hermajesty-charlotte
HM Queen Charlotte of England
Patron of the arts. Lover of the ton. Mother of Poms.
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jeremiahtheyankee:
francesackerley:
Jeremiah had been Her Majesty’s particular favorite once. She had stolen him away, carved out a home for him at court and attempted to mold him. One might liken it to a parent attempting to raise a child in their preferred image. Surely past fondness had to count for something.
Perhaps, a traitorous part of Frances whispered, but it is surprisingly easy for a parents to forget their children, is it not?
A blink and the thought was banished to the recesses of Frances’s mind before it could betray her further and fracture her thin veneer of pleasantry. It did not matter. She did not care. Frances silently repeated the mantra with each careful step through the queue and toward Her Majesty.
Two of the Queen’s ladies eyed her, heads bent and lips flying as quickly as a hummingbirds wings. It does not matter.
Another lady met her eye and quickly looked away. I do not care.
Frances tightened her grip on Jeremiah’s arm. Just ahead of them, Lady Hawthrone was wobbling her way through her introduction, but her failings were overlooked, presumably in favor of the larger failure standing just behind her.
Frances swallowed and leaned toward Jeremiah’s ear, voice pitched low. “We ought to have brought Bear.” A physical reminder of the Queen’s favor would not have gone amiss.
Lady Hawthorne tottered away. An attendant beckoned the Ackerleys forward. “The Most Honorable The Marquess and–” Frances could have sworn he hesitated then, “–Marchioness of Halifax.”
That’s me, Frances thought, momentarily stunned. She had yet to hear it said so plainly. Belatedly, she remembered a curtsy was owed. She dipped as low as her knees would permit, wincing minutely as she rose, the flex in muscles eliciting a stab of lingering pain in her abdomen.
[roll: 12!]
@jeremiahtheyankee
-
Jeremiah did not prefer to think of Her Majesty as anything more than an untouchable figure seated high upon a mountain and out of reach, but he had spent enough time in court last year to catch glimpses of the Queen in a more worldly state. She was not all stone, or some godlike celestial being. He’d catch it only for a split second in a look, but Her judgment would easily follow any confusion.
Her Majesty had done him a great service by helping him, and appointing him with the title of Marquess, and he could only hope he had not let Her down… too severely.
(Unfortunately, images of all the Whistledown rumors he appeared in flashed across his mind just as they made their approach, and he flushed.)
“You’re right,” he whispered back to Frances. But with a frown, he was glad they had not brought him–the dog had expensive tastes and would have surely invited himself onto the table for cake.
For all his consternation, there was a hint of satisfaction in hearing their names announced. Marquess and Marchionness. His wife would likely disagree, but Jeremiah did not think anything else mattered, except the fact that they were husband and wife.
Jeremiah bowed low as he’d been taught, careful not to claim too much familiarity with the Queen, but unable to hide a small, hopeful smile. “Your Majesty.”
[roll: 16!]
“Finally.”
The line had all but dried up, those introduced gone to lick their wounds or celebrate their conquests. Charlotte kept an eye out in the crowd for one particular face. It was usually easy to spot. Eagerness had a way of standing out.
She surveyed them. Him. Her. Them. The Ackerleys.
It was a mercy Kedley was not there, Charlotte thought. She would have several things to say about the woman who should be standing beside Lord Halifax. Particularly, that she felt it should be her.
Kedley was tiresome.
“A beautiful match,” the queen proclaimed. Eagerness spilled out of Halifax and radiated against his bride, which had the ripple effect of softening some of Frances’ rough edges. Charlotte bobbed her head. “Look at you now, Lord Halifax. To think you would wed a diamond.”
A glance at Frances, a knowing look. Charlotte never forgot her favorites, even when they irked her.
Snapping her fan shut, she passed it to one of her ladies.
“Best wishes on your marriage, Lady Halifax.”
It was almost -- no, possibly, it was -- approval.
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ixnay-on-the-ipshay:
All his protests were in vain – fell on ears more deaf than a-a statue’s, as Miss Griscomb’s tight smile and even tighter grip chivvied them down the path to utter disaster and ruin.
“Are-are you mad?” he hissed through his own pasted smile, “You-you know full well I am not – you are not – and to the-the Queen’s face? Wh-what, was-was sitting at her table not enough?”
“This is my second Season and I need a good match. Tewksy,” here a vicious tug had him stumbling forward, “would have been. A good match. But he is not here, is he.”
This, this was why women should never be trusted with power – a hint of it was enough to turn them into emotional, irrational tyrants – but of course she was not finished; the horror continued:
“But if Her Majesty approves of me and Tewksy, it will not matter that I was not actually here with him.” Her smile suddenly grew wide and glittering. He had seen crocodiles less savage. “The match will have been approved. Now smile, and try not to talk.”
They were announced; he watched himself approaching, as if – as if in a different body altogether, the pain in his arm where she clung the only thing anchoring him in this nightmare.
He bowed. A light breeze blew, cool on the back of his neck – this was perhaps how the-the French nobility felt, coming before Madam Guillotine.
[Archie Tewks & Miss Cecelia Griscomb, on a 15 roll, all hail Dice Maiden, the Queen, and their infinite mercy]
She found the Griscombs as undesirable as the Bothams, save for their family heads. Those, Charlotte ground her teeth, had proven to be two useful men.
So there they suffered, first the Bothams (the Bothers, really, or the Bottoms, for they were unsuitably unpleasant), and now the Griscombs. It was a wonder this one had worn enough perfume to counteract an entire garden of roses, but by Jove, she had done so.
Selwyn groaned in the distance. Charlotte could not help but agree.
Tewksy.
Intrigue sparkled in the dull water of the queen’s eye. Tewks was a fresh voice amongst the Ton; scathing opinions hidden in soft platitudes, requiring a careful reading and a tasteful ear. She found his work amusing -- enjoyable, even. It was one thing to adore pageantry. It was another, entirely, to consider it real.
The bow, the jacket, even the curl of his hair.
Charlotte beamed.
“I do hope you will grace us with a reading, Lord Tewks.” Said the queen. “Thursday next. At Hampton Court.”
Cecelia nearly brimmed with excitement, though Charlotte had no pause putting an end to that.
“Do come alone.”
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halestcrm:
lucyofedinburgh:
“We must.”
The grumbling came either from Victoria or Lucy’s own mind, though she rose with some measure of grace and managed to drape the train of her gown becomingly on the grass. It was impossible to shake the fear that Her Majesty instilled in Lucy, no matter how time nor wealth nor titles changed, Lucy felt like little more than a small child before the queen.
She sighed, turning to her companion. “She is of… some relation to me, now. And you are a Countess.”
Of a husband in disfavor, came the quiet, knowing voice.
“Your pretty presence might–” Lucy cast her gaze around, looking for the words. “Improve your husband’s station.”
Crossing the grass, Lucy waited nearby – not in line, certainly, for she was a princess consort, and that would be unfitting of her station – and stepped forward when asked.
A curtsey, albeit shallow. Her center of gravity allowed for little less.
“Your Majesty,” Lucy greeted. “Have you met my dear friend, the Countess Effingham?”
[ Roll: 14 ]
@halestcrm
-
Victoria looked pleadingly up at Lucy as the princess stood, as if she could make any sort of legitimate argument against presenting to the Queen. We must. It was true. But it did not make her want to do it.
She inhaled and gathered all of her will and strength to stand (which took much more effort now). “I do hope so,” she said, softly. “But I imagine whatever happened to make my husband lose Her good graces was… quite serious, and Her Majesty is not one to forget these things.”
She had little hope her presence would have any sway, but perhaps Lucy’s would. She cast one last nervous glance at her before they stood before the Queen.
Despite her growing size, Victoria still felt quite small beneath the Queen’s gaze. She did her curtsy as best she could, ignoring the ache in her ankles. “Your Majesty,” she said.
[Roll: 6]
“Princess,” said the queen, in a tone that did not wholly inspire belief, but instead -- permission. A moment later, Charlotte smiled. “You look as lovely as a rose.”
Her gaze darted to Princess Lucy’s companion, sourness at the sight. Victoria Hale had been a grubby climber last year, and her marriage only changed one o those attributes.
“--Among thorns.”
It was some mercy both women avoided the mud; in their current conditions, it would be a wonder if they would ever get out or would sink so entirely.
Lady Dame’s tittering laughter would be enough, one hoped. The Queen gave the countess a once-over, brow raised.
“Perhaps a cooling diet would suit you, Lady Effingham.”
She was remarkably wide.
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mmthorne:
Emmeline was ending this season exactly as she had started it. Waiting to be presented to the Queen, dressed in black when all other ladies wore blue or cream, praying she did not trip over her own feet.
The only difference was that it was the boring Mr Leary and not her brother ready to escort her in.
Just once more, she had promised herself. Once more in front of the Queen to finish this farce, and then you will never have to hear the word diamond again. Just last another five minutes without making a mess, and you can leave. Everyone will be comfortable with the knowledge that, whilst you were not the right choice for diamond, you held your own in the end.
She tried to ignore the clamming feeling of Mr Learys arm where she grasped it. Tried to ignore the churning in her gut, the desperation for this to all, finally be over, as she heard their names announced.
How odd, she thought as she dropped into a practiced curtsy, to hear our names together like that. “Mr. Leary and Miss Thorne.” They seemed to grind off eachother, like two textures never meant to meet.
[Roll - 15]
“Dratted--!! thing!!!”
Kedley was at it again, and Charlotte gave a signal -- just a flick of her wrist. Quickly, Jersey and Selwyn stepped forward, crowding Kedley off of the podium. She vanished into the crowd, either to be thoroughly subsumed by her bumblebee courtier, or possibly handle it in a more becoming fashion.
In either case, Charlotte was glad to be rid of her.
The board had nearly disappeared beneath a pale layer of mud-water, which made introductions difficult at best. Mr. Leary faltered, understandably, though he was clever enough not to step into it, but instead stayed behind, letting Miss Thorne step forward.
Charlotte exhaled.
Miss Thorne was a shining exception in the Ton; a clear-minded sort whose thoughts went deeper than which shade of peony blush to rouge her cheeks. Charlotte had high hopes for her at the season start, and--
“It is a comfort to find you unwed,” the thought came out almost unintentionally, for it was rather bare. The queen smiled. “Given the selections at hand, Miss Thorne.”
And then she did something rather strange, that set an attendant to attention. Extending her hand to the young woman, she motioned that Emmeline should join her upon the podium, leaving Mr. Leary in the wet grass.
“I believe I would like you to join my court as we adjourn London,” said the Queen. “It seems you require better company.”
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themarquessofislay:
ladywinsomes:
Lydia felt twenty-one again. The same worries that had plagued her at her first presentation to the queen almost a decade earlier were back in full effect as she waited her turn to be come face-to-face with Her Majesty. The one thing that brought her solace was having the Marquess of Islay guiding her the whole way through.
Her thumb ran along his fingers that clung to her hand and she took a few deep breaths. Her heart began racing when the pair in front of her disappeared into the crowd. The gentleman cleared his throat and began to speak and she felt the her partner unclasp his arm from hers and guide her forward.
“Lady Lydia Mowbray, daughter of the Duke of Norfolk.”
With trembling knees and a woozy head, Lydia felt herself kneeling down in her most elegant curtsy. She gazed up at Queen Charlotte’s face through doe eyes.
(Lady Mowbray presents herself with a roll of 9)
@themarquessofislay
Despite his grand entrance, attention is not something this Marquess enjoys. He could eyes following him as he escort and present Lydia and himself before the Queen. Conrad’s reaction and the rumors swirling made this moment important. A match need to be approved. Kenneth then didn’t think he could handle the alternative.
He attempted a reassuring smile as Lydia put herself before the Queen. She was the reason he was doing this. His erratic breathing slowed as he marveled at the woman before him. Kenneth could do this.
“Lord Kenneth Ridel, Marquess of Islay.”
Kenneth could hardly look the intimidating woman in the eye, bowing deeply to the royal. He stood straight, fiddling with his short sleeve.
(Lord Ridel presents himself with a solid 3!)
“Mowbray?”
It was Jersey who spoke up first, baffled. She peered down her flared nose (albeit a slight peer, for the pedestal was short and she was, too). In a loud whisper to Selwyn. “Is she going by her maiden name again?”
A titter swept through the trio, caught vaguely onto the ladies beside. The queen surrounded herself with a fine array of pastel gowns and feathered headdresses. All except Lady Kedley, who was being rather forcefully courted by a bumblebee.
“Baroness Gramercy,” said the queen -- as a fact, not a correction. A blink. She seemed neither peevish or pleased, as mercurial as shifting sand. “How curious to find you out of mourning so quickly.”
She blinked thrice, and nearly dismissed the woman, save for the boulder of a man who approached.
Fateful trickery. The board had weakened throughout the hour, pressing ever so slowly into the wet patch. The Scotsman was forceful in his presence and his step, and the board-- snapped.
Mud splattered upon his legs in quite a showy array, the Queen raising her eyebrows.
Kedley, of course, barked childish laughter. Irritation flared then; Dagny needed to find a husband, or at least someone to control her rampant flair for the dramatics.
Kenneth reformed in the Queen’s vision, and she stared at him as though piecing together a story that Whistledown had already played out.
“Lord Ridel,” she said simply. “It is a shame, to see such wanton behavior from one who knew that same grief. It is--”
Charlotte cast her glance back, eyeing Jersey. Jersey was her favorite, and she looked marvelous in moss green. “What is the word I would like, Martha?”
Something glinted in Jersey’s eyes. “Disrespectful, Your Majesty?”
Charlotte snapped her fingers, turning back to the Scot. “Disrespectful.”
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lady-castleton:
hermajesty-charlotte:
29 August 1800
The pedestal at the rose garden luncheon
While the garden is usually full of benches, perhaps a small stand for a musician, today it has been transformed to a dining room befitting a queen. Specifically, this queen.
Charlotte adjourned the luncheon a few minutes before the rest, leading her trailing court away from the trays of petit-fours and to a room dazzled in soft petal pink and rich blue. She returns, now, and is seated upon a low pedestal at the southern end of the rose garden.
The courtiers behind her are flush with chatter, whispers and secrets spreading like brushfire. Every so often, one bends to entice Queen Charlotte in their merriment, and she laughed. It is at that moment that a name is announced, and a couple steps forward.
—
See this post to reply to this starter!
-
Richards, clearly realizing he would not be charming his table, leapt at the chance to escape, only to balk again upon seeing the direction they were headed.
“No, I do not think –”
“How fortunate then, that you are not called upon to think, merely to escort me.” There was a flash of satisfaction when he folded. She took his arm.
The man was sweating again, she noted, a sheen reappearing over the unflattering salmon-pink hue of his face. He would age poorly, the type that would grow querulous and pot-bellied, repeating tales of glory days that had never happened to him.
Good. Perhaps a little additional pressure might make him honest.
The herald announced them. She matched her curtsey with his bow, lowering just so, until…
Richards stumbled, red-faced and wild-eyed; she barely caught herself from falling with him. For a moment, she stared blankly at the sprawl he made, literally prostrate before the Queen.
Too much pressure, it seemed. She turned her gaze back to the tips of the royal shoes, as if nothing had happened, still lowered in a curtsey.
“Your Majesty,” she murmured.
What was Richards so frightened of?
[Louisa & Co. rolled a glorious 3!]
“Again?” Lady Jersey seemed surprised at the announcement, and did not attempt to hide it.
Selwyn rolled her eyes, and Kedley too. The trio looked upon Lady Castleton and Lord Richards like three vultures, peering over their nest.
Charlotte, for her part, hardly looked up -- at least until the distinguishable creak and squelch filled the air. One of her footman had placed a board upon the unfortunate mud-spot, but stepping on an uneven surface had an unfortunate way of--
Slipping, it seemed.
The Lady had good balance in her credit. Charlotte and Phoebe, her pomeranian, tilted their heads in unison as Lady Castleton righted herself without so much as a second step, maintaining her composure while her heel began to sink into the ground.
“Lady Castleton,” the queen spoke slowly, bemused. She paused to pull Phoebe onto her lap, adjusting the sprig of flowers at her neck. Another moment passed, tidying. Charlotte looked back up, finding the lady a little flushed in the face. “How interesting to have you back in London, even if your hem is--”
It had not been so muddy a moment before. A pity.
“Soiled.”
Behind her, Selwyn vibrated with laughter.
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margaretmulgrave:
earlharcourt:
hermajesty-charlotte:
29 August 1800
The pedestal at the rose garden luncheon
While the garden is usually full of benches, perhaps a small stand for a musician, today it has been transformed to a dining room befitting a queen. Specifically, this queen.
Charlotte adjourned the luncheon a few minutes before the rest, leading her trailing court away from the trays of petit-fours and to a room dazzled in soft petal pink and rich blue. She returns, now, and is seated upon a low pedestal at the southern end of the rose garden.
The courtiers behind her are flush with chatter, whispers and secrets spreading like brushfire. Every so often, one bends to entice Queen Charlotte in their merriment, and she laughed. It is at that moment that a name is announced, and a couple steps forward.
—
See this post to reply to this starter!
-
With today’s event being hosted by the queen, Richard had anticipated grandeur and everything that went with it but arriving at the event, it was clear to everyone that the queen had pulled out all of the stops. It was almost intimidating. No, it was intimidating but Richard did not let his nerves show. Richard and the other guests were busy conversing and nibbling on the petit-fours when the luncheon was suspended. The nerves began again as people started to greet the queen.
As a newly married man and an earl, Richard had no other choice but to be presented. Yes, it wasn’t as much pressure as the unmarried ladies of the Ton but that did nothing for his nerves. Despite his anxiousness, Richard smiled as he walked over. The lord in waiting saw Richard and nodded in acknowledgement before turning to the queen of england. “Lord Richard Harcourt, the earl of Harcourt.” Richard stepped forward and bowed to the queen, slightly smiling as he did so. “Your majesty, I must compliment you on such a fine event.” It was polite enough but also not too intrusive, or so Richard had hoped as he awaited the queen’s reaction.
༻✦༺༻✧༺༻✦༺
As much as Margaret thought and ran through the introduction in her head, it didn’t make it any less nerve-wracking. She waited patiently with other gathering couples wondering how many of them were also being presented for the first time. Some gentlemen and ladies hid their nerves better than others, and Margaret settled on biting the inside of her cheek.
“Here, please.” An attendant ushered Margaret forward as the next lady was presented, Queen Charlotte looking pristine and critical as ever. She was horrified however as Richard walked forward without much pause. The attendant didn’t seem overly bothered, but cleared his throat after Richard’s titles and followed with her own, “And Lady Margaret Harcourt, Countess of Harcourt, the pair was just married this past Sunday, your Majesty.”
Margaret curtseyed deeply, breath caught in her throat. She didn’t dare speak until spoken to.
dice roll: 10
It was always a curiosity who would make their way to the front of the line. In years past, Charlotte took bets: would it be Lord Effingham, eager and boasting about Lady Fitzroy upon his arm? Perhaps one of her distant cousins, eager to renew familial relations before a crowd. A Baron would never be so forthcoming, but a Viscount might -- perhaps an earl. A Marquess surely. Dukes did not care to be so eager.
She found herself distracted as they waited, watching Lady Kedley bat at a bumblebee entranced by her headdress. The queen very nearly told her to leave it, as though she were Phoebe or Cyprus, her pomeranians. Remembered herself. Took a sip of tea.
Lord Richard Harcourt--
Ah, Charlotte thought. Of course.
The Earl was eager and it showed. She turned away from the bumblebee, silently wishing it luck, to survey the young man as he approached. Unfortunately, his third step landed him immediately in a slide of mud, replacing what had been soft applause with a round of titters.
His bride seemed quicker, the hem of her gown staying firmly upon green grass. Charlotte’s lips twitched.
“Lady Margaret,” she greeted, though her welcome was neither inviting nor dismissive. Even dressed in summer yellow, the Queen remained impassive as she surveyed the new Countess. “Best wishes on your choice.”
Derision came as her gaze shifted, even as Lady Selwyn stifled a laugh. Charlotte’s smile turned into something cruelly amused as she gave him a once-over. “Lord Harcourt, you look extraordinarily proud of yourself for a man leaving the Ton with fewer friends than he arrived. You may wish to consider your shoe.”
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29 August 1800
The pedestal at the rose garden luncheon
While the garden is usually full of benches, perhaps a small stand for a musician, today it has been transformed to a dining room befitting a queen. Specifically, this queen.
Charlotte adjourned the luncheon a few minutes before the rest, leading her trailing court away from the trays of petit-fours and to a room dazzled in soft petal pink and rich blue. She returns, now, and is seated upon a low pedestal at the southern end of the rose garden.
The courtiers behind her are flush with chatter, whispers and secrets spreading like brushfire. Every so often, one bends to entice Queen Charlotte in their merriment, and she laughed. It is at that moment that a name is announced, and a couple steps forward.
—
See this post to reply to this starter!
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conradmowbray:
kleineschatz:
Tea was never just tea. What might have been a question had been posed as a command. Her Majesty moved and spoke with purpose. There was nothing to do but issue a bright smile that contradicted the slice of panic Amelia felt in her chest. “As you wish, Mutti.”
__
“He was quite literally swanning about the room with the lady in white.”
“The next dance was with Mr. Wyatt. They looked terribly cozy, did they not?”
“I did not see him for the rest of the evening. Perhaps he took to the garden for a particular liaison?”
“Ladies.” A single word, unusually sharp in tone, silenced the gossip thrown about Amelia’s dressing room. There were times when she was reminded that she was the Queen’s daughter.
She felt unsettled in a way she didn’t like. She moved a bottle of scent from one side of the mirror to the other, nudging disordered bottles into order. Calming chaos.
(Was Mr. Wyatt the especially tall gentleman with a charming grin? And what of the lady in white who he had been all too happy to dance with? Lord Mowbray was obviously not averse to dancing, so why had he not deemed her fit? )
“Lady Peebles, if you would be so kind as to help me with the buttons of my dress? Lady Findley, the rouge if you will.”
__
Lavender was meant to be a soothing color, but being clothed in it did little soothe Amelia’s nerves as she waited anxiously in the hall adjacent to the receiving room at Buckingham House.
Her hand drifted up to her ear, fidgeting with the dangling pearl of her earring. Just as quickly she caught notice of the restless gesture and gave the soft inside of her wrist a small pinch. She rearranged her hands clasped loosely in front of her, gnawing discreetly on the inside of her cheek instead.
It was difficult to decide which was more daunting: facing Her Majesty’s disapproval or Conrad’s.
@conradmowbray
“Christ’s sake!” Conrad tossed the letter onto his desk, and collapsed back in his chair. The hearth was cold, the early morning light slanting in through the windows, exposing dust particles in the warming air. Head pounding, hungover and sleepless, the man could think of a thousand things he would rather do than be ushered before the Queen.
But it will be an honor, came the nasally voice of a loyal subject.
The Princess might be in attendance, rang a somewhat less virtuous voice.
He rubbed his lip, staring down at Her Majesty’s crest. It didn’t matter one way or another. He would attend, of course he would.
__
He smelled of bergamot and cedarwood, horsehair and likely sweat– Conrad was far too aware of himself. Aware of the hair spilling onto his forehead, swiped back hastily as he was shown through the palace to the receiving room. He though of every step, the sound of his footfall on marble floors, or perhaps they were ivory or quartz. He swallowed and even that felt full of forethought and pretense, as though the Queen’s sharp gaze was already upon him.
And then suddenly they’d entered a hall lined with portraits of men and women long dead, their curious eyes watching from beyond the grave. And there, dressed in a shade of soft summer, was Princess Amelia.
There was no uncertainty about what this tea would encompass.
Conrad bowed, grateful that it kept his eyes low. He only glanced at he stood straight, careful to keep proper distance. He needn’t be writing his father due about misbehavior, especially where it concerned the royal family.
“Your highness,” he greeted, voice low as not to call attention. To whom he was not sure. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Did you enjoy yourself at the Colchester’s soiree?” Recalling the pestering disappointment of not sharing a dance, he was suddenly glad for it. Less to explain away.
@hermajesty-charlotte
There was, of course, only the briefest space for conversation before the doors swung open, guided by gloved hands. The queen did not care for whispers in rooms she was not a part of; nor was she interested in being kept waiting.
Phoebe, her backside like a cotton puff, leapt from Charlotte’s lap and began to sniff one of the table legs, finding it of particular interest.
“Her Royal Highness, Princess Amelia,” announced the doorman, giving the princess a perfunctory bow. “And--” as an afterthought. “The Lord Conrad Mowbray.”
Charlotte looked between the pair: with curiosity first, at her daughter. She looked at Amelia often, usually when she was in some state of perplexity -- pausing to help a child across a puddle, mincing in her reticule for some frippery or another, staring wistfully at the antique vase of lilies upon the receiving table. Presentation made her different, Charlotte studied through a critical eye. Lavender suited her, particularly when the fabric undulated to blue. Charlotte nodded, and a footman stepped forward to usher the princess into a chair. There was something to be said for Amelia’s understated prettiness.
The same could not be said for the Lord Mowbray. Charlotte looked him over, toe to head, noted the wrinkled edge of the ribbon pulling back his hair -- or, she thought uncharitably, most of it. His boots shone but his trousers lacked the fashionable fit. Curious.
Another nod, another chair.
“Daughter,” greeted the queen. “Lord Mowbray.” Charlotte’s feather, pluming high over her head, wafted in the faint breeze. She gestured to the table before her, two gentlemen stepping forward to place a tea tray, tarts, an array of finger-sandwiches.
“I do hope you enjoy assam,” said the queen. “For it is my particular favorite.”
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@conradmowbray
Addr: The Lord Conrad Mowbray
Her Majesty The Queen has granted an audience to be held at 2 o’clock in the Afternoon, the Sixteenth of August to explain your Behaviour at a recent Public Engagement.
---
@kleineschatz
15 August 1800
Almost evening
“Amelia.”
The girl was nearly out of her sights before Charlotte had finished her sip, the coffee piping hot and filled with cream. She stared at her daughter, her shoulders erect. Charlotte waited for her to turn.
“You will attend tea with the Lord Mowbray and I tomorrow.”
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🍸+ Who would you marry of the Ton?
"I am married. But I would allow my daughter to marry a future Duke, such as Arthur Mowbray, or perhaps one of Olivia's sons, if they were... different."
@conradmowbray @kleineschatz @hermajesty-queenolivia
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🍸 + who is Her Majesty's best boy? (yes the Poms count)
"Mercury. He never disappoints."
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🍸 + how do you feel about Amelia's chances for a match??
"Her Highness will have her pick of the gentlemen throughout the Ton. The question remains if any will rise to the honor."
@kleineschatz
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ixnay-on-the-ipshay:
“Sh-ship stations – I should hope not!” Not for the first time in this-this unexpected exchange, he wished he could have had the-the chance to have prepared – have had a-a list of points, at the very least.
The Royal Person moved ahead, her attendants flitting all around after; he allowed himself one brief moment of despair before gamely following.
“I-I do not believe we are faring so-so poorly on the war front as to – to necessitate the drafting of our ladies – at least, not in the Navy.” The string of victories had only continued after the Nile; he could not help but bask in that reflected glory – despite him having been beached for most of it since.
“Not active service – God, no! But official passenger status, such as the courtesies afforded the families of the-the Diplomatic Corps – or-or the occasional spouse traveling to-to rejoin her family from abroad.”
He cast about then for anything – anything that would make this clearer or more relatable; settled on, “Why – has Your Majesty not recently recalled Lord Wadham and his family? I-I am sure his Countess and daughter” daughters? damme if he knew “have much to say vis-à-vis their comfort on the voyage over – or-or lack thereof. It is something that such ladies can be spared with-with preparation – a-a protocol, for what crews and passengers may expect on such, hrm, expeditions.”
Then, hastily, “And-and with royal imprimatur, of course.”
Her patience was like sand in glass, draining slowly, one continuous syphon until--
“This is nonsense.” Charlotte cut him off at the pass, stopping at a fork in the lane. “You wish to have your wife accompany you in your service. It is not a reasonable request. You have offered no benefit save to yourself, and moreover, Effingham --”
Charlotte was small, rising to his shoulder, but stout, and determined. He may have seen battles, but she knew wars.
“You have wasted my time.”
Something itched at the tip of her nose; it twitched.
“Between the disservice your mother offered and your own foolishness, vis-a-vis certain ships, cargoes, and explosions, let me say this: you should hope that your superiors see fit to require your service come season’s end.” A once over, dark eyes nearly beady. “I shall throw my interests behind a different cause -- ensuring your singular return to Sea and departure from the Ton.”
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ixnay-on-the-ipshay:
“I – wh-what – en-enjoy – bed?”
In his spluttering and consternation he had stopped in the middle of the path; the ladies-in-waiting were indeed tittering as they passed him – he hastened to catch up, for – good God, he had not meant –
“No, madam, you –” mistake me, but royalty was never mistaken – or at least could not be informed of such to their faces, “– that-that is, I have not expressed myself, hrm, clearly – it-it is not myself I think of with such a-a request; I should not want any of me or-or mine in the dangers where I shall no doubt be stationed.”
Point, he had a point – he – ah.
“Only that I-I believe that with-with greater opportunity to-to broaden their horizons – perhaps the ladies of the ton will be less, hrm, focused on-on mere gossip, or-or feed the-the egos of-of our whistling pest – or aspire to-to improper lectures on topics.”
She had hoped, perhaps in vain -- quite in vain, really -- that being direct would stun Effingham back into middling complacency. Instead --
Charlotte motioned for him to join her, and began to walk accordingly, ladies and dogs trailing behind.
“You are telling half-truths, Effingham,” The Queen had little patience -- and little sleep the night before. Not that one greatly affected the other. “If education is your concern, one does not naturally leap to ship-stations. You may try again.”
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ixnay-on-the-ipshay:
“Your Majesty –” he began; shifted – straightened up and tried again.
“I-I suggested that there may be a-a benefit in allowing women on board – on board serving ships officially, madam. It is not as if this is not already happening; why, the Navy already ferries ambassadors and-and their families every which way – and officially sanctioning such a-a thing allows proper – proper protections to also be put in place –”
His mouth shut with a click. Somewhere behind the Queen’s, hrm, impressive coiffure du jour, a lady-in-waiting tittered.
“You may not have direct authority over – over the Admiralty, but your word in favor would be a-as good as.”
One of the ever-present puppies in the royal train barked.
She had other matters on her mind; chiefly the introduction of her daughter into Society, and all the rakes and ramps that would follow. Amelia had a kind heart, and Charlotte imagined nothing but the worst would come of that.
And yet -- Effingham.
“What?”
She expected some sort of nonsense -- a convex tumble of the strictures of laneways and byways, or perhaps the necessity of a necktie upon midsummer adventures. A cock-eyed theory about French spies, or some sort of deep-seated confession about the wrongs a man must commit whilst at war.
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed.
“If you wish to retire and enjoy your marriage-bed, Lord Effingham, take it up with your superiors.”
A beat.
“Heavens.”
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19 July 1800
London
@ixnay-on-the-ipshay
“Effingham.”
Charlotte’s voice was delicate, ladylike, but underlined with steel. She stopped on her walk, drawing up short to stare the man down.
“I do hope I misheard you.”
She did not -- hope, or mishear.
“What did you say?”
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