this quiet company

In London, Maggie tended to arise early and retire late. There was an overabundance of social calls to make, fabrics to approve for dresses and the like, and sometimes, if she was lucky, a rare hour or two she could spend doing some deemed-acceptable leisure activity, always with the accompaniment of one or more persons. It took not sleeping in order to have any sort of personal time for herself. It was all so tenuous  - everything here felt spun out on a small thread, liable to snap in an instant. The lack of sleep probably contributed to that impression, but Maggie was jittery. At least with her position she had a say in dictating what some of the day’s activities would entail, but fewer than she hoped in these earliest days of the season, where much time was spent paying visits to her father’s old acquaintances and irritable cousins who had also made their way to the ton so as not to start a feud she had neither the time nor the patience for.

One escape had become Hyde Park. She took to riding most evenings, in the open carriage bearing her name and crest or sometimes on horseback, unless rain or snow prohibited. It was beautiful, and would be even more so as the seasons changed to springtime and the park became lush with greenery once more. It allowed her to look and be looked at in a way that wasn’t displeasing. Maggie did take pride in being admired, to a point. That point would usually be the moment when she sensed the layer of falseness underneath a compliment, or animosity in a glance. Animosity…

“Stop the carriage,” she ordered, holding up a hand to her driver, who pulled over to the side to let others pass.  Smoothing an evergreen skirt, she craned her neck forward. “Mr. Ayles? Is that you?” It was only proper to acknowledge an acquaintance of hers when meeting out in public, despite how…fragile their connection may be. 

Presently, he had taken to walking with her in Hyde Park, her arm coiled around his as they slowly picked their way forward along the snow-strewn path. They made an odd pair, undoubtedly; the newly made barrister in his disagreeable clothes with his waif of a sister who rarely left the house, walking as slowly as one was allowed to on such a busy route, talking comfortably about the events of the day. As such, it was the last thing on his mind to cross paths with someone he might know, and at the utterance of his name it took him a few moments to realise who it was that was calling him.

“Lady Roseberry.” Benjamin stopped, loosing his arm from his sister’s as he took in the sight of the Countess of Roseberry in her great carriage, the sides emblazoned with her family’s crest; a stark reminder of who and what he wasn’t. His lip curled a little, and he turned to Isa, ushering her further onward -- promising to rejoin her as soon as he could. “Forgive me, my Lady, I did not expect to see you on my walk.” He bowed his head toward her, then straightened, trying his best to keep her attention on him, a pleasantry already warm on his tongue. “It is a fine evening for it, is it not?”

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ꜱᴇɴᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ɢʀᴇᴇᴋ ɢᴏᴅ

The Outsider | Benjamin

Thirty | Mr. Benjamin Ayles Untitled Gentry, Barrister

Formally or Informally Announced: Mr. Benjamin Ayles

Addressed on Formal or Informal Social Correspondence: Mr. Benjamin Ayles

Formal Correspondence Salutation: “Sir,” or “Dear Sir,”

Informal Correspondence Salutation: “Dear Mr. Ayles,” or, more familiarly, “Dear Ayles,”

Addressed in Speech: Mr. Benjamin Ayles, Mr. Ayles, or, more familiarly, Ayles

Referred to in Speech: Mr. Benjamin Ayles or Mr. Ayles

Social Correspondence Signature: Benjamin Ayles

Bella was late. It was not the first time, and it would not be the last. And she wasn’t concerned. Not yet, at least. The day had been a common dance she participated in with her governess or Mother. Embroider aimlessly or some other dainty lady-like task as she took social calls with her mother and sisters. Do her best to convince anyone to let her take a stroll through town. Be denied. Draw up a persuasive excuse to go into town. Give her chaperone a run-around and then taste freedom to stroll through the market and through town. But now she was late for supper and no doubt, she was going to getting a tongue lashing. Curving into the quieter alleys so she could avoid the bustle in the main streets, she fell into a hasty pace, as much of a run as she could in skirts. So often she was undisturbed in her rushed clamber back to the Aldwyn residence that she was momentarily stunned as she crashed headfirst into a chest, effectively knocking the man’s effects from his hands and practically knocking the wind out of the girl’s lungs.

She gave a little cry of surprise, before regaining some semblance of balance. Instinctively, she gasped out a, “My apologies, Sir” before glancing up to focus on who she had charged into. Unsteadily, Bella picked her skirts up and ducked down to swoop the book up, offering it back to the man. “I did not expect anyone on this route. I was not looking at where I stepped.” And she hadn’t. Why would she? This was a shortcut that her cousin had showed her to get back to the estate quickly and what made it such an effective route was how desolate it often was. Part of her knew the precarious situation she found herself in but the impact of knocking into muscle and bone was enough to daze her.

Benjamin let out an irritable sigh, then turned abruptly to a side-street that would cut away from the main road. In actuality, the change of route would hardly save him any time, but it would at least take him away from the press and pull of people; Londoners, in all their heaving glory, stepping into and out of each other’s paths in time with the thrum of the city. He took a moment to pause in the half-shadow of the alley, thumbing aimlessly down the spine of the book his fellow lawyer had given him; notes on a particular case he had wanted Benjamin to look over -- only for the book to suddenly be thrust from his hands, something small but insistent colliding with his chest, forcibly pushing him backwards a few steps. “Damn it, what on earth --” Benjamin found his footing quickly, annoyance roiling within him, ready to chasten whatever urchin had bumped into him for sport.

Much to his surprise, and his chagrin, Benjamin’s gaze found that of a lady’s, and he immediately took a further step back, stare flicking between the newly soiled book and the woman in front of him. “I --” Instincts kicking in, he bowed his head, jaw tight. “Madam, please do try to pay more attention next time.” After a pause, he took the proffered book, tucking it back underneath his arm. “These side streets can be dangerous.” With that, Benjamin made to take his leave, offering her a stiff bow as his exit.

Circumstances sometimes can be both fortunate and unfortunate at the same time oddly enough. 

In this instance, as Byron St. Clair took in the sights of the hustle and bustle, he recognized how fortunate he was to find himself back in the city so unlike any other. A city that, no matter where he visited or would settle, would always be his first. He had grown up in the country as most children of polite society did. So it was no surprise that his first real taste of adventure had been spread across the landscape of London town—a fact that made sure his somewhat sentimental heart latched onto it. 

What was unfortunate, however, was that he’d been rudely reminded of how busy it could be even in winter as a landau sped down the street a sliver too close to where he’d been meaning to cross. Byron stumbled back enough to avoid being trampled but fate was not as kind to his top hat that dove in doom’s way in its master’s stead. “Blast.” Byron cursed, uncaring who stood within earshot.

It was on one such happening, paused on the side of the road, that he saw the moment disaster struck: a gentleman’s top hat, deflated and trampled by a carriage, the item crushed quickly underfoot. Benjamin, for his part, at least had the propriety to stifle his laugh of surprise; turning abruptly to see the aforementioned gentleman staring out toward his recently departed accessory with irritation. Recovering almost immediately, he cleared his throat, altogether suddenly far too conscious of the itch of his cravat against his skin, the obvious newness of his clothes, the stench of unpreparedness rolling off him in waves. “My… apologies, sir. Certainly unfortunate.”