t like half the things you overhear. And you’ll feel sorry for the other half.”
Then, of course, he ruined it. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be off practicing how to swoon? I hear that’s what really seals the deal with noblemen too stupid to read a book but smart enough to recognize fainting as affection.” There was something about it that made him grin again, a little sharper this time. Let her believe she’d won this round. Let her think he was only here because he owed her.
The problem with sharing blood was assumption. With the same curve in your left ear, the same blue eyes, you assumed the other face, the one that resembled yours, saw and heard things exactly as you did.
Affectionate forewarning was a condescending indictment, a jibe was a brutal dismissal, and meaner for it.
I should sit here all evening, Chastity thought, just to annoy him.
It wasn't possible to change weight out of sheer force of will, but Chastity tried anyway, thinking leaden thoughts by the ton, allowing gravity to do its work all while she bit down on her tongue to resist the urge to rise to Edward's obvious bait.
Swooning, really.
The silent treatment wasn't a new invention, but Chastity had perfected it. An eye roll. Dimples at her cheeks accentuated by a deep set frown. Limp wrists dangling off the arms of her chair.
The challenge was sustaining it.
Rumination became grumbling. Odd mutters of, "Since you're making no effort at all with Lady Rosemary, it will soon be me supporting you," and, "He knows how to read and even if he didn't–"
"And this modiste," she went on muttering. "Taste, talent, cleverness, nerve, it almost seems as if he likes her, which couldn't be possible because she sounds like a person, not a mirror." She huffed a small laugh, but it caught, speared by realization.
Chastity blinked, bracing her heels against the floor to shuffle herself upright in her chair. "You do!" she cried, equal parts incredulous and gleeful. "You do like her!" Her eyes roved over him, as if she might see the evidence written on his skin. "And not in your usual, bedding whatever moves near you way. You...you think well of her!"
Oh — and here they came, as if on cue. The insecurities he’d grown so familiar with, the ones that — despite making his heart hurt — were at the very least, consistent, like a childhood bully. He could feel Chastity’s gaze and he knew it was very possible — more possible than not — that she was casting some form of judgment on him, and rightfully so.
Chastity’s words took him off guard — causing him to stop his movements. Callum would be lying if he said her sentence didn’t sting. He’d naively assumed they were becoming friends — he’d forgotten that they were from two separate worlds, but her words were evident that she hadn’t. And he was certain that happened often, nobility in their gilded cages thinking they could play normal, when they could never truly understand the trials of the working class.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…,” he shrugged, putting a halt to beating the mixture.
The silence fell between them, all logic telling him to run. But something held him back — he shifted on his feet, waiting for her to speak again, and when she did he could finally take another breath. Chastity had opened up a little and Callum felt for her, his brows furrowed as he listened.
“And what if I said we could prove them wrong?” he raised a brow as a — playful? — smile tugged on his lips. “I know you’d…you’d rather be matched with someone else, I don’t exactly have much to offer,” a shrug, “But if you don’t mind being stuck with me for a few weeks, we can play it up…we can convince them we’re courting? Besides, if every time I call on you, the day ends up like this — then I consider myself lucky.” He had to prove Lady Whistledown wrong, he had to prove the old ladies who passed by him and gave him scornful looks on Grosvenor Street wrong. He didn’t ache to be of any importance, but he ached to not be a social pariah.
“I don’t know about you, Miss St. George, but I think we could make an unlikely team.”
Chastity often lamented being born underneath an unlucky star (in fact, she had done so not ten minutes prior), but her relation to Venus must be shifting. It was the only explanation as to why the man before her was oddly agreeable when it came to her talking around the foot in her mouth.
Or maybe it wasn't cosmic influence, just the consequence of brute force applied to unsuspecting congeniality. She squirmed slightly, slippered toe coming up to scratch at her ankle. A charming disaster, Edward had called Lord Callum, a delightful lamb-to-slaughter match.
She protested against being characterized as a butcher, but now that Callum had handed her the twine to truss him up for carving, she wasn't so sure.
Should she care though? His self-deprecation–and strange that, how he seemed to scatter little cuts at himself as freely as he did compliments toward others–couldn't erase the immutable nature of his title, land, and fortune. They were inherently unbalanced and she was playing the game to improve her own hand.
And looking at him, all chestnut curls and soft smiles, it was obvious there were worse partners she could be playing the game with.
Charming disasters weren't all bad. What was this afternoon if not a charming disaster?
Pretense and persuasion stripped away as she met his gaze. "I wouldn't want to be matched with someone else." It was one of the most honest set of words to past her lips since they had taken up conversation.
Something about putting it so plainly had her ears turning hot. It was the embarrassment of having an audience, maybe. The Whitlock's footman was still leaning in a corner, bored. She ducked her head, portioning out sugar to add to their bowl of batter. "After all, I couldn't trust just any gentleman with a whisk, could I?"
"Let's do it then. Let's be a team," she said. Everyone got what they wanted on a team. It wasn't manipulation, it was teamwork...of sorts. At the worst, his public attentions would improve her esteem At the best, he would fall madly in love with her and the rest of her life would be sorted. Either way, he got biscuits out of it.
Bastien’s lips curved into a shy smile, the faintest crease forming at the corners of his mouth as he set his cup down with careful grace. He did not think to question her kindness — it had been so rare since arriving in London that he accepted it the way a half-frozen traveler might accept a hearthfire, instinctively and without suspicion. "You are most generous to me, mademoiselle," he murmured, his voice low, edged in the soft cadence of French. His gaze, dark and searching, lingered on her face a moment longer than politeness required, studying the delicate arrangement of her features as if committing them to memory. "If I seem to you without flaws, it is only because you are good enough to look past them." He gave a soft, almost musical laugh, more air than sound. His shoulders relaxed slightly, his defenses crumbling under the illusion of safety her sweetness wove. "The truth is, I am filled with faults," Bastien confessed with a quiet sincerity, brushing a hand nervously along the line of his coat. "I am cowardly, I think. Not in battle, perhaps, but in life. I turn too easily from conflict. I hide myself in my work, in my little worlds of paint and stone. It is easier to create beauty than to demand it of life itself, non?"
A faint flush touched his cheeks, more from earnestness than embarrassment. He looked at her, truly looked, with the open, guileless heart of a man who longed to believe in the goodness of others. "Forgiveness... it is difficult, yes. But perhaps it is only because we hold so tightly to what hurt us. Like a wound we will not allow to heal. I... I admire your honesty, Chastity. It is braver than anything I could do." He leaned forward slightly, drawn to her warmth without questioning it, as a moth is drawn to the flicker of a candle. "If you would share my flaws, then... perhaps you would find them less frightening than I do." His smile, gentle and trusting, held no shield, no suspicion — only the soft ache of a young man longing to be known and accepted, unaware that, in offering himself so openly, he had already surrendered the first piece of himself into her keeping.
Chastity found it difficult to look at him directly. There was something about his eyes, the depth in them, the attentiveness she was surprised to find there each time his met hers, that set her off kilter. Like he was searching, and she wasn't certain what he might see in her.
So she looked elsewhere as she spoke. To the fullness of his mouth, the rise and fall of coloring in his cheeks, the expressive wrinkle and rise in his brow. The pretty, surface level parts of him.
"Bravery is easy." In this, at least, she could be honest. "It's just nerve in a better light. You set your sights on what you want and you chase after it. You have the clarity of vision to see something different than what sits before you, in your little worlds of paint and stone as you say. Actualizing it in the here and now is just a matter of practice."
Being an artist, and perhaps more damning, French, there could only be one tilt to Lord Landry's disposition: he was a romantic. It held potential to be a more fatal flaw than cowardice or a capacity for forgiveness. "Your good fortune is that bravery is catching. Perhaps it was more than good that we ran into one another." She settled her gaze along the bridge of his nose, then away when it skirted too close to his eyes. "Meant to be."
"We could practice now. A small act of honesty, or a grand one if you want to privately try your hand at the art of being bold. Divulge what you want, what you wish for. The third and final scone between us, or...?"
"I can promise and swear like I-Idid my oaths if you would like?" The crooked smile on his face was hesitant. He would not want to force the issue on the other if she felt uncomfortable with his presence. At least then, he tried and she had made her decision. There would certainly be respect for such a conclusion. He was a stranger in the dark of the night.
"St. George? Any relation to Sir Edward St. George?" They weren't the best of companions or anything of that sort, but the circles for them were small and he had certainly made contact with the other. Then again, last names could be shared. Especially if there was distance in the blood.
There's a nod after a moment of thought. "I do, actually. Would you like the..the escort t-to there? Or j-just some directions; I d-don't mind helping either way."
If she had asked her question, then the answer would have been yes. Elijah was serious about very little bit Abigail? He would haven given her the world. That was a wound that he wasn't sure would ever fully close.
Not, even now that he knew the truth. Elijah forgave her, he understood but it still hurt him. There was a part of him that would always ache because she hadn't told him the truth. If he had known, could he have done something to stop it? Would she had been safe? Or she always going to be taken from him?
He tried to shake the thought away, though, as he honed back in on Chastity. Did she know about Thea? She must do by now. Whistledown had told everyone, after all. The words were on the tip of his tongue... as Chastity spoke again.
"A poem?" He questioned but quickly fell silent as she started to recite. He had barely a chance to react before something else had taken her attention. She truly was a little magpie.
As she reached for the earrings, he laughed, "Are we not going to discuss that attempt at poetry?" He questioned.
Elijah moved to stand beside Chastity so he could see which ones she had picked and nodded, "Yeah, they could probably impress a Lord." He joked with the other. "You gotta make sure that you bring them back though, Chas. Edmund'd kill me if he knew I helped you take them."
The earrings were exactly the sort of a fashion a lady, a true lady would wear. A fat pearl sat on the post, offset by dangling gold work, from which hang another pearl in miniature. And they were hers. Mostly. Sort of.
"What?" she breathed, distracted. "The poem? No need to say anything about it." She waved a hand. "I'm a true wit and you're very welcome. Just be sure to credit me when you orate it next Saturday, and I wouldn't mind a small payment for my creative troubles."
What were jokes to jewelry? When you had respect, what need was there for humor, to entertain?
"I'll return them. I swear it." She snapped up the velvet box, shutting it with a clap, and did a small wiggling jig with it pressed to her chest. "Edmund won't even have a chance to miss them. Oh, you hero! A person who hadn't seen your attempts as a leading man could kiss you!"
evan is bursting into a fit of laughter as the spoon is shoved into his mouth making him choke on the silver before it's falling from his lips and clattering onto the table. "now that was just uncalled for!" though he is clearly still amused by her actions as he's biting at his lip to hide the laughter that is still bubbling in his chest.
"right, respectable…" there is sarcasm dripping off of each word that evan speaks to her. they had known each other for years and evan, while always kind to others, had no opposition to teasing chastity as much as he could. though of course that meant that she teased him just as much, "just because y'er right, doesn't mean ya have to air it out to the world, chas!" evan crosses his arms over his chest, grumbling under his breath, "and i could lose my virginal air at any moment, don't act like it could be a shock!"
it likely would in the end though as evan had barely even kissed another person before. the act of it making him blush like he was swine being baked in the summer sun. "purchase outright?" his brows raise, "ya got y'er eye on anyone?" they're wiggling up and down again, "c'mon spill!"
Chastity watched Evan's eyebrows jitter across his forehead and wondered if this was what it was like to have a younger sibling. Perhaps she owed Edward an apology.
"That would be telling," she said primly, with the air of someone who wanted to divulge all nature of secrets for the attention, but enjoyed doubly so the intrigue of feigning discretion. "Besides," it was her eyebrow's turn to make its journey skyward, "how am I to trust that you won't go wagging your tongue to one of your siblings? Or patrons? No. I couldn't possibly say. Besides, I think it would shock you, and then who would bring me another scoop of raspberry?" Her eyes trailed toward the ceiling, nose following the same path before her gaze slid down it to look at Evan sidelong.
As Chastity thought about what that she had always wanted, she thought about what it was that she did.
Her husband was the main thing that she thought about. Benedict had been the only thing on her mind for months now. She wanted to make things work, she wanted to make them good again. She just had no idea if it would ever come to be.
Millicent smiled as the other spoke and told her what it was that she wanted, she nodded. "Well, then one of each is what we will do." She beamed. She was happy to settle for a cup of tea but after the shock of the situation, she thought that the young lady deserved a moments pleasure in the form of the sweet treats from gunthers.
She ordered for the two of them, thanking the staff as she went and turned to Chastity once they could both properly settle. "So, Miss St. George, have you always lived in London?" She thought that they might as well get to know one another if they were having tea together.
Getting to know new people had always been something which scared Millicent a little. She had been a shy child. She had hardly been able to look in peoples eye growing up - her governess had always tried to encourage her to speak up. She thought that the woman might be proud of her now. Millicent had found her voice. She was still a little nervous, sometimes, but she was doing better. She thought that this conversation was probably proof of that.
In a way, London had been her governess. It was a microcosm of the world, at least as Chastity imagined it, having seen so little of it. There were the have and have nots. The filthy, foul bits and gleaming silver and gold. Everyone needed something, everyone wanted something, and if you topped up your luck with dose of striving, you just might get both. There was just about every type of person in London, you never knew who you might meet.
"My father–" Even Chastity could be anyone. Just a taste, she thought. "My father raised me, not far from Mayfair. I would have suited the country, I think. There is an even an aunt of mine, a–" A jar of toffees sitting on the counter visible just past Lady Millicent's shoulder caught Chastity's eye. "–a Lady Jarvis. She was practically a mother to me and time and again pleaded for me to join her there. But my father and brother adore me, you see. They couldn't bear being cast apart. So it's always been London."
Her head tilted, eyes tracing the graceful lines of the other woman's face, a small smile ghosting her lips. "But I suspect you would say otherwise about yourself. Londoners have a particular look about them that I find absent in you. Before you grow cross with me, consider it a compliment."
In surrender and with a smirk on his face, he holds his tongue and raises his hands in surrender before copying her and bringing them together in prayer. The last time he’d done this…well, he couldn’t remember and thought maybe it had been as a child.
So he listened to her prayer in silence and can’t help how much the smile grows on his face. He really didn’t care that he had sinned in someone else’s eyes or if they didn’t think it and was just using it as a way to gain something. The only time he broke from his stare was when she mentioned Edward, thinking back about his time in the Silver Lantern but it wasn’t a thought to be had in front of the mans sister on in a house of God.
“Frederic?” he asks confused before he remembers that he has a stepbrother and a quick ahh sound in recognition comes over him. “Curious how you know him and care enough to offer a prayer…”
With the prayer over, he turns to face his companion. “You know, when I was in Greece there was talk about how denying yourself pleasures of any kind was a sin in of itself. I’d butcher the reasoning, but it dated back from times of Plato and Socrates, am I to condemn myself in favour of one God and ignore the teachings of others?” Spoken as if he had a religious bone in his body which he did not.
Chastity had never heard of a God who valued frivolity and pleasure over suffering to build ever-elusive "character," but she was rather interested in learning more. Particularly where this God was worshipped (Greece?) so that she might make a pilgrimage there, where she expected she would find large goblets of Claret, endless sweets, and perhaps a fat roasted ham with crackling skin.
"As a Christian, I would say yes, for there is only One True God," goodness, she had absorbed more while counting window panes on Sundays than she had originally thought, "so while your transgressions might please the God of Climbing Out of Windows, it would be your duty to forsake him."
But as a person who suspected that Mister Thorpe was a great deal of fun...
She added quickly, "There is of course that one verse– I won't bother to name the book one finds it in, I'm sure you know it, as we all do –enjoy thyself, make merry, and know that the joy I grant you may only be enjoyed in my holy way when shared. This of course suggests that selfish enjoyment is worthy of condemnation, but enabling the pleasure of others," she pinked slightly, "is most appropriate."
If Elijah drew her eligibility into question, then he would have to do the same with his own... and it was far too early for that. Just because they weren't members of upper society didn't mean that they weren't worth something.
And he certainly wouldn't hear it from Chastity either.
He wouldn't let any one of his friends think less of themselves. And as much as Chastity might say otherwise, she was one of his friends.
"That's what the poets would definitely be talking about if you were around them. I think they'd make better poems, if i'm completely honest." He joked. He was sure that it was someones idea of romance ... he just wasn't sure who. "Maybe you should try writing your own poetry. Think it'd be more interesting than some of the ones we've already got."
"Earrings? Alright, earrings we can do!" Elijah smiled as he moved over to where the jewellery for the theatre sat.
Elijah groaned as she turned her questions to him and he shook his head, "I am sure that Miss Alvarado is a very nice lady but I can't imagine that you will need to be finding anything fancy for the two of us." He shrugged his shoulders then, though, "But who knows. Never say never, right?"
Chastity made an effort to study Elijah from the corner of her eyes until the strain grew so severe she had to briefly cross them for reprieve.
He revealed nothing. Ever good-natured, ever congenial.
Is it because of her that you find yourself drenched in indifference, Chastity desperately wanted to ask. There had only ever been one her, landing in their lives like a shot that failed to go through and through. She– well it had the faint shape of worry, so they could call it –she worried the shot was still there, living under his skin where she couldn't see it, aching now and again.
But she didn't have the words for it, even with Alexander preferring you're alright as a statement rather than its more inquisitive sibling are you alright.
"You never know," she echoed. Discomfited with the idea of his unhappiness, she went on. "I know they say actor's are silly creatures not inclined to the seriousness of good sense, but it seems you should give it your best go. See here, I'll take your note and write a poem for you and you can recite it to her. If she swoons over it that will tell you she's exactly the kind of woman you shouldn't marry."
She was quiet for a moment, mulling over her words, then cleared her throat:
"There once was a man named Elijah,
Who made his name in bravura,
His face they called pretty, his mouth others said witty
But they didn't know down below he was–"
Her eyes caught on a small velvet box, inside which lay a pair of earrings that looked too heavy, too fine, to be anything but the real thing. "Oh, those ones!" She hopped up and down, a puff of dust floating up at her feet. "The gold and pearl!"
Growing up, Millicent had been made aware of her families standing in the world pretty early on. She had gone from the highest highs to the lowest lows and back again. She was well aware of the fortunate position she was in now.
And because of that, she tried to meet everyone with the same kindness. If they were noble or otherwise. Perhaps it was a little silly of her to believe that everyone could have the same outlook.
Not once did she think that Chastity was faking to see what she could get from her. If it was her good performance or Millicents willing to see the best in people, she didn't know.
She smile politely as Chastity told her, her simple order. She wouldn't push her for more - but she would have given it.
"One of everything?" Millicent questioned with a laugh. "I couldn't even imagine. She must have been there for days." Millicent glanced across to the pastry case, her lips pursed as she thought a moment. "Well, I can't spring for one of everything but we can certainly do better than a hot cross bun, don't you think?" She questioned, "What would you want? If you had to pick something? Maybe something you've never tried before." She hoped that she didn't come across as patronising. She simply wanted to ensure that the other wasn't just being polite in her request.
Chastity schooled her face, pleasant and acquiescent, but it was the slump in her shoulders, evident to the attentive eye, that revealed her disappointment.
No feast then. Pity. She likely would have burst, but she would have died happy.
It did defy expectation that her dessert daydreams were given a second life. Like the Lord Jesus Christ, but with decidedly more frosting. She squinted at the case, mouth twisted slightly side, still trying to puzzle out how to get what she wanted even after being told it wasn't possible.
What would you want? If you had to pick something?
A horse, even if she thought them suspicious and nefarious. A stable boy to take care of said horse so she could say she had one without having to attend to it. New gloves, the ones from the shop window, with the floral stitching up the wrist. An income of five thousand a year. Breakfast in bed. A husband who found her tolerable whom she could tolerate in return. An opportunity for dancing.
Maybe something you've never tried before.
A painting, a good one. One that made her laugh. To promenade with Edward and chitter about the ton with no ulterior purpose, just because they wanted to. To never think about money again. A husband who was more than tolerable, one who–
It was difficult to stop her mind from galloping along once it started, but she halted it there, before it could unearth anything deeper. Chastity had played with gluttony and Lady Millicent had demonstrated the problem with taking it too far. Eventually, you were told no.
Asceticism never got anyone anywhere either. Chastity could be a little gluttonous so long as she didn't take it too far. "A little bit of everything" was the intent, that sat at the heart of her desires, but if making a meal of desire wasn't possible, she could still strive for a taste.
She straightened and looked to Lady Millicent with an air of determination, a serious expression more suited for the battlefield than Gunter's. "I would order petits fours. One of each flavor– chocolate, vanilla, lemon, orange, almond, and strawberry. And a glass of orgeat to wash it all down."
Bastien observed her with the same attentive eye he often used when studying people—looking for the smallest details. Her movements were not hurried, and her smile, though restrained, was genuine. As she approached with the tea tray, he gave her a polite but warm smile. “Ah, you do honor me with your presence, Madame," Bastien said with a soft chuckle, his French accent more noticeable as he spoke to her. "I must confess, I find your attempt at French both amusing and... admirable." He couldn't help the small smile that curled at the corners of his lips, appreciative of her effort, though he could tell her pronunciation needed some work. He liked that she tried, and not many did. "Most would avoid it entirely, yet you dive in. I thank you for that." Bastien glanced at the tea she had prepared, giving a soft nod of approval. "And your consideration in preparing my tea is... quite thoughtful, indeed. I am rather partial to sweeter things, I admit, so I do appreciate the touch of sugar. Bitter tea does not suit me for long, I'm afraid." He gave her a warm smile, his eyes thoughtful as he took a sip, savoring the flavor.
As he set the cup down gently, he leaned back slightly, studying Chastity once more with an artist's eye. He couldn't help but take in the way she carried herself, her movements, the subtle elegance in her manner, despite her station. She was different from the others in this household—less bound by the rigid airs of nobility, more open, more... human.
"I trust you are enjoying your work here at the Whitlocks?" Bastien asked, his tone light, but with a note of genuine curiosity. "I do not mean to pry, of course, but I hope the environment here is to your liking. You must have quite a lot of responsibilities, no?" He smiled again, his voice low and soft. "I promise, I will not tell anyone. You may speak freely." At the mention of scrutiny, Bastien’s gaze flickered momentarily, the faintest shadow of discomfort crossing his face. He let out a quiet sigh, looking down at his teacup before meeting her eyes again. "Yes, it has been... a difficult time for me personally," he admitted, his voice betraying no more than a hint of vulnerability. "But I prefer not to dwell on such matters. What has happened is in the past. I do not wish to allow it to overshadow the present. After all, one cannot truly appreciate the now if they are too focused on what has gone before." His words were steady, his demeanor polite as ever, but beneath the surface, there was a quiet sadness that lingered, a sadness he rarely showed to anyone. For now, though, he was content with this moment—this fleeting conversation that, for once, felt uncomplicated.
Enjoyed was a word that painted with a broad brush when it came to employment, but it was close enough to the truth of her feelings for Chastity to have the good sense to keep her mouth shut. They would need to drink something stronger than tea for her to speak freely, vow of silence or no.
It was tempting though, the presumption in the phrasing of his question aside. No one ever thought to ask her what it was like being in service, not when the answer was already implicitly given. Lucky. Blessed. Bursting with gratitude to work for such a great family in their great big house.
"There is always something to do, to be sure, which is incidentally the beginning and end of what I can say on the matter." She said, a coquettish turn to her lips." A governess's discretion is her bond. Your good fortune is that my secrecy applies to you as well, as a member of this house." Her smile looked like Edward's then. "I'm told I'm an excellent place to deposit confidences."
Behind her allusions, there was the odd sensation that she had forgotten an article of clothing and some skin was exposed. The mole on her left shoulder blade or at the dome of her hip. Some part of her that normally went unseen that she hadn't intended to reveal. But when she glanced down she was clothed, same as she had been. She cast the thought aside in favor of picking up her cup.
Lord Landry was, annoyingly, English in his reserve. He said very little about the vulnerability that mattered most, offering only an oblique reference to the notion hat the Duke's transgressions were painful, which she privately thought was overwrought.
Parents came in twos to save their children grief if one failed to live up to the title, an heir and a spare in reverse. On that specific point at least, Lord Landry was correct. There was no point in dwelling on the past. Chastity pressed her hand against a mother shaped wound, just south of her heart, and told herself the burn there was from downing her tea too quickly.
But applying the idea more generally, she couldn't help but think the words that spilled from Landry's mouth were a heaping shovel of codswallop, no matter how pretty he made them sound.
Lying paired well with scones. "You are a better Christian than I could claim to be," Chastity said, and took a little nibble. Because of course the past mattered. How could it not? A parent's abandonment meant nothing, it was to be expected. Fooled once, shame on the swindler, but fooled twice, shame on fool. To choose to let matters flutter away like a handkerchief lost to the wind, that seemed a recipe for playing both the swindler and the fool with a guarantee to find yourself on the losing end. Better to be a rotten sinner than a congenial idiot.
Another sip of tea chased the bitterness from her mouth and allowed her to smile sweetly. "I'll have to take a leaf from your book. We talk often of forgiveness, but I regret to admit that I so rarely can find it in my pockets to spare. But then we all have our flaws."
The cup returned to its saucer with a clat. Chastity leaned forward, her hands folded and dangling at her crossed knee. "It does make one wonder what yours are, my Lord. From where I sit you seem to have so few."
