“Kindness, charity, is it real if it is conditional? if it is dain fur th’ sake ay appearances.” Kenneth was surprised at what came from his mouth. It was a deep statement. Something about the woman before him had him thinking, like he had to prove something.
“If ye ur correct, an’ she is th’ a one who was cast out, it main come frae a place ay loneliness..” Kenneth started. He knew cruel people in his life. Their wicked actions came from one of two places: a lack of empathy or a need for acceptance.
“Ah dinnae see th’ purpose in causin’ harm fur th’ sake ay acceptance. Ah huvnae bin haur for many years, sae Ah dah ken whit has caused ‘er tae write inaccurate things abit me.” The half-truth felt odd on his tongue. Some of her writings held some semblance of truth but caused incorrect assumptions from her readers.
-
The brogue was too thick to be an affectation. A true Highlander, yet one who found himself still seated at the table of his countrymen’s subjugator. Her hands twitched, out of sympathy? commiseration? Somewhere across the seas was a place that used to be called home, dominated by arrogant, pushy visitors who then refused to leave.
The sun never set on the British Empire, and all its inhabitants suffered for it. She smiled instead.
“You are being too generous, Lord Ridel. If acceptance was what she wanted, she would have to come out into the open, not hiding behind a pseudonym.” Her finger tapped the delicate gilded handle of her teacup. “And of all the things to attack, she chose the one thing that would gain her no sympathy: marriage.”
A glance over at the Marquess; a raised brow. “As for why you, you cannot deny that you are certainly someone that... draws others’ attention.”
Behind the man, Lady Kedley was attempting to discreetly keep an eye on her quarry. Kedley, who had not so subtly wondered aloud what good a titled widow without an heir was.
“But we should find you your Lady Gramercy before such attention translates into action. I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of making her acquaintance as of yet. Perhaps if you describe her, I can help keep another pair of eyes out?”
Louisa had no desire for acceptance, but at least she was honest about her malice.
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Kenneth frowned at the gentleman’s reply. It wasn’t an unusual reaction for him, but doing so in front of a lady revealed plenty about the kind of man he was. Kenneth nodded in response to the friendly one of the pair, taking his seat.
“Naethin’ untoward, merely a misunderstandin’.” Kenneth gave her a knowing smile. Subtle prying was his job; no one expected it from him. “Ah hope ye huvnae experienced sic’ a hin’. Gossip is a fool’s errain.” Attendants were filling the area, distributing glasses of lemonade to the thirsty attendees. Kenneth took a drink, curiously waiting for her response.
He followed Castleton’s eyes to Lady Kedley, before jerking his head to avoid her gaze. “Ah fear mah late entrance has caused some… interruptions in findin’ mah companion. Ah am escortin’ Lady Gra- Lady Mowbray, Ah mean.” It felt rude, but Kenneth kept glancing around Lady Castleton. Any bit of brown hair could be her.
-
Gossip.
The infamous Whistledown letter had been on her tray at breakfast. She had skimmed it only out of the lack of more engaging reading; Mrs. Henley and others would have already informed her of what she needed to know.
“Ah.” Understanding dawned, the names mentioned falling into place. “Lady ...Mowbray.” Formerly Gramercy. She felt a stab of sympathy as she followed his gaze out and around the Luncheon guests. “London Society can host all the charity events they like, but has little actual kindness to spare.”
Was the Marquess himself not also a widower?
“We bereaved should stick together, should we not? It is difficult for others to understand, in this flurry of last-minute matchmaking.”
Some of the couples looked haphazard indeed. Her gaze flickered over Berkeley, next to a dark-haired beauty; the too-inquisitive Pembroke, seated by a face more familiar in less well-lit surroundings; a pair of heavily expectant ladies, with matching girths but sans spouse.
“I heard Lady Gr-- Mowbray was a Patroness; she may have been delayed by her duties.” The rulers of Almack’s were as mysterious as any sect, and twice as dangerous. “It makes you wonder whether these gossips were ones cast out by that elite set of ladies.”
A server appeared, silently poured tea, departed.
“Unless you have recently done something to offend?”
She sipped. Observed the man, so eager to find (protect? defend?) this lady widow, over the rim.
“Lady Whistledown seems to mention the both of you quite often of late. She dislikes the two of you almost as much as she hates the newly wedded Harcourt.”
“Again?” Lady Jersey seemed surprised at the announcement, and did not attempt to hide it.
Selwyn rolled her eyes, and Kedley too. The trio looked upon Lady Castleton and Lord Richards like three vultures, peering over their nest.
Charlotte, for her part, hardly looked up – at least until the distinguishable creak and squelch filled the air. One of her footman had placed a board upon the unfortunate mud-spot, but stepping on an uneven surface had an unfortunate way of–
Slipping, it seemed.
The Lady had good balance in her credit. Charlotte and Phoebe, her pomeranian, tilted their heads in unison as Lady Castleton righted herself without so much as a second step, maintaining her composure while her heel began to sink into the ground.
“Lady Castleton,” the queen spoke slowly, bemused. She paused to pull Phoebe onto her lap, adjusting the sprig of flowers at her neck. Another moment passed, tidying. Charlotte looked back up, finding the lady a little flushed in the face. “How interesting to have you back in London, even if your hem is–”
It had not been so muddy a moment before. A pity.
“Soiled.”
Behind her, Selwyn vibrated with laughter.
-
Being prepared for the barbs did not make them any less pointed. Each delicate, court-approved peal of laughter burrowing like little hooks beneath the skin. She wondered if the ladies-in-waiting practiced such tableaus before each audience.
“Tragedy befalls us all, Your Majesty. But it eventually passes, and something might yet be salvaged.”
She had not yet been asked to rise. The hem so tittered about remained in the mud.
At least her companion had finally managed to stop his wallowing and was more or less upright, if incandescent with mortification.
“I would like to thank Your Majesty for the invitation. It was a pleasure and an honor to work with the Sisters of Saint Therese on their cause.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Richards’ mouth opening, undeterred by the mud. She spoke quickly.
“But I believe my appearance and Lord Richards’ are no longer suitable for a royal audience. Your Majesty.”
Louisa used to dance. She was no longer that girl, but some of that experience remained. It was no small feat, after all, to step backwards while still in a curtsey without tripping.
“Ready the carriage,” she said to Mrs. Henley. “Lord Richards, your outfit is in shambles. At least allow me to offer some help.”
A careless, pointed flick of a glance over him, then, “You can repay me by telling me of my stepson.”
29 August 1800
The pedestal at the rose garden luncheon
While the garden is usually full of benches, perhaps a small stand for a musician, today it has been transformed to a dining room befitting a queen. Specifically, this queen.
Charlotte adjourned the luncheon a few minutes before the rest, leading her trailing court away from the trays of petit-fours and to a room dazzled in soft petal pink and rich blue. She returns, now, and is seated upon a low pedestal at the southern end of the rose garden.
The courtiers behind her are flush with chatter, whispers and secrets spreading like brushfire. Every so often, one bends to entice Queen Charlotte in their merriment, and she laughed. It is at that moment that a name is announced, and a couple steps forward.
—
See this post to reply to this starter!
-
Richards, clearly realizing he would not be charming his table, leapt at the chance to escape, only to balk again upon seeing the direction they were headed.
“No, I do not think --”
“How fortunate then, that you are not called upon to think, merely to escort me.” There was a flash of satisfaction when he folded. She took his arm.
The man was sweating again, she noted, a sheen reappearing over the unflattering salmon-pink hue of his face. He would age poorly, the type that would grow querulous and pot-bellied, repeating tales of glory days that had never happened to him.
Good. Perhaps a little additional pressure might make him honest.
The herald announced them. She matched her curtsey with his bow, lowering just so, until...
Richards stumbled, red-faced and wild-eyed; she barely caught herself from falling with him. For a moment, she stared blankly at the sprawl he made, literally prostrate before the Queen.
Too much pressure, it seemed. She turned her gaze back to the tips of the royal shoes, as if nothing had happened, still lowered in a curtsey.
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Queen’s Luncheon | 29 August 1800 | @lady-castleton
A grand entrance does have a cost. Ladies, with a date and without, surrounded him once the Queen’s speech finished. They asked question after question, which made any escape impossible. He tried to search for his date, but a new head would pop up, locking his view.
“Lord Ridel!” Lady Kedley entered the fray, parting the small crowd of women. She attached herself to Kenneth’s arm. “I am so glad you could attend. Allow me to show you to your seat.” She nearly purrs, before pulling Kenneth away. He wants to be grateful, but the look in the lady’s eyes worries him.
After a few steps, Kenneth finds himself at what must be his table. Another lady and gentleman sit, rising at the Lady of Almanack arriving. “Lord Richards, Lady Castleton, may I introduce Lord Ridel. He is Scottish, if you could not tell.” She giggles at her own joke. “He is a new arrival as well.”
Kenneth smiles awkwardly at the couple. “It’s a pleasure, Laird Richards and Lady Saunderson. Ur ye enjoyin’ yer time in London?” Hearing their respective names, his nose scrunches. He has heard the lady’s name somewhere. Kenneth did not recognize her at all though. “Lady Castleton, yer nam is familiar. Micht Ah have hae it-“ Whistledown! That’s where he read it. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but quickly closed it. Unpleasant topics would not do well now.
Lady Kedley was an unfortunate fixture of the London social scene, a trial endurable but not enjoyable. She lowered her head and murmured the correct things.
Richards clearly did not feel the need to do the same. “Yes, rather difficult to miss the Scottishness,” the man sniffed, before pointedly turning to seat himself away from the new arrival.
She could have apologized for her companion. She could have engaged the expectant Lady Kedley in further conversation, as the other lady so wanted.
She did neither, and took some satisfaction in watching Lady Kedley slink away, disappointed.
“I could say the same for you, Lord Ridel. There seem to be a great many of our Scottish peers in London this Season. But please, let us not stand on ceremony.” Gesturing at the empty seat, she sat, making sure she was between the Scottish marquess and the increasingly sullen Richards.
“I hope you were not delayed by anything untoward. London is rather full of persons and circumstances that can waylay even the best of plans.”
A pause as she contemplated the platter of delicate cakes on offer.
“If you are here without a companion, I am sure there are any number of ladies willing to make up for your lack.”
She caught his eye, then slowly looked several tables over, at a still-simpering Lady Kedley.
There had begun to be a bit of dust on the lane leading to the rose garden. Peevish, Paulson thought. Something would have to be done.
He dipped inside the gate and scoured the garden, relieved at last that the tables were properly gowned. All throughout, maids in white bonnets dotted the landscape, standing up easels, displaying art, placing lace and china at each set. A cart rested in the middle of it all, full of rose petals. Paulson sniffed. A wonder they were not entirely beset with bees.
“You there–” he called, snapping his fingers. A young boy looked up from beneath a mop of hair. “Go and tidy the entrance,” he demanded. “The dirt is– dirty.”
The boy blinked three times in rapid succession and nodded slowly, as though unsure how he may solve for such a thing.
“Yes, sir,” he finally said, unevenly. Paulson nodded, and immediately diverted his attention to another, requisitioning a cloth to tidy the polish upon his boots. Slowly, order was restored, the dark leather brimming to a full shine. He had just nearly reordered his wits when the boy appeared again, confusion swept away for something adjoining fright. “It is the carriages!” He exclaimed, over-loud. “They are here!”
Cursing under his breath, Paulson strode across the lawn and swung the gate open, staring at exactly the scene he feared. A carriage, solitary, and behind him, an unfinished garden.
His lower lip flinched. “Lady Castleton,” he greeted, bowing. “Won’t you care to come inside?” The boy had appeared again, and Paulson nudged him to the side, hoping he might blend in with the hedgerow. “You are–” his lip was stiff, his jacket starched. “Earlier than we expected.”
[ Will Louisa go through the gate alone, and mingle in the rose garden? Or will she escape and take a wander through the rest of the park, so she is not the first? @LADY-CASTLETON ]
-
“So it appears,” she said, fan in one hand, the other clasped on top of the other.
Richards, delighted to have an out, had already turned on his heel. “See? Of course, we shall --”
“Be happy to come in. Thank you for the invitation. I am sure it has taken no small effort to arrange for it all.” She turned slightly to nod at Mrs. Henley, who in turn gestured the footman with the covered box forward. “It will be no trouble if ...any last-minute preparations are still being made. I simply wanted to make sure the Inspired Sisters received this last box of embroidered pillows before the luncheon began.”
The hand not holding the fan she extended to her side, not bothering to look at the gentleman behind her.
“Other than that, you need not trouble yourself on my account. Lord Richards shall escort me in.”
One, she counted, two, three...
There was a hiss of breath behind her, followed by scuffed steps before her fingertips hovered just over a gentleman’s arm.
She smiled at the ...majordomo? butler? master of ceremonies? and inclined her head as she swept in.
The rose garden at St. James Park is an effusion of crimson, scarlet, and blush on an ordinary day, and has been taken to the umpteenth level on this afternoon.
Ribbons garland the iron fence, and two stone pillars are topped with overflowing bouquets of summer roses. Manservants wait outside the gates in white jackets, brass buttons polished to a bright shine, to assist with carriages as they arrive. The Mall is quite busy, of course. There is little time for dallying.
One by one, the ladies of Almacks arrive – the Marchioness, and the Lady Dame, and the Viscountess Castlereagh all sweep through the gates and disappear inside, their figures concealed by trellises and a high wall of hedgerow. With them, they bring sisters, cousins, an unmatched son or two. The luncheon – now in its second season – is meant for couples, but who is to say that a match cannot be made?
The clocktower on Pall Mall rings out at quarter-till – or is it quarter-past? as a carriage rolls to a stop before the entrance to the Rose Garden. ARE YOU AWKWARDLY EARLY OR DRATTED LATE?
—
It’s here! The final event of our Season: Queen Charlotte’s Luncheon – and, consequently, your first DECISION. The wind is fair on 29 August 1800, clouds puffy and breeze light as you arrive before the iron gates of the rose garden. There are no wrong decisions, here, but you must make one. Your carriage has arrived – ARE YOU EARLY OR LATE?
Reply to this post as if it were an open starter, and tell us how your character has prepared, if they are attending with their date (or meeting there), and how they feel about being terribly early (or late!). You’ll have until the end of the day on June 22, 2022 to arrive!
-
“...No one who is anyone will be there, not this early. You may keep country hours still, but here? Being early only marks you as being unimportant. As servants, even.”
Mrs. Henley did not so much as twitch at his pointed glare, and neither did she.
“Worst of all: it marks you as unfashionable.” Lord Richards’ hand went up as if to tug at his neckcloth, a masterpiece of linen sculptural art and a metaphor all in one. “Smarts a gentleman’s pride, it does, especially when you are in the circles I am. I shan’t hear of nothing else from my set, if they’ll still speak to me after this. Even Fletcher --”
Richards would have such a flawlessly pale complexion were he not always flushed, she thought, tying off her thread and passing it over to Mrs. Henley to snip it off.
The gentleman cut himself off, which was rather interesting, considering he had been monologuing for most of the ride there. Fletcher, she noted and filed away for later picking at. The carriage had been full of hot air in more than one sense.
“Was this truly necessary, Lady Castleton? The Tadcaster carriage would have done just as well. Better yet, I could have ridden! Much better in this heat. Gad, what an entrance.”
She selected the next pillow, taking the threaded needle her companion handed her.
“Will you not say anything, my lady?” Then, nasally voice snide, “Civil conversation usually requires more than one party.”
His flinch when she jabbed the needle in was strangely satisfying.
“You were holding forth so well that I could not dream of interrupting,” she finally said. Softly, gently, like coaxing a frightened young animal out of the corner. “As you are attending at my invitation, the least I could do was offer you a ride as well.”
She may not have made the entire pillow herself, but she would personally make at least the finishing stitches. Besides, there was a soothing, hypnotic quality to the act; even now the gentleman across from them had settled, lulled by the methodical flashing of the needle and the rhythm of her voice.
“Of course you should blame me for...” a query in a glance across, and Richards had reddened again, “...the unfashionable timing. The Inspired Sisters’ cause is one I am personally involved in, and I wished to hand over my part in it before the event fully began.”
She had put him too much at ease; Richards’ lip curled in disdain as he glanced at the small pile of pillows.
“Pillows? How like women to think that will be of any use to anyone.”
The small sewing shears flashed in the afternoon sunlight, and he flinched again. Snip went the thread.
“Les petites choses toujours viennent à bout des grandes,” she said, Mrs. Henley taking the shears and pillow both from her. “I believe we have arrived. Mrs. Henley, ensure the footman follows with the completed pillows?”
Richards scurried out like a rat fleeing a sinking ship. The pink of the roses on the trellis perfectly matched her damask dress. The sun was shining. She was still a countess.
Little things always triumph over the larger ones.
[Louisa has arrived EARLY with Lord Richards and a box of embroidered pillows for the Inspired Sisters!]
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coral-pink dress of damask silk with ribbon-tied cuffs** . bonnet of slate blue silk trimmed with peach peonies and primroses . pearl eardrops & matching necklace . lace-trimmed painted ivory fan with rose ribbon
**the sleeves are long despite the weather for modesty’s sake, and not, of course, to hide the still-healing injury from that awful encounter with the dog in Hyde Park, or any other consequence as a result of the latest Whistledown.
⸻ 25 Aug 1800 . 5 in the evening . Rotten Row, Hyde Park
Mrs. Henley did not ride.
She herself had never been an avid horsewoman, but the brief reprieve of an hour’s ride under the supervision of just the groom had converted her. The horses and their riders alike were slow and sluggish in the heat, turning the broad avenue into a shifting mosaic of colors and trim from a distance, wreathed in the haze of dust kicked up by the mounts.
It was fortunate, then, that Lord Richards thought himself an accomplished seat and had located her before a quarter of an hour had passed, touching his hat in greeting.
“Lady Castleton, I presume? Gad, what a crush. You won’t mind if I...?” But Richards had already fished a handkerchief out with a dandified flourish and proceeded to mop at his ruddy face, shiny with perspiration.
She bore the subsequent slow and obvious once-over in stoic, if practiced silence, noting how his gaze stuttered on her bandaged arm.
“Damnedest thing, this meeting.” Richards regarded the now damp kerchief with mingled disgust and confusion, dangling it from fingertips as if he did not quite know how to dispose of it. “Didn’t believe it myself when Lady Dower passed the message on. Smacks of an assignation, if I didn’t know better.”
Another up and down scrutiny as they proceeded, the parade of London’s most fashionable oozing down the path like spilled molasses.
“If you hadn’t specified about the feathers in your hat, I wouldn’t have known you,” Richards continued, tones brassy and swaggering, “But I suppose I can’t blame Perry for staying mum about it. Not a comfortable thing, knowing what your school chums likely think about your mother --”
“Stepmother,” she corrected gently.
“Er, that. Yes.” The twisting of the kerchief in his hands betrayed his actual nerves; his horse whickering and shifting uneasily despite their slow pace. “I suppose you wished a meeting for a reason?”
It was a petty sort of vengeance to let the man stew for several moments longer, yellow hair darkened to muddy mousey brown with sweat, before she responded.
“You owe the Viscount a certain amount of money, Lord Richards. The clubs and Lady Dower were simply kind enough to confirm it.”
If he were on foot he would have stumbled; as it was, his horse simply tossed its head in discomfort at his sudden jerking on the reins. “I don’t... Gad, Perry’s never minded that, he knows I’m good for it eventually!”
English was a mongrel of a language, made of more exceptions than rules, but its tenses were wonderfully clear.
“Knew,” Richards amended, sweat rolling down his face, “Knew. God rest his soul.”
She inclined her head in a nod. “Even so, the debt remains.” A pause as she turned the possible options over, before choosing one.
Richards, his false bravado having run out, visibly gulped when she favored him with a smile.
“I would like to know more about my stepson, Lord Richards. Perhaps you would accompany me to the Luncheon at the end of this month? The Sisters of Saint Therese and the Queen are hosting, and I know you have such a heart for fallen women.”
It took a moment or two before he registered her meaning, but before he could respond, she had turned her horse back around and signaled to her groom.
“Three o’clock, Lord Richards. It would be best if you were not late. It is a cause dear to my heart after all.”
She took no small amount of satisfaction in leaving him in the dust.
The gentleman’s face was animated and expressive, a play in three acts: discomfort, suspicion, confusion. Unexpected, in a sea of his peers long since trained either to faces of stone, or worse, jaded boredom.
And then, a surprising epilogue: kindness.
Lord Pembroke was too good for London, she decided. Him and the bright Miss Crow both.
“Thank you,” she said, genuinely grateful, “Although you should not put yourself out on my behalf. There is precious little time left in the Season for your own matters.”
She paused, fan twirled carelessly in her left hand. Once, twice.
Closed it, then laid it flatwise along the window.
“My lady,” the driver said, aggrieved, “We really must go.”
She sent the gentleman a look, apologetic, and inclined her head.
“I wish you all the best in your endeavors, Lord Pembroke.”
Ernest was many things and among those was incredibly dramatic. He wore his thoughts and emotions clearly, for the most part, rarely making an attempt to hide himself. In his dramatics, there was often exaggeration, however; and … Well, perhaps he saw that in her, or perhaps his gut did, but for whatever reason he did not quite buy those tears were genuine. Even so, he wasn’t necessarily suspicious. Theatrics did not always happen for any real reason, he should know. Sometimes, the moment just seemed to call for it.
He did at least, still believe she was a grieving widow and mother. He had already helped her this far, too and … It was boring but perhaps he could do some more digging to help her? If there was a lord in town then surely, someone he knew would know him. He could ask around.
But perhaps she was not a good mother, perhaps he shouldn’t, perhaps the lord had a good reason to abandon her. His own relationship with his mother, though he never did hate her, was thick on his mind. Talk of a complicated mother-son dynamic was bound to bring such memories forward. He wouldn’t have disappeared on her, though. Perhaps he’d have been cold but it wouldn’t have gotten to this point – A worse one, entirely.
Ernest swallowed and offered a nod. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “Lady Castleton, I will ask some of my friends, I’m sure someone has heard of him if he’s here. If I do find anything I’ll be sure to contact you, whatever the cause, family should not be so abandoned.”
Whatever the cause was a good indicator of his rising uneasiness, though he knew he was likely projecting.
“My condolences for your loss.”
-
The gentleman’s face was animated and expressive, a play in three acts: discomfort, suspicion, confusion. Unexpected, in a sea of his peers long since trained either to faces of stone, or worse, jaded boredom.
And then, a surprising epilogue: kindness.
Lord Pembroke was too good for London, she decided. Him and the bright Miss Crow both.
"Thank you,” she said, genuinely grateful, “Although you should not put yourself out on my behalf. There is precious little time left in the Season for your own matters.”
She paused, fan twirled carelessly in her left hand. Once, twice.
Closed it, then laid it flatwise along the window.
“My lady,” the driver said, aggrieved, “We really must go.”
She sent the gentleman a look, apologetic, and inclined her head.
“I wish you all the best in your endeavors, Lord Pembroke.”
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What was it like, to live a life so pious and perfect and charmed, Louisa wondered, eyes wide and lashes batting; the Dowager Countess only felt the pang at recalling her own.
“I apologize; you have been so generous with your time as it is, and not a hint of pre-marriage nerves.” Her smile was fond, if distant, as if recalling an emotion in the past tense. “A love match. There are miracles after all, Sister Therese-Mary.”
It was difficult to say which lit up the Sister’s face more: the thought of donations or the ability to foist further interaction off to another. The latter, she thought, Sister Therese-Mary already craning her neck to locate the Annette version of Therese, recalling a moment too late that there was a conversation currently in progress.
“God moves in mysterious ways/His wonders to perform,” the Sister rattled off, blinking as she once again picked up the threads of the discussion. “It is settled then? Lady Castleton, we welcome you as both a sister in Christ and a sister in service; I shall inform Mother Celeste to write you presently, but first allow me to fetch my Sister Therese-Annette. My ladies.”
Neatly done, she thought, coolly observing not the departing Sister, black and white wings flapping in the stuffy church, but the profile of the Lady Mulgrave.
Out loud, she said, “Any introductions or names you have in mind that would be interested, I would greatly appreciate. I will send the invitations myself, but if I could mention that you suggested the connection?”
The flock of Sisters were now all chattering and flapping away at each other. At any moment now, one might even break into song.
“Let us hope the ladies yet in Town have enough energy and goodwill left for one last round of charity.”
༻✦༺༻✧༺༻✦༺
It either showed how little the two of them knew each other, or how well Margaret was masking her nerves. All Margaret could do was smile kindly, pretend to intently listen as the Sister spout more scripture, and wait for Mary-Annette to donate a few coins.
Her conscience would be settled.
She turned to Louisa, slightly put on the spot for names then and there. Margaret rattled through her acquaintances silently and offered, “I was thinking Miss. Ophelia Vane would be a fine candidate. Lucy Herzog, a Princess of Prussia? She may be departing England soon, but there’s always a chance.” She paused in deeper thought of her next suggestion, “There are the Crow sisters, who I know from Oxfordshire as well. Miss Isabella Brynn…” Margaret’s gaze shifted to the revived excitement that seemed to wash over the sisters, and she smiled with a bit more amusement.
“I do not think many clever ladies would turn down such pious and advantageous opportunity.”
Margaret had wanted credit for her donated hours, but the additional praises continued to overwhelm her. She was so used to being overlooked or stepping in other’s shadows, she would have been content in continuing to do so. Especially with Lady Castleton so newly acquainted. The Dowager Countess seemed so much more devout than she, after all. Genuinely so, where Margaret was happy to extend coin and charity to those who needed it, but she did not feel a close connection or fear towards the almighty above.
“I have time for sewing bags but I must defer to the founding of a sewing circle to Lady Castleton.” Margaret insisted hands clasped loosely behind her, “Of which I will be happy to join and participate in, I can write some of my closest acquaintances to search for interest. But newlywed out in Oxfordshire and on honeymoon I will not be able to be the starting force for such an important project. I’m sure you understand Sister,” She bowed her head respectively for what felt like the hundredth time already. “I do wish to see Sister Therese-Annette about donations before we part, though.”
-
“Of course, the wedding.”
What was it like, to live a life so pious and perfect and charmed, Louisa wondered, eyes wide and lashes batting; the Dowager Countess only felt the pang at recalling her own.
“I apologize; you have been so generous with your time as it is, and not a hint of pre-marriage nerves.” Her smile was fond, if distant, as if recalling an emotion in the past tense. “A love match. There are miracles after all, Sister Therese-Mary.”
It was difficult to say which lit up the Sister’s face more: the thought of donations or the ability to foist further interaction off to another. The latter, she thought, Sister Therese-Mary already craning her neck to locate the Annette version of Therese, recalling a moment too late that there was a conversation currently in progress.
“God moves in mysterious ways/His wonders to perform,” the Sister rattled off, blinking as she once again picked up the threads of the discussion. “It is settled then? Lady Castleton, we welcome you as both a sister in Christ and a sister in service; I shall inform Mother Celeste to write you presently, but first allow me to fetch my Sister Therese-Annette. My ladies.”
Neatly done, she thought, coolly observing not the departing Sister, black and white wings flapping in the stuffy church, but the profile of the Lady Mulgrave.
Out loud, she said, “Any introductions or names you have in mind that would be interested, I would greatly appreciate. I will send the invitations myself, but if I could mention that you suggested the connection?”
The flock of Sisters were now all chattering and flapping away at each other. At any moment now, one might even break into song.
“Let us hope the ladies yet in Town have enough energy and goodwill left for one last round of charity.”
