The Stumbling Dreamer

Daisy Carter🌸Lady’s Maid🌸St. Maur Castle

[dinah-stmaur]

the-stumbling-dreamer​:

“Well, I don’t know much about London,” Daisy answered honestly. “But I know there’s the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. They have plays, operas, and a ballet company! All in one theatre! I’d dearly love to see a real ballet…not just Mr. Degas’ paintings.” She bit her lip again as she remembered the accident earlier that week, unfortunately caused by trying to mimic one of those very same paintings.

♣ ♣ ♣ 

“Oh, I never thought to go see a ballet,” Dinah thought out loud, but found herself intrigued by the idea of it. Even more so when she felt Daisy’s enthusiasm in her words. “I will ask she sends me a list of ballets that are going to be showing when we are there, and then you can choose which ones we will attend.” She smiled brightly at the idea, “this way we will even have something to mail when we are at the Post Office.” And that way the postmaster would have little reason to grumble when he saw them.

“Ah, say, Daisy, before I forget,” she said, remembering something she had meant to ask for a few days now. “Do you remember that porcelain vase in my room? It was in the shape of a pitcher, and had these pink roses on them. Did my sister took it? I haven’t seen it in a while.” She rather checked with Daisy before asking her sister, or she might want to return it.

[the-stumbling-dreamer]

Daisy flinched. No avoiding it now. “Oh…that one. Well…I sort of…broke it. By accident. I did mean to tell you, it just…slipped my mind. Like so many things seem to,” she added, with some frustration.

“I can replace it. Probably. I have some money saved up, and it shouldn’t be too expensive. I don’t know where to get more roses, though.”

[dinah-stmaur]

The Adventures of a Daily Trip

WHERE: On the road from St Maur Castle to the town WHEN: April 27th 1904 WHO: Daisy Carter @the-stumbling-dreamer

The walk from St Maur Castle to the St Maur Post Office, where Dinah and her maid, Daisy, were headed was not a short trip. The Castle was situated past the borders of the town, and the Post Office instead situated right at its heart. Yet, despite the distance, this was a journey that Dinah would make daily and would always do so by asking either Daisy, or another maid when she knew to have tired her lady’s maid too much, to accompany her. She had learned her lesson in going around without a chaperone, and now was careful to never go alone.

“It is such a lovely day,” Dinah said, as the two of them started off on the road. Luckily it was a well travelled stretch of terrain, so even if it was long it was at least easy to tread. And on a clear day like this one, it would make for a nice walk. “But if you are too tired to walk on the way back, we shall see if we can find a coach.. so don’t hesitate to tell me.” They weren’t empty words of pretend consideration, but a true invite for Daisy to speak up her mind.

“My sister should be writing any day now with a list of activities to do in London, hopefully we can find something to our liking,” she went on, smiling at Daisy. “What would you like to do while there?” Dinah herself was shy and usually tried to avoid social situation, but she imagined it would be terribly not fun for Daisy to come all the way to London with her only to stay in the house all the time. So, Dinah thought this was her chance to thank Daisy for the hard work and the long walks. “There are plays, concertos, parks, pictures shows, libraries.” Ah, yes, she would love nothing more than visit the libraries and more so the book shops.

[the-stumbling-dreamer]

“Well, I don’t know much about London,” Daisy answered honestly. “But I know there’s the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. They have plays, operas, and a ballet company! All in one theatre! I’d dearly love to see a real ballet…not just Mr. Degas’ paintings.” She bit her lip again as she remembered the accident earlier that week, unfortunately caused by trying to mimic one of those very same paintings.

[the-eager-geek]

the-stumbling-dreamer​:

When: April 21st

Where: Lady Dinah’s room (and the hallway outside it)

Status: Open (I think? I may be doing this wrong)

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Daisy stood on the very tips of her toes, like the dancers Edgar Degas painted. Her sturdy shoe was no dancing slipper, but it served the same purpose. She couldn’t stretch her leg out like the dancers did, hampered by her long skirt, but she did her best. She didn’t know what this pose is called. In America she would learn its name. For now, she merely mimicked the paintings and wished she were part of them.

The bookshelf in Lady Dinah’s room was too high for her to reach. Her fingertips just brushed the edge of the shelf that the book in her hand belonged on. She balanced- careful, careful, don’t fall- and managed to slide the book into place.

Daisy breathed a sigh of relief and let her leg fall, bending forward in a dancer’s curtsy. Sometimes she forgot herself and curtsied to her lady like that. She never danced in front of her, though.

But right now, she was all alone, and the floor was hers. There was no music, but she didn’t need it. She hummed her own tune, making it up as she went along, leaping and spinning and dipping as best she could in her long dress. She couldn’t wait for America- the first thing she wanted to buy was a dancing frock that let her legs move the way she knew they were made to. This dress made her clumsy. She would rather dance in her nightgown than this (and had danced in her nightgown- she didn’t have to share a room with someone else as a lady’s maid, and she often turned her room into a stage.) She tripped on the skirt, stumbled back, and-

Crash. A porcelain pitcher of wildflowers tumbled from the side table and shattered on the floor.

“Oh…oh no,” Daisy murmured. Thankfully the lady was out. She stooped to pick up the flowers, taking a moment to cradle them to her chest and imagining that they’re roses. Someday, some American newspaper would have her picture on its front page, in this very same pose, bending to gather the roses thrown at her feet.

The thought made her smile, the one she practices before the mirror every chance she gets. She kept smiling, even as she stepped over the shards of porcelain, even as she opened the door and called into the hallway, “Does anyone have a mop?”

∞ 

Normally, Ivy would not be in the corridor now. But she was late, and there was no way to make late into later. She wasn’t running, but she was fast, so fast that she almost missed the shattering of something valuable in the bedroom of one of the fancy family members. And then a shout rang out, a mop was needed.

Ivy ran downstairs, threw the sheets over the lines outside and put the clothes aside for now. She was going to come back to it in a minute, after all. Halfway down the stairs, she grabbed a mop that had seen better days and ran up the stairs and through some corridors until she finally reached Daisy.

“Daisy!” Ivy called, throwing the mop over. “Hurry up or has Ms Trott seen you already?” she asked anxiously. She really didn’t want to mess with that woman, even if she always did subconsciously.

“What happened anyway? Do you need help?” Uncoordinated questions, but at least they were well-intentioned. Sometimes her mouth was just faster.

[the-stumbling-dreamer]

“Hi, Ivy. I broke a vase,” Daisy answered, somewhat sheepishly. She slipped back inside the room to set the flowers down.

“What a mess.” There hadn’t been that much water in the vase, but there was enough to leave a puddle. And with the broken vase lying in pieces- well, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Daisy sighed in frustration.

“You don’t have a machine that can put shattered porcelain back together, do you?”

[trott-ing]

the-stumbling-dreamer·:

When: April 21st

Where: Lady Dinah’s room (and the hallway outside it)

Status: Open (I think? I may be doing this wrong)

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Daisy stood on the very tips of her toes, like the dancers Edgar Degas painted. Her sturdy shoe was no dancing slipper, but it served the same purpose. She couldn’t stretch her leg out like the dancers did, hampered by her long skirt, but she did her best. She didn’t know what this pose is called. In America she would learn its name. For now, she merely mimicked the paintings and wished she were part of them.

The bookshelf in Lady Dinah’s room was too high for her to reach. Her fingertips just brushed the edge of the shelf that the book in her hand belonged on. She balanced- careful, careful, don’t fall- and managed to slide the book into place.

Daisy breathed a sigh of relief and let her leg fall, bending forward in a dancer’s curtsy. Sometimes she forgot herself and curtsied to her lady like that. She never danced in front of her, though.

But right now, she was all alone, and the floor was hers. There was no music, but she didn’t need it. She hummed her own tune, making it up as she went along, leaping and spinning and dipping as best she could in her long dress. She couldn’t wait for America- the first thing she wanted to buy was a dancing frock that let her legs move the way she knew they were made to. This dress made her clumsy. She would rather dance in her nightgown than this (and had danced in her nightgown- she didn’t have to share a room with someone else as a lady’s maid, and she often turned her room into a stage.) She tripped on the skirt, stumbled back, and-

Crash. A porcelain pitcher of wildflowers tumbled from the side table and shattered on the floor.

“Oh…oh no,” Daisy murmured. Thankfully the lady was out. She stooped to pick up the flowers, taking a moment to cradle them to her chest and imagining that they’re roses. Someday, some American newspaper would have her picture on its front page, in this very same pose, bending to gather the roses thrown at her feet.

The thought made her smile, the one she practices before the mirror every chance she gets. She kept smiling, even as she stepped over the shards of porcelain, even as she opened the door and called into the hallway, “Does anyone have a mop?”

It was rare to hear crashing in St. Maur Castle. Rarer still to hear it in the private quarters. If there was to be smashing, it would happen in the busy servants’ quarters and workspaces, where young hall boys or scullery maids might fumble a china cup and have the cost taken from their wages. It certainly shouldn’t be audible where Mrs Trott was, as she walked through the halls and checked on the chambermaids. (There were rooms to be aired, beds to be made, shelves to dust and washrooms to wipe down, after all). The sound froze her in place. It made her eyes wide. It made her tilt her head from side to side, a little like a pup might when hearing the novel sound of a chirping cricket. Something had happened, hadn’t it?

The door to Lady Dinah’s quarters opened, and Missus Carter’s head poked around it, smiling her winning smile, the one she’d honed from years of practice.

“A mop?” Annabel asked, already worried. What on earth had shattered, to need a mop? “Is her Ladyship quite alright?” She did not know, after all, who the crash had been caused by, nor if Lady Dinah was present. It was the one thing keeping her from rushing in, herself. She’d hate to cause offence.

[the-stumbling-dreamer]

“Oh, she’s fine! I think. She’s not here. I broke a vase.” Daisy held up the wet flowers. “It had water in it. I…tripped.”

Her cheeks were hot, and she was silently glad that her skin was just dark enough not to show a blush. She never minded talking about her dreams, but somehow it seemed like a bad idea to admit to the housekeeper that she had been dancing a ballet in Lady Dinah’s room. That’ll get you thrown out on your ear, my girl, she chided herself, then just as quickly returned to her usual cheery mood. Oh well. What’s it going to matter in America?

Realizing that she had gone oddly quiet as she argued with herself, she looked up to see the housekeeper regarding her strangely. Her face heated again. “Sorry.”

[ira-vaisman]

the-stumbling-dreamer​:

“Do you have a mop?” Daisy asked. “Also, I broke a vase.” She nudged one of the glass shards with the toe of her shoe. “It wasn’t an important vase, I don’t think.”

She slipped to the dressing table and set the dripping flowers down. “I hope it wasn’t expensive. Does it look like it was expensive? I didn’t let the water get on any of Lady Dinah’s books, which probably are expensive. Actually it was a book. That did it, I mean. I was putting it away. And I…I was dancing, because I had a pretty song in my head and it wanted to be danced to. And this stupid, long dress tripped me up.” She brushed at the wet spot the flowers had left on her dress.

“Do I have a-! What am I, Daisy? Your scullery?!” His eyes jumped back to the floor where she nudged glass shards with her foot. “No, you don’t say. You think you broke it, yeah?” Shit, why was he so angry?

And it didn’t help when the maid said ‘unimportant’. Usually he agreed. Of course he’d agree! All of this luxury was absolutely unimportant, pure showing-off, and honestly worth to be broken and burnt. But not today. Today he still felt his heartbeats echo the fright he’d felt moments ago. “You’re daft, or what? Do you want me to tell her Ladyship that? Sure wonder how she’ll feel about you breaking her gaff.” 

It was only when she drew attention to the ‘stupid long dress’ that he even offered her attention and noticed it. His face went pale, then red with heat. “You take that off right now, and then you’re going to get a mop, or I’ll tell Mrs Trott about it and you’ll be sacked before you can say ‘flower vase’.”

[the-stumbling-dreamer]

“Flower vase,” Daisy replied. “Not sacked yet! But I’ll get a mop, anyway. After I change my dress- I think I’ve got another.”

She pushed open the door again, into the servant’s corridor. She wasn’t the type to cry over spilled…flowers. And Ira probably wasn’t having the best day, was all. But the words had stung still. “I’m not daft, Ira Vaisman,” she muttered. “I’m just not meant for all this. I’ll tell Lady Dinah about the vase when she gets back.”

She went into her room, pulling her wet black dress off and replacing it with a dark blue one. “Brush it off, my girl, brush it off,” she told herself. “That vase won’t matter one bit once I’m off in America. And then one day that Ira will see my name in the newspaper or hear about the famous dancer, Daisy Carter, and then he’ll be sorry.”

The thoughts cheered her up, as they always did. She smoothed out the front of her replacement dress and went back into the servant’s hallway. “Right then. Time to find a mop. Or someone with a mop. Or someone who knows where a mop is.”

[ira-vaisman]

the-stumbling-dreamer​:

When: April 21st

Where: Lady Dinah’s room (and the hallway outside it)

Status: Open (I think? I may be doing this wrong)

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Daisy stood on the very tips of her toes, like the dancers Edgar Degas painted. Her sturdy shoe was no dancing slipper, but it served the same purpose. She couldn’t stretch her leg out like the dancers did, hampered by her long skirt, but she did her best. She didn’t know what this pose is called. In America she would learn its name. For now, she merely mimicked the paintings and wished she were part of them.

The bookshelf in Lady Dinah’s room was too high for her to reach. Her fingertips just brushed the edge of the shelf that the book in her hand belonged on. She balanced- careful, careful, don’t fall- and managed to slide the book into place.

Daisy breathed a sigh of relief and let her leg fall, bending forward in a dancer’s curtsy. Sometimes she forgot herself and curtsied to her lady like that. She never danced in front of her, though.

But right now, she was all alone, and the floor was hers. There was no music, but she didn’t need it. She hummed her own tune, making it up as she went along, leaping and spinning and dipping as best she could in her long dress. She couldn’t wait for America- the first thing she wanted to buy was a dancing frock that let her legs move the way she knew they were made to. This dress made her clumsy. She would rather dance in her nightgown than this (and had danced in her nightgown- she didn’t have to share a room with someone else as a lady’s maid, and she often turned her room into a stage.) She tripped on the skirt, stumbled back, and-

Crash. A porcelain pitcher of wildflowers tumbled from the side table and shattered on the floor.

“Oh…oh no,” Daisy murmured. Thankfully the lady was out. She stooped to pick up the flowers, taking a moment to cradle them to her chest and imagining that they’re roses. Someday, some American newspaper would have her picture on its front page, in this very same pose, bending to gather the roses thrown at her feet.

The thought made her smile, the one she practices before the mirror every chance she gets. She kept smiling, even as she stepped over the shards of porcelain, even as she opened the door and called into the hallway, “Does anyone have a mop?”

“Bloody hell,” Ira grunted in surprise when something not too far away crashed. Still holding the Earl’s tails over his arm, he stomped around the corner then down the corridor, towards where disappointed clinking and clanking was still to be heard. He came closer and closer and-… At once he stopped. 

Lady Di’s room. 

His heart missed a beat, then sped up, cold shivers running down his spine as he imagined all sorts of scenarios, all sorts of injuries, all sorts of tears in those beautiful brown doe eyes, then a jolt passed through him and he moved towards the door. “Dinah?” 

It wasn’t Lady Di. 

It was that wretched little maid who had opened the door, wet, somehow, and with flowers in her arms – what else. “What the hell happened?!” Ira barked, pushing past her into the room. Lady Di wasn’t there. Instead, a broken vase or something, in the middle of the room. “How did you manage that?!” 

[the-stumbling-dreamer]

“Do you have a mop?” Daisy asked. “Also, I broke a vase.” She nudged one of the glass shards with the toe of her shoe. “It wasn’t an important vase, I don’t think.”

She slipped to the dressing table and set the dripping flowers down. “I hope it wasn’t expensive. Does it look like it was expensive? I didn’t let the water get on any of Lady Dinah’s books, which probably are expensive. Actually it was a book. That did it, I mean. I was putting it away. And I…I was dancing, because I had a pretty song in my head and it wanted to be danced to. And this stupid, long dress tripped me up.” She brushed at the wet spot the flowers had left on her dress.

[the-stumbling-dreamer]

When: April 21st

Where: Lady Dinah’s room (and the hallway outside it)

Status: Open (I think? I may be doing this wrong)

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Daisy stood on the very tips of her toes, like the dancers Edgar Degas painted. Her sturdy shoe was no dancing slipper, but it served the same purpose. She couldn’t stretch her leg out like the dancers did, hampered by her long skirt, but she did her best. She didn’t know what this pose is called. In America she would learn its name. For now, she merely mimicked the paintings and wished she were part of them.

The bookshelf in Lady Dinah’s room was too high for her to reach. Her fingertips just brushed the edge of the shelf that the book in her hand belonged on. She balanced- careful, careful, don’t fall- and managed to slide the book into place.

Daisy breathed a sigh of relief and let her leg fall, bending forward in a dancer’s curtsy. Sometimes she forgot herself and curtsied to her lady like that. She never danced in front of her, though.

But right now, she was all alone, and the floor was hers. There was no music, but she didn’t need it. She hummed her own tune, making it up as she went along, leaping and spinning and dipping as best she could in her long dress. She couldn’t wait for America- the first thing she wanted to buy was a dancing frock that let her legs move the way she knew they were made to. This dress made her clumsy. She would rather dance in her nightgown than this (and had danced in her nightgown- she didn’t have to share a room with someone else as a lady’s maid, and she often turned her room into a stage.) She tripped on the skirt, stumbled back, and-

Crash. A porcelain pitcher of wildflowers tumbled from the side table and shattered on the floor.

“Oh…oh no,” Daisy murmured. Thankfully the lady was out. She stooped to pick up the flowers, taking a moment to cradle them to her chest and imagining that they’re roses. Someday, some American newspaper would have her picture on its front page, in this very same pose, bending to gather the roses thrown at her feet.

The thought made her smile, the one she practices before the mirror every chance she gets. She kept smiling, even as she stepped over the shards of porcelain, even as she opened the door and called into the hallway, “Does anyone have a mop?”