multi-museblog

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.

When Ceara explained Timothy's hurt, Edgar shook his head gently. "He was not hard on you," he assured her. "On himself, perhaps, but not you." Then she whispered beneath her breath. 'Rinne sé iarratas pósadh dom agus rith mé uaidh'. Edgar's hand stilled beside his ruined sketch. That explained Timothy's expression at the ball considerably better than Edgar had expected. Still, it was not the proposal that struck him most, but the grimace accompanying her confession; as though she anticipated condemnation and wished to conceal the truth even while admitting it. He leaned back slightly, giving her space rather than pressing forward with questions. "Timothy neglected to mention that particular detail." His mouth curved faintly. "Though, in fairness, I suspect he was still attempting to understand it himself."

Edgar glanced toward her lemon cake, then returned his attention to her. "A proposal is not a summons, Miss Dempsey. You were allowed to be frightened. Perhaps fleeing was not the gentlest answer; but fear rarely pauses to consult etiquette before acting." His expression softened. "And from what I know of Timothy, I doubt he wishes you punished for it. He likely only wishes to know why. He's a good man like that." Edgar nudged the plate a little closer to her. There was still something about her name that had Edgar question where he knew it from. It wasn't just from the ball, that was for certain. "Are you sure we have not been introduced before? Perhaps back in Ireland?"

The revelation that Tim had still been kind despite her transgressions was more than a relief. She could have cried, but she had done enough of that to last a lifetime. And she certainly didn't need to cry in front of Edgar. The fact that he wasn't even sure why Tim had been so concerned spoke volumes of the other man's character. It only made Ceara want to apologize all over again. "He is a good man," she agreed. "And my response was not a gentle one, this is true. I...I am relieved to know he does not harbor resentments against it, even if my etiquette was entirely lost on me in that moment."

But she didn't dare say she deserved it. Instead, she picked up a lone dessert spoon to taste the cake upon his encouragement. It was smooth, and the mix of sour and sweet was a welcoming distraction from her thoughts. Upon his question though, Ceara paused around another spoonful of cake.

"Perhaps," she said hesitantly after swallowing down another helping of her dessert. "I was at a few protests in Belfast before I left. But, er, that may be all." The only way he could have known her is if he had seen her the one night she was at Hillsborough Castle. But how would he? "That is the only way I would have come in contact with the brother of a marquess," Ceara mused in passing, looking down at the back of her spoon absently.

|| LOCATION || The Thorne Residence

Katherine hadn't seen Ceara since that horrid ball. The sour look on the beautiful woman's face was still on her brain as she remembered she was coming to Thorne house. Now. To tutor Amelia. Ugh. After her talk with Bertie, she knew what she did was wrong. While she was doing it she knew it was wrong. But she just couldn't help herself. It bothered her even more because it was on her mind so loudly.

Kitty and Amelia sat in the drawing room, she felt aggrevated but tried not to show it on her face. When the three knocks came, she stiffened and the butler answered the door. "Miss Dempsey, Miss Thorne and Miss Amelia are waiting for you." She assumed he was showing her what room they were in as the footsteps got closer. And when Ceara finally stepped in... Oh god, she looked horrible.

"Miss Dempsey. This is my little sister Amelia. Our littlest one is taking her nap now." She tried to make her voice sound sharp like it usually did, but it felt a difficult in this moment. She didn't want to be mad at Ceara anymore. It wasn't her fault she was pretty and kind and intelligent. She was better than herself in everyway, and instead of feeling angry she just felt... Sad. "Say hello to your new tutor, Ami." She murmured, the little girl smiled sweetly as she was unaware of the sadness between the two women.

"Hello, Miss Dempsey. I am Amelia, I am 4 years old and I like singing and reading." She said very matter of factly, giving a slightly wobbly curtsy in greeting as she acted as polite as a 4 year old could.

So, with a deep sigh, she did just that and put on a smile that didn't reach her eyes entirely. Though, they did soften upon the Amelia's introduction of herself. Ceara curtsied in turn, both being polite and demonstrating a practiced curtsy for the child. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Amelia. I've never taught a singer before, I am honored. What sort of things do you enjoy reading and singing?" She prepared to pull a novella from her satchel, always having many on hand for children who were particularly fond of reading.

She lowered herself to be level with the four-year-old, only giving a slight nod in greeting to Katherine. She would not be outwardly hostile towards her, for she did not possess the time nor have the energy to do so. Ceara just wished yesterday hadn't happened. Everything would be slightly improved had it not.

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.

The touch beneath his eye was impossibly gentle. Edgar's breath caught. For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then, entirely without thinking, he leaned into it. Only slightly. Just enough that her fingers drifted from beneath his eye to the curve of his cheek. It was instinctive. Unconscious. The sort of reaction born from somebody who had gone far too long without being touched kindly. And God help him, the tenderness of it nearly undid him. His heart stumbled somewhere in his chest. Once, then twice. He became suddenly aware that Genevieve could probably feel how quiet he had gone. Slowly, Edgar blinked himself back to reality. His smile returned, softer than before. "I was hoping the dark circles looked scholarly," he said quietly. "As though I had spent the night contemplating philosophy." His gaze flickered briefly to the notebook between them. "Unfortunately, the truth is significantly less impressive."

Carefully, he began turning pages while the sketchbook was still in her hand. "I would like it noted that I suffered tremendously." The first page appeared. 'I shall see you tomorrow', 'I shall miss you tomorrow', "tomorrow there will be bread.' A dramatic sigh escaped him. "I spent twenty minutes defending that one." Another page with another failed set of translations that didn't make sense. Then another. Entire sections filled with corrections, notes, arrows, increasingly frantic grammar attempts and several irritated question marks. By the end, Edgar was laughing at himself. "You have no idea how many dictionaries were harmed during this process."

His fingers came to rest on the final page. The correct translation. The page he had stared at until sunrise. His smile softened immediately. "I reached this one at six o'clock in the morning." His gaze lifted to hers. His own blue eyes caught her hazel ones "But I maintain that it was worth every minute." The words escaped before he could stop them. Not because of the translation itself. Because of who had given it to him.

She read through the new pages he revealed to her, laughing at the nonsense of bread. "Mm, I do hope there is bread. I've not looked at all the food your lovely staff prepared," she teased before focusing on the page. Scribbles in the margins, the attempts of neatness among the chaos of learning and translating. His mind was a colorful wonder, and she was elated to see inside it firsthand. It was a privilege, and she wanted no one else to be able to witness it. It was selfish, childish. But it was honesty unwrapped at the hands belonging to kind eyes and a gentle touch.

Genevieve's eyes gleamed with something at the sound of his laughter. It was better than medicine when ill, better than sunshine after days of storms. Better than what that damned Whistlepit had to say about anyone. He was Edgar, and he was hers. *Hopefully*.

Meeting his gaze, she'd already forgotten why she came. Or maybe she did remember and decided teaching him French was merely a secondary task. "Aside from it driving you crazy robbing you of your well-deserved rest? I would feel horrible about it if I did not want to ask you to translate something again. Embrasse-moi, Edgar."

|| LOCATION || Theatre Royal, Drury Lane

Charlotte stood on the stage in her beautiful gown, white makeup covering her face and hair in curls around her face. She had practiced her aria so many times, every day, and still she never got tired of it. It was a love song, about an ingenue yearning for her true love to notice her. The lily landed on stage and Charlotte's head elegantly turned to where it came from... And there she saw Miss Riya Das, and her heart fluttered. Her smile became more easy, not the perfectly practiced one she used for stage. She was worried that after what Whistledown wrote about her that Riya would not want to see her. But she was there, and she almost felt embarrassed for how excited she was over the fact. Goodness, Lottie, pull yourself together!

When her voice trailed off as the song ended, applause errupted around her. She carefully bent down to sweep all the flowers up, but her eyes were only on the single lily. She brought the flower up to her nose and found Riya in the audience again, a soft look on her face before she reluctantly left the stage. Oh how she hoped she would come vist her.

Intermission came, and Lottie went back to her dressing room. Her lily sat on her vanity and, unable to help herself, she picked it up and smelled it again. Her eyes flitted over to the door- perhaps if she used enough mind power Riya would show up.

Before she had the time to consider such things, the intermission began. This was her opportunity. Otherwise, she would have to find another way to see her again. Not that she was against having to return to the theater every day, carving out time in the shape of Charlotte's smile.

Riya hurried from her seat and disappeared backstage after slipping through the side curtains. She spotted an apron and tossed it on, scurrying through the bustling of backstage until she landed upon a door and gave it a gentle knock. "Hello?"

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.

He bites back, trying not to coo at Sardine. His shoulders relaxed even more as the cat was placed in his arms- who in turn moved to rest on Freddie's shoulders.

He gives her an up and down- like he's judging her. he didn't want to scare her off...But- He could tell his brother really liked this not-princess for whatever reason. She sure looked like a princess- the way she posed herself….even her outfit screamed princess to him. He wonders...

"Because he's a cat…and he eats fish." He offered it as a reason enough. "I thought it was funny," He added, because that was all he had for why he named the cat that. He almost felt embarrassed by it...who would have thought that Frederic O'Connor would have a cat named Sardine?

"Quite obvious," she said, her smile bordering between snarky and playful. "I suppose it is my fault for not putting that together, hm? How long have you had him for? I have one of my own, Eloise. She is a bit spoiled like him, but no less beautiful."

She looked at Sardine again and her smile widened. Goodness, this little feline nudged a soft spot in her that wouldn't be quelled by one cuddle and visit. Aside from Edgar, she was grateful to have another reason to return to the O'Connor household.

|| LOCATION || Hyde Park

He doesn't know how well he'd do, but he's willing to try. He's walking towards the park, and he perks up when he sees Ceara and how she's waving him over. He gave a small smile as he took a couple of steps towards her.

"Hello, Miss Dempsey," He tells her, and he sounds so much more polite and not so prickly. He sits next to her. " You really meant it when you said you wanted my help?" He asked as he fiddled with his cuff sleeve. He looked at her bag. "You looked like you were doing something before I arrived."

"Hello, Mister O'Connor," she replied, placing her hands in her lap. Looking at him, she couldn't help noticing how young he was. He still looked like a child, just as Mary did, in her eyes. The concept of marriage for either of them, or the notions of adulthood at its heaviest, seemed like a burden.

Ceara nodded after a stretch of silence. "I was grading a pupil's work is all. But I did mean it, yes. I want your help. Mary told me you're a writer. An excellent one, at that. Is that true?" If he was, he'd be such a wonderful addition to the school. She didn't want just Mayfair elites and citizens working at her school. She wanted someone where she was from, too. Now that Dominic was out of the question, Frederic seemed to be more able and willing. And those were what mattered most to her.

|| 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.