mourn with the moon

“that is the highest praise coming from a seamstress as accomplished as you are, my darling girl,” he nods severely, but his eyes light up with a familiar sense of mischief while his tone dips from lilting to genuine.

ellie’s laugh rings in his ears and he’s transported back to the past, and a much younger version of eleanore whittock staring up in his face through tearful eyes. their meeting had been through a stroke of fate, sheer luck by all accounts, but it had led to a deeply meaningful bond that lionel is so protective of to the extent that much of that feeling has spilled over to her son after his birth. little teddy, whom he has gifted a wooden sword to play the knight in shining armor, always coming to the aid of the other children in his neighborhood. he’s a tender boy, having inherited much of his mother’s disposition and while it’s never been cause for worry, ellie’s gentle nature is one to be uplifted and cherished for its sincerity.

it’s one of the things that he, too, sometimes tends to forget. ellie has a habit of placing others above her, as is evident in the costume he wears—she would wave it off with a smile and say it’s all him who managed to make it what it is but he knows—he’s seen her fall asleep while working, a half-finished first idea of his outfit pinned to one of the mannequins in her studio. lionel’s lips quirk up into a half-smile, a touch of fondness replacing the frown that previously had the corners of his mouth spilling into long vertical wrinkles on either side of his chin. “that he certainly is. better watch out, my darling, or muiris’ll be taking him on as an apprentice.”

.

she blushes at the praise, quite frankly unable not to. still, the way leo talks to her now is not rare for him, he has always seemed to hold her in such high of an esteem she’s quite sure she hasn’t earned. he is unique in knowing her at her absolute lowest, and had seemed to care for her despite it. most likely, because of it. it isn’t something she ponders on often, but sometimes she wonders if he’d like her as much if she’d been a proper, non-disgraced whittock when she met him. she hopes so. “you’re ridiculous, and very kind.”

and that, perhaps, is what makes him so odd to see him here, regardless of the loveliness of seeing him at all, is that right now is so similar to life just before she’d known him. she watches him frown, and her eyebrows furrow, one hand outstretched to smooth it like he’d done to her so many times in their months in yorkshire. but before she can, he rights it himself, and her eyes soften along with his. 

“oh, goodness.” she begins, thinking of john working alongside the man. it isn’t actually a terrible thought - john’s shown interest in many things: reading, doodling, cat-training. however, the career prospects for those hobbies are not the most fruitful. and he certainly has experience with ghosts. this, she does not mention. “i think he’d like that. he’s spending much more time with friends as of late, which is-” she breaks off to spend a moment just smiling. she truly is very glad of it - for a while, he’d been so internal in his thoughts to everybody his own age, getting on much better with her friends in a way that had been worrying. “but he’s so clever, and i think he’d rather understand the supernatural than be afraid of it. in a decade or so, that’d be a dream occupation. i don’t think he has much interest in taking over the shop. i wouldn’t expect him to, i’m sure all the paperwork seems awfully dull to a little boy.” 

Closed Starter for: @eleanorewhittock​ Location: A Hallway not far from the ballroom

Daya has found the wine cellar. 

It wasn’t hard. Old buildings like this could vary wildly, but she had the benefit of being an expert in buildings. Once you knew what to look for, it was easy to figure out where to go. And now, she returns from the depths of the cool, dark cellar, fresh bottle in hand, squinting at the vintage on the back. The date had to be a misprint. There was no way it was that old. 

She is so preoccupied with the back of the bottle that she does not notice that she has taken a turn into a new hallway, one where she is not the only one occupying it, and does not notice Ellie until she was almost right next to her, glancing up just in time. Daya blinks, and then she smiles.  “If you’re looking for more wine, I’m afraid I’ve already claimed the best,” she flashes the bottle at her, an uncharacteristic glint of mischief in her eyes, brought on by the fact she has already had plentiful to drink. “But you know me. I am always happy to share.” 

.

It’s a delight, to see Daya here. Strange, off-putting, perhaps. A too similar reminder of the society they once shared, that Daya solely belongs to now. She hasn’t been able to help but reminisce the entire evening, and the other woman’s presence makes it even easier. 

Ellie smiles as she watches her read the back of the bottle, and opens her mouth to announce her presence, pausing as she gets closer to her, waiting for her to notice herself. Face crinkled up in a smile, she tries not to startle as she finally looks up. 

The slightly tipsy state of Daya is matched by Ellie’s own, and so at the look of the bottle, she laughs, short and loud. “The most wonderful thing about wine,” she starts, “is that the more you drink of it, the less important the taste is.” Though it was never acceptable to get drunk in such society, stealing wine had become an art of her and her brothers when she had been much younger. “Though sharing would still be greatly appreciated, dear.” 

OPPOSITE — @eleanorewhittock​ the main hall, spring equinox ball

Itching for a reprieve after spending a long time dancing and carousing in the ballroom, Magdalena ventured back into the main hall, immediately making a beeline for the open buffet. She stopped in front of the long, brimming table, eyeing the wide assortment of delicacies and refreshments. Mr. Ashton certainly hadn’t spared any expense; a suspiciously magnanimous display for an event aimed at strangers, regardless of whether that applied to Mr. Ashton’s relationship with the crowds as a whole, or to the relationship of the guests amongst themselves. It would make sense if the gathering was limited to a specific class or community, but there seemed to be no such commonality among those around her – they seemed to have been plucked at random from all corners of the city and given this gift with no apparent purpose nor preamble.

She didn’t trust it at all. Yet she could do nothing but bide her time and wait for whatever revelations the night was meant to rouse. Curbing a sigh, Magdalena continued to survey the table, leaning in towards the person standing next to her after drawing their attention with a gentle tap on the arm. “Have you tried anything yet? Forgive me, but I would just like to know what’s good and go for it right away. I can’t be bothered to try things.”

Chuckling, she finally looked at her companion – only for the lightness of her expression to abruptly grow taut, her eyes sharpening as she recognized Eleanore from Muiris’ seance. The woman whose ghost had sung her an eerie, blood-curdling lullaby; the woman whom Bill had appeared to care for and comfort. A curdling mixture of shame and self-directed bitterness burned its way up her throat as she looked away. She swallowed uneasily, resisting the urge to cross her arms against her chest. It was too late to walk away; she had already initiated conversation, and now she had no choice but to see it through.

.

It was difficult - excessively so - to avoid spending the entire night making comparisons. Despite the secrecy, and the attendance of any and all, she felt as if she had stepped seven years in the past. It was some consolation, however, as she watched folks dance in their various beautiful costumes, that her mother would have hated this. It had occurred to her at some point that there was a possibility of Emmeline actually being here - with the amount of people in attendance, it had seemed likely she’d been invited. Still, she had quickly realised, that even if her mother had been invited, it was near impossible that she would have accepted the invitation of a strange man. 

Ellie was pondering this as she surveyed the tables of food. If the number of guests had been lower, she would have been amazed at the grandiosity of it all - but it seemed that all of it would actually be eaten. Despite the great amount of it, however, she couldn’t think of a single thing she could stomach. A mix of excitement and nerves, it was. Still, she couldn’t drink as much wine as she had without so much of a bread roll to soak it up. Ready to grab said roll and go back to her table, she was interrupted by the sound of a vaguely familiar voice. 

She smiled on instinct, not quite registering who the woman was for a moment. As she did, the smile froze on her face, and drifted from her eyes to become more forced. “I actually- haven’t managed to try anything yet.” Her words were a result of years of polite conversation, finding their way out of her mouth and into the air without Eleanore actually having to think. There had been a kindness to the spirit this woman had tried to reach, something completely opposite to the hostility shown towards Ellie by hers. It had made her heart clench, at the time, for the luck the woman had, to be haunted by something so proud. A desperate sort of jealousy had clawed at her at the time - feelings heightened by the fear she was already feeling. Looking at her now, it felt more like shame. 

the colors of the flowers in the garden blur together far too easily and for a brief moment, link finds his gaze lingering on the one in ellie’s hands; the delicate petals, threatening to fall off at any given moment. it’s spring and the air is thick with fragrance and hope, but the flowers at home don’t bloom quite the same.

“you’re right, it really has been a while, hasn’t it?” link schools his expression into something neutral that doesn’t betray his own discomfort with the situation or the way he notices ellie’s smile freezing. one step at a time, his own voice says in the back of his mind. sink or swim, and this time, he inhales deeply before taking the plunge.

“i have. we spoke about it at length.” he doesn’t dare speak about the happiness that seeped out of the other at escaping, of having a chance at a life. instead he offers her a smile, hesitant but genuine in nature. “i’m just sorry you weren’t able to go with him.”

she’s not a stranger; as a matter of fact, link thinks of her fondly, often remembering the warm attitude he’s seen her display towards her brothers. such a nurturing personality is hard to maintain in the face of all that has happened to her in the years gone by but he admires her even more for the composure she keeps throughout all of it. “in any case, may i ask who you’re going as? i don’t recognize the costume.”

.

she tries not to falter at his words. at length. for her, it had felt so abrupt. henry wanting to leave had been no surprise, and getting him away from their father’s hold had been all she’d wanted for him. and so, she had been delighted. for him, she had. after priscilla palmer’s death, he had been so shaken that remaining in london would have only been bad for him. she knew that, and yet listing reasons as to why it had been the right decision were the only thing to keep her heart together. “that’s- i’m glad he always had you, link. i don’t think he much liked to speak about it with me.” despite the sadness tingeing the words, they’re true, she is glad. she wouldn’t have liked to talk about it, either, a selfishness she only admits in her own mind. they were great, wondrous possibilities for him - ones she had perhaps once been allowed to have too, but no longer. 

she missed her brother more than she could effectively put into words, and yet, when link speaks of her going with him, she has to hold in an incredulous laugh. it had never even been an option. the thought hadn’t crossed her mind, and she didn’t think it had crossed henry’s either. he had just left her. he was perhaps the most selfless man she’d ever known, and she wanted desperately to feel proud of him for putting himself first. she held no resentment towards him, certainly, but with one final departure, she’d been alone. it would have been cruel to mention the financial aid he provided, and so she had no idea entirely how she was going to get by. thankfully, they were in the lead into summer, rather than the departure from it, and so heating would become less essential. 

but with one brother dead, and another holding such hatred for her he hadn’t visited in six years, henry’s leaving had left her cold in a way that had nothing to do with the early spring weather. 

It doesn’t escape him, the way Ellie stops mid-way towards him, her hand reaching out just to recoil before it becomes too obvious. Jacob’s reflexes aren’t very quick so by the time he realizes that he wouldn’t mind a hug, the moment is gone and what remains is the feeling of awkwardness; uncertainty about what he should say or how he should behave. It feels odd, to do this much overthinking right now. He shouldn’t be—it’s Ellie, it’s family.

“Well, you at least had a chance to practice in the past. I’d never been to something like this. I’m not really sure why I decided to come in the first place,” he says. Curiosity, probably. Combined with the sense of recklessness that’s been slowly overtaking his life lately and just pure loneliness, it ought to be responsible for this decision. None of these have been satisfied yet, his curiosity least of all. If anything, he’s got more questions about this whole ordeal than he had before coming here. “The ballroom got very…overwhelming really fast. I suppose I’m just not made for a party like this.” Or any party, Jacob thinks. He’s never in a celebratory mood these days. There’s really nothing in his life worth celebrating anymore. 

He sits down—a much better alternative to fidgeting in place, looking as if he could bolt out of the room any second without warning. “Good to see you too, Ellie,” he says; it’s genuine but he isn’t sure whether it sounds like it. He’s already mentally bracing for her to ask him about the séance, which he doesn’t feel quite ready for. He’s done so much talking these past few days, about what he’d done and how he’s struggling that he’s not sure he can handle it one more time. “How’s John?” he asks first, both because he genuinely wants to know and because it ought to push off him as the conversation topic for another minute or two. 

.

He’s right, she’s had plenty of time to practice, but never alone before. Every time, it had been part of some team. With her brothers, with Winnie, with Rory. And at each previous ball, there had been a performance of some level required. She’s unsure if she’s ever even attended an event such as this without the watchful eye of her parents. Even as she got older, they had been invited too, and though her behaviour was less of their concern - not that it had ever been too terrible - she had known how to act. She wasn’t at this ball as Eleanore Whittock, however, but rather, Ellie White. Ellie White did not know what to do. 

“Well, whether you’re sure or not, I’m very glad you’re here.” The words are entirely true, and sound it, a nod accompanying them for good measure. She’s leaning forward in her chair as she speaks, though it doesn’t seem to be intentional. “I’ve always found these things a little- much. Especially if you’re facing them with such little time to prepare. You know - I had actual lessons in how to behave. Mother insisted.” Lessons she very much is not following currently. This conversation is far too personal for such an occasion, and yet she cares not at all. “I don’t think anybody is made for this, some people are just really good at pretending they are.” Ellie is excellent at pretending, always has been. Made up games as children turning into wonderful untruths as she aged.

He mentions John, and a natural softness comes to her eyes at the thought of her son. Yet, with the thought of him, and the accompaniment of who’s asking, her mind cannot help but drift to the last time she saw him. But she has no urge to ask him about it, for fear he’ll ask the same in return. “He’s really well - misses his uncle since Henry moved, but he has a good circle of friends, now.” It had been a worry she had confided in Jacob before, back when they saw each other more regularly, that John only seemed to care about spending time with her, completely detached from anybody his own age. But it has been a while since then. “He’s- he’s so smart, and he’s so kind,” the pride is evident in her voice and her eyes as she speaks of him, “Really wanted to come tonight when I told him about it. I told him I’d tell him about all the outfits.”

She is intrigued. It is obvious the alcohol has hit her, but there is an undercurrent there beyond the usual episode of drunken melancholy. A jadedness, perhaps. A certain sadness. Whichever it is, Hannah is keen to find out. She’s never been able to veer away from intrigue, especially when it comes in the presence of a beautiful, bejeweled woman, clad in emerald and gold. 

The name of her costume escapes her, though it is far too elaborate, too intricate, to be fully machine-made. Is she of noble lineage, just the same? Her mannerisms do not seem to indicate so, slumping in her seat with nary a care for her companion, but she has had miscalculations before. 

“No, you should stay,” she says sweetly, though it is less from concern than it is to satiate her own curiosity. “Save yourself from the noise of the dance floor. They’re all just stepping on each other’s toes and falling, anyways.” Her gaze moves from the other’s eyes to her ensemble, as if taking her in. “In any case, I doubt you’ll be able to find a companion worthy of you, and worthy of that dress.” She adds, stretching her lips into a coy smile.   

.

Eyes closed to keep her head steady, she doesn’t make the polite eye contact she usually would on a first introduction. And yet, when the woman speaks, she cannot help but straighten in her seat, eyes opening at the curiosity. “I think it’s wonderful,” she admits, gaze back to the slightly messy dance floor. “The usual grace of these things is all- all perfected. Nothing quite human about it, the learned dances, it’s all just society- what they’re supposed to do.” A slight bitterness is in her tone, something present only because of the wine. Something alien to her.

With returned softness, she carries on, “I like the chaos of people dancing with- people they enjoy dancing with.” All at once, she seems to register the compliment, and her head turns towards the woman. A blush tinges her cheeks, ducking her head. “That’s awfully kind of you, especially when I’ve made such an impolite first impression.” In the midst of the words, she hiccups, her embarrassment worsening. 

“I made it myself,” she says, anyway, smoothing down her skirt. “I’m a seamstress. Now I am, anyway. What is it that you do?” 

the warmth of ellie’s hug envelops him like a warm spring night. it’s a flashback to many years ago, months before little teddy had been brought into the world to draw his first breath. ellie hadn’t been the same woman then, but lionel saw the first stirrings of something braver and incredibly tenacious lingering underneath that faraway gaze. and now, as he gazes up to look into her dark eyes that shine with so much genuine delight, he can feel an invisible hand spinning a fine thread around his lungs; it tightens when she speaks.

“nonsense, without you i am positive i should have looked quite the fool. and would you look at yourself! what a magnificent sight you are,” he beams at her and her compliment, deep lines of joy lifting the serious frown lines around his eyes when she draws back to regard his costume properly. she has poured entirely too much of her time and resources into making this ensemble for him and although he should have suspected that she’d have a surprise up her sleeve, her appearance at this particular ball elates him beyond words—although it will be certainly harder to keep up with his pretend play of being napoleon now.

lionel’s jaw drops the slightest bit, mouth falling into a silent oh at her words before he composes himself, brows furrowed questioningly. “muiris volunteered to take care of teddy? the old skeleton?”

.

“you’re ridiculous, leo, you never look foolish.” it’s true, no matter what situation she’s known him in, she has never held as much respect for any man. his endless kindness, care, patience - she’s quite sure he could dress as malvolio and she’d see him as heroic. ellie has been lucky enough to build herself quite a little family in the time she’s been in london, but never had she been so completely alone as when she had met lionel, and now that she’s through it, she’s certain she wouldn’t have survived without him. 

there’s a memory, vibrant as if it were happening before her, of her son, the tiniest he’d ever been, bundled in a crocheted blanket in her arms. in the memory, she is crying, because she knows that giving him away is no longer an option. she knows, too, what that decision will do for her future. it is a gentle hand on her arm that steadies her, and that alone. she feels as if she would float away without it. other than the doctor who had delivered john, and the nurses paid to look after her, lionel is the first person in the world to meet her son. the first person, other than her, to be there simply because he cares to be. 

she laughs at his next words, “muiris is- a curious man, but he’s a dear, really. john likes him a lot. he thinks he’s fascinating. i can’t say i blame him.”

Daphne did not fall into her touch as easily as she normally would’ve, though she was eager to just chalk that up to not having been around people much. And not for any other reason. It made sense, she had been without the touch of another long enough. She had forgotten what it felt like, and her body wished to tense up in response. Instead, she followed along. Hugging her in earnest for a touch longer than normal before deciding to let go. 

“Y-Yeah. It has.” She says, like the revelation in itself hadn’t been something she’d been pondering the entire way over here. She believed it to be something bittersweet when it came to the two of them, because while Daphne was sure to never sour the feelings between the two of them. She couldn’t be trusted enough not to do so whenever she got like this. Because the truth was that Daphne was no longer in control. And she didn’t know whether or not she was going to explode at any moment. She could only hope that Eleanor would not get caught in the crossfire.

She feels like she should be apologizing for something, she’s not sure what. Something about it just feels wrong, like she was doing Eleanor some sort of disservice. It probably wasn’t fair of her, to feel this way. As if she still owed something to her that meant more than the friendship they had so carefully crafted. Sometimes Daphne would forget. That they were just friends now. Still, she could not allow herself to be dishonest to her. For her own peace of mind. 

“You know, I-I didn’t mean to uh…” The words escape her, though there’s something in her eyes that’s pleading. She tries again, but she finds nothing. “I didn’t mean it.” She settles on that, a smile that was easier now, less forced, takes over. She hopes the message reaches her. 

.

Eleanore has never thought herself good at reading people. Not because she wasn’t intuitive, she always had been, but because people were far too complicated and interesting for a companion to do anything as intrusive as read them. Still, she feels the resistance in the hold, and she does not break away. Perhaps she needs it just as much - but she’s certain Daphne needs a hug. 

Her absence has been dearly felt in her life. For the wondrous conversation she brings, for the warmth that emanates from her - warmth she knows Daphne would never admit to having. Ellie thinks that the woman sees herself as cold, but nothing could be further from the truth; to be in her company is to have a hand held. Simple. Warm. And yet, she isn’t the only person who has distanced themselves from her, and though their distance has been neither as harsh nor determined as that of her twin, it feels like it could ache the same. 

She speaks once again, and all memory of loss leaves her mind, focused entirely on the words. And though they have just separated, she darts forward again, pulling her friend into an even tighter, and yet somehow gentler embrace. “You don’t need to explain. I’m just happy to see you.” When she breaks away this time, there’s a sadness in her look, and she hesitates a moment before asking,

“It wasn’t- just- I’m sorry, love. If it was anything I did.” Mind drifts, naturally, to previous whispered apologies, to old reasons that it may still be difficult to be around her. 

Opposite: Eleanore Whittock { @eleanorewhittock​ } Location: Whittock flat Date: Before sunrise, Autumn, 1888.

     This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Old age was supposed to reach them, a gift from the impermanence of life, allow them decades of joy, of the sound of small feet rushing down the stairs. Of laughter, midnight dances, kitchen secrets and Christmas beside a fire. They hadn’t even made it to Christmas. Maybe it was suspicious, the way in which she’d darted from the house. Her statement had been given, no trip to the station necessary, a constant glaze over her eyes that promised her mind was elsewhere. Numb. That was the word for it. Injected with sorrow and heartbreak; her limbs were not her own, her mind was a chasm of chaos, her existence was on autopilot. There was no thoughts, no recognition, no semblance of who had gone to bed that evening.

     ❛❛I have to go, excuse me gentleman.❜❜ She did not hesitate for their response, instead exited the office that they had taken up as their interrogation room, and headed for the front door. A cook stopped her, offered her a coat with a gleam of pity and accusation in her eyes. Whether or not she had done it, she was still about to lose everything. Winifred accepted, needing help to even place her arms inside the fabric, her nightgown still being her outfit of choice, before the cold air of London morning hit her bare skin. Her feet, adorned with slippers in bright designs, marched across the cobbled streets of her home city. Few people crossed her path, all heading for their occupation, all seeing it as a regular weekday morning, all gifting her a confused glance once her attire had been noticed. Not one of them did Winifred pay attention to. They were invisible. She was alone in these streets, in this world. Only Winifred Littledale existed. Only her, and her destination. 

     A destination that she wasn’t even sure of. Her parents? A sister? Where was she supposed to go? Who would understand her at this time? None of them knew. They were all happily married, secured within their station. She was a gold digger, married above her worth, not to be trusted by the upper echelons of London society. A liar, a thief, a murderer in their mind. None of which was true, but no amount of convincing could be done. Maybe it was true. Maybe James was her meal ticket, and she’d simply taken advantage of the young man without even realizing. No. She couldn’t think like that, not now. Guilt showed easier than innocence, that much would soon become clear. 

     Before she knew, her hand perched upon a knocker, the hour too early for callers of innocence. Tears had started to fall before she had time to wipe them aside, heartbreak had commenced before she realized who’s door she was upon, mourning had begun before morning had truly rose. They fell hard, embarrassingly hard, and a broken sob erupted as the door swung open to the familiar face. 

      ❛❛He’s dead, Nellie. He’s dead.❜❜

.

She’s settled in bed, John holding onto her arm for dear life, finally in what seems like a restful sleep. With her other hand, she is tracing his features, gently up his nose, curling around his chin, stroking back the hair that just falls onto his shoulder. He needs a haircut. He also should, definitely, be sleeping in his own bed. But every attempt to put him back in his room ends with screaming, ends with lullabies that she cannot bear to hear anymore, and bruised fingerprints around his tiny wrists. If he has to be here, tucked against her, to be safe, then Ellie will keep her son as close as she possibly can. 

As if to directly combat the thought, she hears a sound at the door. Her heart freezes in her chest. She’s expecting nobody, and she has good reason not to open the door. John stirs against her, and she realises her hand has tightened on his shoulder. Letting go immediately, she strokes his cheek with the back of her hand, and leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “It’s okay, my darling. Mama’s here.” Thankfully, unexpectedly, he stays asleep, and yet, the knocking continues. 

Keeping an eye on him, she slips out of bed, reasoning that she will open the door only an inch. If whoever is on the other side is unfamiliar, they will be shut out, and the police will be rung if they don’t leave. Somehow, the fact she has a plan does not soothe her. It isn’t until she unlocks the door that she questions her own strength at shutting it again. 

Then, the door is opened slightly, and immediately flung all the way. 

The woman on the other side is one of the dearest in the world to her, and she looks devastated. It takes her only a second to bundle her inside, one arm around her shoulders as she brings her in, closing the door behind her. She locks it once more, then turns to her. Only then, do the words register. “Freddie, sweetheart, what do you mean?” 

Gentleness with Winifred is, strangely, not always present. It’s delightful, actually. She has known the woman since they were nothing but girls, silly and raw in their emotions, had once known all of her secrets. She had once been her greatest secret. Ellie is gentle by nature, a rebellion to the coldness of her mother and the roughness of her father, but Freddie predates Eleanore even having a settled nature. She had known Ellie before she was careful, when she had been loud and angry, even if the loudness and the anger had only shown themselves in private company. For a time, Fred had been the only person outside of her brothers that knew Ellie had feelings that weren’t polite. 

Her arm is still around her as she leads her to the sofa, only just realising her attire. It’s quite a distance to Winnie’s house, and the Autumn night air is not kind, and so with the other arm, she pulls the blanket that lays on the back of the couch and wraps it around her in a smooth movement. Having to move her other arm in order to complete the action, she takes both of her hands in her own, instead. “You don’t mean- Oh, good God, are you hurt?” With no idea how it could have happened, a fear strikes her own heart of something happening to the woman beside her. 

open to : @eleanorewhittock

location : the ball, anywhere you want.

date : march 25, 1889. Early evening.

Not without hope, Daphne approaches Eleanor with something akin to a smile. Though it feels all wrong as it stretches itself onto her face. It was not entirely forced ( she didn’t think she could ever not smile when it came to Ellie ), it was just as if she had forgotten how to do it. Her plans had mostly been to avoid, like she had already been doing for so long. Avoid, avoid, avoid. In the last few months she had only found a reason to leave her house for few things. Sometimes when she was really needed for work ( that one time she had finally found a reason to yell at Gilly ) and sometimes for food ( though she ate less and less of that as the days went by ). 

The point was that she rarely found the time to speak to Ellie. And she couldn’t come up with an excuse that was good enough for why. She didn’t think Ellie deserved a half assed lie either, but the idea of being honest instead hung over her and taunted her. Daphne could not tell if it was out of embarrassment that she wished to hide this side of herself from Eleanor. Perhaps it was out of some oddity to prove herself that she did so. A way to preserve the image of her that Eleanor had already come to know.

The one that she had seemingly fallen for. 

Daphne did not think that she’d spend the rest of her life pining after a past lover. And she wasn’t. At least, she didn’t think so. To her, she had already come to terms with the fact that she would never stop loving Eleanor. It sounded pathetic to her own ears but she knew it wasn’t really like that. For her, she didn’t think it possible to give herself over to anyone. And for the longest time she couldn’t, it felt too much like a death sentence. Entrusting someone with your heart. Something that had already been broken, she kept that part of herself locked away for that very reason. But Eleanor didn’t do that. She never forced Daphne to be hers. She just was. And so, for that alone, Daphne had fallen in love. And it would remain that way for as long as she would allow it.

And Eleanor didn’t know about her much outside of that love. Not everything at least. There were some things Daphne was too keen on keeping to herself. It wasn’t it for them, not then. But Daphne couldn’t ever say she was heartbroken because of it. After all, they still had each other. Even after they ended, there was still the warmth there. The one that they both leaned into, tugging each other into it. Holding one another closer. Daphne reminded herself often of what that feeling was like. Because with Ellie, she had managed to build a home outside of herself. 

And in that moment, that their eyes met, she remembered exactly why she loved her. So, she was tentative, hesitant with her next words. Always so scared to mess this up, to mess them up. 

“Was hoping to find you out here.” Not entirely a lie, though she leaves out the part where she most likely would have done everything in her power to avoid her.

.

At an event such as this, where it seemed that there wasn’t a single person she knew not in attendance, she had been expecting to see Daphne. Hoping, perhaps. Hoping, definitely. It had been so long since they’d spent time in one another’s company - which was partly due to Eleanore’s own schedule, but also sometimes simply how it was for them. It wasn’t entirely rare they went a while without talking to each other, for they had nothing particularly in common except shared affection for one another. 

The woman held a place in her life that was hers and hers alone. To love, after Rory, had felt impossible, at least in the capacity she had desired to give it. The need, desperately, to have somewhere to put the love she had felt for the man had been siphoned to John, and to the family she had found so quickly after the loss of her own. But love, while it blurred, and thought it was shown in different ways across, was the love of kin, as if the same blood ran through their veins. 

And she had not loved Rory in that way, of course, but in the kindness and affection of a best friend, and the intimacy of a lover. It had been that intimacy that had put her in the very predicament she ended up in. Daphne, so different to the man in so many ways, but similar in the ways that counted, had been so very easy to fall for. Kind, intelligent, beautiful. Beautiful in every way. So hesitant with her love, same as Ellie, and though the motive was different, it had been such a soft landing. When it had ended, it had been gentle too.

Despite her need, it had been too much too soon, and feeling that way for anyone but Rory had felt like a betrayal. Even in memory. The transition from what she and Daphne had been into what they had become should have been difficult, but as most things were with the woman, it had been an easy transition. What she had felt for her had perhaps not sung in full choir like her fiancé, but it had hummed a melody. She wasn’t sure what music played when she thought of Bill. Maybe it was too early to tell. 

But, despite the music of the ball, she found the quietness as she locked eyes with the woman in question across the gardens. Crossing with relative grace, she smiled as soon as they were close. “I knew I’d see you somewhere. I’m glad of it, too. Oh, Daph, it’s been forever.” With that, she pulled her into an embrace, her head resting against her shoulder for a moment, waiting for the other woman to make the motion to let go.