amelia augusta

Goodness, PRINCESS AMELIA has arrived in London. SHE is 25, of the BRITISH ROYAL FAMILY. Though they are NEW to the Season, we can only describe them as GOOD-HEARTED and ALTRUISTIC, dear reader. Accompanied by HER MOTHER, HRH QUEEN CHARLOTTE & HER POMERANIAN, LOTTIE, they have settled in and are accepting social calls. But be warned: they are known for their NAIVETE. (Clara, 26, she/her, EST)

LONDON -- Amelia Frederick-Mecklenburg-Strelitz, daughter of Henley MP and Conservative party favorite, George Frederick, and Deutsche Bank Chief Financial Officer, Charlotte Mecklenburg-Strelitz, will start a four-year course for a dual degree in finance and international relations in the fall. She intends to adopt a secondary focus in primary education.

"We are immeasurably proud,” Frederick said during a campaign visit to the opening of Lewisham Hospital’s new orthopaedic wing. “Her acceptance is a continuation of an important legacy of learning at our family alma mater.” Recent criticism of Frederick’s foreign policy inexperience and mishandling of government funds seems to have had little effect. “I expect to have a diplomat or an investment banker in the family. Either way, she will be valuable addition to my future cabinet,” the MP was quick to joke. 

amelia || university au aka “convincing yourself your parents aspirations will make you happy” moodboard

an exhausting number of late nights in the library

sunday mornings spent singing in the chapel choir

pancake breakfasts to celebrate making it through another finance/IR exam

picnics in the park when the weather is fair

embarrassing student council fundraisers (but it’s for charity!) 

trawling bookstores for new picture books 

the joys of running the campus therapy dog program

The cloying scent of peppermint threatened to make her sneeze; Lucy had a mind to strangle whoever thought to wear it. 

It was a soft voice who served as a distraction, right as her dark blue glare threatened to burn a hole in a tan overcoat. Lucy turned, wide-eyed, and looked upon the princess.

I am not partial to gossip–

Amelia was soft features, an earnest brow. She lacked the stern lines of her mother and the fancifulness of her father, and Lucy searched her, but could not say more. A year ago, she would never have been seated so close.

Still, gossip.

“A miniature Marmorpalais?” Lucy’s features lit like sunlight upon the ocean, bright and bemused. “I would not put it past him,” she agreed in confidence. “Though if he has, it is intended to be a surprise.”

Burn it, came a small, dark voice in her head. Lucy cared little for tokens of affection. She only wished to be home with him.

A curious glance past the princess, to a dark-haired man who seemed at once animated and agitated.

“Who is this?” she whispered, ducking her head to keep the words between them. “It takes daring to attend to royalty.”

.

It was difficult to tell if it was love or pregnancy that gave Lucy that particular glow, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked. Perhaps they were one in the same, for what else was a child but the product of a happy marriage? The rose garden was lush with splendor, but it was Lucy that Amelia felt compelled to sit back and admire. 

She was a woman responsible for the construction of her own happiness. What a blessing to not only be in love, but have it returned. 

Amelia had been granted blessings of her own, just not that particular one. It we unbecoming to be greedy, she reminded herself.

She followed the line of Lucy’s gaze over to Conrad, momentarily tracing the strong line of his nose, the discordant style of his hair, curls which she was slowly learning were in perpetual state of disarray. 

“It is true that I have not known Lord Mowbray to suffer from a lack of nerve.” Her voice had a distracted quality to it, her mind preoccupied with the thought of a hand at her elbow. “As I understand it, his peers have characterized him as something of a lion.” 

It was easier for Amelia to overlook the very pointed fact that she and Conrad had been sat at a table comprised entirely of married couples when she reframed the arrangement as simply being sat amongst friends. 

It was a blessing, she told herself, to have Conrad delivered safely into Lady Harcourt’s trusted hands and Lucy well-situated to serve as her own company.

"I am sorry that my ladies seem to have seen more of you this season than I have. They speak of you endlessly. Now, I am not partial to gossip–” a small wrinkle briefly creased her brow, recent conversation would suggest otherwise, “but you must indulge me in parsing fact from fiction. Is it true my cousin is so much in love with you that he saw fit to commission the construction of a miniature replica of Marmorpalais for your child?”

her majesty’s luncheon || hrh princess amelia augusta

conradmowbray​:

“Christ’s sake!” Conrad tossed the letter onto his desk, and collapsed back in his chair. The hearth was cold, the early morning light slanting in through the windows, exposing dust particles in the warming air. Head pounding, hungover and sleepless, the man could think of a thousand things he would rather do than be ushered before the Queen. 

But it will be an honor, came the nasally voice of a loyal subject. 

The Princess might be in attendance, rang a somewhat less virtuous voice. 

He rubbed his lip, staring down at Her Majesty’s crest. It didn’t matter one way or another. He would attend, of course he would. 

__

He smelled of bergamot and cedarwood, horsehair and likely sweat– Conrad was far too aware of himself. Aware of the hair spilling onto his forehead, swiped back hastily as he was shown through the palace to the receiving room. He though of every step, the sound of his footfall on marble floors, or perhaps they were ivory or quartz. He swallowed and even that felt full of forethought and pretense, as though the Queen’s sharp gaze was already upon him. 

And then suddenly they’d entered a hall lined with portraits of men and women long dead, their curious eyes watching from beyond the grave. And there, dressed in a shade of soft summer, was Princess Amelia. 

There was no uncertainty about what this tea would encompass. 

Conrad bowed, grateful that it kept his eyes low. He only glanced at he stood straight, careful to keep proper distance. He needn’t be writing his father due about misbehavior, especially where it concerned the royal family. 

“Your highness,” he greeted, voice low as not to call attention. To whom he was not sure. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Did you enjoy yourself at the Colchester’s soiree?” Recalling the pestering disappointment of not sharing a dance, he was suddenly glad for it. Less to explain away. 

@hermajesty-charlotte​

There was, of course, only the briefest space for conversation before the doors swung open, guided by gloved hands. The queen did not care for whispers in rooms she was not a part of; nor was she interested in being kept waiting.

Phoebe, her backside like a cotton puff, leapt from Charlotte’s lap and began to sniff one of the table legs, finding it of particular interest.

“Her Royal Highness, Princess Amelia,” announced the doorman, giving the princess a perfunctory bow. “And–” as an afterthought. “The Lord Conrad Mowbray.”

Charlotte looked between the pair: with curiosity first, at her daughter. She looked at Amelia often, usually when she was in some state of perplexity – pausing to help a child across a puddle, mincing in her reticule for some frippery or another, staring wistfully at the antique vase of lilies upon the receiving table. Presentation made her different, Charlotte studied through a critical eye. Lavender suited her, particularly when the fabric undulated to blue. Charlotte nodded, and a footman stepped forward to usher the princess into a chair. There was something to be said for Amelia’s understated prettiness.

The same could not be said for the Lord Mowbray. Charlotte looked him over, toe to head, noted the wrinkled edge of the ribbon pulling back his hair – or, she thought uncharitably, most of it. His boots shone but his trousers lacked the fashionable fit. Curious.

Another nod, another chair.

“Daughter,” greeted the queen. “Lord Mowbray.” Charlotte’s feather, pluming high over her head, wafted in the faint breeze. She gestured to the table before her, two gentlemen stepping forward to place a tea tray, tarts, an array of finger-sandwiches.

“I do hope you enjoy assam,” said the queen. “For it is my particular favorite.”

.

I should think any gentleman would be honored to grace your dance card, Lady Mulgrave had insisted, but Conrad’s name had never appeared.

He had known Amelia was in attendance, that much was confirmed as he greeted her, which could only suggest that sharing a dance was not the honor some might consider it to be. The realization stung in a distant sort of way, a feeling that was quickly followed by shame. A person could not be liked by everyone, and only those with an unflattering ego expected as much.

She tried to be satisfied that Lord Mowbray was, as ever, civil, though it continued to be colored by his persistent reserve. She was spared the need for imminent niceties as the doors to the state room were thrown up and the urge to please was tugged toward the weight of the crown. The choreography demanded by duty familiar, putting Amelia through the well-ingrained motions of entertaining as the trio settled around the table.

Acquiescence: assam held a malty flavor with little sweetness, she would have preferred a selection reminiscent of the fruits of summer, raspberry or peach. Amelia poured a full cup for her mother, Lord Mowbray, then herself. The first sip was taken with a smile. “Soon to be our favorite as well, I am sure. You always choose well.”

Courtesy: selecting a sandwich was a matter of making an unobtrusive choice. There was salmon, which her mother liked, while roastbeef seemed the selection Lord Mowbray would prefer. Amelia settled for a thinly stuffed watercress sandwich, placing the meager delicately on her place.

Finally, gentility: “Lord Mowbray was only just asking how I fared during the Colchester’s affair. We saw so little of each other.” Amelia paused to let that salient point hang in the air a moment, taking another reluctant small sip from her gilded teacup. “He was never in want of company, always with partner or another throughout the evening. I have yet to make his acquaintance, but Mr. Wyatt seems charming company, Lord Mowbray.”

-

There was a terrible moment when he thought he would have to – to describe in more, hrm, detail what he was warning of; it was therefore a relief when Miss Wright took his arm – and they were once again headed vaguely in a direction, albeit with purpose. 

“I – well. Well.” He cleared his throat again – resisted the urge to tug at his suddenly tight neckcloth. “Simply because certain guests have-have chosen to abuse our hosts’ hospitality does not – does not mean the hosts have created some – some hotbed of-of vice. This is hardly the-the dark alleys of-of Vauxhall, after all; I - I should not like to be heard slandering anyone in that regard.”

Then, in case his point was missed, added, “You, after all, would hardly enjoy being tarred with that same brush simply because you – most innocently, might I add – sought a-a breath of fresh air.”

Why the devil was he – ah. Yes. Mowbray. 

“As for Lord Mowbray, I was only – we are long acquaintances, and I wished to let him know his sister needed him. He is an excellent, most attentive brother.”

He was unsure about the last, but it felt like Mowbray’s character required some additional burnishing. 

.

Slandering seemed a severe characterization, but Lord Effingham was in the right that it was unfair to cast presumptions. 

“No, indeed. A well-curated garden offers a number of pleasures, all of which may be enjoyed–” goodness, the whole affair was awkward, “in good conscience.” 

The guilt of lying still gnawed at her, but Amelia came to regret the anonymity she had been afforded less as they moved on from one delicate topic to the next. That Lord Mowbray had a sister was news to her, he had made no mention of her previously (but then he spoke so little of himself when he spoke at all). He was a painting crafted in the abstract, and this new piece of information added a sense of realism to his portrait. Amelia felt a tickle of curiosity, wondering if he was as stoic with his siblings as he was with her.  

"The careful attentions he pays both his sister and brother do him credit. It is difficult not to think well of him.”  Yet even as she paid the compliment, the absence of an explanation as to why Conrad had ventured out into the garden made her feel uneasy in a way she didn’t know how to contend with.

She pushed the feeling from her mind with a gentile smile that she didn’t quite feel. “I suppose he ought to enjoy himself, the same as any guest.” 

-

His hand twitched; once again he regretted – and was grateful that – Society frowned upon gentlemen walking about armed. 

“Yes,” he said instead, grim – at least until the air was rent again by sounds of quite a different sort. 

He was glad of the darkness then, choosing not to look directly at the young lady. 

“As our hosts have seen fit to-to open up their gardens, why – some guests have chosen to, hrm, take advantage of the-the, hrm, opportunities the setting presents; some may presume the presence of a-a young lady such as yourself, unattended, as-as acquiescing to such encounters.”

The heat, lessened as it was in the open air than in the crowded rooms, did nothing to cool his face. 

“I assure you I am quite safely wedded – I have-have no intentions whatsoever as to-to you or your person – that is to say –” 

He cleared his throat; reoffered his arm. 

“Shall we see you back to-to civilized society then, Miss Wright?”

.

Her Majesty painted a malicious picture of the Earl, but Amelia struggled to see it reflected before her. He was persistent, certainly, with a manner of speech that suggested thoughtfulness rather than deceit. But dangerous? Not at all. More so confusing.  

“Encounters? I might suggest that the point of a party is exactly that– to encounter new acquaintances? Why ever would I want someone to think me disinclined to acquiescence? I am quite eager to–” 

Another shriek, more gleeful this time, followed by an unmistakeable moan. 

Even cast in shadow, Amelia’s wretched blush was unmistakeable. “I– I believe I have caught your meaning, Lord Effingham, and I am decidedly far more eager for the company found in the ballroom, rather than that found out of doors.” She took up the crook of his arm once more, this time with an air of awkwardness. “If you would kindly lead the way.”  

The splish-splash of footsteps on wet cobblestone took the place of conversation. Amelia turned their disturbing shared discovery over in her head. 

-

At her stopping, he too stopped – then, registering the lady’s expression, turned on his heel to look about – hand going instinctively to his hip –

And met air, just as his survey revealed nothing. 

“What –” he began, only to resume, bewildered, at the young lady’s sudden about-face. “No – no, no, not at all – it would only be-be proper; one should not be-be wandering about at night alone, let alone in-in these gardens. Why, let me tell you –”

Gardens which had already seen at least one instance of a-a lady potentially ruined – in which cads like-like Wyatt were left to roam free and do God knew what else besides. 

A chill went down his back.

“I-I beg of you, Miss Wright, reconsider.” A beat, then, inspired, “It-it is the least I can do, for the-the daughter of a-a potential acquaintance, which you have acknowledged. I cannot in good conscience simply – simply abandon you, here, like this, knowing what else roams the hedges tonight.”

.

Amelia’s eyes widened. It was not becoming for a lady to be wandering about alone, but the gentleman (and he was, indeed, a gentleman, to still offer his services in the face of a gentle rebuke) certainly made the garden sound more a haunted wood than a fairy idyll. She glanced around, seeing no evidence of boar nor bear amid the well-pruned rosebushes and ivy sparkling with raindrops. 

Still, there was a note of fear in her voice as she raised her eyebrow in an inquiry eerily similar to Her Majesty. “Whatever do you mean, Lord Effingham? Aside from an unfortunate puddle, I cannot see–”

Inclined his head in acknowledgment at the introduction – only to pause halfway. 

“Has – has she indeed? I am afraid I do not recall knowing any-any Wrights – wh-what was your mother’s family, if you do not mind my asking?” 

Perhaps it was occasioned by the lady’s name; he began taking them along the path to the right with a confidence he did not feel. 

."I– it is such a common name that is is hardly worth recalling. I do not believe you to be already acquainted, more that your reputation precedes any introduction that may have already transpired. She says you are–” mealy-mouthed “thoughtful in your speech and a–” weasel-shrimp “person who possesses a unique balance of confidence and humility. Not to mention that you–” cannot be trusted, for the good of the empire. 

It was that final condemnation that stopped Amelia in her tracks. Her hand slipped from the crook of the Earl’s arm, eyes gone wide. She was, in her own small way, the empire embodied, and it suddenly seemed incredibly foolish to allow her to be guided, alone in the dark, by a man who might bear her ill will.

(Though he had very good manners, and despite the difference in their height had been polite enough to match her stride. He did not appear to be the devil’s spawn Her Majesty had made him out to be, and yet–)

-

He bowed – offered his arm – those steps, at least, were automatic.

“Captain, the Earl of Effingham, of the Navy. Your servant, Miss –?”

.

-

“Mowbray!”

Bad enough that Wyatt was running amok – no doubt causing consternation everywhere, inciting licentiousness – the only reliable member of this-this damme Committee had gone missing, right when Mowbray’s intervention was most needed. 

Reduced to halloa-ing out in the darkness, as if he were not in the midst of Mayfair –

“Where the devil is –” Stopped, glaring upwards at the topiary that he could have sworn he had passed by at least twice. 

– no, he concluded, squaring his shoulders; were he at sea, he would at least have access to the stars for navigation. 

Nor did his missions often involve the topiary asking questions in a lady’s voice. 

He squinted upwards at the skies again, cursing the damme lanterns – the unexpected puddle (when he had just fully dried off) – 

Only to be taken aback by the figure that just appeared upon looking back down from the heavens.

“I-I say,” he began, frowning, “This is hardly the place for a young lady to be wandering about alone – are-are you lost, miss?” 

That he himself certainly was – that he kept to himself. 

.

Amelia blinked. 

Miss. 

That was certainly a first. She opened her mouth, intending to gently correct the gentleman, then faltered. He was wrong on one count, but correct in the other. It wasn’t an especially flattering look to be caught alone, loitering in the dark. That she hadn’t intended to be alone, that she was meant to be in feminine company, was difficult to explain. 

Perhaps it was safer be thought a Miss. It wasn’t lying, not if he had already assumed.