Miss Grace Barnett

She stood up slowly, watching her closely. She didn't seem offended, which calmed her anxiety. It was interesting to see her here, and not at the Theatre Royal, the theatre she had just offended. She dared not meet her eyes. Instead, she focused gently on the floor and all the surrounding feet moving about. The crowd had parted around them, another reminder that this woman was high above her in rank.

Having seen the play, Ceara was marveled by not only the production, but the quality and the fire in their performances. She couldn't compare it to Theatre Royal, simply because she couldn't see herself fitting the mold there. She heard there was a wonderful opera singer there, but that would be an extravaganza for another evening.

A young woman's rambling drowned out any other thoughts she had, prompting Ceara to look up. "I've not seen the production at the Theatre Royal, but I do not know if they will compare to what I've witnessed tonight," she said, glancing around. "Though, you were not explaining that to me, clearly."

Ceara's mouth twisted into a half smile. "I could help you find your father or we could continue discussing the actress who bested everyone as Rosalind."

Grace's eyes focused on the woman in front of her, smiling politely as she spoke. "No, I was not. I believed my father was beside me, but it seems as though we have drifted."

She stretched her neck and took one final glance over the room, finally finding her father speaking to another lord, clearly distracted. Grace took it as a compliment. He trusted her not to get into any trouble. A compliment she did not deserve, but the freedom was appreciated.

He was caught rather surprised, when she started describing the play. 'Predictable'. 'No real risks'. 'A mirror, but not a challenge'. Edgar kept his expression easy, though something in him tightened for one brief, foolish moment. Not offence, exactly. He could not be offended. The play was not his. In this room, it belonged to Mr Vale, to the actors, to every opinion passing over it like weather. Still, he felt the blow land. Not because she was cruel. That would have been easier to dismiss. Cruel people generally enjoyed the sound of themselves too much to be worth believing. Ms March spoke as though she wanted the thing to be better than it was. As though disappointment had come from hope, not contempt. That was rather harder to laugh away.

He glanced at her when she lowered her eyes, her confidence folding back into something smaller and more careful. "Please do not apologize," he said. "It was the first properly interesting speech of the evening." A faint smile touched his mouth, gentler than teasing. "And I would never accuse a woman of rambling when she has simply had the courage to finish a thought. Men do it constantly and call it philosophy." At the front of the room, one of the actors turned a page. The paper gave a dry little scrape in the pause before the next scene began.

"If the piece is predictable," he said, "perhaps it is because society often is. Cruelty repeats itself. Cowardice, too. People make the same mistakes in different gloves and call it a new season." His smile softened. "But you are right; there is a difference between showing a prison and opening a door. A mirror may accuse, but it does not always rescue." The admission sat strangely in his chest. It was easier to make it while looking at her than at the stage. "So perhaps the fault is not that the play shows the world as it is, but that it has not yet decided whether it believes the world can be otherwise." He tilted his head slightly, curiosity overtaking caution. "And you, Ms March, seem very certain that it can." There was no mockery in it. Only interest. "I should like to hear what sort of play you would write in its place."

Grace's shoulders lowered, and a more relaxed, relieved smile made itself known. The most honest smile she had carried all evening, perhaps even the whole day. It was a smile of being seen and accepted, despite her ramblings or uncomfortable opinions. O'Connor had not belittled her, or even tried to convince her that her opinion was wrong. He had listened.

There was something agreeable in her answer, something measured without being dull. She had not fawned, nor made herself foolish for the sake of politeness. She had listened, considered, and returned the question with enough sharpness to make him feel, for the first time that evening, properly awake. "A reading is a strange creature," he continued, his voice kept low so it would not carry. "A finished production may flatter a weak play into seeming stronger than it is. Fine gowns, clever lighting, a pretty face weeping at just the right moment - London will forgive almost anything if it is handsomely dressed." He glanced toward the scattered pages in the actors' hands. "But here, there is less mercy. The words must stand nearly bare. If they are worth anything, one hears it. If they are not..." His smile softened. "Well. Then we all become very charitable."

For a moment, he looked at her again, trying to place the quiet familiarity that had been troubling him since she spoke. It was not her face. Not precisely. It was the composure, perhaps. The careful way she held herself apart while still missing very little. It reminded him of a ballroom conversation once left unfinished, of a sister whose company had always carried the faint promise of something interesting, had there ever been time enough to find it. " I must admit that I am not waiting for anyone. Hiding from one or two people, perhaps, though I shall deny it under oath if asked." Another line was read aloud, solemn enough to bury a king and yet somehow entirely bloodlesss. Edgar winced before he could stop himself. "I chose to spend the evening listening to actors quarrel with paper. I fear no sensible man would make so poor a defence of himself."

Chloe's slightly furrowed brows, pretending to focus on the reading, lifted and lost their tension as Mr. O'Connor spoke about the strangeness of a public reading. It was as though every word that left his lips had put her exact thoughts into words. She couldn't help but look at him, her head tilting as it so often did, though this time it was a small, subconscious gesture. She was in awe.

"I... I could not have said it better myself, my lord," Grace said, giving him a polite, respectful nod. "The bare stage strips the script of its glamour, and what remains is the very soul of it. The skeleton, made to carry the weight of a production. If it falters, it will become... a... lump... of... eeh... flesh..."

The last few words were spoken with ever-growing pauses between them. The disguised debutante had once again begun a sentence without truly knowing where it was going, and the metaphor was lacking. Some would even say insulting. A flush crept up her neck, painting her cheeks a deeper shade of pink than the rouge she had already applied. She cleared her throat. "Forgive me, that was... a terrible metaphor. What I mean to say is that the script is the most vital part. And... that I agree."

Her sharp gaze missed very little, and it became somewhat clear to her that he seemed to have a physical reaction to hearing the words spoken. Her attention returned to the actors and actresses reading their parts, her brows drawing together as she analyzed their performance for a few heartbeats. Once she had seen her fill, her focus found its way back to the other man's face.

"As someone who claims he does not wish to inflict every unfortunate soul here with his opinion, I must say, you wear that opinion on the edge of your sleeve." She turned to face him more fully now, confident in her disguise. "You act as though their delivery personally offends you. I admit, I have witnessed more convincing readings, but the script is not that terrible. "Yes, it is predictable. A staple caricature of society. Like so many that came before it. It attempts to hold a mirror up to society, yet does little to actually offer a way forward. Not to mention that it partly insults its own audience, which, if you ask me, would only make most of them more stubborn in their ways. Perhaps not those of us present tonight, but the wider audience, were it ever to be produced." I much prefer playwrights who write the world as it could be, rather than simply representing it as it is. I find that most people are already aware of the flaws in this world. What they need is inspiration. Hope to hold on to. Something to ignite the drive to make actual change."

The engagement between Dominic and Leonora had been announced. The morning of the announcement, Dominic informed his mother, but she wasn’t exactly pleased. Instead of offering her son congratulations, she offered him criticism. Leonora wasn’t the Murray she wanted for Dominic, but Dominic explained his reasoning. Leonora had experience in a royal court, managing a title and estates. France was different to Ireland, but Dominic had every faith that she would make the perfect marchioness. A title his mother never received, and Dominic always assumed that was the reason for her resentment. His birth meant he was Daniella’s heir, not her. He wouldn’t apologise for that. Dominic was doing what he was born for, what she had him do. 

Dominic already knew today was not the day to remain at home. The lord wasn't sitting; he had no morning appointments to attend to. His brothers couldn’t be found or didn’t want to be. For the first time in a while, Dominic had time. He decided to stop by the hosier's with the sole purpose of looking for an engagement gift, something he could give his future wife without knowing too much about her. It was the way things worked in society. Inside, the hosier was cool and quiet. There was a faint smell of lavender that filled the shop as Dominic paused before the glass counter. Gloves were displayed beneath it, all made with the finest silks and embroidery. One pair caught his eyes. They were ivory lace day gloves with seed pearls sewn in. Behind him, the bell rang. “Maybe you could help this lord decide on a pair." The shop keeper said to whoever was standing behind him. Dominic stepped aside, his eyes not leaving the pair he’d focused on. “What do you think?” He asked whoever came in, “Are these a suitable gift for a future wife?”

Grace had managed to clumsily spill ink on the gloves that had been resting on her desk while she was writing after a particularly inspiring ball. Which meant she now had to replace them before anyone was any the wiser. She had brought her lady's maid with her but stationed her outside. The less the maids knew, the better. She was still trying to keep her writing something of a secret.

She put on her polite smile as the draft made the loose baby hairs around her blonde curls flutter. The sound of the bell announced her arrival, and Grace was met by the lovely aroma of lavender, one of her favorite flowers. She was in a good mood, or rather had been, until she heard a man's voice.

Her smile quickly faded, and she felt a cold, heavy stone settle in her stomach. Dominic O'Conner. The man who had ruined her sister's life. Grace knew he held far more power than she did, but in this moment, she found she did not care. There were few witnesses to perform politeness for, and after all, what more harm could he do to her family?

She stepped forward and looked at the gloves, tilting her head as though she were genuinely considering them. "I am yet to be considered a future wife, so I am afraid I cannot answer that. It is my sister, Mary, who should have been here to offer her answer. Her taste is immaculate."

Aera always found art very calming for herself. When she needed to decompress after a long day she would doodle around her written out thoughts or take out some clay and sculpt whatever came to mind. On this particular day, she decided to go to Mayfair's art gallery she had grown fond of.

A sense of peace washed over her as she quietly wandered the rooms, eyes fixated upon giant paintings and sculptures that were so easy to admire. She took her notebook out while looking at a particular piece, scribbing out her thoughts. A shadow appeared next to her and she took a gentle step to the side, her eyes focused on her notebook as she wrote.

"I hope I am not in your way. I just- I needed to write out my thoughts. This art is beautiful, no?" She asked, just briefly looking over at the other person. "The colors, the texture, everything."

Grace stopped in front of a beautiful landscape painting. It depicted the countryside as the sun was rising. Dawn. New beginnings, Grace thought to herself. One day, she hoped to write her own new beginning.

"Oh! Not at all. Pay me no mind," the blonde said as the woman beside her spoke. Grace could see the woman well out of the corner of her eye and had, in fact, barely even noticed her until now. Having caught her attention, however, Grace glanced over, her green eyes wide with curiosity. The woman was writing. In a notebook. In a public gallery. Grace was astonished, and impressed. She quickly looked away. It did not matter how curious she was. Reading another person's writing over their shoulder without permission was rude. And Grace was many things, impulsive and reckless, perhaps, but never rude.

Edgar had always found script readings uncomfortable. There was something strange about hearing old words dragged into new light, especially when everyone in the room felt perfectly entitled to judge them. Actors sat in a loose half-circle beneath the theatre candle lights, pages in hand, voices rising and falling over a play Edgar knew a little too well. A young man near the front delivered a line of grief as though he were ordering supper. Edgar shut his eyes for half a second. 'Mr Vale's' name sat printed neatly at the top of every copied page - 'E. O. Vale'. No one looked Edgar's way. Why would they? He was only Mr O'Connor, lingering at the edge of the room as he often did; a patron, perhaps, or a nuisance with too much fondness for theatres. It suited him. Mostly.

"That feels rather severe," one of the actresses said, pausing over the page. The director hummed. "It is meant to be severe." Edgar wanted to interrupt. "No," he murmured under his breath, before he could stop himself. "It is meant to be afraid." Thankfully, no one seemed to hear him. Or so he hoped. A small movement to his right drew his attention. A woman stood near a painted column, half-shadowed and quietly dressed, though not quite forgettable. There was something careful about her presence, as though she had chosen not to be noticed and had nearly succeeded.

He glanced back toward the actors, then lowered his voice. "Forgive me," he said, turning slightly toward her, "but I cannot decide whether you are hiding from someone, waiting for someone, or simply the only sensible person in the room." A faint smile touched his mouth. "I ask because I am attempting at least two of those things myself, and I should like to know whether we are allies or competitors." He leaned one shoulder against the column, keeping his voice easy. "I am Edgar O'Connor," he added, as though that explained anything. "Patron, occasional nuisance, and currently pretending not to have opinions." At the front of the room, another line was read with all the tenderness of a legal notice. Edgar winced. "That last part," he murmured, "is going poorly."

Grace stood on the outer edge of the room, half retreated into the safety of the shadows. She was not sure if she actually needed the cover it provided, as she had disguised herself quite well, as long as no one looked to closely. The blonde curls, which were always pinned up to perfection by her lady's maid, were now hanging losely over her shoulders. It was not propper for a debutant to wear it this way, which was exactly why it worked. The elegant gowns she usually wore, were swapped out with a deep purple silky dress. One she had borrowed from one of her maid, which she tended to wear on her days off. Her make-up, usually feather light and feminine, had been instead been applied with a strong and steady hand. The mascara, eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick and rouge had nearly transformed her. She looked, Grace thought, like an opera singer, or an escort.

Despite the safety of her disguise, Grace's heart still skipped a beat as she saw a familliar face. Edgar O'Conner was here. Of course he was. She knew he had interest in the arts. In fact it had been a miracle that their paths on events such as these did not happen sooner. She avoided his gace, focusing instead on the actors. It wasn't as if he would actually notice her. Right?

Then he spoke. Directly to her.

Grace took a deep breath to steady herself, to remain calm and composed. She glanced over at him for a brief moment, searching his eyes for even the faintest spark of recognition, but she found none. Not wanting to linger too long and risk revealing herself, she soon turned her attention back to the stage. He had asked if she was hiding from someone, waiting for someone, or simply the only sensible person in the room, and admitted that he was guilty of two of those things. Her lips curved into a small, amused smirk. A riddle, almost.

Which two was he referring to? He didn't seem to be hiding, nor did he appear to be waiting for anyone. Unless he was attempting some flirtatious remark in the hope of getting her into bed. If that was the case, he would be disappointed. Clearly, he at least thought of himself as sensible, and was not afraid to admit it.