✧｡ –– ( rose williams , twenty nine , cis female , she/her ) you do not know me but rest assured i know you, 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗦 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗢𝗧𝗧𝗘 𝗣𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗥𝗢𝗞𝗘. you are the 𝗢𝗪𝗡𝗘𝗥 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗠𝗢𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗘 𝗔𝗧 𝗟𝗔𝗗𝗬 𝗠𝗔𝗬’𝗦. you maybe be known for your 𝗜𝗡𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗜𝗧𝗬 but it is only a mask for the true nature of your 𝗙𝗔𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖 ways. however, i am not here to spread slander on the queen’s jewels, though i suspect you are her 𝗥𝗢𝗦𝗘 𝗤𝗨𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗭. the ton says your name reminds them of 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗔 𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗜𝗦𝗡’𝗧 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 , 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬 𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗔 𝗣𝗜𝗘𝗖𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗙 , 𝗪𝗔𝗟𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗚𝗛 𝗔 𝗙𝗜𝗘𝗟𝗗 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗡𝗦. how scandalous! you have been warned, dear reader, that i will prove if this is true and share every last detail.
✧｡ –– 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗔𝗦𝗜𝗖𝗦 ,
full name : miss charlotte pembroke. dob : march the 1st. age : twenty nine. zodiac : pieces. gender : cis female. pronouns : she / her. orientation : unsure. hair color : brown. eye color : brown. height : 5'5"
✧｡ –– 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗜𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗬 ,
though the world might have wished otherwise … charlotte pembroke was not born quiet. she crashed into life with paint across her fingers , scraps of ribbon in her pocket , and a mind always reaching beyond the familiar walls of her parents’ shop. raised among imaginary friends , the mannequins of lady may’s were her closest confidantes. it was there she learned to craft beauty before she ever dared ask for it. a child of vision , full of ideas far too big for the rooms she inhabited. but sketching new worlds in the margins of fabric orders was enough .. for a while.
most of her youth , she was alone. her parents were ever devoted to their craft. pouring all love into their word. and charlotte , so eager to belong , mirrored it back with skill and silent determination. it wasn’t loneliness exactly —nor was it a closeness she witnessed within other families.
it took the arrival of her brother , much later in her childhood , a small and blinking miracle , to soften them. but it had been too late to repair damage done within their first born. to mend the broken relationship. charlotte has already begun to fit the mold , expected of her by society , when she believed she had a chance to be more than just a seamstress— a life that was truly her own.
she was not always guarded. there had been a time when she believed in open doors , easy laughter , the kind of love that did not seek permission. but … some lessons were learned in silence. shame. tucked behind polite smiles. a chapter missing from her story , one she never bothers to correct. all that matters is that she has grown ; learned how quickly freedom can be snatched away. so can love.
since then , charlotte has kept the world at arm’s length. creative still , radiating her mother’s gentle nature , but tempered somehow. a woman that knows only to meet affection with caution. who trusts only what she can build with her own hands.
the passing of her parents was not one taken easily. illness was kept a secret , not wanting to disturb their usual business and put lady may’s at risk. but now , with a new modiste in town … charlotte fears their sacrifice might have been for nothing. she does what is best , both as steward of their legacy and guardian of her brother , even if society yearns for him to step into role. it is a heavy one , she will not burden him at such a young age.
each stitch in her work is precise , designs infused with quiet defiance — proof that she can hold the world together on her own terms.
✧｡ –– 𝗪𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗡𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 ,
childhood friend — someone that would have known charlotte before she became the hardened shell of herself. they still care for her and do their best to pull back out the vibrancy they once knew , despite charlotte’s insistence of pushing them ( and everyone ) away.
patrons of lady may’s — regulars who come in far more than they should. occasional visitors. maybe even someone who comes only to measure the competition for queen anne’s.
mentor — an older person who steps into charlotte’s life following the passing of her parents. perhaps someone who knew them and wishes only to make sure she knows what she is doing / getting into by claiming sole responsibility of the shop and her brother. they understand the business side of things , as well as the world.
aspiring business partner — given lady may’s outstanding history , this person has been trying to strike up a deal for years. to get their foot in the door , so to speak. after being run off multiple times by charlotte’s late father , they returned once more in hopes to woo her and buy into the shop.
“No offence taken, Miss…” The title lingered — cautious — as though he might tuck a name into it later, should she offer one. His eyes returned to her, parting from the silks and trim, shifting to the steadiness of her hands and the ribbon they had left behind. Adrian’s expression softened with a touch of amusement. He was not in the habit of correcting others for speaking freely. Quite the contrary. One could hardly fault her for offering opinions during such an affair, all pomp and posture and noses held so impossibly high. But well — it was his cousin’s event. “Do not, I beg. We have quite enough unspoken things around here. It’s rare to hear something said plainly.” His voice was even, low. Not hesitant, but measured.
He straightened, his shoulders rolling back just slightly — an absentminded, habitual motion. One hand settled behind his back, the other lingered near the display as he considered the row of bonnets once more. “It is exactly as you say — a beginning in disguise. One moment, an ever chattering, content child, and then suddenly, the most indifferent creature. No matter the tale told, nor the ribbon offered… There was a time I could gift a leaf, and she’d declare it a treasure.” He breathed out through his nose — not weary, but thoughtful — before shaking his head in quiet fondness. “Now she keeps to her cousins, and thankfully, she has plenty. And I’ve been kindly informed my opinions are hopelessly out of fashion. I fear she is quite right.” And there it was — a smile. Fingers brushed the edge of the bonnet she’d chosen — light blue. His brow furrowed, gaze catching on the perfectly finished stitching. “This might do just so.” He said in agreement. “It may please her. Or it may not.” A pause. Then, he continued with just enough solemnity to mask the glint of jest. “But one must be brave, Miss.” He held it toward her, careful not to crease the shape. “Would you wrap it, please?” His head tilted to the side, gaze locking with hers. A faint curiosity where humour had lingered. “It’s a rather fine selection you have here. Is it your own work?”
“pembrook , my lord.” she offered. name folded neatly between breath and ribbon , as if it too had been tied by hand. fingers moved , reaching for a box , then further still to draw out the fine tissue paper — thin enough to see light through , delicate enough not to rustle. the practiced grace of someone used to doing things in quiet corners , with care no one thought to notice. “yes. they have a way of slipping right through you ,” she mused. no edge to it — only the soft truth of someone who knew how loss behaved. not loud , but constant. “oh. she sounds like a marvel !” her gaze rose to his. not guarded , not exposed. steady. smoothing the tissue with her palm. “though if your opinions truly are out of fashion .. i fear fashion has simply lost its taste.” something steadier blossomed — some quiet faith not easily borrowed. “you have chosen well , that will not go unnoticed. even if she does not offer it with spoken words.”
charlotte drew the box closer. not her most ornate , but just within the tone of the gift. velvet lining , gray exterior — understated , dignified. “not all of them ,” she admitted when his question reached her. a hush of something like fondness , softened at the corners by absence. “some are the last remaining works of my parents. they began lady may’s. i only hope to carry half as much talent.” the ribbon came next — soft gold , tied in a way her mother had shown her. “your appreciation of it is an honor , my lord. i only hope your goddaughter shares your admiration.” her eyes met his again , something tender passing between. not bold , but sure. “and… if it displeases her , i offer full permission for its return. perhaps a hunt of her own might remind her how to see the treasure in things once more.”
the unmistakable smell of freshly cut grass filled teddy’s senses as he walked through the crowd — his eye was on georgiana, his fiancée, as she spoke with friends and family, a glitter in her eye. he snuck glances at her, sent her knowing smiles and winks and had spent most of the day by her side, joyfully (loudly) proclaiming his love and happiness to all who would listen. but, he figured he’d give her some space with her closest friends for a little while. he wandered over to the vendors’ area, eager to see each stall.
teddy spotted a curly haired brunette selling fine silks and fabrics with a defeated look on her face — and teddy was determined to fix it. he watched as two women left the stall before approached curiously, a friendly smile on his lips — perhaps he could get a gift for thea or georgiana?
he gave the young woman a kind greeting before stepping closer to the stall. “all of this for some horses — oh how strangely high society works,” a boisterous laugh slipped through his lips before he looked around behind them at all the fanfare amongst the crowd. “did i hear you say ivory embroidered gloves?” he asked with a grin, “i would love to see them.”
“not to worry, miss. humans could learn a lot from horses,” a laugh, he’d grown fond of the horses in the calvary during the war — they’d offered him a sort of peace in the midst of fear and chaos. as he admired the silk, a thought came to mind. grinning ear to ear, giddy as a schoolboy, teddy tilted his head at the young woman. “do you have any suggestions for a soon to be groom to purchase for his soon to be bride?” the words still sounded foreign coming out of his mouth — but a foreign that was beautiful, like the glittering blue ocean on the coast of greece or snowy mountains in the alps — far away from the ton, something you only hear about in dreams.
“certainly , sir.” voice a hush of ribbon , rather than crafted silk. worn smooth by long hours of the even longer day. charlotte could not muster a smile in the timing she would have liked. instead , it unfurled slowly. the way certain flowers only dared to bloom in shade. “right this way. we have quite the selection. though i must confess , they are not made for days like this. they shine brightest where hands speak more than mouths do.” charlotte reached for pair , unwrapping them with care. they were fine — but not delicate. the sort of finery that remembered its purpose.
when gaze did lift , wry understanding touched her features like a breeze that never quite turned to wind. something in his jest — or perhaps in the truth behind it — had unsettled her in the softest way. “some say horses are simple creatures ,” charlotte murmured , the words almost fond. “but i’ve found they notice … everything. the moment you pretend , they turn from you.” voice dipped , not out of secrecy , but something more intimate. the quiet of someone who’d learned the value of silence before speech. then , under her breath , “high society might do well to learn that , too.”
gloves were placed before him , hands folding at waist as she exhaled soft breath. “for a bride ?” she echoed , head tilting. there was a spark then — too bright for her fatigue to suppress entirely. perhaps the day still had its small mercies. or perhaps it was simply his joy , contagious and bright as midsummer.
“i find most brides have already chosen the things they desire , whether they will admit to such or not. but , if it is in your heart to surprise her—” a pause then , thoughtful as she cast gaze around her tent. “choose something she would not buy for herself. not for lack of means , but because she believes it to be too lovely to deserve without reason.” tone softened again — as though something warmer had passed between thought and word. “something like silk-lined gloves , perhaps. or a comb inlaid with mother-of-pearl. impractical , some would say. but love often is.”
"I suppose if I am to spend coin at today's race, one wager should be guaranteed in my favor," Thayer says, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth as his attention fell to her table. If only he could entice Madeleine to this side of the track when he would eventually be swept back into a courting for the afternoon. The view of the horses and riders was obstructed, but every member of the ton was easily revealed if not for a strategically placed parasol. "I believe once the race starts, some will feel luckier to give into such delicacies. Let me indulge, perhaps pretending I've already won will manifest some hope. What would you recommend that isn't too forward as a gift for today?"
His attention, of course, was where it should not be. Plans to find Miss Chanmi Mun should be his focus and yet Thayer's gaze every so often looked to the crowd for another face. One he knew would not be caught up in fine silks unless Adelaide had dragged him.
"These are quite impressive," He agreed, reaching out to touch the iridescence of pearls beaded along seams. "Where did you get these gems, imported from Margate?"
she let his voice settle into the linen canopy’s hush , stretching across the velvet like dusk. only once he reached for the pearls— two fingers trailing the beadwork — did she tilt her gaze to him. “a guaranteed wager ,” she repeated , with softness that barely passed for amusement. “how rare. most here gamble in performances , not purchases.” her own fingers moved. dancing next to a pair of gloves ; palest dove and embroidery so fine it might have been breath. “not too forward , unless your intentions are. but you don’t strike me as careless with sentiment.” charlotte could not be helped. allowing the suggestion to rest , thin as a ribbon’s edge.
“though if you’re pretending you’ve already won , i could suggest the whole set. there are those who believe fortune multiplies when you act as though it's already yours.” she met his eyes as she said it. beneath her composure , a tremor. small , but real. how easily kindness could edge toward care , and care toward loss. but charlotte only straightened. hands steady. always steady.. “as for margate—no. not these. corsican pearls. bartered from a merchant who claimed they were spared from ruin by a woman wearing one of my designs.” a pause , barely a laugh. “i never asked for the rest of the tale.”
she did not smile , but eyes did something like it ... creased at the corners , as if memory were sunlight caught behind gauze. “shall i wrap it for her , or for you — just until you’re certain ?”
as the woman spoke, she looked to the race track, a small smile on her lips. "it's a sight to behold. that is for sure." she nodded. she found the whole thing a little frivolous, if she was honest, though she wasn't about to say. "oh, you are absolutely correct." she nodded. "i imagine one too many lords are going to be going home unhappy this evening."
"there is nothing to forgive." josephine spoke, gently. she could be a harsh when she needed to be but she could be soft, too. especially with women that were younger than her. being the eldest of five - three sisters and a brother - josie slipped into the role easily. "you are free to speak your mind, if that is what you need."
she glanced to the wears that charlotte had brought with her, a smile on her lips. she picked up a pair of gloves, "these are truly lovely." she nodded, his fingers gliding over the silk. "i could do with a new pair, after all."
charlotte stood still , her body held in careful quiet of someone used to being looked past. “i imagine you’re right ,” she laughed. words barely more than breath. “about the lords. too many wagers placed on the wrong horse , or wrong woman.” a flicker crossed her mouth then— not quite a smile. something drier. knowing. gone as quickly as it came. “and i thank you—for your grace. i don’t always speak as carefully as i should.” her thumb pressed into velvet gently , as if to prove its shape could hold. “but it’s rare to be invited to speak at all. especially when one’s name isn’t embroidered at the hem of anything important.”
a glance then. measured. just enough to meet josephine’s eye. the compliment was met with a quiet nod. smallest tilt of charlotte’s head. as if receiving praise was a thing she had once known how to do , but the edges of habit had worn away. “thank you , my lady. you’re kind to say so.” charlotte said , her gaze lowering to gloves resting between the countess’s fingers. “they were stitched by candlelight , each pair. silk is temperamental. it teaches you patience , or it frays.” voice held no boast. only truth drawn thread by thread from experience. hands that had stitched through hunger , through silence , through seasons that asked more than they gave.
she fell quiet then. josephine’s gentleness had caught her unprepared. not for its presence , but for way it settled. unexpected from a countess spoken of in firm , clipped terms by those who believed power and softness could not inhabit the same body. “they’d suit you ,” charlotte offered at last , words resting easy between them. “i could have them wrapped and sent to your party . or perhaps you wish to carry them yourself ?”
acelya kara had always found markets — stalls, ribbons, hawkers, charm masked in civility — to be little theatres of desperation. she wasn’t cruel enough to say so aloud, not here, not now, but she watched them all the same. watched as charlotte played her part so well, too well. the brim of her hat cast a neat shadow across her eyes, but her voice, when it came, was unmistakably hers: cool, poised, and not entirely unkind. “for silk?” she echoed, stepping just slightly out of the shade like something drawn by scent rather than invitation. “no, i don’t think silk’s ever been what tempts me.” she let the words settle — not biting, but deliberate. her gaze drifted over the display — fine things laid out with the care of someone who knew what they were worth, even if the world refused to say it aloud. it reminded her of herself, once. still. always. “but honesty?” she continued, lifting a gloved hand to trail it along the edge of a bonnet, the same one the girls had turned away from. “now that... is rare.” she turned her head then, properly looking at charlotte. not as a customer. not as a critic. as a woman who recognized something tightly wound beneath fine stitches. “you sell beauty to women who’ll never see the strength in your hands,” she said softly, almost an observation to herself. “and still, you smile.” acelya tilted her head, a glint of something sharper at play beneath her calm veneer. “tell me, miss—” a pause, deliberate. “what is it you’re really chasing?” and there it was. not scorn. not mockery. a question dressed like a kindness, but offered like a challenge.
bonnet resting between her fingers was suddenly heavier. as if it were capable of calling to memory the things she preferred to forget. charlotte adjusted the title of it one final time , if only to hide the tremble that ghosted across her knuckles. “chasing ,” she repeated. tone even. softer though shoulders had tensed. she looked to acelya then , measured her words as one might weigh lace on a scale — delicate , but never without value. “i suppose it depends on the day.” gaze did not flinch. not defensive , but certainly not yielding. “some days it’s coin. enough to keep the lights lit and the rent gentlemanly. enough to keep from owing anyone anything.”
a faint curve touched the edge of her mouth—not quite a smile. too honest for that. “others ..” charlotte continued , “i think it might be dignity.” fingers smoothed the ribbon again , though this time it wasn’t about the silk. more so about grounding herself in truth that had managed to come out despite best efforts. “something stitched into seams and hems , where no one thinks to look.” a breath. quiet but clean. “beauty has always been easier to sell than grief. easier to measure too.”
wind tugged faintly at the canopy above them. she let her eyes wander , just a moment. out past the crowd. toward the galloping line of horses too far to see clearly. the only ones bold enough to run without explanation. then back to acelya. “and you ?” voice low , but not careful this time. “what brings you to a stall like mine , where temptation is only ever sewn with thread ?” chin lifted. only a fraction , as if she wished to forget where society has placed her. “you ask what i chase. had i less care for control of my tongue , my lady … i might inquire as to what it is you have already outrun.”
THE CLOTHES PEOPLE WORE HELD MORE VALUE THAN THAT OF THEIR PRICE. IN ONE PIECE OF CLOTHING EVERYTHING ABOUT A PERSON COULD CHANGE. Could blend in with the crowd or stand apart from it. Whatever was needed, the right garment would sell the outcome wanted. Ladies fawned over the fabric but men equally ensured they dressed for the right occasion.
Gloves had been the item he did not leave the home without. The fabric would conceal the marked tattoos on his hands that indicated his rank of a sailor that were best disguised and hidden away. Eyes went straight to them, inspecting the color and feel. “There’s never been an opportunity for me to visit a racetrack. Everyone is dressed in their finery to walk through mud. An interesting choice. They do look excellent. Is it your work on display here?” Ungloved hands take hold of a gentleman looking pair on the table. “How about these.”
charlotte could not withhold laughter soft and sudden , like a breath caught on the hem of something finer. not loud enough to draw eyes— just enough to admit amusement. “walking through mud in silk hems and borrowed diamonds ,” she replied. head shaking slightly. “there’s a metaphor in there somewhere. though i doubt anyone here wants to find it.” her gaze flicked to his hands , then away. not sharply. just enough to show she’d noticed. ungloved. curious. she tilted her head , voice almost casual. “is this your first season in london?” the murmurs of the crowd filled the space between them , but her attention remained fixed.
“they are mine , yes. and your kind words are most appreciated , sir.” voice smoother now charlotte nodded faintly toward the pair he'd touched. “lined in silk. they’ll last you through much , provided you keep them from the rain. the dye doesn’t hold well against the elements.” fingers hovered just over the fabric , brushing the edge as if to reaffirm the delicate care stitched into every inch. “would you care to try them on ? too snug and they might never let you go.”
“Ah, zere is truly no need for zat. This wine, it is all ze help I require.” Her words floated out, velvet-soft and tinged with that unmistakable confidence, but beneath the bravado, Sylvie felt a small warmth flicker. It would have been so easy to simply wave Charlotte away, to pretend she needed nothing and no one. But she knew, deep in that stubborn heart of hers, how rare it was for someone to care enough to ask. Even a simple question about her well-being felt like a gift.
So she offered Charlotte a sheepish, apologetic smile, the kind that barely lifted the corners of her lips but tried, at least, to meet kindness halfway. Tiredness clung to her like a second skin, and yet here was Charlotte, undeterred by Sylvie’s prickly shell, willing to step closer, to help. For that, Sylvie was quietly, fiercely grateful, though she would never say so aloud.
“Yes, well…” She let out a low, musical chuckle, turning to Charlotte with an apathetic smile. A tired little curve of the mouth, eyes untouched by mirth. “Zey always say zat, you know. And zen, pfft! Moments later, zey collapse in a heap and still refuse ze help. Ze men, especially… zey are as stubborn as ze bull. Will zey ever learn?”
Her gaze fell to the box in Charlotte’s hands, fabric spilling out in a riot of color and pattern. The thought of binding a wound with such cheerful florals nearly made her laugh. Almost. But in her world, whatever worked was good enough.
“So, now I owe you, yes?” she said, a playful glint in her tired eyes. “Because an act of kindness, it must always be repaid. Tell me, ma chere, what shall I give you in return?”
charlotte felt her hands shift on instinct , the box light in her arms but suddenly unsure of where it belonged. not quite wanted. not quite turned away. she had heard refusals before —plenty— but this one was softened. shaped like something other than dismissal. still , she didn’t lower it. didn’t retreat. she had long since learned how to stand politely in a space not built for her.
“they don’t learn.” she said , the edge of amusement curling through her words. “not in the ways that matter.” her fingers brushed the edge of the box again , almost absentmindedly , as though the motion could ground her. but charlotte’s thoughts swirled , tugged back to the all-too-familiar spectacle of men and their stubbornness. “they wear their pride like armor and when it cracks , they’ll swear they’re fine. of course, they’re always fine.”
a soft laugh , low and dry , escaped her, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. like an old , half-forgotten habit— something she’d heard too many times to be truly surprised by it. “fools ,” she added , almost affectionate shake of her head. for a moment , her gaze drifted. there was something magnetic about the way she stood , so entirely herself. no twisting of words to please , no adjustments to fit a role. sylvie was just there— and it felt like a rare thing. that kind of unshakable honesty. a person who could wear themselves so openly and without apology.
the air just inside the tent felt different , thick with a silence that hadn’t yet made room for her. charlotte kept to the edge of it. as though presence alone might be too much. “i don’t keep accounts ,” she said. the words left her low. even. though her throat ached. too many swallowed thoughts. too many mornings begun with silence pressed like linen into every crease. “but if something must be offered in return—” she let the sentence settle between them “—i’ll take a little of the wine. if there’s still some left.”
the air was warm and silken, wrapping avi in the rarest bit of ease as he weaved through the fellow revelers who’d come to delight themselves in a leisurely day that was cloaked in the feeling of nerves that were aflutter — perhaps due to gambling or to courting, two things avi had no experience in. excitement amongst the crowd seemed to outweigh their nerves, but avi was experiencing the very opposite. as a wallflower, it was hard being excited about a social event but when he’d received his invitation, he’d challenged himself to make the most of the day. and perhaps that challenge had been the catalyst to him approaching charlotte, for he was certain she could hear the nerves in his voice and the hammering of his heart.
avi had never had the opportunity to behold charlotte’s designs. most of their conversations consisted of polite small talk, which he still held close to his heart, but seeing the very work she poured her passion into was like learning a whole new side of charlotte and he felt lucky to bear witness to it.
the sound of her voice was enough to bring a giddy, hopeless grin to his lips — he hadn’t quite perfected the air of nonchalance that seemed to lace through the ton yet. it felt surreal to lay eyes on her, especially when they were out of the confines of four walls and the slight urgency of following a schedule — it was freeing, exhilarating. no one to listen in on their conversations and no little pupil snapping his fingers in front of avi’s face when his eyes wandered to charlotte across the room. a delighted chuckle slipped through his lips at her jest, “so that must be why i was invited. i’d better tend to the horses before they take off — i’m sure they need the mathematics of speed and distance explained to them beforehand.” a pause as a blush bloomed across his cheeks, “though, i’d rather linger here a while longer if it’s alright with you?” he smiled as he ran his fingers delicately over the brightly colored silk that was displayed elegantly on the table near them. “might i?” avi stepped forward, examining the intricate bottles of perfume, “do you have a favorite one to wear?” a question that might’ve been too personal, and his smile faltered in embarrassment. but he had noticed a sweet, lingering scent every time she was near.
charlotte’s dimpled smile was enough to make avi’s heart skip. he hung onto her words, afraid she’d announce to him that she was with a suitor — or that she was engaged, truly spoken for. but, deep down, he knew his feelings couldn’t be requited, so why did he even ask? but, as he watched her delicately tuck a shiny curl behind her ear and speak of no suitor, a look of hope lit up his eyes. “they’re fools for not staying in your presence and spending all of their coin here,” he smiled softly. running his fingers through his hair, he nodded, “oh yes, i’m alone. um, the only companionship i have is this book.” he held up his rather large copy of don quixote as he chuckled. and avi could’ve smacked himself with it in that moment, once again making a fool out of himself in front of charlotte.
the tent was , at best , a small mercy. shaded. barely cooler than the air outside , but it did offer her a place to disappear. and yet … there he was. a softness that she had not expected. not in the sharp brightness of the baron's cup , amongst the clamoring joy and champagne-laced cruelty of the ton. not here , where everything felt too loud. too watched. charlotte offered him a tilt of her head , smallest pursing of her lips. expression not fully readable , but undeniably poised. the kind that had been honed over long mornings such as this one. fatigue settling into her bones , in an all too familiar way.
“a bold choice , mister lakhani.” she half murmured. eyes following his words , one brow arching with careful amusement. “tilting at windmills does seem to be the order of the day. though i’d wager you’re not half as mad as our dear knight errant.” gaze trailed back , not lingering upon spine of the novel. but focusing on avi himself. standing before her as if he had stumbled into the moment. rather than chase it. it was unsettling , the honesty. how it asked for nothing. how it allowed something to unfurl quietly inside her. better part of the morning had been spent arranging herself in the shapes others expected. gracious vendor. quiet charm. not a woman who had too much riding on a day like this, who needed the coins to trickle in, who could not bear another hour of being seen and passed over.
now , all that stress seemed to melt away.
“as for favorites …” she redirected. choosing not to care in the moment if such a question could stir up implications of impropriety. just once , she wanted to feel like it wouldn’t all end badly. fingers traced lightly along the neck of a bottle , glass thin as spun sugar. “it depends on the hour. mornings , something green— for clarity. afternoons , something ambered , to remind me i still belong to the earth.” voice faltered for a heartbeat, then steadied. “but when no one’s watching…” charlotte reached forward , selecting a small square bottle. the faintest blush hue swirling inside. “this , when i want to be remembered.”
the words hung there , suspended. a confession in disguise. instead , her eyes drifted to the green beyond the crowd , where the races would soon begin. “i would be honored if you chose to stay ,” she admitted at last. stealing a tiny glance his way. and for the first time that day , her smile returned without effort.
“-and yet you wound me in return with your own use of my surname. such a hypocrite,” penelope responded with her own tone meeting the other woman’s with equal amounts of jest. penelope enjoyed merely existing in these spaces. the atmosphere did her heart and mind plenty of good and the lemonade was particularly delicious this day. but there were people with whom she would rather take over her own presence and charlotte was certainly one of them. always a welcomed sight by the court musician.
“we really must do something like this where you can enjoy yourself properly charlotte. it is unfair others can talk and jaunt and watch and whisper and you are merely just…here. working.” penelope was a hopeful realistic. of course charlotte and she could not attend every event. they did need to work more often than not. especially with their skillsets. all the same, penelope was suddenly quite determined to see her friend enjoying herself properly one day very soon. “i am glad you can at least enjoy the mess of the place. the air feels much better here than the last event did. why, what ever do you think i will find for me in the heart of the place? do tell?”
charlotte’s lips curled into a soft smile , spark of amusement dancing in her eyes as penelope’s words reached her. “ah —but i dare insist you began this war of wounds !” she teased. leaning in slightly with the sort of mock seriousness only penelope could bring out in her. “how ever shall i recover from such a cruel turn of phrase ?” a hand pressed to chest in exaggerated distress. movement light enough to lift the air around them , like a quiet breeze. “perhaps it is the mess itself i enjoy ," she murmured. eyes tracing the wide open expanse of the gathering. though her gaze seemed to settle nowhere in particular. “there’s something freeing in the chaos , something that makes the mind forget the weight of things.”
hands tightened on the fabric before her. subtle reminder that her place was here , not in the heart of it all. “oh , you needn’t worry about me , penelope.” charlotte attempted to brush off. tone light but carrying an edge of sincerity she didn’t often share. “the business of lady may’s awaits— after all , it is not often that one finds themselves in the midst of such a grand event.” she looked back toward penelope , a flicker of something softer passing across her features. an unspoken wish. “i’ve no idea ! but surely it must be extraordinary. why else would they all be so caught up in it ?”
who: elijah & charlotte ( @vivaentia )
where: the baron cup
Elijah peeked around to haystack to see if he could see the patron who he did not want to see that afternoon. And as soon as his eyes laid of them - even closer than the last time that he had seen them - Elijah hid again. It was terribly unprofessional and he was sure that Edmund would have his head if he found out but Elijah just wanted one day where he could enjoy himself. He didn't want to have to think about the theatre - and all of the secrets that lay within.
As he heard the gentle cough beside him, Elijah cringed. Had he been that obvious? He turned to face who it was that had found him, his shoulders tense. But as soon as he laid eyes on Charlotte, he felt himself relax. "Oh, thank god." He laughed. "Come here. Before someone seems you." He moved along the haystack a little, ensuring that they were both hidden from view. He didn't think how it might look to anyone who might see the two of them - hidden behind the haystacks. "I suppose you want to know what I'm doing here?"
gentle clearing of her throat does little to disguise laughter that escapes her— bright and unguarded. bubbling like poured champagne beneath the forgiving stretch of spring sky. charlotte does not fight the pull. not when he tugs her down without jarring shoulder , or when he looks quite so scattered. “you do realize …” she murmurs , laced with amusement. “should lady whistledown happen to wander passed , we will be reduced to scandalous footnotes before supper.” only a faintest note of seriousness carries , eclipsed entirely by laughter still rumbling quietly in her chest.
“in a way ,” charlotte concedes. exhaling slowly , breath finally steadying. allowing her a moment to smooth folds of her skirt with practiced ease , flicking away stray pieces of hay that have clung to fabric. worse than gossip on a ballroom floor. only once she is composed does attention drift back to him. “here , implying this particular haystack. yes. you cannot possibly be here for the scenery … unless you’ve developed a peculiar affection for livestock and straw since last we saw each other.” sarcasm drips along each spoken word. drawled out as brow ached with elegant precision. challenge , even. “who or what are we hiding from exactly ? and more importantly , did you at least have the foresight to bring wine ..?”
There was something peculiar about race days. A celebration, certainly — of speed, of bloodlines, of wealth disguised as sport — but beneath the frivolities, Adrian knew better. The gossip. The quiet measuring of one’s worth. The carefully placed bets. All of it wrapped in a sunny spring afternoon and paraded through interesting choices of day wear.
He lingered beside the table of fine silks and embroidery without much thought as to why he’d stopped. A voice had drawn his attention — low, clear, and seasoned with something far from a usual sales pitch. A brow lifted. A quiet chuckle slipped past his lips. “Well, I suppose the careful planning of this grand tradition and the restless training of those horses about to run in circles might justify a little… finery.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug, and he turned slightly on his heel to face the table more fully, eyeing the displayed items with polite curiosity. “Though I do understand your point.” He added — and he would not elaborate, not there, and certainly not during his cousin’s prized race. He reached for the bonnet that moments before had been deemed ‘too provincial,’ fingers grazing it with care. A faint smile played across his mouth.
“I’ve always found silk difficult to resist. Though I suspect you knew that simply by looking at me.” His voice carried an unflinching seriousness, though the softness in his eyes made the teasing unmistakable. “My goddaughter is to be twelve soon.” He added, tone shifting — practical. “Any birthday gifts you’d recommend for a young lady at such a terribly dramatic age?”
“the pageantry of it all must be admired , if nothing else. a theatre of hats and wagers , unspoken scores. what a world.” charlotte did not let her gaze follow his — not just yet. it stayed fixed on the ribbon smoothed moments before , its edge already perfect. hands hovered still. as if reluctant to part from the task. the wind stirred again above them , soft as breath. the canopy creaked faintly in reply , seams whispering a secret kept too long in a locked drawer.
a moment passed. then her voice returned , swelling as if nothing had fractured. “my lord ,” she addressed him— gently , deliberately , each word laid with care. “i’ll one day learn to mind my tongue. i meant no offense.” it was not an apology as much as offering ... a soft bow in the direction of pride. not surrender to it. when she looked at him , her gaze was clearer. such gaze of someone accustomed to saying too little , and still somehow saying too much. “i’ll learn to mind it. someday.” a pause. then a flicker of something quieter than mischief. “and if i may ; one need not try so hard to resist silk when they wear it as well as you do.”
charlotte moved. not quite toward him , not quite away. a shift of weight , a slip of presence — like a candle leaning into its own flicker. “twelve ,” she mused , and the word settled like a sigh. “it is a beginning disguised as an ending. they pretend not to care , but everything matters. the color , the shape , how it might look when no one’s watching — and especially when someone is.” fingers drifted to the bonnet. soft blue. faint stitching like rain traced over still water. the quiet one , the one that hadn’t been touched. “this might do. it’s unassuming. but not invisible.” a breath. followed by tilt of her head. enough to catch the edge of his expression without demanding anything from it. “though i suspect , from your tone … she’s not as easily pleased as that ?”
closed starter for : @vivaentia
location : the baron’s cup !
The afternoon sun spilled over the crowd like a soft, gentle whisper and Avi could’ve sworn the grass had never looked greener. A breeze swept through the crowd Avi had found himself surrounded in, ladies holding tightly to the skirts of their dresses until it passed. The Baron’s Cup was an event Avi could’ve never dreamt of attending, so he’d raised his brows in confusion when he received an invitation. It was exciting watching his pupils out and about with their families, having them run towards him for a hug before rejoining their groups. He felt out of place as he observed the crowd, a glass of lemonade brought to his lips — the refreshing, sugary sweetness grounding him. He realized this was more than sport; it was theatre. It was courtship. It was a fierce battle of fortunes and gambles. And Avi certainly didn’t belong.
He heard the pounding of horse hooves as they practiced before the race, his eyes quickly searching to see the illustrious horses that had brought in such a great crowd. In the blink of an eye, his gaze landed on her. And suddenly, his heart began pounding louder than the horses’ hooves. Miss Charlotte Pembroke. The name his heart whispered when he was alone, the woman who he’d imagined when reading sonnets of romance, the very presence he was addicted to. But he was certain she didn’t know his name, after all — he was just a tutor for her little brother. He was nothing significant, and he wasn’t sure she’d even recognize him.
But, his feet began to move before his mind could stop them and soon he was face to face with her, Charlotte’s beautiful doe eyes drawing him in and causing a blush to rise to his cheeks. “Miss Pembroke,” he bowed, a shy smile on his lips, “What a pleasure it is to see you. Are you accompanied this afternoon?”
hours spent beneath the shade of her tent , she had not taken notice to the shifting sun , but its heat had begun to press against her skin. bonnets bobbed in the distance , laughter ringing out too brightly as the crowd continued to swell. a tide too full of itself. charlotte exhaled softly through her nose , catching her breath as she adjusted the samples resting on the lacquered display tray. still untouched. like much else of her efforts that day. she’d told herself over and over … simply being seen was enough. that presence was visibility. the lack of stopping did not mean she went unnoticed.
still , quiet resentment had begun to bloom— toward the ton , toward the artifice of it all. she had not kept full awareness of her surroundings , not entirely. until a stillness filled the edge of her vision. the kind that did not belong to a place so loud with flirtation and sharpened smiles. when she turned— he was there. sun-warmed , but hesitant. and far too gentle for the noise that surrounded him.
“mister lakhani ,” she half sung. the syllables lilting like something remembered. where he had said her name like it might shatter , hers blossomed with the faintest note of relief. not quite surprise , but something softer. familiar. “i hadn’t expected to see you this afternoon. the baron’s cup does not often attract the scholarly… unless the horses have begun reciting poetry and i missed it.” the joke tasted off ; either poorly chosen or clumsily delivered. she couldn’t quite tell. they hadn’t stood in each other’s presence since her brother’s last lesson , and it felt as though she’d forgotten how to hold herself in that silence between them. “i’m here with lady may’s ,” charlotte offered. smile curving over lips with the kind of elegance she’d long since mastered. gesture made towards stretch of vendors behind her. “silks and stationary , mostly. a few perfumes that lie better than most people i know.”
smile truly flourished then. less polished , more real. with the flickering of fatigue behind it. or , perhaps , the ache of something she had yet to name. “as for companionship …” she adjusted a loose curl , tucking it behind ear. fingers moved with such practiced ease , it could not be mistaken for fidgeting. though the quiet currant of energy thundering through her veins told another story. “i’ve had visitors. most interested in lace or gossip. neither tend to linger.” at last , gaze lifted to meet his. steady. searching. hesitation beneath the sharp intake of her breath. “and you— have you come alone ..?”
linen canopy strained softly against the wind. its seams whispering , like a secret too long held. beneath it , charlotte arranged the last of ribbon tied boxes. practiced fingers smoothing the velvet a moment longer than necessary— buying time or anchoring herself , she was not sure. around her … the racecourse teemed with color and chatter. familiar faces spilled into the open green , but she could not meet their eye.
“hand finish bonnets. trimmed with silk charmeuse ,” she called. voice low but sure. the kind that used to turn heads. “gloves in dove and ivory. embroidery finer than any you’ll find in mayfair !” said plainly , wrapped in ribbon and sold to those who would never know her name. a pair of young ladies slowed near her table , giggling behind gloves hands. one touched the edge of a bonnet , peach and pearl detailing. then .. they were gone. murmuring something about ‘too provincial’.
charlotte’s smile did not falter , though something within did. a quiet thread pulled taunt. glancing out towards the crowd , not paying enough attention to shadow lingering just to side of her table. without turning , she spoke. tone light , stitched with something too careful to name. “have you ever seen such finery assembled in one place ? all for horses running in circles.” gaze tracked a feathered parasol bobbing past. “though i daresay the real competition’s being waged under lace and ribbon.”
a pause. “there’s something terribly honest about horses. they at least know what they’re chasing.” clearing of her throat , the sound small and civilized. “forgive me .. ” she offered , straightening a ribbon that didn’t need it. “can i tempt you with a bit of silk ?”
Penelope stood away from the throngs of people, merely observing for the time being. The initial thought running through her brain is she might actually enjoy an event like this more than a ball or dance. It felt like she could breathe, even with the heavy sun bearing down upon them. The air smelled sweet and of people. Even with the inevitable aroma of the horses sure to come, Penelope was sure that she was going to end up enjoying herself fairly well in the atmosphere all the same. Her fingers fiddled before drawing her cup of lemonade to her lips and taking the smallest of sips. Something idle.
Eyes ran across fields of people until landing on one familiar. The citizens of Mayfair were not in any way a small group, but one could grow quite used to each other when one had to put up with the strange ways of the Upper Crust. “Miss Pembroke. What a lovely sight to see- you out here like this. Tell me you are here to enjoy yourself and not sent away for some random errand.”
“miss follett— how many times must i insist you call me charlotte ?” correction was mild , almost fond in tone , carried on the back of tired breath. despite it all … cheerfulness surfaced. allowing charlotte moment to pretend that the day had not already taken too much from her. hands folded before her , practiced and automatic. like muscle memory from another life as she resisted the urge to wipe the heat from her brow before resting upon hips. a trademark move that lingered like the ghost of her mother.
around them , air buzzed with the rising energy. wagers shouted across the field , ladies whispering behind delicate fans , and children weaving paths through the grass as if they had forgotten rules for the day. “oh… far worse i’m afraid ,” she chuckled. weary smile claiming features as charlotte cast a glance over shoulder to where her tent stood. untouched. ignored. as if a museum piece the ton had no longer cared to admire. “i’ve come of my own accord. working. enjoyment tends to slip past be at events such as this.” a hint of the unspoken clung to her teeth. how easily joy could turn sideways. how the laughter could sour when shadows grew long and glasses stayed too full.
“but…” her voice softened. “i suppose there is something lovely about it all. the openness , the mess of it.” gaze returned , finding penelope’s again. “and you ; are you content to watch or will you slip into the heart of it , just this once ?”
The sun had barely climbed when the first injuries arrived. Already two sprained ankles and a nasty cut within the hour. Sylvie sighed, rubbing her temples as she surveyed the small chaos inside the medical tent. It was always the same. Every year, the races promised excitement and spectacle, but to her, it meant nothing but endless scrapes and bruises to patch up. A half-finished glass of wine sat forgotten on the table beside her, the rich red catching the sunlight but offering little comfort.
“Vat is it zis time?” she called out, voice sharp but tired, hands already reaching for her satchel. “If you are here for a bandage or quick fix, you are in ze right place. But do not expect miracles.” Her eyes flicked up, meeting the newcomer’s with a mixture of impatience and quiet resolve. “Now, tell me, what do you need?”
feet carried her across the field , slow and steady. limbs dragging as though she too had run the track. never stopping to catch her breath. the early sun clung to the hem of her dress , but she paid it little mind— too used to rising before it to feel warmed by its rays now. hours already spent setting up her own tent. perfecting displays meant to lure people back to lady may’s. instead , focus fell to the voice ringing out. sharp. tired. it should catch her off guard , but it does not. it earns a faint smile , like a sigh she refused to breathe out. “just a helping hand ,” she offered. one hand lifted in a gesture of peace , the other steadying box tucked beneath her elbow.
charlotte stepped into the tent … gaze drifting across the wineglass , the blood dark streaks on line , the chaos trying hard to keep itself orderly. none of it surprised her. not anymore. “i saw the aftermath— too much noise , too little sense. one man insisted he could still ride. even as the ground swayed beneath him.” voice thinned a moment , not bitter though laughter spilled. “these events have a habit of bringing out the worst of the carelessness. and drinks make fools of the best of them.” she lowered the box then , onto the nearest table. corners frayed. fabric scraps pushing like petals in disarray. faded prints , nothing fine. but dependable. “they’re clean ,” she murmured. “and trust me , they will certainly hold. i am sure you’ve got everything you need but …” gaze lifts , meeting sylvie’s. kind , but equally exhausted. “sometimes the day runs longer than supplies.”
