multi-museblog

|| LOCATION || Beaumont Tea Shop

It had not taken long to put together Genevieve de la Croix, Princess of France with Genevieve with the pink diamond and splendor from the latest Ball. Vitoria did not know why the woman had not chosen to introduce herself with her title but it was hardly as though she was in any place to judge.

"Thank you for inviting me." Vitoria said as she sat down. "I do enjoy tea, but I will hail the waiter next time he is near. Is there something in particular you wish to speak about? We did not get much chance to speak at the ball."

"I simply wanted to speak further with you. The ball was quite noisy, so I thought speaking in a quieter place would be better suited for us," she explained. "So, you said you grew up in a small town in Portugal? What was your childhood like, if I may be so curious?"

The question was innocent, though Genevieve planned on using it to her advantage. Even the smallest things could give someone away, and she planned on finding out more about her. She didn't typically recall faces. But *she* was too familiar for her to drop the notion.

But her plights eased as he explained his thoughts, her smile widening. Quickly, she nodded and said, "He is, yes. Someone by the name of Walter Scott. I've heard he may be writing much more in the coming year, so be on the lookout." She was bouncing on the balls of her feet excitedly, clearly elated by the idea.

"Do you have plans for tomorrow? I would love to discuss the poem more with you without all the noise," Ceara said, fingers twitching a bit nervously.

All the same he shook their linked hands once and then brought his hand up to kiss his own thumb and the outside of his hand. “Cross my heart and hope to die, may I stick a needle in my eye. There. Promise made, I cannot lie now. I like my eyes as they are after all.”

His grip on her pinky loosened so if she chose, she could break free easily. “Tomorrow? Only recovering from today and tending the birds. I would love to speak poetry with you. Where should we meet?”

"I like your eyes too," she said, making no plans to hide her feelings. While the proposal was a mishap of drama and hurt feelings, she did want to make it clear her feelings would not be changing. "I would prefer you keep them."

Silent for a moment, she finally said, "St. James Park. And I heard it would be quite sweltering tomorrow, so...only be partially punctual."

Smiling, Ceara released his hand. "Goodnight, Tim."

manicured nails flip the sign on the shop's entrance to announce it's opening for the day, carefully adjusting the pink and golden welcome to sit perfect within the window of the front door. reaching up, liliana flicks the bell to ensure maximum ringing was available for her customers today - she had a good feeling about today, perhaps it was because lulia had woken her with a sweet song of their homeland. patting down her skirts, the florist took a moment to admire the turquoise silk embroidered with silver and pink lillies along the edges - a gift from one of her customers - looking at her, one would never believe her to be simply a commoner.

the scent of fresh flowers fills the shop as liliana inspects each one of her blooms, collecting the ones that have become weak, wilting or simply faded. if she is to appear the best and become a supplier for the ton, she must show perfection. elegance. success.

"bună dimineaţa," her mother tongue escapes her lips as the bell rings above the door, quickly discarding of the bad flowers in the small back room hidden by a velvet curtain. "good morning, i mean," her accent is thick as she looks to her customer, a charming smile brightening her features as a twinkle shines in her eyes. "are you perhaps seeking a bloom to convey a message to someone or simply to decorate one's home?"

Hearing the greeting, she didn't understand the exact language, but the chirpiness let her know it was something akin to a 'good morning' or 'welcome' before the woman translated. "Good morning," she replied before glancing about the quaint florist shop. It was simplistic, but quite beautiful. It almost felt like home.

"I'm looking to convey a message. An intimate one--I mean...romantic," Riya stammered, lips pursed as her eyes trailed along the ceiling before falling onto Liliana again. "My apologies. I've never been here before and, taking it all in, it is quite wonderful."

As she stepped inside, she didn’t notice Edgar, only preparing to pass him until a few chimed clutters and a spill caught her attention. She stepped to the side, wary of the liquid ruining her slippers. Everything was happening at once, and she wasn’t sure what to do about the man’s clear desire to remain still but failure to do so. Feeling vaguely responsible somehow, she knelt beside him to help clean the mess. This new kindness thing was odd, but she’d been meeting so many people because of it, so she didn’t bother stopping now.

His accent is what made her look at him, take in the sight of him, his clothing. Good Lord, she thought. They were everywhere suddenly. “It’s quite alright. Accidents happen,” she assured him with a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. But him knowing her name made her smile falter. How did he know? Hardly anyone knew her before this and now this. She wanted to hide away and never come out.

But when he introduced himself, a flicker of recognition dawned on her. Not because she knew him directly, merely from what she heard people muttering about him. “You’re…” She didn’t finish her sentence, though. Instead, she wanted to know who told him about her. Was it Tim? Frederic? Dominic would never claim to know her in public, he likely wouldn’t even do it now.

Standing to her feet after helping with the mess, she admitted, “I hate tea but you can buy me a pastry. If I may ask, who told you of me?”

'You're…' He knew that tone. It usually preceded with 'the troublesome O'Connor', 'Dominic's unfortunate brother', or, on one memorable occasion, 'the man who climbed through Lord Pembroke's window'. Edgar chose not to rescue her from it. "You hate tea?" His eyebrows rose as they stood. What a peculiar place to visit, in that case. "And yet you willingly entered a tea room; almost enemy territory. That is either bravery or very poor planning." He pulled out the chair opposite him for hre to take a seat. "A pastry it is. Choose the largest."

His amusement softened at her question. He had noticed how her smile faltered when he used her name. "Timothy De Vere," he admitted, wanting to clear up his knowledge about her name. "He pointed you out at the Gemstone Ball." Edgar carefully moved his surviving cup away from his elbow. "Before you worry, he said very little. Only your name - and that he feared he had made rather a mess of things." He glanced at her, curious but gentle. "I have made enough messes of my own to know they rarely improve with an audience, so I shall not press for further details." As a server approached with a cart of desserts and other baked goods, Edgar gestured toward the pastries, as his own cup got filled up again. "Now, which one will persuade you not to hold Timothy - or the attack upon your slippers - against me?”

She did smile at his observation and reasoned, “It’s quiet here. And I did not want to be cooped up in my home.” Not to mention, their pastries were divine. They didn’t hold a candle to the stalls and bakeries in Ireland, but they were a decent substitute. Ceara was hesitant but sat across from him and placed her own notebook on the table, noting his own and finding more comfort in the fact that Edgar would be good company.

When she heard it was Tim who told him of her, her expression relaxed and her shoulders fell. Not that he who shan’t be named would acknowledge her existence, but poor Tim whose heart she nearly broke with her anxiety-riddled escape. Smiling again, she plucked a plate with a cake slice laid on it. Lemon with a soft yellow buttercream and a candied lemon nestled on a dollop of whipped cream. “My slippers have seen much worse,” she assured before sighing. “I did slight Mister De Vere and I didn’t intend to, but I did. So, I am relieved to hear he hopefully wasn’t so hard on my actions.”

“Rinne sé iarratas pósadh dom agus rith mé uaidh,” Ceara whispered, grimacing.

|| LOCATION || The O’Connor Residence

He grumbled because he just wanted to take a mid-day nap... He looked in the last bit of the room, where his little Bengal cat could be. He sees a few of his toys around the floor.

"Sardine?" He called out. "Where are you-" He paused as he met Genevieve's gaze and then looked down to see. Ah, there he is. He carefully walked over. he had somewhat of a similar gaze- uninterested. "There you are, spoiled brat," He said as he reached out to pet his head. Of course, he's being carried around. He rarely ever walks.... He looked at her. This must be who Edgar was trying to woo..."you've got my cat..." He tells her- and it almost sounds like he thinks she's going to steal him.

Sheepishly, she reasoned, “I found him in here just a moment ago. He’s already taken a liking to me, I believe.” She did appear apologetic regardless of her words and held the cat out to him. Genevieve wasn’t sure if he was meowing in protest or in greeting of his person. However, she was reluctant to return him where he belonged. He was cuddly and warm, and quite agreeable. She didn’t meet many agreeable cats.

“His name is quite funny, why Sardine?” She assumed it was because he was grey but she also considered it just being a well-suited name for him. But her interest was clear in the curious tilt of her head, curls bouncing with the movement.

But all her thoughts fluttered with the wind when she spotted a shirtless and soiled figure hunched over a bed of...*hydrangeas*. And as the figure stood, her eyes happily marveled his physique. She found herself not caring about customs or propriety when it came to Edgar, but especially now. She followed the thin trail of sweat rolling down his neck, pursing her lips in an effort to stop herself from wanting to get rid of it. Her eyes fixed themselves on the unplanted hydrangeas, waiting to be tended by him. Her favorites. She wasn't sure what to think, what to do. She wanted to ask him if he was alright mentally...or kiss him senseless in front of the footman. Both, even. Had she influenced this grand display of clear interest? He had clearly been planting for hours, and she wondered how long he considered doing this for. They'd only met the night before.

Once she found her wording, she kindly said, "I would not mind the particularly dirty farmer, but I may find myself tongue-tied with your, er, attire. Or lack thereof." Though upon her taking a step closer, Genevieve noted the dark circles beneath his eyes, but did not speak of it just yet. If she asked, he would deny it outright. She needed to focus or there would be no lesson. Not a proper one, at least. "Where shall I, uhm, meet you in five minutes?"

Upstairs, he made quick work of cleaning himself. Dirt vanished beneath cold, soapy water. A fresh linen shirt and waistcoat replaced the abandoned ones. He grabbed his sketchbook from the desk - the one containing an entire night's worth of increasingly desperate French translations - and hurried back downstairs, skipping some steps on the large staircase. It was ridiculous. This was only the third time he had seen her. Yet every time she appeared, something in him seemed to lean instinctively in her direction, as though his entire body had quietly decided where it belonged and refused to consult him first.

When Edgar stepped back onto the terrace, slightly breathless from hurrying, he found William arranging what appeared to be enough food for a royal banquet. Tea steamed from polished silver pots. Cakes, pastries, fruit, sandwiches, and biscuits occupied nearly every available surface. "Thank you, Will, that's excellent," he gave the footman an approving smile, before sitting down on a chair next to Genevieve. His fingers rested briefly on the notebook. A nervous sort of excitement stirred in his chest. "Now," he said, smiling despite himself, "before we begin, I should like you to know that I completed my homework." The smile widened slightly. "And I am either about to impress you tremendously, or embarrass myself beyond recovery." He slid the notebook across the table to her, the page with his translation inside having been marked for her.

But soon, all she could focus on was just how much the staff was bringing. She wasn’t sure anyone could finish that much in one afternoon, and it was saying a lot when she’d seen much larger spreads of morsels for a week’s worth of eating. But she could only sigh dreamily. He was going the extra mile for her. It did give her worry, hoping he hadn’t finally spotted her as the French princess.

Once he returned, Genevieve’s smile was dazzling. Now much cleaner but no less charming, her Edgar had returned. She perked up at his words, her laughter soft as she assured, “Even if it is wrong, I am here to show you how to mend it.” The decision to allow her to see into his notebook was so intimate, but she brought it closer with careful precision. His handwriting was rushed, though still there was an effort in it that bordered beautiful.

After a moment of silence, she looked back at him and said, “You have tremendously impressed me, mon chéri. How long did you work on this for? On dirait que tu n'as pas dormi.” She tsk-ed as she casually extended a hand towards him, brushing a finger along one of the dark circles beneath his eyes, frowning now.