November was well advanced, now, short, dark days giving way to, oftentimes wet, stormy nights, but today, the sun had been up for many an hour, and the great dome of air was warmed through and glittering with thin silver threads of sunlight that was spilling over the gardens in abundance; the earth, too, was dry, for it had not rained in two days now, and thus, Amphelice and her ladies had moved out into the garden after lunch, where the tea was laid under a tree, and Mrs. d’Aumont was helping herself to berry jam, laughing and jesting with the younger girls as they all sat together in their warm velvets and lace shawls, poring over a poetry book Amphelice had had sent to her from Paris.
She was in a rather jolly mood, flushed and giggling at her old nurse’s jests in between poems that she read out loud to them– for many of the ladies knew not how to read–much absorbed in her company, and thus, when the young lad approached them, she was half taken by surprise, not having seen him walking toward them as Mrs. d'Aumont had. Delicately, she dipped her neck and half turned in her spot, fixing him with her liquid blue eyes, a small, soft frown forming between her delicate brows for a moment as he offered the rose to her; he introduced himself to her, too, and she nodded, remembering now having seen him before–was he not a guard of His Majesty? she bethought herself, elegantly gesturing toward one of her ladies to receive the flower for her, thinking it entirely improper to take it herself, for she was a married woman, and she would be loath to somehow mar her lord and husband’s name by making such displays of herself in public with other men she had little knowledge of–did he, then, not know, that she was not unmarried? Or was it, mayhaps, merely a gesture of appreciation?
With such thoughts, she looked up at him, her curls dripping in loose waves about her shoulders as she tilted her face to better look upon him, wanting not to neither humiliate him nor offend him, even though she found it somewhat odd of him to offer such a flower to her when it was well known at court she was the wife of the Commander–and was there a soul in their land that have not heard of Ser Richerd? Surely not–then again, she thought, she mustn’t be surprised at that, for it had often happened before, and were not all men the same in some ways? “Indeed, we have not— well met, monsieur Bayard,” she smiled, her voice soft and smooth like silk, a Parisian drawl in the clear tone of it as she properly addressed him in particular, “–I thank you for the flower. Tis been dreadfully cold of late, and it seems to me that all the roses in our land have already withered away…” she mused, trailing off as she dipped her dainty wrist and set her poetry book aside, feeling the weight of her old nurse’s gaze upon her; oh, how dreadful! Surely, she did not think she would have ever given any man cause to think her interested in him!– and at all events, the man had done no more than offer a rose to her–mayhaps, he had no malicious intentions, and merely wished to make her acquaintance; was he not, after all, a friend of her godson? Amphelice was not one to jump to conclusions. “Have you need of some warm tea? A sweet, mayhaps?” she offered cordially, her voice and expression remaining gentle and stoic, an elegant air of poise about her person, void of any warmth that may wrongfully lead him to think her interested in him in dishonourable, vile ways.
If Leith only knew the seriousness he’d put upon her. It happened, that he found a flower - and thus, holding it still in his hands, he decided to give it Lady Richerd. A gesture meant with no harm; for it was simply a way of showing his grace and thankfulness. "I wished to show my gratitude, m'Lady. I've heard you've given lady Emone a spot in your household. I can't thank you enough for your lovely offer and help.” He stepped aside as one of the ladies got up to accept the flower. “My pleasure, m’Lady. It was a coincidence. I found just one, barely touched by the cold of the night.”
Once Amphelice offered him some tea - or a sweet for that matter - he smiled and bowed his head. “Yes, please. If I’m not interrupting? I actually came to ask you a question, Lady Richerd.” For a split second he felt remarkably stupid for coming here in the first place, and so he took a rest - watching the ladies one by one as he smiled. Fumbling his hands together, he staggered on his feet; his cheeks painted with the slightest blush of shame. Inviting himself to the Lady’s estate was far too rude to his taste, no matter he was known for his cheeky behavior, and so he decided to work it out a little different. “You see, Emone and I have been great friends for years, and the day before she left I think I’ve been a little disrespectful. Though I wish to write her, I’m afraid she can’t read or write back...” He pursed his lips, a pensive look hanging before his face like a sober curtain.
