Mrs Annabel Trott

written by snail for StMaur-RP

[stmaur-rp]

[trott-ing]

stmaur-rp·:

Annabel “Annie” Trott♣ 34 ♣ Housekeeper ♣St Maur Castle

♣ 𝔸𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕥𝕚𝕔

Duck your head. Lower your gaze. Work faster. Make no mistake. Allow no one else to make a mistake. Pray. Go on your knees and pray. Pray that she is okay. Pray that no one ever finds out. Pray that you can stay here. Here, where the days are so long, but at least the nights are short. A whistle in your mouth. Keep the others in order. Be strong, so that the weak can survive.

♣𝕀𝕞𝕡𝕒𝕔𝕥

Ex-Cocotte: You used to walk the streets of London at night. You got pregnant  and ran to the country side, hoping to start anew with a lie. This makes you a worldly woman. You see lust in other people’s eyes easier than anyone else. You understand what a touch means. And you’re not afraid to address it. You’re also not easily insulted and you know how to take a joke. But more than anything, it makes you grateful that you now have a home where no one touches you.

Fearful: No one must know about your past, of course. All they know and can know is that you’ve grown into this job and that you’re a perfectionist. That you allow no mistakes, lest you’d be fired tomorrow. And it’s fine. They don’t have to like you. All you care about is that there’s no reason to fire anyone. That everyone is safe. That no one must ever walk the streets like you had to. It’s your responsibility.

♣ ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕟𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤

Chambermaid of St Maur Castle - The Found Orphan

There she is, your darling daughter. After the old Earl had found you stealing from him, 17 years ago, he offered you a job under the condition that you would bring your daughter to an orphanage. At that time you did so almost gladly, for at least in an orphanage, she’d get a warm meal a day. 14 years later, the moment you heard that St Maur Castle was looking for new chambermaids, you told them to hire from this specific orphanage in London, and not long after, your beautiful daughter was with you again.

Baron Talbot - The Drinking Gambler 

How you loathe him. Your whole life you have had to deal with men like him, and while you used to be afraid of them, you are no longer. You’re a housekeeper now, and you have more power than those nobles suspect. When one day you saw the Baroness exit her house with bruises on her face, you knew immediately what type of man the Baron was. Until now you didn’t know what to do, but now there’s a lawyer in town…

Chamber Maid of St Maur - The Eager Geek

You recognise misery when you see it. And when you look at the Farm, where they have more children than sheep, you feel the misery in your bones. That’s why you make sure these kids all get a good job by the time they’re fourteen, just to make sure no one will ever go to the workhouse like you had to for a while when you were young. The Eager Geek is one of them. She’s grown into a lovely young woman now and you would do most anything to protect her.

[trott-ing]

zachariahforester·:

Zachariah had just been talking to their stable hand about his horse. Horses in general. He’d never tried very hard to get to know their groom, but he felt he might make more of an effort now, with him and with all their staff.

So he was quite deep in thought when a woman rounded the corner at some speed and almost crashed into him. He halted immediately, not as shocked as she was, but still surprised. It took him a moment to recognise her under her hat. “Are you alright?” He asked, reaching out a hand, palm up, which did not touch her but instead hovered between them offering support if she should need it. When she slumped against the wall he finally caught her features properly.

“Not at all Mrs Trott,” he smiled politely to brush away her apologies. “If anything a good brisk walk is good for your health, and I am in favour of any activity that keeps patients from my office.” Although perhaps that would be cancelled out by the chance she’d speed walk straight into some danger if she didn’t look where she was going.

He leant down and picked up the bag she had dropped, dusted it off lightly and then held it out for her. “I am sorry to have made such a frightening figure.” It was almost teasing, but more at the idea of him being worthy of a jump scare than her actual fright. “What brings you to Fairford today? Anything I can help you with?” He had not ever noted regular visits from her. In fact, he mostly only ever saw her at church, where he knew she worshipped almost as faithfully as his mother. But then as he’d already been recognising today, he didn’t know very much of the servant’s goings on at all.

A joke. Annie knew a joke when she heard one, and had always appreciated a well placed one to slice through any misplaced, or displaced awkwardness. She gave a small, polite, and bashful laugh, the type that one would know, upon hearing, could become a true cackle if given reason. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said, both for his good humour, his good words, and his good manners as he bent to pick up her humble carpet bag. Annabel accepted it and gently ran her fingers over the scrap of ribbon, removing any invisible dirt from its length. She liked to imagine her daughter’s hair would feel as soft, if she were able to touch it.

“A great, tall man such as yourself; us of the fairer sex have to prepare ourselves before coming across you, you know. So as not to be overwhelmed.” It was a tease in turn, and yet also something that Annabel truly believed. Men were different to women, imposing in a way they didn’t fully understand, strong in a manner which, unlike the strength of women, could be measured and seen in breadth and in width. Women’s strength, and women’s ability to intimidate – those were internal things, held deep inside, and seldom appreciated. Mrs Forester’s ability to intimidate within The Lighthouse Society was well known. She held an ability to cow other members, and coerce them into agreeing with her on topics of membership. Annabel’s strength was something known only by herself. She held an ability to survive, to claw her way out of the deep, dark mouth of her past, and to become more than she was. Better than she was.

Doctor Zachariah Forester’s offer of help gained a slightly strained smile, not too noticeable as to worry, but plain enough to carry an air of unease. “Actually, I’m here to see your mother. I know she doesn’t often take visitors on Sundays, but this is important.” It was very important. It was ground-shakingly important. Oh, if only the man knew of how important it was, of the secrets his mother kept, of her hypocrisy. “And so…” With her bag held in front of her lap, Annabel gave a little bob of her head towards the servant’s entrance, the stairs of which were now within sight.

[trott-ing]

DATE: 10th of July PLACE: Fairford House, Exterior STATUS: Closed @zachariahforester

Pride cometh before the fall. That’s what this was. It was the fall. Her fall.

Annie wasn’t a proud woman. She wasn’t a cruel woman. She wasn’t a bad woman, either. Sure, she’d made mistakes. Horrible ones, sinful ones, and – like her daughter – beautiful ones, too. Everyone made mistakes. The difference was that Annie owned her mistakes. She repented for them. She struggled for them. She payed for them.

Missus Rosalinde Forester wasn’t paying for her mistakes.

But Annie wasn’t a proud woman. She wasn’t a cruel woman. She wasn’t a bad woman. She knew that people made mistakes. Everyone made mistakes. And so, approaching Fairford House, she was willing to strike a deal. A place within The Lighthouse Society, and she would be silent. A position she could excel in, doing something she knew was good and worthy, and could wipe clean her soul of the black sooty spots of sin. That was her price. That was her price.

The Foresters always took extra time to arrive back from church on Sundays. Annie knew this, because you didn’t get to be Housekeeper for St. Maur Castle without forming connections, and Rose down in Fairford’s kitchen was a dear heart with a knack for brewing damn good tea. So it was past lunch when Annie made her way towards the house, her hat upon her head, her hands within her gloves, her feet within her boots. Shined. Primped. Proper. There was a bag held in the crook of her elbow, and she had embellished it with a scrap of ribbon, purchased many years ago on the date of her daughter’s sixteenth birthday; a gift, never given. Mrs Forester, on Sundays, did not receive callers. Mrs Forester, on Sundays, took time for solitary contemplation in the afternoons. Mrs Forester, on Sundays, would be exactly where Annie wanted her to be; alone.

Fairford House rose like a great, boxy beast of a house, and Annie stood before it. There were two ways to enter, for one like her; properly, and improperly. Round the side, Annie knew the steps that led down to the servant’s corridor and kitchen well, from chores and trips and tea. In the front, Annie was unfamiliar with the steps that led up to the front door, reserved for family and guests and good folk, better folk than her. Better folk than Rosalinde Forester. Annie stood, and stood, and then turned and headed for the side of the house. Later. She could know that route later. For now, there was bargaining. For now, there was accusal. For now there was-

A fall. Annie turned the corner of Fairford’s exterior too fast, noticed the body before her too late, too close, and with shock she dropped her bag. “Oh!” she yelped, hand going quick to her chest, holding her fast-beating heart in its place. Before her, he stood: Doctor Zachariah Forester. Eldest child of the Foresters. Second child of Rosalinde Forester, by Annie’s count. “Oh, you gave me an awful fright, Doctor,” she said with something like a laugh, sighing and slumping against the wall. “My apologies, my apologies. I was walking far too quick for my own good.”

[trott-ing]

Lipton

DATE: 1st of June PLACE: Farringdon

Farringdon wasn’t a place she’d been to before, and indeed she wouldn’t have headed out that way at all, if it weren’t for a very specific task she had set herself. Today was Annabel’s thirty-fifth birthday, and she’d be damned if she entered her thirty-sixth without something good attached to her name. Some good under her belt. Something she’d not given up, so very many years ago.

She’d been trying to get into The Lighthouse Society for a year now. There had been a day, before she turned thirty-four, in which Annie had made the exact same promise to herself; to no longer be indebted to the world for its kindness, but to pay it back. And to no longer just be an ex-cocotte, but to be a woman of charity, morally upstanding. Over and over again, despite knowing her class didn’t often meddle in the affairs of societies and charities (rather, they tended to be the aims of them), she had asked for membership. And always, always she had been shot down. Most specifically by one Mrs Rosalinde Forester.

So. It was her thirty-fifth birthday. And Annabel was in Farringdon.

Her intentions were not malicious. She’d heard, very occasionally, very briefly, that the reason Mrs Forester did not speak much of her family and her girlhood was because she had no family left to speak of. What Annabel wished to do was find someone who had known her – a family friend, a neighbour, a childhood pal – and ask for what she’d been like as a child. To find some knowledge that she could use to her advantage to form a friendship, even if it were a false one. Anything, anything, to get her a place in the Society. Anything.

The church at Farringdon had lichen on its stones in shades of mustard yellow and duck egg blue, and they covered the grey stones of the building so completely that one could barely catch a glimpse of the quarry marks underneath them. It was the same lichen which decorated the gravestones, each of them marking the recentness of the slabs with almost as much accuracy as the dates carved into them. From the oldest, no longer legible, with mossy lumps upon their tops, to the newest, still shining and bare. Annabel picked her way through them, her eyes scattering over names, searching for any sign of a Lipton.

There was Ackton, and Smith, Webster, Newman, and French, there was a whole family of Cottons, three Perrys, two Unknown Sailors, and finally, yes, Lipton. And Lipton. And Lipton. Died: 1834, Died: 1851, Died: 1891, and-

The headstone was new, blemishless and unweathered. Its carved epitaph stood out in sharp relief, below which sat the withered remains of a bunch of Dianthuses. With all of her might, Annabel did her best to read out what was written, flustered as usual by the gaps in her knowledge. ‘Here lies Aaron Lipton, Born 1847, Died 1904. Beloved Father and Grandfather. ‘𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔦𝔰 ℭ𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔡𝔦𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔤𝔞𝔦𝔫.’

“Ah.. Aa- Aaron,” Annabel mumbled to herself. She looked again at the date of death, frowning. Then, she looked to the headstone closest to it. Both of them, 1891 and 1904, were well within living memory. Both of them were certainly Liptons. And both of them – certainly Aaron – would have been visitable, up until this very year.

It didn’t add up.

“‘Scuse me.”

Annabel turned quickly at the voice, finding just a short way behind her a woman appearing close to middle age, who had a child of about ten years standing solemn-faced at her side. She was short, but in no way stout, instead being perfectly in proportion for her height, so that were it not for the size of the headstones around her and Annabel’s aptitude for telling distances she would not think the woman short at all. Her black hair was pinned up, with an ever so slightly tattered hat perched upon it, and she was dressed in a skirt and blouse which were both black, yet the blouse had the sort of patchiness to its colouring which spoke of being dyed at home. In her hands were a bunch of daisies. She was, quite obviously, a mourner.

Annabel’s surprise at her sudden appearance – for the graveyard had been silent but a moment ago, and she had heard no footsteps upon the ground – must have shown on her face. The woman, whose expression had been one of confusion, now turned to something approaching suspicious.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Ah, and she was a mourner for the very grave at which Annabel stood. With haste, the house keeper stepped back from the foot of the grave, her hands folded in front of her. “Oh, my apologies,” she said quickly, ducking her head with a little embarrassment for being caught looking at a grave she had little business approaching.

The woman, still regarding Annabel with a little distrust, climbed the last few sloping steps up to the grave. Then, without a word, she crouched down onto her knees and began to pull the dead pinks from the jar in which they sat. Annabel watched her, frozen and silent. Was that a resemblance she saw, or did she only dream it? Mrs Forester, with a round face, low cheekbones, and her shallowly-defined nose, was quite discernable compared to the others in St. Maur, bearing a resemblance only to her children and her husband. The woman tending to Aaron Lipton’s grave, it seemed, had a similar sweeping shape to her eyes, and the same flat, straight eyebrows. A familial resemblance, if ever Annabel had seen one. She parted her mouth, ready to ask about a Rosalinde, to toss her first die in the game she was playing, when the young boy – whom she had forgotten about – piped up with a thick local accent.

“D’ou know Grampy?” he asked, with the same sort of suspicion as had been in what Annabel guessed were his mother’s eyes. That woman paused in all of her fussing, hands full of dead, wet leaves.

“Sort of,” Annabel replied to both of them. “I was hoping to talk to someone what knew the Liptons about thirty-so years ago.”

With sudden, cool efficiency, the mourning woman shoved the daisies into the jar and stood, brushing off her hands. “Why?” she asked, and when she gave Annabel a searching, yet cold look, she resembled Rosalinde Forester so much that Annabel could have sworn they were twins. Those cold eyes latched onto Annabel’s throat and to the space just beneath it. “Are you a Sister?” she then asked with some level of anxiety.

Raising a hand, Annabel felt the small brass crucifix she wore around her neck with two fingers. A Sister – did the woman mean a nun? “No, no. Pardon, my name’s Annabel Trott. I’ve come from over St. Maur way. I know a woman what said the Liptons were all dead, and I wanted to ask about a Rosalin-”

Before the entirety of Mrs Forester’s given name could fall from her lips, the mourning woman turned quickly to her son. “You be off,” she said, in the sort of tone a child listened to, woven through with worry. The lad lingered a moment, his eyes darting between his mother and Annabel, before he turned on his heel and slumped his way back to the gate. The woman crossed her arms.

“What you know about my cousin, then?” she asked straight off, before Annabel could let another word fall from her mouth. A cousin. The mess of Mrs Forester’s lie about her family being dead became only messier. For a moment, Annabel stood silent, her mouth half-hung open. Then, finally she drew a breath.

“How about a cup of tea, and a chat?”

Farringdon wasn’t a place Annabel had been to before, and indeed she wouldn’t have headed out that way at all, if it weren’t for a very specific task she had set herself. That day had been Annabel’s thirty-fifth birthday, and she’d be damned if she entered her thirty-sixth without something good attached to her name. Some good under her belt. Something other than the child she’d given up, so very many years ago.

Luckily for her, by the end of her birthday, before the clock even struck nine in the evening, Annabel Trott had found the key she needed to unlock the gate barring her from The Lighthouse Society. Her intentions had not been malicious. Not in the beginning. But with the information she now had, with the quiz of St Maur’s seemingly most pious resident unravelled, they had become so.

[trott-ing]

dinah-stmaur·:

♣ ♣ ♣

“I trust these particular art thieves to have had excellent taste,” Dinah said, with a nod and an amused smile. In her heart, this story was true and she would always remember it as such even when she had seen with her very own eyes that Benny was hardly someone who could paint something so realistic.. even if it were just a banana.

Mrs Trott’s hand was handsome. It was a simple, true fact to Dinah. All those little details that many people would look at as flaw, were in her eyes marks of beauty. The broadness of Mrs Trott’s palm reminded Dinah of how safe it felt to be held by that hand. The dry skin told her of the hardworking nature of that hand and how it would tirelessly work to ensure one’s care. “I think they are very handsome and very beautiful, indeed,” she said, her voice quivering a little as she was moved by memories of the safety and comfort that those hands had granted her in her life. “I will be forever grateful to them, too, for all their work and care,” she added, quietly but without hesitation. “Thank you, Mrs Trott.”

You’re both too kind, Mrs Trott had said, but Dinah felt the only kind one was Benny. His painting was clearly better, but she would not argue with him. “I actually don’t recall St George’s dragon having a name..” she paused, giggling a little at the idea that it could’ve been called George. “Odd, yes, maybe so. Or maybe it would have made it a metaphor of some sort. St George needed to slay some part of him to succeed.” She shook the head, now that had said that she hated the idea. “I think I shall call him Irving. What do you think? Does it suit him?”

♣ ♣ ♣

When Annie had first come to St. Maur she had not been long a mother. Her daughter had been less than a year old, and still nursing (though she had started to teethe. If she thinks about it hard enough, Annabel can still feel the sharp bite of those first incisors as she was feeding.), and leaving her had been hands down the hardest thing the young woman she was had had to do. At first, being a scullery maid meant she didn’t see much of the four youngsters of the St. Maur family. But that didn’t mean she never saw them. She could still recall to this day the first time the two youngest daughters had come into the kitchen, seeking out treats from Signore Leone. She’d only been hired two weeks. Annie had leant over them at one point. She had smelled the wispy, thin, coily hair upon the youngest’s head. And her shift and corset had soiled with milk.

It had been eighteen years. Now, Annabel blinked rapidly to keep any moisture from her eyes. The St Maur children weren’t hers, and she had no illusions that they were, but she had often thought of her daughter over time, wondering how her progress compared to that of the St. Maur children – had she also struggled to properly pronounce her ‘th’s? Had she gone through a phase of biting? Had she struggled with acne? Did her nails always break? – and thus had paid close attention to the St. Maur siblings in turn. There was no way she couldn’t be moved by any acknowledgement from them. From any of them.

“Thank you, milady,” she added, as an extra reply to Lady Dinah, and when she sat back down it was at a new angle, allowing her a moment’s reprieve and to watch fully the footmen in their haulings.

[victorianchap]

🔸Autochrome picture entitled “Fenêtre” by Ludo Vanden Haute,, circa 1910 #victorianchaps #autochrome #oldphoto #vintage #edwardian #goodolddays #retro #pastlives #history #1910s https://www.instagram.com/p/Cd7oPIOARMt/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[trott-ing]

dinah-stmaur·:

♣ ♣ ♣

“I wish him to be happy, too,” Dinah replied, with a little nod of understanding. She had this romantic notion that no love should ever be regretted, even the most painful one. Yet, she had also never loved the way that Valentin and Zachariah had, and thus she knew she could never fully understand the kind of wound that brought you to wish to erase the past or forget it. “I wouldn’t want to push him into looking for a wife, either, but maybe he should let himself be open to the idea of it. It will surely be scary, but I think he is capable of such bravery.”

She gave Benny a quizzical look upon seeing his eyes growing wide. Ah, had she dared say too much? Dinah blushed a little, but hearing him laughing she smiled instead. “Oh, no, I could I ever manage without my handkerchief?” she feigned her despair at the idea, rather dramatically so.

He had laughed, and Dinah beamed happy at the sound and at the sight in front of her. She felt proud of herself, but most of all it warmed her to see Benny like this—even if for a moment. She started gathering a brush and the paints, picking up a vivid green. It was her turn to giggle as Benny caught up with her joke and played with it. Her eyes followed the movements of his hand, and opened wide at the mischievous act being performed right in front of her and her soon-to-be kite. “Benny!” she whispered, with a note of urgency. “A love is the least you could do. Why not a declaration on your kite.”

cescapist·:

_________________________________________________________________________

“You think it’s about bravery?” Benny asked, with a tilt of his head. He’d never considered courtship and the possibility of marriage as a frightening thing. But then again, he’d never considered the possibility of it going awfully wrong. What if, to repeat past horrors, one fell in love with the other, but the other did not love them? How would the married couple manage that, when they were locked into a legally and religiously binding contract, only severable by the very expensive and still quite damn scandalous act of divorce? Yes, maybe Dinah was right, maybe there was bravery in the act of finding a wife, after all.

Benny had often considered himself cowardly.

The dramatic play Dinah performed delighted Benny, reigniting that frisson of fondness he had only discovered since Valentin had mentioned his own, months ago as he sat before the fire. He put on his most sincere expression, though being no actor Benny’s brows were pinched over-much with fraught worry.

“Oh, my dear,” he said in an accent which was probably meant to be some flavour of Scottish, but fell very short of the mark, “be strong, be strong. Let not the hanky’s absence harden your heart. Look!” picking up a clean paintbrush, Benny cheekily darted forwards and ran the soft bristles over Dinah’s cheek, “you may mop your tears with this, and use them to paint a sign. Perhaps some passing, wealthy stranger will take pity on us, and deliver a scrap of lace on which to blow our noses!” Lifting his glasses, Benny put the brush to his eyes, next, dabbing the bristles just beneath them and looking morosely up to the heavens. Yet his lips were doing an awful job at hiding his mirth, already twisting into a smile at his own nonsense.

Then, for fun, he whirled the brush over Mrs Trott’s notebook, and gasped with joy. “Oh, what an idea!” he exclaimed in a stage whisper, snatching his hands and the brush away from the notebook, just in time for Mrs Trott to begin returning towards them. “Let’s see if she notices, hm?” he whispered again, with a quick wink to Dinah, before sending a beam Mrs Trott’s way.

@trott-ing·

The footman, taking Annabel’s order, nodded, gave a quick ‘Yes, Missus Trott,’ and sped off towards the servant’s hall to grab one of the girls and order her to bring up a decanter of water and several glasses. A girl, she chose, because all men should be working on the heavy lifting this part of the packing required.

She’d never liked this part of the year. Sending so many of the maids off to London had always sent her mood spiralling downwards and her anxieties flying upwards. What if they misbehaved, and Mrs Luison didn’t treat them as kindly as she did? What if they got seduced by some scallywag, and knocked up, and came back bulging and sickened, and she hadn’t been there to stop it? What if the truth of Annabel’s past came knocking, and they somehow learned of it, and she’d not been there to prevent that from happening?

Such worries would have to wait, for now. There were much more concerning things happening. Things like getting everything ready, and making sure Mr Jameson had all of his stuff in order for the trip, and keeping an eye on Mister Ebenezer, who seemed very familiar with Lady Dinah.

Making her way back towards the two of them now, Annabel didn’t miss the grin the lad gave her, but she didn’t react to it, either. Instead she approached, picked up her notebook once more, and addressed Lady Dinah.

“The girl will be here shortly, milady,” she informed. “I’ve asked for the biscotti to be brought up, as well. I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty.” Lady Dinah did seem fond of those biscuits Signore Leone made, and from what Annabel had heard from Loretta, Mister Ebenezer liked them, too.

With her report made, she took herself back to her stool, perching herself upon it, and deciding from now on to pay much more attention to Mister Ebenezer and his too-wide grin, just in case she found it being aimed at places it shouldn’t be allowed. Like her Ladyship’s bosom.

@dinah-stmaur

[alorenzaa]

Le Berceau (1872), par Berthe Morisot

[trott-ing]

the-eager-geek·:

∞ 

Hmph. Ivy huffed. ‘Reprimanded again. ’Stupid rules. Mind my manners; mind your own business! She mimicked her in her mind, mentally throwing things at her until she sulked and just listened to the housekeeper, watching her, and when she came closer she folded her arms and didn’t move. But she wasn’t angry with her, she loved her and vice versa. But Mrs Trott knew Ivy was annoying, and Ivy knew Mrs Trott was strict. 

“… That wasn’t going to happen. I know, we already know that.” Can’t you just give up… she thought, there was no point in reprimanding her. It was always happening anyway.

Ivy blinked and immediately winced as Mrs Trott’s hands were on Ivy’s foot. It almost felt worse than before “…No, not if you take your hands awa- Ow. Mrs Trott… I’ll be alriiight, I’ll be fine- I’ll be fineeee.” She babbled and tried to pull her foot back but she didn’t want to hurt herself and Mrs Trott was a bit stronger than her. 

Ivy squirmed and complained and whined and sulked, and with a sigh and huff that was more for show than it was true, Annabel finally let go of her foot. “If it’s fine, then you don’t need to be restin’ it, hm?” she said, more to catch her out than to shame her. Despite how strict she could be, there was still a smile tucked in the corner of her lips. Ivy was one of her favourites, after all.

She let a pause hang between them, let the grumblings flow, let the ankle rest. And then, when she thought Ivy would finally be a little more receptive to advice, Annabel leant forwards in her seat. She placed her elbows on her knees and looked very intensely into the young maid’s eyes. She did not scowl, nor frown, nor purse her lips. Instead she looked at the maid beseechingly. ‘This is important, now,’ her gaze said. ‘Pay attention.’

“Miss Ivy,” Annabel started, using the girl’s preferred name purposefully. “You know if I’d not been the one to catch you with that paper, but our eldest Ladyship, you’d be in right trouble.”

[trott-ing]

valentin-talbot·:

“You’re quite right,” Valentin nodded. The truth was, he wasn’t entirely sure what exactly he was agreeing with. But Mrs Trott had said something about ‘obeying Him’, and that was a notion he knew he had to agree with. "I was avoiding to upset Lady St Maur.” The slip in name proving what he thought of her: The head, the leader, the holder of power. “I suppose-…” No. No supposing. Stating. Go on, Talbot, stand for something for once. “The Earl and the Church are the two institutions which hold the most power here in St Maur. Part of me wishes to have them both be on the same side, rather than fight.” It seemed to have worked for half a decade with the old Earl and Father Lancashure. So why wouldn’t it work with his daughter and Valentin?

“That is a generous and gracious offer, Mrs Trott,” he said, and his voice was, despite the habitual softness in it, still rather metallic. A machinery, executing orders. His shoulders were still straight. “I am inclined to take you up on it, but how do you have the time? Aren’t you occupied enough by the Castle?” 

Truth be told, Annabel didn’t really care to get involved in the business of the upstairs. The Earl was a good man, who had been good to her, and was good to his staff. His daughters were good women, who did their best, and treated her staff fairly. That’s all Annabel cared to know; the rest was beyond her. It simply wasn’t her place. So in reply to Father Valentin’s assertions that he wished (or part of him wished) for the Church and the St. Maurs to ally together, all Annabel could do was nod. As far as she’d been aware there were no frictions between the Earl – a good, Christian man – and the Church. But if Father Valentin said there were, then there must be.

“Oh I could only help in my off hours, of course,” Annabel conceded. “But advice can be given no matter the time and place.” Yes, weekends would be the only time she could really roll her sleeves up and get stuck in, should Father Valentin allow her to. Yet even a few hours were better than none.

[katabasis-gallery]

«Сюрприз» /   «La Sorpresa» Cesare Lapini, 1882

@catharsis-gallery in tg: t.me/truecatharsis

[trott-ing]

the-eager-geek·:

She always found Mrs Trott a bit scary, she was strict, sometimes harsh, but sometimes very kind and obliging, sometimes both. And Ivy never knew what she was going to do, because once again she was scared and confused because she was about to reprimand her but also look at her foot.

“But … don’t take it away from me. You wouldn’t understand anyway,” she pouted and held out her arm, but it was useless. “There’s only one lady here anyway” - and she was the dearest of them all - “she would understand…. Ms Trott. My… Paper?” But the housekeeper made no move to give her the article and so Ivy’s arm clapped to the table with a loud ‘flup’.

Ivy sighed and pouted, thinking fiercely about how her rude awakening this morning didn’t sound so bad, but there was no point either. “I was late and when I woke up I got up straight away but misstepped and fell down,” that was all she said, though it got worse when she fell off the chair after Ira tickled her, but well, no need to drag anyone else into it, and to be fair it would have sounded a lot more ridiculous if she’d said she’d fallen off because of her lack of balance. “I’ll get right back to work. I promise.”

Ivy’s pleading most likely wasn’t meant to wound, but it did, just a little. Annabel let out a large tut of affront. Wouldn’t understand anyway, the cheek!

“Mind your manners, Miss Avery,” she huffed, but did not otherwise react, not to what Annabel had taken as an accidental insult, nor to the comments about their employers. She simply waited, lap ready and waiting, hiding the wry amusement she felt at watching the maid’s dramatic show of disappointment.

When it appeared Ivy wasn’t going to offer her foot, Annabel sighed and bent over to scoop her up by the calf. She’d hurt her own ankles more times than she could count in her life, and knew that, whilst unpleasant, it could be aided in recovery with gentle stretching.

“Well, if you weren’t late…” this might not have happened, Mrs Trott said as she took the ball of Ivy’s heel in one hand and held her ankle steady with the other. Slowly, she applied pressure to the rolled joint, manipulating it this way and that to test the sensitivity. “You don’t need to go off and see Doctor Forester, or anything?” she asked, gently tilting the girl’s foot outwards.

[trott-ing]

valentin-talbot·:

Once again Mrs Trott stumbled on her words about his title and Valentin couldn’t help puff out a chuckle – embarrassment stored inside his chest in a form of a little laugh. His hand went to his forehead, rubbing underneath a fringe that wasn’t there these days because he’d so meticulously glued it back. A habit, and now a reminder. The smile disappeared. 

Gaze on the grimy church floor now, he listened to her explanation, though the words sounded warbled, a bit distant. Clear, but without any teeth to hold onto in his mind. He nodded. “Alone, yes.” His hand slipped over his hair instead as he straightened, raised his gaze back to Mrs Trott, then a moment later, got up. “I mentioned the current condition of Saint Mary’s to Lady St Maur but she was ready to help only with her money. Appropriate, I reckon. I don’t see any reason to burden someone else with my property. I’m no longer a Lord, as you noted yourself, so I shouldn’t comport myself like one. I shall learn, and Saint Mary’s feel be in an acceptable condition again soon.” A decision, not a hope. 

That did sound like her Ladyship. If a problem did not concern the history of St. Maur or the family’s estate, then it must be a problem of money. It was not her Ladyship’s fault, of course - it was how she was raised. To never face a difficulty that did not stem from her wealth and position, and to have avoided so much through the same means, would affect anyone’s understanding of the world.

“Ah,” Annabel said delicately, “but the church is the house of God, is it not, Father? House of God, home to all who obey Him.” Her eyes clung to those windows, their dimmed beauty forcing Saint Mary’s to transform from a place of sanctuary and into a secretive cavern. There were no two ways about it; the church was barely larger than a chapel, and certainly paled in comparison to the more stunning buildings readily available in London, where Annabel’s young and uninterested eyes had skated past without a care. But it had been the first church in which she had truly prayed. The first church where she felt God’s presence and love. The first in which the rays of light had been transformed not only in colour but also in warmth; falling upon her, a sinner, and raising her up. To see such rays dimmed was upsetting, indeed.

“If you should want aid, Father, one of these days, just ask it and I’ll do what I may,” she offered at length, and patted her hands upon her lap as if to seal the deal. Christ had saved her soul, it only made sense for her to do her part in returning His house to its glory.

[closeupofpaintings]

Albert Anker - Tea Service (detail), oil on canvas

[trott-ing]

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.”

Some strange mixture of relief and concern worked its way through Annabel’s chest and limbs at hearing Lady Dinah wasn’t present. On the one hand, thank Christ that her Ladyship wasn’t injured. On the other, what on earth had happened to cause that noise? The concern, upon hearing that it was a vase (a vase!) and that it had indeed been broken (broken!) by Missus Carter (Daisy!), won over her relief pretty quickly.

A sharp intake of breath into her nose. Annabel’s eyes peered into the room over Daisy’s head, just as the apology slipped from her.

“A vase,” Annabel echoed, and bit her lip. Was it an expensive one? A treasured one? An old one? How much pay would be docked? She knew that the bond between ady and her maid was a strong one, especially in the case of Daisy and Dinah, who were so aptly matched it sometimes seemed a miracle they didn’t float away, what with their heads so often in the clouds. But would that relationship be strong enough to overlook the break of a vase?

Annabel would really rather not find out.

“I will get a mop. Start collecting the largest of shards - carefully. No cut fingers. We’ll also need a broom and pan. And another vase for those flowers,” she nodded to the wild blossoms still in Daisy’s hands, their green stems dripping sluggishly. “If anyone comes before I return, you don’t take the blame.” It was an order. An order she hoped Mrs Carter would follow. Perhaps Lady Dinah truly wouldn’t mind her maid’s mistake, but Annabel would rather she risked her own neck than that of the maid. A Housekeeper with close to two decades spent serving in the Castle was more likely to absorb the blame than be ruined by it.

With a stern look to make sure she was taken seriously, Annabel then quickly hurried to the nearest broom cupboard to find a mop, rags, and all the other tools they would need. She hoped the water had still been clear, and there was no rug beneath it.

[trott-ing]

the-eager-geek·:

Ivy shivered for a moment and straightened up a little. Ivy, my name is Ivy. she thought, but didn’t dare cross Mrs Trott’s mouth. When she talked, it was better not to cut her off or just run away; becoming invisible was fine, but oh well, damnit.

But she was startled when Ms Trott closed and locked the doors to the servants’ hall. What the bloody hell?

“Listen, Ms Trott. I’m sorry about this. But… Don’t lock me up to straighten me out. I know what I did wrong. It was a hard day yesterday and I didn’t get enough rest, but I was quick and got most of it done today and wanted to take a short break. I wasn’t here for more than maybe five minutes. And I’ll go back to work when my foot doesn’t hurt so much.” Ivy almost couldn’t stop talking. She just didn’t want to get yelled at again, but it was the truth and nothing less.

Or… maybe the ‘five minutes’ part was a bit of a fib, but not on purpose. She saw the article lying on the floor as she tried to avoid Mrs Trott’s stern gaze. She bent down to pick up the article and grimaced. She put the article aside and kicked off her left shoe to take a look.

In cases like this, it would be great to have modern appliances in the house, but who listened to Ivy. They could now facilitate or take over tasks that Ivy could not reasonably do right now. If only people would just listen to me.. 

All of a sudden Miss Avery’s mouth turned into a waterfall, and from it ran a stream of excuses and explanations. Annabel didn’t mind a break if the girl had done her tasks (though there was always more work to be done, always, and she was sure that the girl could have found something to do if she’d looked). What she did mind was a clear contravening of rules. Papers were for people like them. They were for the Earl and his daughters. Annabel cut across her with a tut.

“Straighten you out, indeed,” she scoffed, pulling the key from the lock and moving quick to the scrap of newspaper Miss Avery had set aside. Her letters weren’t brilliant, but Mrs Trott knew enough of them (and knew enough about dear Ivy) to guess what the article was concerning. “You know this isn’t allowed,” she said, voice sterner now, pointing her finger to the scrap. Yet it wasn’t anger that screwed her bow into a crumpled line, but worry. The girl seemed more interested in her foot rather than the Housekeeper’s words. “What if it weren’t me that found you with it, but Lady St. Maur? You think she would mind what your foot’s doing, rather than your sticky fingers?”

Sighing heavily, and knowing it wouldn’t endear her in Ivy’s heart (but knowing that it was worth it, to keep the girl safe and sound and employed), Annabel crumpled the ripped-out article in her hand and shoved it into her pocket, for burning in the kitchen fire. She had to go and collect Signore Leone’s shopping list, anyhow.

Contraband dealt with, she sunk into a chair beside Ivy, and patted a hand on her lap. “Come on then, let me see it,” she said of the girl’s foot. “How’d it happen, hm?”

[trott-ing]

valentin-talbot·:

“Oh,” Valentin said again, a word that tumbled out of him almost like the ‘plop’ of a child’s butt falling onto the floor. “That makes sense.” And because it wasn’t in his nature to feel embarrassed over his own embarrassment, nor to conceal the realisation of when he’d made a mistake, he added: “I’m really quite stupid, aren’t I?” 

He stood a little straighter, as though his whole spine needed to be straight for his eyes to go up and rummage through his mind. “A bucket, a rag, water, and soap from Marseille.” A beat. “Also a ladder. To. Reach.” 

Yes, oh. Annabel did her best to make her smile even more encouraging, and a touch sympathetic. In all her years she’d never had someone to kindly steer her in the right direction when she’d been wrong. Not her ma, nor pa, nor teacher, nor the workhouse overseers had done so. Even when she’d started as a maid at St Maur Castle her mistakes weren’t so much gently corrected as tutted over, and her pay was then docked. As a result, the expression came out a little forced, or wrong, like you’d asked someone who’d never seen such an expression before to draw it on her face. Cramped. But it was still there, and it was still real. Realer still was the quick shake of her head.

“Not stupid at all, milord-Father - apologies.” There it was again. “No more than you’d think a servant like me stupid for not knowing my Latin.” A nod now, as if cementing her words as fact. Annabel couldn’t think Father Valentin stupid - he’d been to Oxford! - but she did think him innocent. Hidden from the realities of the world. Not for the first time, she wondered why it was he’d decided to take up the cloth.

As he listed off his items, she nodded along. And then, at the end, her mouth slipped into a lop-sided smile. Yes, a ladder would be of particular use when it came to windows like these ones. It seemed he had the basics down, right down to knowing about those brilliant beige-brown bricks of savon de Marseille, which she could never pronounce properly and always called ‘hunks of brown’ for ease. The problem was less one of product - unlike the floor - and more one of technique.

“Windows like these ‘uns often just need water and a cloth, but you’ve got the right type of soap for washing many-a-thing, there. Give them all another wipe down with a wet cloth, and then a dry with a clean one after. I-” Frowning, Annabel took another quick look around the church. Though small, it was no one-man job. “I hope you’re not trying to do this all alone, Father.”