L'Affaire: The Eternal Frederic Post

Frédéric gazed at the softening greyish mauve of the encroaching dawn resentfully, blaming it, at least in part, for his present troubles. The inevitability of sunrise had spurred him into bitterness – why must it be so insistently stubborn in spreading across the sky in that sparkling peach hue, dispelling cool blue-grey for mauve and orange and yellow? And what had he done to deserve such misfortune as to fall asleep at so inopportune a moment? All for a paltry three hours of slumber – even though he knew that a bolder voice inside him objected to those three hours being labelled ‘paltry’ at all. His eyes closed themselves to the spectacle of the blooming dawn as he remembered his dreamless sleep, and the unearthly contentment he felt as he had gently stirred into consciousness, just before peace was wrested from him by the recognition of dawn, and the guilt which immediately followed.

He opened his eyes, returning himself forcefully to the present – the reality and difficulty of which struck him like the cold wind momentarily forcing itself against their faces. Walking two paces ahead of him, Giselle shuddered, and barely contained her lithe legs from breaking out into a run. He noticed that every few steps her feet would take a seemingly involuntary skip forward. Frédéric frowned, attaching his inability to match her pace to the long list of his failings.

The few times he had attempted to speak had ended with a muffled cough, the apologies catching in his throat. As they cut across the corner of an empty, shuttered cafe, the necessary words again seemed to well up within him, but yet again failed, scarcely after he had managed to stutter her name.

It had no other effect than to cause her to turn back her head, and Frédéric observed with a pang that her eyebrows were knotted together in the middle dolefully. The faint glow on her cheeks matched the dawn in hue, and it bloomed deeper still as she met his eyes.

He attempted again to gaze blankly at the dawn, hoping to forget his discomfort for even the briefest of moments; but he found that the sweeping mauve which gathered itself gradually over every direction reminded him too much of her – the delicate balance between cool and warm, and light and dusk. It was too inconvenient that his artist’s mind had long ago dreamed up a colour palette characteristic of Giselle; and most inconvenient of all was that it had been composed of all the colours of dawn. Frédéric almost groaned in his frustration, though stifled it in fear of provoking the danseuse further. There could be no escape from the guilt – best to suffer it gallantly.

And yet there was, again, that bolder part of his mind which argued that such an innocent mistake need not be equated with shame, nor, even, should any intimacy cause such scandal. Still gripped by the naive throes of the hope kindled last night, he believed himself so near the success which he needed to secure at least the beginning to financial stability that he allowed himself a concession that he had scarce dreamed of before: that this ‘distraction’, as Henri would have put it, would not end in the agony of untimely separation for him, and shame, or perhaps even boredom, for her.

By the time he had decided to withstand his shame nobly, the Opéra was in view, and he realised, too late, that he dreaded being parted from her after so many hours consecutively spent together. Instead of walking down Rue le Pelletier to reach the entrance through the foyer which Frédéric knew, she turned quickly down a narrow lane that ran, as he soon observed, beside the same cafe that housed last night's party -- the very locale that had set them on the course of near-disaster had occurred the night before. His eyes fell on the empty crates lining the peeling walls – the same ones, he did not doubt, that had once housed the bottles of wine which last night’s revellers had dutifully emptied.

He soon observed the reason for Giselle’s detour through the lane: a door set into the dead end before them, unmarked except for a fading brass plate upon which the Opéra’s archaic name, ‘Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique’, was engraved. Nearing her destination, Giselle’s hurried gait faltered, and Frédéric fell into place beside her, gasping for shallow breaths. He feared leaving her to gather her dignity and prepare for the day ahead with no resolution to their error. The thought that their parting might further be tainted by their shared guilt left him with a considerable burden. He knew he could not bear it – something had to be done to bridge the distance which he had imagined multiplying between them since they had left the studio. His fevered mind viewed the two paces of cobbled ground which separated them as a vast chasm of which he was on the wrong side.

Impulsively, Frédéric reached for her hand and tugged her into a corner, into the gap between two sombre buildings which lined the lane. They breathed the faint waft of the mud underfoot, the damp odour of rainwater, decomposing leaves and wet stone. An unpleasant place for a parting, he thought, wishing he had chosen more wisely, rather than acting upon a sudden and persistent impulse.

Frédéric watched her face carefully, noting the soft, scarlet flush lingering beneath her skin. Her toe circled an arch on the ground, a movement which appeared to require much concentration on her behalf, as she kept her gaze lowered to the earthy floor. Frédéric, not as skilled in the art of reading her discomfort as he believed himself to be, was certain that she was anxiously anticipating the untruths she might have to make to explain her early arrival to the other girls. Frédéric could not contain himself from pressing her cautiously into his chest, whispering the long-delayed apology into the dark curls on her temple. But bafflingly, it had no effect at all. Lifting his head a little, he came to the perplexing realisation that she was shaking her head. He assessed her face with greater care than he had before, noting that despite the same lingering flush, no trace of the shame remained which had so marked her furrowed brow and grimacing lower lip before.

Ah, he thought, but she was not guilty at all! She showed him a reassuring smile, though a new glint in her eye proved that she recognised the daring progression of their outings. But now the rosy hue in her cheek seemed no longer a discrediting mark of shame, but merely the natural consequence of a walk from Montmartre to Rue le Pelletier during a crisp dawn. The guilt which he had imposed on himself was lifted so easily that it should have caused him to worry anew, but he found his unrepentant eyes followed Giselle slipping away from him with a confident, fluid grace towards the plain door, lifting the latch quickly and disappearing from view. Now filled with the knowledge that he had been deceived by the scarlet of her cheeks, his newfound calm was quickly replaced by the giddy realisation. There had been something almost gleeful about their frantic dash towards the Opéra which reminded him of the mischievous dealings of his childhood – though now the threat loomed more severe than a stern scolding from Henri.

The only thing which marked the moments as they slid by was the rhythmic ticking of Henri’s old watch in his breast pocket. The moments which ticked by were marked by the rhythmic scolding of Henri’s old watch in his breast pocket. Tch, tch, it chided him for every second he delayed before the closed door. Tch, tch. Frédéric lifted the annoying thing from its nest, gazing at his partial reflection on its scuffed and battered surface. Its brassy lid glared back at him accusingly. Was he so far gone a Bohemian that he would stoop to such depravity, that, had circumstances been altered but slightly, his actions might have guaranteed a burden of shame for them both? He smiled a little wryly, and let the chain, and its watch, slip through his fingers. It landed on a muddy patch with a satisfying plop.

He wondered, with a tinge of grim amusement, whether he had been in Antoine’s company so long that he had acquired the same brazen disregard for ‘decency’; and he was aware that his barefaced glee at having so narrowly avoided disaster reflected too strongly his friend’s bold accounts of his own close calls. But an even bolder voice reminded him that it was only true if he indeed did brag on his exploits – which he, with respect both to his unblemished name and Giselle’s, had no intention of doing so.

A faint anxiety troubled him as his eyes caught the gold glimmer of the pocket watch, lying in damp repose. Few people could manage their lives without a little device that ticked away passing moments, and in the days when he had worked on commissioned, mind-numbingly simple portraits, Frédéric had found a timekeeper indispensable. His brow furrowed, and he stepped towards the ticking object, which, for so long, had been the solitary voice of conformity in his disordered life. His back turned to the silent theatre door, he bent to pick it up.

His purpose was thwarted, however, by the quiet swing of the stage door. Forgetting the pocket watch, he straightened cautiously, but a faint hope dawned in his eyes. He was not as surprised as might be expected to find a pair of arms wrapped around him, and soft lips pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. Within the fluid passing of a moment, whether by his movement or hers, those lips had trailed across to his mouth. The warm kiss of those lips made him forget his original purpose entirely.

Their wordless farewell spanned a few, gloriously guiltless moments. He cared not now that the sun had almost crested the roofline, and at any moment would cast its golden, mocking rays over them. It mattered not that the pocket watch, gleaming amidst the wet puddle, ticked on disapprovingly. Frédéric was vaguely aware that he had transcended something, which had before been an invisible barrier, the existence of which he had never acknowledged. He had transcended shame and guilt, and it left him with the glowing impression of newborn innocence.

He pressed a final kiss to Giselle’s forehead, and her arms, if reluctantly, unwound themselves from his. When she turned, and flitted back towards the half-open door, Frédéric too turned towards the main street, and walked, with steady purpose, in the direction of Montmartre.

And, forgotten amidst the events of the dawning day, Henri’s watch languished in its damp seat in the now-empty alley, waiting for the next opportunistic beggar, or curious child, to pick it up.

Vices: Lady Huntingdon's Vanity

A chambermaid had slid quietly into the fourth bedroom on the upper floor of no. 14 Queen’s Square, in the misconceived notion that its resident was at that moment taking luncheon downstairs. The silence in the room was such that she could not have deemed it possible that an occupant was seated just out of view, on the little window seat which showed a rather unattractive view of the pavement below. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The early arrival of Miss Lyttleton and Miss Harriet, and of Sir Edmund and Lady Margaret, had seen the household staff in its entirety plunged into a frenzy which had barely been contained to the servant’s level on the lowermost floor – a silent, empty room was a welcome change.

It was this particular young woman’s habit to sing as she worked, in her clear-pitched Welsh lilt; there was seldom any pleasure to be had in domestic drudgery unless it was eased by musical accompaniment. She consoled herself as she ran a white dustcloth over the already irreproachably clean surface of a handsome chest of drawers by humming a soft tune, almost under her breath. But ah, her emotions were so swelled by the time she reached the familiar refrain that she could not help a little line from slipping out, trilling sweetly across the luxuriant expanse of space.

“Mae'i gwallt yn felyn aur –”

But a disgruntled sound, coming from the window seat just out of view, compelled her to cut her aria short. An angry noise, rather like a heavy book being dropped on the floor, followed it like an echo.

A ruddy flush rose to the chambermaid’s cheeks, and she quickly turned to the vanity table to busy herself with the array of objects scattered impatiently over it. But how odd: besides all the expensive powders, rouges and perfumes, lay three plain sheets of paper and a cast-iron inkwell. Her wary hand lifted the inkwell, examining the curiosity carefully.

“Leave that where it is,” clipped an imperious tongue. Lady Huntingdon had emerged from her reading seat, and held her golden head at a regal height as she approached the chambermaid. Her nose wrinkled in derision at the sight of the thin, dark girl who, if given the chance, seemed likely to cower in the nearest corner.

“I thought domestics were taught never to be seen nor heard.”

With a shaky hand, the maid set down the seemingly misplaced inkwell immediately. Georgiana watched as the chambermaid dusted the cluttered surface half-heartedly, before curtseying and hurrying away quickly.

The young lady of circumstance inflated a sigh. Evidently the witless girl could see no reason that a table which had the primary function of reassuring a lady’s vanity by stocking her every cosmetic need should bear the instruments of letter writing. It seemed the lack of a genuine writing desk in the room had slipped past her feeble mind completely.

It was not unheard of, even in these days, for a woman’s room to be lacking a writing desk, but it was almost universally deemed a notion most backward, a situation to be avoided if financial means made it at all possible.

But Georgiana had refused to take up the complaint with Henry. She stepped quickly into the void left by the maid’s hurried departure, seated herself on the linen-covered stool, and took up the pen. Hunched between the feminine paraphernalia which cluttered three edges of the vanity, she began to write.

She had tolerated a multitude of grievances from this dismally under-furnished house, but she would not, could not, tolerate the absence of a writing desk.

Her mouth became more resolutely set in its characteristic childish moue as her pen scratched the most eloquent complaint to Lord Torrington that she could devise, given her fourteen years of literacy. Her education had been modest, in that Sir Edmund could only afford a tutor of a rather humble reputation, but she had tried to express interest in all the ‘great’ literature of which Sir Edmund spoke with all the solid articulacy of an academic. As such, she had read many a great work without truly understanding it, or whatever meaning she did derive was only in relation to her own (deeply limited) experience. That Georgiana could only relate to poets who spoke of the pleasure that could be found in material possessions, and perhaps of the dignified splendour of the English countryside, was a flaw which was known to her tutors, though seldom remarked upon.

***
By the time Mrs Boyle had returned from the quick repast which Georgiana had refused, she was almost finished with her complaint. As the young lady set about ending the letter with the usual empty pleasantries, of how Bath was so diverting, and how there was always something to be said and done, Mrs Boyle ‘indulged’ her in details of the casual meal which she had missed.

“You truly ought to have joined us. Cook served the nicest cold luncheon in the world – cold beef and mustard, sandwiches and cake. It was all very excellent. I have always said I prefer such simple fare to the most elaborate of banquets.”

“I do not take luncheon,” declared Georgiana lightly, still bent over her letter. “We are not farmers that we should need to take sustenance between breakfast and dinner!”

Blithely, Mrs Boyle ignored her charge’s sour mood, shutting the door behind her and seating herself with little effort upon the low pouffe by the foot of the bed. Admittedly, the bed was rather narrower than she might have expected of a house at Queen Square, but Georgiana was not all that wide herself, and would have no difficulty with a narrow bed. And the poor girl’s snappishness was no doubt due to nerves; unfortunate enough to have been raised at the very edge of Dartmoor, she had never attended a gathering as large and grand as the assembly which had been scheduled for the evening.

Mrs Boyle knew, of course, that good society was a principle means of curing a young lady of self-centred pride, and to aid in the formation of manners which became such a lofty station in life. She hoped that the sheltered childhood which had marked such a (dare she conceive it?) conceited spirit in Georgiana would, in its absence, bring about a profound change in her conduct.

Consequentially, she was extremely glad that the Duke of Argyll was hosting the Assembly – and somehow had seen it fit that Lady Huntingdon should be invited. Mrs Boyle, who could only aspire to the company of country gentry, could not understand the obscure substratum workings of Bath’s more eminent, pedigreed society. She suspected, her uncomplicated mind grasping at these mysterious ways, that news of the Earl of Torrington’s niece’s first season at Bath had preceded their arrival.

Thus lost in all the usual concerns of a chaperone leading her charge to her debut, Mrs Boyle did not hear a knock and an impatient cough at the door until Georgiana spoke.

“Oh! If it is that ridiculous chambermaid, I shall send her away at once,” she announced impatiently.

“I’ll see who it is,” said the elder lady as Georgiana made to get up. The chaperone easily guessed the nature of the letter without making any inquiries, and she would not have such an imperative correspondence interrupted so easily – particularly as it was so near completion.

Logically, Mrs Boyle expected that it was indeed the parlour maid at the door, or perhaps the Lyttleton sisters. Instead, when she pulled it open by a sliver, her soft grey eye was met by a deep brown one. And that deep brown eye blinked once.

“Ah. Pardon for the intrusion, Mrs Boyle,” spoke Mr Henry Lyttleton. “I was hoping to have a word with Lady Georgiana.”

“Mr Lyttleton!” cried the chaperone, struck briefly by the impropriety of a gentleman showing himself at the door of a young woman’s bedroom. “You should have just sent a servant up! But of course, at once. Come, my dear, Mr Lyttleton wants a word.”


***

“Are you fond of reading?” asked Mr Lyttleton as they progressed along the short gallery which connected the hall with the library.

Georgiana’s eyes, which had been previously fixed on the series of rather gaudy paintings of Venetian scenes which adorned the walls, did not alter their focus at Mr Lyttleton’s question. She merely raised the arch of her eyebrows by an added fraction, and fixed her attention more closely on the coarsely visible brushstrokes on the sky of one particular painting of a pair of silly young women draped over the edge of a gondola, accompanied by a gentleman who evidently thought that such conduct was not at all dangerous nor in the least out of the ordinary.

She pursed her lips, wishing with the most urgent sincerity that Henry was perceptive enough to observe such an obvious sign of displeasure. “I do read sometimes.” Though not, she refrained from adding, as much as your ridiculous sisters.

Henry appeared to have missed the indifference in her voice entirely, along with the threat of her expression, for his voice was bright, and his swarthy sailor’s countenance much relieved of its previous anxiety. “Would you like to take a turn in the library? I am most curious about your taste in books, as we have not read together since we were but children.”

Georgiana’s mind, numb with the most unpalatable imaginings of the outpouring of Henry’s affection and attachment to her, could think of no reasonable excuse for refusing. Retaining a careful air of diffidence, she nodded her reply.

For all the house’s shortcomings, the library was surprisingly well-stocked, with books covering almost all four sides of a modestly sized chamber. They ambled at a ludicrously slow pace along the first shelf, as Henry ran his eye across the length of available titles, as his companion chewed her lip and wished Mrs Boyle had not been so remiss in her duties and refused to accompany them. But since her chaperone was not able to provide them with diverting small talk at the present time, Georgiana realised that she would need to take on the unpleasant task herself.

“Were all these books part of the house?”

“Yes. The house in its entirety, library, furnishings, servants, belongs to Captain Grieve. The Captain, I hear, is considered by some an arbiter of taste, but he has run into some financial misfortunes in recent times which have compelled him to lease his residence in Bath: a Scottish bank in which he had invested the greater part of his income in was forced to close without a single shilling given to any of its investors.”

“Oh! That is too vulgar to be heard. As Lord Torrington will tell you, finances are irrelevant to genteel people.”

“Yes. Yes they are indeed,” Henry acquiesced, as an uncomfortable silence descended on them again. He continued to stare at the shelves as though with great interest, though his unwavering gaze indicated that his eyes did not see the books actively, while she studied the scuffed floor with a concentration that outshone his. At length, Henry impulsively pulled out a narrow volume, the title of which Georgiana noticed was written in French. But before she could attempt to make it out, her cousin had hurriedly replaced it on the shelf, his eyes wide with alarm. As he pulled her further along the row by the arm, she wondered what on earth could be in Captain Grieve’s library that could provoke such panic in a man of three-and-twenty, who had undoubtedly witnessed great horrors at sea.

Georgiana wished that she had applied herself better to her lessons in the modern languages. But, to her credit, there had always been such a colossal burden of things to learn that it was quite unreasonable to be accomplished at all of them, and tutors were a heavy expense on Sir Edmund’s threadbare pockets.

Henry paused by the window. Owing to the regrettable fact that her arm was still held captive by his, she had no means of distancing herself.

“Your Ladyship. Georgiana.”

Lady Huntington frowned, desperate in her hope that some unlikely means of escape might reveal itself.

“I believe it is appropriate in some cases to speak with candour about one’s feelings –”

“Only the simple need be candid, Mr Lyttleton. I myself see no necessity to speak anything plainly,” she interjected quickly. Her words were met by the perplexed blinks of Henry’s dark eyelashes. His gaze flickered towards the window, and the dull view of Queen Square below, his mouth forming an anxious line.

“I am afraid I must persist. I have not been entirely truthful about my intentions in Bath. And you must know...”

Georgiana looked up as Henry’s forthcoming confession faltered, and she was relieved to see that his eyes were turned towards the doorway. The cause for the well-timed interruption was the gradual progression of eager female voices along the gallery, and before long, they were close enough for the exact words of their animated conversation to be made out easily.

“...didn’t know you were reading Udolpho again! Oh isn’t Valancourt spectacular!”
“I simply read his entrance over and over! And how he places Emily’s injuries before his own...”
“How he must love her! Could you imagine, Harry, anybody feeling the same way!”

The giggling pair halted abruptly as they entered the library (as the sight of a solitary couple standing by a window might do to anyone – whether they be related or otherwise). Harriet barely stifled the gasp that threatened to slip past her facade of composure, while Louisa’s face turned an ashen hue, and she gripped her sister by the arm. “Well I can scarce believe it...”

Georgiana granted all three of her cousins poisonous, contemptuous glares, before turning herself out of the library forthwith. She set the quickest possible course for her bedroom, intending to announce to Mrs Boyle that it was high time that they were preparing for the Assembly. Indecorousness, at times, could prove itself a necessity.

(Strange Harbors) The Goldsmith's Wife

Bismuth Gilder was the sort of man who, having achieved a certain station in life, took great pleasure in being contrary. A solid confidence in his incomparably superior craft, built up over fifty or so years of his bitter life, had bestowed on him a certain arrogance which, in his belief, suited his profession so well that he would not change even if he wished to. Having achieved a distinguished age, and unmarried, he had been forced to find himself an apprentice from outside his own, highly eminent, circle. Of course, none of his peers knew that he had stooped to taking in a boy from an orphanage. Nobody but he could understand the tragedy of being forced to stoop to charity.

As she storm rolled in, he watched the precious cargo of one of the boats being offloaded, as it rocked against the sandy shore, buffeted by the rising wind. Gilder’s delicate health, apparently, was the cause of his inability to aid in the offloading process, or in any contribution which could be loosely associated with ‘manual labour’.

He winced as the Foster girl roughly picked up a sack filled with the most vital of his equipment – the bellows, tongs, hammers – which he had been forced to remove from the heavy chest in which it had travelled: in this wind, it made the journey from ship to land even more perilous for those who manned the boats, and, far more crucially to him, threatened the safety of his tools.

“Carefully!” he grunted as the journeyman’s young wife pushed past him, struggling with her load. She forced a dark glare in his direction, following the others hauling their burdens towards the caves. It had drizzled ominously for several hours, and the dark earth underfoot was turning into a gluggy quagmire. It sucked at her heels greedily. The sensation was curious, akin to a dream she had once had, years ago in the orphanage: pursued by hideous monsters, she had found her legs ineffectual, cumbersome, as she had tried to escape. The cruel difference was that her current situation was no apparition of a child’s subconscious, and that even if she could run, neither direction would bring her any nearer to safety. She consigned herself to trudge, even though she had imagined that she would never again know a life of drudgery as a journeyman goldsmith’s wife.

It was unfortunate that old Gilder had not the generosity to die before they had departed. It was not for lack of trying, on her part; she had concocted brews of every poisonous herb she had become acquainted with at the orphanage: half-starved children would eat almost anything, and she had learned quickly which ones irritated the stomach or caused unpleasant side effects, and which ones were lethal. And even an idiot knows what deadly nightshade looks like, and what it will do to the unsuspecting grazer. Opal had known several small children too young to know that the dark, slightly sweet berries posed a much direr threat than indigestion.

Her foot caught the edge of an unsteady rock, hidden beneath a layer of sludge; she was caught off balance. It was not entirely out of spite that she let her fingers unclench from the sack bearing the Gilder’s tools, though neither was it entirely an accident. The sack fell into the miry mess. She picked it up quickly, wiping the side covered with mud quickly with the skirt of her dress, before slinging it over her shoulder again. The contents rattled against each other dangerously.

The splash, splash, splosh of irregular footsteps on the mud behind her. Gilder had not missed her little accident; his craggy eye had been trained on her the whole time, waiting for a slip, a moment’s lapse of concentration. She ignored his presence, trying to trudge through the sucking mud quicker, but her short legs slowed her down, and her calves ached. Gilder caught up eventually.

Not one word as he grabbed the sack from her, cradling the muddy bundle close to his chest, tenderly as though it were a newborn infant. A silent glare, far more potent than words, was her reprimand. On some days, Gilder did not even deign to speak to Opal Pulver, wife of the prodigiously talented, but morbidly low-born, journeyman goldsmith who had once been his pupil. Gilder thought it a lamentable tragedy when great talent was bestowed on the humblest specimens of mankind, and not on those more deserving (and better bred).

(Queen’s Square) Between Awkward Silences

They sat down for dinner at five o’clock, attended by wait-staff in white stockings and fancy coats. The dining room was of a good size, impeccably clean, but, like the rest of the house, rather dated. The Turkish carpet was a little worn in places, though undoubtedly it was very fine once, and Georgiana found the chairs a little uncomfortable. The table was exquisitely long, however, and could easily seat a large party. She doubted, however, that enough servants were employed to cater to such a large gathering. Mrs Boyle was highly impressed by the silverware, remarking that it was polished to an outstanding standard. She frequently held her spoon to the light, remarking that she had never seen such meticulous care devoted to the cutlery. The china, it was added, was also remarkably fine.

Once she had done complimenting every aspect of the setting, furnishings and architecture, Mrs Boyle turned her attentions to her charge. Prior to dinner, the chaperone had been insistent (rather irritatingly so) that Georgiana should thank Henry herself for accommodating her, and also make mention of Sir Edmund’s generosity in providing these ‘excellent’ lodgings. So Georgiana waited until a self-conscious silence rose during the mostly quiet meal to offer her insincere thanks.

“It’s very good of you to be here, Henry. We would be without a single acquaintance in all of Bath without you.”

Henry held his cutlery still for a moment, his eyes fixed on his plate. Georgiana found this unusual; he looked almost unsettled by her simple expression of gratitude. She wondered if it had really sounded so false.

When he failed to make any reply, she took it upon herself to continue.

“It’s so generous of dear Sir Edmund to go to such lengths for my comfort. Our lodgings are very...handsome.”

At this, Henry set his fork aside, raising his eyes towards his cousin. “My father didn’t pay for it, Georgie.”

She did not fail to notice that his mouth formed her pet name a little awkwardly. She glanced at Mrs Boyle carefully, noting that her chaperone chewed slowly, and she too had her eyes fixed suspiciously on the plate before her. Why was everyone acting so exasperatingly strange?

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, Henry. Indeed it would have been more appropriate if Lord Torrington had offered...”

She fell silent as Henry shook his head.

“I paid for it.”

Mrs Boyle choked on her veal (which was very fine, in her estimate, very much to her taste). She spluttered and took an unladylike mouthful of her wine, coughing loudly. It only served to highlight the tension which had descended upon the awkwardness already present in the dining room.

“Excuse me,” she said quietly.

Georgiana realised she could come up with nothing by way of reply, so she did not struggle against the strained silence which dropped between Henry and herself. Mrs Boyle, ever observant of the general mood of the conversation, judged that the current silence was inappropriate, and considerately took the initiative to disperse it.

“You have an excellent cook, Mr Tarlton. I’ve not tasted such an excellent mint sauce for some time. When I accompanied Miss Compton to London last year, there was not such a singularly good sauce to be found in the whole town. Very commendable, Mr Tarlton. Very commendable.”

***

Mrs Boyle’s mind was steadily making careful inferences throughout dinner, and when she retired to her charge’s chamber to consult with her after her first, and arguably eventful, day at Bath, she had already resolved something of a plan regarding the pleasant young lieutenant who clearly had a great attachment to his cousin. He must have spent a considerable portion of his prize money from the war to finance Georgiana’s debut! she realised as she helped Lady Huntingdon undress to her stays, at her particular request. It was not a task which every chaperone would accept, but Mrs Boyle considered herself a humble woman, and besides, the presence of a maidservant would have quite ruined the details which she intended to extract from Georgiana.

“Well how remarkable,” was the first thing the chaperone said, as the girl seated herself in front of the vanity, dressed in a négligée trimmed with blond lace – exquisitely becoming, in the older woman’s partial opinion. She paused, considering the order of her words carefully, weighing which would have the best effect. “One can only wonder what he meant by such generosity.”

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning, Mrs Boyle.”

“Mr Henry, unlike the elder Mr Tarlton, is still unmarried.” The chaperone paused emphatically. “I think, my dear, he means to make a proposal to you.”

Georgiana barely disguised her shock. Her reflection was dumbfounded, incensed, her mouth agape as she turned to face Mrs Boyle.

“But Henry and I grew up together...we address one another by our first names! How awkward it would be to speak to my husband so!” She paused, considering the effect. ’Henry, dearest, would you come to bed?’ ‘Not now, Georgie my love, I must write to Mother before she thinks I’ve forgotten her completely now that I’m a married man.’

The image was hysterical; she erupted in undignified sniggers.

“Besides,” she added, forcing herself to think more seriously, “What will he bring into the marriage? No title, that’s for certain, for he won’t even be a baronet. Could you imagine it in the papers: ‘4th Lieutenant Tarlton, three-and-twenty years of age, married the Lady Georgiana Lyon, Baroness Huntingdon, dowered with £120,000, on the 6th of October, 18—.”

Mrs Boyle pursed her lips. Her hopes of a love-match between her charge and the pleasing young Mr Tarlton had been dashed scarcely before she’d even begun to make all the necessary plots – how to arrange chance encounters and secret meetings for the would be lovers. And it would have been so easy, with all of them sharing the same house. How romantic it would have been! Raised together as brother and sister, united in matrimony...well, she supposed the young lady knew her own heart’s best interests.

“Well no, I suppose you’re right, my dear.” Mrs Boyle watched as Georgiana picked up the brush, running it thoughtfully through the dark gold waves over her shoulder. It troubled the older woman to think that her charge was really so unromantic, but she smoothed the furrow in her brow as she caught her reflection in the mirror, anxious lest the expression should mark its place between her eyebrows permanently. Having herself married for love, she could not comprehend those who were utterly immune to its effects, as the young Lady Huntingdon appeared to be. For someone so singularly pretty, she was appallingly practical.

Georgiana slumped forward, resting her head on her arms. “Oh now what will I do.”

Oddly, Mrs Boyle noted that her speech lacked the inflection of a question. Uncertain of how to reply, she remained silent, considering that this may very well have been the first time she’d ever been at a loss for words.

“Henry will make his intentions known soon, no doubt. It will be unbearable to stay here when I refuse him. Oh I must do something.”

“We cannot very well find new lodgings, my dear. So either you must tolerate any awkwardness, or accept his offer.”

Lady Huntingdon paused, raising her head an inch higher so that her light eyes met their clear reflection in the mirror. “You’re wrong, Mrs Boyle. We can. Do you have any writing paper with you? I need to send a letter.”

Vices: Queen's Square

They arrived at Bath quite punctually, despite the unexpected rain and terrible roads, by about four o’clock. The rain had ceased to hinder their journey by the time they had driven past Glastonbury, and Georgiana’s first sight of Bath was a dry one, which was most remarkable, given the rains in the rest of Somerset. Erratic weather was nothing at all out of the ordinary for people of the West Country, and Lady Georgiana, having grown up on the edge of the Dartmoor heath, was not much disturbed by it.

Sir Edmund’s second son, Henry, had been waiting at no. 10 Queen’s Square for the arrival of his cousin. Since they had last seen one another several years ago, Henry had been promoted, and now was properly styled 4th Lt. Henry Tarlton of His Majesty’s Ship the Ionia, and was duly proud of his station, being only five years older than the Lady Huntingdon, who presently arrived at Bath.

Mrs Boyle was the first to remove herself, rather stiffly, from the carriage, and a footman helped Georgiana down. Sir Edmund, much against what one would expect of a man who, for fifteen years, had been obliged to accommodate, educate and tolerate his wife’s imperious little niece, had spared no expense for her first season at Bath.

“Lady Huntingdon,” spoke Henry in his amused monotone. “I do believe you have at last grown into your title.”

“Hush, Henry.” Georgiana felt a little flustered as she adjusted her bonnet. Admittedly, she felt a great deal less buoyant now that she had arrived at her destination than she had expected to. Lady Huntingdon decided, now that she had experienced it, that lengthy travel was really a most unpleasant thing and to be avoided if at all possible.

The young baroness sighed lightly, and cast an eye towards the civilised little park at the midst of the Square, the obelisk rising in its midst, the uniform, stately terraces encircling this patch of artificial greenery. She thought, following this quick assessment, that, really, Bath was a little bland, with its buildings hewn of the same, pale gold stone, its roads neat and grey, and even a little bleak, as the afternoon sun lit the dark slate roofline of Queen’s Square.

She finished fiddling with the ribbons at her chin, and smiled at her cousin distantly. Next to her, Mrs Boyle was heard to cough pointedly as the carriage drew away.

As they followed Mr Tarlton towards Sir Edmund’s impressive residence... (going inside and gratuitous building description)

Looping her arm around her chaperone’s elbow, Georgiana remembered to make the proper introductions. “You do remember Mrs Boyle, Henry?”

“Ah yes. How do you do, Mrs Boyle? I hope Mr Boyle is well?”

The younger lady cast her eyes down, even as her chaperone seemed quite unperturbed by the enquiry.

“He’s quite dead, Mr Tarlton, quite dead.” Mrs Boyle offered a resilient smile as she observed the young lieutenant fumbling for words. “Oh it’s been some time, sir, as you can see I no longer wear black for my husband.”

“M-most sorry, Mrs Boyle. I...um...I suppose you are both very tired and should like to be seen to your rooms immediately.”

“I would be most agreeable to the idea, Mr Tarlton, most agreeable. Come my dear,” she said, patting her charge’s forearm lightly.

TLT: Right of Inheritance

Amasis whinnied after me as I took a step away from the stable door. Snorting, she tugged on the lead which secured her to her temporary lodgings, as I glanced back at her. She was an old animal, much used to the habits she had kept, back when she was nothing but a shepherd’s horse, grazed well, but unaccustomed to any strenuous travel. My father had kept her for their seasonal migrations, leading the sheep to the plateau in summer, and back to the milder coast in winter. The dim stables of this Trojan inn did not agree with her at all, accustomed as she was to resting in the open air, uninhibited by mud-brick walls and the din of the other horses’ neighing.

“Shh,” I said, knowing well enough that you could say nothing to a horse which would comfort it in strange surroundings. But Amasis would be comfortable enough in this stable: the straw was fresh, and the feed more plentiful than any of the tough grasses she’d been forced to chew on for the most of the journey. “I’ll be back soon enough.” I rubbed her muzzle before stepping away, gathering my travelling cloak around me. It was not mine, actually; it had been my mother’s, or, my foster mother’s, as I should say. It was wool, lined with fur, probably jackal, I’d judged from the look of it. It was a little heavy for summer, but it had been necessary for the journey. At night, central Anatolia was cold no matter the season. The sun was nearing the horizon by the time I’d found lodgings for us, and now, my first experience of Troy would be during a greyish twilight. It felt awkward to have smooth, cool stones beneath my feet, instead of earth and grass, and walking between buildings closely bunched together, as though they had huddled together against a bitter winter. I sighed, and stepped on through the streets.

There were still a number of people around, despite the hour growing late: traders packing up their carts, loading unsold goods upon the backs of weary-legged donkeys, townspeople carrying water to their homes, prostitutes emerging periodically from the dark spaces between houses, calling for customers. I hurried along, not wishing to stay until it was too dark, and finding my way back to the lodgings too difficult.

Presently, there was still enough light to last for a while at least, enough that I could clearly see the faces of the people who passed me by; strange, unfamiliar faces that did not pay me a second glance. I supposed I wasn’t the first scraggly traveller they’d seen, making her way towards the citadel which loomed ahead. But scarcely had I made that observation, it was proved wrong. A tall, pale haired woman’s eyes were fixed on me, the expression on her fair face bewildered. I self-consciously wondered if I had offended some local custom here, and my brow knitted in uncertainty as I discreetly studied the woman’s appearance. She was dressed in a rich tunic that was somehow barbaric in its style and shape, though I only based this assumption on what the townspeople had been wearing, knowing too little about these things to make a solid judgement. It was, however, more luxurious by far than anything I had seen on a commoner’s back. I felt a little ashamed at being seen in my brother’s simple shepherd’s tunic, and increased my pace a little.

“Wait,” called a voice from behind me. I halted and turned warily, to see that it was the fair woman who had addressed me. She approached me, smiling ruefully. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to keep you. But you reminded me of someone, someone who died many years ago. And anyway, you cannot be her...”

I held my breath, as things began to click into place. There was no doubt in my mind now that she was an Amazon; that much was proved by her unusual dress. And she had guessed, or at least had some inkling, as to who I was. Frowning slightly, I wondered if I really looked so much like my mother.

Unable to say anything, I held my silence as she continued to look at me, her eyes betraying none of the thoughts that were clearly rampant in her mind. “No, it couldn’t be,” she repeated again, and I wondered if she meant that I couldn’t be the dead Penthesilea, or her lost child.

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” I said softly, keeping my eyes on the ground.

The tall woman smiled. “No, please. It is just my imagination, it runs away with me sometimes! But I would be grateful if you did tell me who you are, just so I can rest at ease.”

“Meli...Melanippe of Halys,” I answered, remembering to use my full name. The woman’s expression altered again for a moment, taking on some of its previous air of suspicion, before settling back into a smile.

“That is an Amazon name. I am an Amazon, though my name is not,” she responded proudly. “I’m Camane.”

“You are Queen!” I breathed quickly, almost dismayed at my infernal luck at having met the one person who might have recognised my right of inheritance.

“I am one of the Queens, yes.” She seemed thoughtful for a few moments. “The River Halys is a long way from Troy. What brings you here, and alone by the looks of it?”

I bit my lip, deciding to admit a small part of the truth, rather than lying outright to the Queen who had almost discovered that which I would rather keep hidden. “I discovered recently that the man I knew as my father was given me by an Amazon, to raise as his own. It was my family’s wish that I find my true kinswomen and fulfil my...potential.”

Queen Camane looked somewhat doubtful at my words. “We do not normally give away our girl-children, but raise them ourselves. Your mother must have had a good reason to give you to a foster family.”

“I do not even know who my mother is,” I lied back calmly, hoping my nonchalance would disguise the dread of discovery which I kept hidden in my heart. “She did not reveal her name to my family, only her instructions.”

“And these were?”

I sighed. “To find my kin once I have reached maturity.”

She studied my face for a moment, before returning her smile – a knowing smile, I dreaded to think. “You had best come with me, then. I am sure we will solve the mystery of your parentage together.”

Nodding, I accepted her offer, following behind Camane, by rights my co-ruler, towards the palace, where my inheritance awaited me in vain.

TLT: Suspicion

It was of no great surprise to anyone that Helenus, once prince of Troy, rarely attended the lavish banquets which the Mycenaean rulers had made into nightly occurrences. The Trojan seer was known to be somewhat reclusive, and most of the reverence which the Achaeans held for him was borne out of fear, in place of respect. He avoided attendance at court if at all possible.

He strode into the great hall, winged on each side with colossal, gaudily decorated columns, all knowing eyes upon him. Amidst the golden splendour of Mycenae’s noblest and wealthiest, he looked painfully conspicuous in his plain tunic and his startling green eyes. Whispers fluttered around the rectangular room like trapped flies among the crowd, following his deliberate steps to the dais upon which the King’s table was set. Helenus seldom felt awkwardness: he was a foreign prince in Achaean lands, a man who neither looked nor spoke like them; awkwardness was too commonplace to be taken heed of now.

And those few who did not recognise him at sight saw a dark-haired man, his tunic so simple that it was almost rustic, striding purposefully through the hall, and they might have wondered why his green gaze was fixed so unwaveringly on the dowager Queen, seated at the young King’s right. Those who knew did not wonder: they knew of the bloody past that ran between them both.

Helenus lowered himself to his knees before their table, bowing his head. When he rose, he found himself glaring at Clytemnestra in a way that was none too prudent; she did, after all, wield more power than any woman in all the Aegean. Two young women who were unfamiliar to him were seated next to Princess Chrysothemis, both so alike in looks and manner that they could only be sisters. He waited to be addressed.

“Wise Helenus, to what do we owe the pleasure of your attendance? Come, sit with us, and explain.”

Still silent, he ascended the dais, taking his seat on the long bench beside Clytemnestra. She flashed him her crocodile smile, remarking on his non-attendance with marked civility – so marked that Helenus understood at once that it was false. But yet she smiled, and even as she turned to whisper a word to her son, he watched her long, bare neck, thinking how easy it would be to take it in his hands and hold until her breath came no more.

He only really got to his purpose in attending the banquet after the first course had been and gone, and the low murmur of conversation in the hall was amplified as the first and second cups of wine were drained.

“I saw something troubling last night, my Queen.” His words caught and held her attention immediately. Clytemnestra knew first hand that his prophecies had never been proven false – he’d seen Aegisthus’ death long before she had ever thought to imagine it, and when the day came, she could do nothing but watch, knowing what was to come.

Helenus was no great judge of a person’s thoughts, but even he could see the mistrust reflected in her eyes. They were as wary of one another as a lion and a wolf that quarrelled over the same carcass.

Her hand shook as she set her cup down; Helenus revelled in the weakness which that minute gesture betrayed. She closed her eyes, her lips pressed tightly together. “What was it?” Her whisper broke.

“An earthquake in Sparta. All the buildings were destroyed, the palace lying in a pile of rubble.”

She seemed quite relieved as her eyes opened, looking directly into Helenus’ own. Perhaps, he thought, there was more glee in those eyes at this news than he should have expected.

“Such unfortunate tidings,” she said half-heartedly: he could still see the smile hidden at the corners of her eyes. “We must send word to King Menelaus at once.”

“I would advise so,” replied Helenus levelly. “Though by the time a messenger is found, it may be too late.”

Clytemnestra repeated her cold smile as he gazed down at the cedar table, doing his best to keep his arms still.

“Why so tense, Trojan? We are all friends here, and I have much to thank you for. Besides, you might have married my sister, they tell me, and then we would have been brother and sister-in-law.”

He had wondered since what may have happened if he’d accepted marriage to Helen. He still remembered, as though it was a wound only half-healed, the time he had gone to tell his niece, Arynthya, that Deiphobus had won Helen, and not he. The pain he had inflicted on the young woman still stabbed at his conscience from time to time; sometimes her pale, listless body haunted his true dreams. His decision to pass the hand of Helen to his brother had caused her an unfathomable amount of pain. But Helenus had never had a choice in the matter, despite the fact that his father had offered him the Spartan princess first. It was his vision that decided for him: there would be no future for him with Helen of Sparta.

“Had I married Helen, my Queen, I would probably have been dead. Perhaps even by the hand of the King of Sparta.”

“Oh, Helenus. Don’t be so glum.” She batted his shoulder playfully, but this only drew a suspicious look in return.

“I should go,” he said, rising slightly in his seat.

“No.” The Queen stopped him, pinning his hand to the table none too gently. “Stay, enjoy the rest of the meal. Gods know you could use some company.”