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barbasbodaciousbeard · 2 years

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I wish I could know what you’re thinking

One time I wrote a sequel to Blackout because I got too into it

Frederick Chilton x OC

The weeks after the blackout found Frederick in a Baltimore loft again and again. He could hardly believe it, and if he was honest, no one else would. He’d spent so long working to prove himself the best in his field and the best in his life that he’d successfully isolated himself. They thought he didn’t hear them, but Frederick knew what nurses said about him when they gathered around the desk and how the doctors loathed their meetings with him. But now there was Beatrice, calling him when she knew he’d be at lunch to ask if he’d come over or go to dinner or meet her for a drink. She was beautiful and smart and seemed to have nothing to gain from her association with him. This time, however, she’d asked to bring him lunch, and he’d agreed, irrationally nervous to have her in his office.

“Yes, Dorothy,” he said stiffly when his secretary came in.

“A woman is here. She says she’s your guest, but I do not see any appointments on your schedule so-”

“It’s not for business. I’ll come greet her. Thank you, Dorothy.”

He couldn’t help the smug smile when he stepped into the antechamber and Beatrice came to his side, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. Dorothy could not hide her surprise, and Frederick placed his hand on the small of Beatrice’s back to lead her into his office. When the door was closed, he pulled her near.

“To what do I owe this delight?”

“I go with Clifford to see our aunt after our lunch. Did you really think I’d go five full days without seeing you?”

“I am so terribly grateful.” His voice was soft and suddenly melancholy, and Beatrice suspected the gears were whirring behind his eyes. He often attempted to work out how her affection was an affectation. Late one night, he’d told her in a soft whisper he expected her to leave before six months were up. They’d been in a plush hotel room, her gown from the gala in a pile and both of them catching their breath. She’d opted not to argue, telling him when he was proven wrong they’d run away for a weekend.

“You’re ridiculous,” he huffed.

“No, I’m honest.”

“I do hope.”

“I’m booking it now.” She stumbled from the bed, not even bothering to pull his shirt over her frame. Frederick’s eyes stayed on her as she pulled her phone from the breast pocket of his discarded jacket and flopped onto her stomach beside him. His hand came to rest on the small of her back, thumb brushing back and forth.

“Beatrice, we can book it then. There’s no need-”

“I want you to understand that I’m making plans with you in them. I brought you to this gala tonight. You’re my boyfriend, Frederick. I want to go on a trip. Now, VRBO in a cabin or a plush apartment somewhere?”

“I brought soup. It’s so cold out, I thought it would be nice after the snow,” she hummed, pulling two bowls from the canvas bag before carefully unscrewing the thermos. “I made a roasted red pepper bisque. Picked up some nice bread.”

He was suddenly struck with the same fondness he always was, and it was paired this time with flattery at her worrying over him. Frederick even suspected she’d really miss him, it wasn’t just words, and he was delighted to sit so close beside her on the couch of his office.

He’d intended to keep her far away from the hospital. Enough time was spent with Hannibal and Will and Jack. He liked this pure slice of life where nothing existed but a beautiful woman willing to let him court her for the last three months. The elevated mood he was certain to experience the rest of the day took away much of his want for that divide. Besides, a much younger, very pretty woman in a pretty velvet skirt had shown up looking for him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. There would be gossip throughout his staff.

“Thank you, dear,” he smiled, and Beatrice was delighted to see it was the one that crinkled his eyes. That meant it was real. She’d told him she loved him the night before. He didn’t return it, but she trusted he felt it. For all his unabashed arrogance, he was gentle and insecure beneath it all, and she suspected he thought saying he loved her would send her running. He could handle academic accolades, but personal affection felt foreign and unearned. She’d been afraid he’d push her away, that insecurity getting the better of him. Thankfully, her assumptions had been wrong.

“Any big plans while I’m gone?” she asked, tucking her feet beneath her.

“None at all,” he admitted, watching her contentedly. He had a little box with a little pendant. It had a sapphire in a buttercup setting and a natural pearl. Initially, Frederick only went to the antique store to see if the first edition Whitman was worth it. He’d never admit the fact that the part of him that watched Hallmark movies late at night wanted to have it in case he married Beatrice one day. He bought it for himself, but then he saw the necklace glint in the light. It was pretty and delicate like her, and he bought it without hesitation. Waiting for Christmas seemed appealing, but so did giving it to her when it could fit so perfectly with her sweater.

“Well, I’ll be calling you all the time because I’ll miss you terribly.”

“I’ll answer,” he chuckled, striding to his desk and placing the bowl atop. “I got you something. Normally, I would wait until Christmas, but it would go so well with your ensemble that I do not believe I can wait.”

“Frederick.” The smile on her face could only be described as dopey, and he quite liked how it felt to have it directed at him. The necklace sat in a simple box, and Beatrice took it. “This is so sweet.”

“You haven’t even seen it.”

“So?” She pressed a kiss to his lips before she opened it, and a gentle gasp told him he was right. “This is so lovely, sweetheart. You didn’t have to—”

“I do not feel obliged to buy you a gift. I do, however, feel compelled to buy you pretty things that make me think of you.”

“Fasten it for me?” Carefully, almost reverently, he fastened it around his neck, carefully pulling her hair from beneath the chain. He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck.

“Show me?” he asked. She turned, beaming as her fingers brushed over the pendant. The part of Frederick Chilton that wanted nothing more than to keep up appearances was suddenly overcome by pride to see that Beatrice Viotto, the beautiful and intelligent young woman before him, was wearing a necklace he chose for her with pride. It made him puff up with the same cockiness as when he was recognized for his academic achievement. “Almost as pretty as the girl wearing it.”

“Sap,” she teased before pulling him in to kiss him. “I’ll miss you, you know?”

“You have mentioned it once or twice.”

“And I’ll say it again.”

“You and Clifford will be back Sunday?”

“We will. And I’ll probably be hurrying to invite this incredible man I’ve been seeing over for dinner.”

“He’s a lucky bastard.”

When Beatrice left, Frederick began to think maybe the way his next few days felt hollower may mean he was in love. Or maybe it was the way everything brought her to mind. It wasn’t obsessive; it didn't make him lose himself. They were still perfectly independent if needed, but they just preferred to be together. He liked the silent glances at the gala that spoke volumes. Impressed with the author. Annoyed by the surgeon. Mocking the heiress in town from California. Delighted by how annoyed Eric Thomas seemed to see them together, Beatrice’s dress matching Frederick’s tie. He should’ve told her he loved her when he gave her the necklace. Maybe he’d do it when she came back. When she called him, he’d hurry to her apartment with a bottle of champagne and dessert to have an evening in.

That changed when he came home on Friday. He’d dropped his keys and iPad onto the counter, but he could hear the echoing of medical equipment. Abel Gideon in his wine cellar, followed by a perfectly undignified fall. Hannibal Lecter was the Cheasepeke Ripper, and he could still feel the doctor’s hold on him before he blacked out. When he woke bloody and holding a knife, he knew he’d been made Hannibal’s patsy. The dead FBI agents only added to his terror. He should have known better than to trust Will Graham in the aftermath. When he was arrested, he prayed Beatrice could understand the reality. So many didn’t trust him that he knew it would be more difficult to prove them of his innocence.

Beatrice had spent the evening so entrenched in her family, that she didn’t know anything had happened. Much of her night had, in what would serve to be poor timing, been spent telling her aunt, uncle, and Clifford just how smitten she was with the psychiatrist. They had all cooked, eating and drinking far more than any of them intended. Beatrice was asleep early and slept until the ringing of her phone woke her. Initially she ignored it, but the third call from her mother made her answer.

“What is it?” Beatrice managed, barely awake. Her eyes flitted to the digital alarm clock, and she was struck by the hour.

“You finally choose a man you make a public appearance with, and he’s the Chesapeake Ripper?” her mother bit out, and suddenly she was wide awake, pushing herself to sit up in the guest room.

“Excuse me?”

“Open a newspaper, Beatrice. Frederick Chilton is in jail. They found four bodies in his home. He ran from the police. He is the Ripper. The killer from the papers. Where are the Chilton’s from, darling? No one in our circles knows his parents. I thought you said he-”

“Frederick is in jail?” Beatrice asked, rushing to dress. Her heart was pounding as she dressed. “I have to go see him.”

“Beatrice Viotto, you will not go near that prison. That’s the last thing this family needs.”

“He did not do this, mom. Frederick would never. He couldn’t- something else is happening. And I need to hear what he says.” She tore a sheet from her notebook, scribbling a note to Clifford before taking her bag and putting her mother on speaker phone to order an uber.

“You’ve always been such a romantic. And with his backstory- Beatrice, he most likely knew about your father and I. Preyed on your sensitivity. You’re just so soft, darling.”

“No, he did not do this,” she repeated, getting into the car. “I-I’ve got to go. I’ve got to see where he is and if his lawyer is good enough and if I can see him. Frederick isn’t made for prison, mom. He has to eat a special diet and he’s a little fussy and-”

“You love him, don’t you? My daughter has fallen in love with a murderer.”

“I’m not doing this. I have to go.”

She hung up, too anxious to cry. Instead, Beatrice read news articles. She saw the voicemail, calling back a Jack Crawford who told her she could come to the jail. In the moments after his arrest, Frederick couldn’t think of anyone he wanted to know less than Beatrice, but he also could think of no one else who would care about his absence. The hospital would be taken care of. Beyond that, it was only Isabelle who would find his absence upsetting. Every fiber of his being feared she’d believe him capable of—that. He was processed, and he spent the night in his cell, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. When he was brought to see Beatrice, a kindness Jack was giving him, he was surprised to see she was looking at him with nothing but worry.

“You’re here,” he said softly. Beatrice didn’t like that he looked utterly broken in the orange jumpsuit, but from what she gathered, he probably was. She’d been told she couldn’t hug him, but no one said she couldn’t hold his shackled hands. He pulled back when she reached forward, but when her face fell, Frederick let her hands take his.

“Of course I’m here.”

“I’ve been arrested for murder, Beatrice. Given your family’s history, I did not expect-”

“I know you, Frederick. You didn’t do this.”

“I suspect they all say the same.”

“But they aren’t all you.”

“So you believe me.”

“I do. I believe you.” Frederick let out a shuddered sigh, leaning ever so slightly, and his grip on her hand tightened. He wanted to cry, grateful to know, in no uncertain terms, someone believed him. All he wanted was to place his head on her shoulder, have Beatrice hold him close and comfort him as she did in the late hours when a nightmare woke him. He hoped it would wake him up, and he’d find this all a terrifying nightmare.

“Soon enough, I’ll meet with a psychiatrist. I know who did this, I believe. Beatrice, if I’m sent to prison, I do not expect you to wait. Even if I’m not. People will discuss this, and I do not wish—”

“I don’t give a damn what people have to say. You’re innocent, I know. I will be here, and when you can come home, you will come stay with me. I never expect you to return to where you saw what you did. And we’ll just go away early, okay?”

“How was Clifford?” he asked, swallowing heavily. He did not want to get emotional when he knew Jack Crawford was probably watching them from the other side of the glass. She was whisked away before she could tell him all about the three days they were apart. Before she left, she promised to come back the next day. Frederick felt comforted knowing Beatrice seemed to truly intend to be there. He suspected that, upon his release or some semblance of privacy, she’d even believe him about Hannibal Lecter.

But then he woke with an aching head and a vague memory of terror. The walls, he quickly realized, were white and sterile, and he couldn’t see or hear from one side of his head. He wasn’t yet sure if this was because of the gauze he could feel packed against his face. He shifted, and in terror realized the roof f his mouth felt wrong. Smaller than it should be and teeth were missing. A nurse hurried to his side, and it was as though he was swimming in cotton as she tried to explain things. He felt small and afraid and didn’t like it, but then he saw Beatrice hurrying through the door, fresh coffee in hand and eyes wide to see he was awake. Soon enough, he could make out her scolding the poor nurse.

“--traumatized. He won’t understand what happened quite—I’ll stay beside him in case—his girlfriend—do what you have to and leave us—”

An utterly undignified noise escaped him, and when Beatrice looked him in the eye, she could almost sense the fear and panic. If he hadn’t been so afraid, she was acutely aware that she would be chased away, insulted until she left him to be alone, and he wouldn’t so much as speak to her until he felt himself sufficiently healed. Instead, he was desperate for a tether, and Beatrice was safe and loved him and could explain. She sat beside him, taking the less monitored hand in hers and pressing her lips to his knuckles silently. She was fighting not to cry. That wasn’t what he needed right now. She’d been to dozens of appointments with her parents, but nothing when things were so fresh, and the memory of their initial hospitalization was softened by the adults that protected her.

“You may not be able to talk yet. Plus, they say you shouldn’t talk much. Things are healing. Squeeze my hand once if you’re understanding me.” A sigh of relief when he squeezed gently. “I figured. On a scale of one to five, one being Don’t explain, I’m hazy and five being I can understand, do you want me to explain?”

He paused, attempting to process his state of mind and his surroundings. With each breath, he felt more aware. It was no longer as though his thoughts had to pass through a dense fog, and he caught everything she said. He just felt he was slower to process, but he had a sneaking suspicion that was a pain killer. After his careful consideration, he gave three firm squeezes followed by a less sure one.

“One for yes, two for no. That's three and a half?” A firm squeeze. “Good. I’m going to tell you what happened slowly, okay?” Another squeeze. “First of all, you’ve been cleared. Second, you’ve been shot.”

A squint of his good eye and furrowed brow.

“Sweetheart, I don’t know why,” she whispered. “He didn’t tell me. But, it means you get to be in the nice hospital I chose with the best surgeons. It happened a week ago, but they’ve kept you unconscious. You’ve had a lot of surgeries. Needed a lot of healing. You survived a bullet wound. They placed a feeding tube. I know you hate the concept, but it’s because they have to let your face heal. It’s not good Frederick.”

He fixed her with a steady gaze, pulse racing as he began to panic. What was the damage? A bullet could shatter a lot. Was he deformed? It seemed to be his face. Would she leave? Would she be repulsed and take back proclamations of love? Would he ever be able to eat at a restaurant again?

“Hey, stop that. I know you well enough to know you want to leave me before I leave you, but I won’t. Believe it or not, I love more than your face. The bullet hole is fairly small. You’ll have a mark. One of your eyes isn’t going to be much help anymore. But it’s there. Worst case scenario, a contact will help it noy look different. What’s going to be difficult is what’s gone. Your zygomatic and part of your maxilla bone were shattered. When you heal, there will be a prosthetic. Metal, with your teeth. Frederick, I promise, I’m going to be right here through all of it, okay? None of this changes anything to me. I know you won’t believe me, but it’s true. And I’ll be here for whatever you need to feel.”

He simply clung to her hand, deciding he’d take this pity for all it was worth. It was frightening, the prospect of time in this hospital, of not being able to speak when words had been what he relied on for so long, of the pain he was sure awaited him as he healed enough to eat or wear the prosthetic. He knew her well enough to know she’d already insisted on knowing how to help with the feeding tube, and she’d probably demanded he be able to return home the first moment doctors could let him.

But his house wasn’t going to be home anymore. Hannibal Lecter had ruined that. He’d already stopped feeling at home in it, with it’s clean white walls and perfectly sparse decor. He’d miss the wine cellar, sure, but he’d grown to feel more at home in Beatrice’s loft, even if it looked so lived in. It held warmth and life that his house did not. He’d never had guests who truly liked him in the house. He had dinner parties, sure, but they were always people he needed to impress who didn’t really like him. They brought impressive wine to prove they were more impressive than him and he hired impressive chefs to prove his taste was more impressive than theirs. His home reflected the calculated dynamics of the interactions within it.

Maybe it was the drugs, but his mind began to wander and he questioned if it was because that had been what the family home was like: focused on appearance and transaction. Now that he’d had a taste of Beatrice’s home, one where people came simply because they wanted to be around each other, he wasn’t sure he’d miss his home as he’d always thought he would. He’d grown fond of the chachkis littering her place.

Where would she go when she realized this was all far too much? Surely her association with him would cause familial pressure to save the Viotto name. Besides, she loved things he may not be able to keep up with now. He already required his cane. After this, would he be able to follow her to trek through Italy? The majority of her family was there; only her grandparents had immigrated. Her parents had a house on the Isle of Capri and one in Florence. When she went to either, she liked to walk miles a day or dive into the sea and swim. He couldn’t keep up before, and he wondered how long it would be until he could even venture that far from his doctors. Maybe he’d be wrong. Maybe he would only have aesthetic differences. Maybe once he had the prosthetic, he’d be fine.

“I wish I could know what you’re thinking.” He was snapped back to her, his eyes trailing over her face. If he wasn’t already kicking himself for not returning her I love you before her trip, he was now. When she visited, he’d been so certain that he’d simply go to trial and either go to prison or go home that he’d planned to wait and hope he’d get to tell her he loved her over a nice dinner. He let his tongue roll over his mouth, testing to see where his tongue would fall if he tried to say it now. The L and V would be impacted but hopefully understandable, though the gauze in his mouth was certain to make his words even more muddled. His jaw ached enough he also felt quite certain it wouldn’t open wide. Still, she only said he shouldn’t speak much.

“I love you.” It took substantial effort, and the end result was barely understandable, but Beatrice’s broad smile and watery eyes told him it wasn’t as bad as he feared. It caused a pain in his jaw and took more energy than he’d ever expected, but she was smiling so broadly he wished he could kiss her.

“I love you, too.” Her voice was soft, and she seemed so sincere that Frederick couldn’t stop the way his good eye teared up. She put her lips against his unbandaged cheek, and he realized it had been six waking days since he kissed her, and he felt fairly sure he’d have to wait for the removal of the bandages at least to receive a peck to his lips. Longer for him to pull her close and kiss her slow and deep, a kiss from the movies that was full of promise of what was to come. She wiped her eyes, giving him a playful nudge. “As much as I like hearing it, though, be careful. The risk is both the gauze and opening a scab. You’re nearing safe to take it all out.”

“What’s beneath?” Again, the words were exhausting, but he had to ask and was unable to think of any other way to communicate the particular question.

“The bruising has lessened a lot. The bullet wound is visible. Round, the size of a penny. Your cheek is supported by swelling and gauze right now. They said that once it heals, it will all pull down when you do not have a prosthetic. Don’t worry. You’re still as handsome as ever.”

#frederick chilton x oc #Frederick Chilton #frederick chilton x reader #hannibal #hannibal fanfiction #writing

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aiiaiiiyo · 2 years

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Queen Victoria with her eldest daughter, Empress Frederick (Victoria, Princess Royal), and her youngest daughter, Princess Beatrice in the 1890s [489 x 718] Check this blog!

#historicalsouffle #historyporn #history

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winsonsaw2003 · 2 years

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Looking For Descendants Of William Thomas Lewis (1790-1875) Bencoolen,Penang

I’m looking for descendants of William Thomas Lewis (1790-1875) to share some information.

Son of Henry Charlesz Lewis and ?. He was Resident Councillor of Penang from (1855-1860).He died in 1875 Penang,Malaysia. He married 1st,Jane Lancaster,2ndly Maria Antonetta Neubronner. His issue:- i) Jane Lewis ii) Elizabeth Martha Lewis (1821-1839). iii) Wilhemina Lewis (1823-1856). iv) Henrietta Elizabeth Lewis (1828-1891),Brighton married to Captain George Smart. Their issue:- ai)Alexander William Smart(1848-1922)married to Fanny Amelia Kearns.His issue:- bi)George Edward Smart,Royal Garrison Artillery(1881-?) married Marion Alice Barrow. bii)Sir Walter Alexander Smart(1883-1962)married Amy Nimr Pasha.His issue:- ci) Micky Smart(1935-1943).A niece,Soraya George Antonius. biii)Hugh Sale Smart(1885-1915). aii)George Henry Robert Smart(1850-1898) married Caroline Elizabeth Hughes. aiii)Annette Elizabeth Smart(1852-1922) married 1stly Thomas Munn & 2ndly John Frederick Sale. aiv)Edward de Sausmarez Smart(1859-1931)married 1stly Amy Beatrice Dugdale & 2ndly Elizabeth Raim. av)Helen Alexa Smart(1862-1941)Hove,Sussex,married Robert William Duff. v) Catherine Isabella Lewis(1829-?) married Joseph Rose. vi) William Lewis (1830-?). vii) Maria Mary Lewis (1834-1907) married Robert Crosse. Their issue:- ai) Rev.Thomas George Crosse (1850-1932) married Fanny Maria Nelson.His issue:- bi) Frances Katharine Crosse(1887-?) married Elwyn Storer Bowen. Their issue:- ci) John Elwyn Bowen (1928-1995). cii) Joan Beatrice Bowen (1931-1984). bii) Thomas Latymer Crosse(1889-1916). biii) Robert Grant Crosse (1894-1916). biv) George Hallewell Crosse(1896-1949),South Africa married Doris Jessie Forrester. His issue:- ci) Charles George Latymer Crosse. bv) Edward Neufville Crosse(1898-1970) married Margaret K Mackillop Brown. His issue:- ci) Gillian S Crosse married Martin W Evans aii) Charles Robert Crosse (1852-1921) married Catherine Da Costa Porter. His issue:- bi) Mary Da Costa Crosse(1878-1962) married Arthur Sydney Bates. Their issue:- ci) Anne Mary Bates(1915-2006) married John Oliver-Bellasis. Their issue:- di) Hugh Oliver-Bellasis bii) Whitworth Charles Crosse(1879-1948) married Enid Isobel Lewis. His issue:- ci) David Charles Whitworth Crosse(1923-2001). biii) Jeannette Annie Crosse(1881-1948) married Alan Harvey Lockyer Prynne. Their issue:- ci) Michael Whitworth Prynne (1912-1977) married Jean Violet Stewart. His issue:- di) Bridget Mary Prynne married Donald Ian Fleming Spence. Their issue:- ei) Arabella Jean Spence married Nicholas C I Burge. Their issue:- di) Lily Victoria Burge. dii) Thomas Charles H Burge. eii) Robert Ian James Spence. dii) Caroline Anne Prynne married Terence Michael Kehoe. Their issue:- ei) Susanna Jane Kehoe. eii) Catherine Jenny Kehoe. eiii) Olive Anne Kehoe. diii) Celia Jane Prynne married David Christopher Greenberg. Their issue:- ei) Christopher Michael Greenberg. eii) Richard Martin Greenberg. eiii) Alexander David Greenberg. div) Andrew Geoffrey Lockyer Prynne married Catriona Mary Brougham. His issue:- ei) Jessica Jean Prynne. eii) Miranda Wendy Prynne. eiii) Natasha Sally Prynne. cii) Mary C A Prynne(1913-?) married Norman A Leonard. ciii) Alan St George Prynne(1917-?) married Marcia Catherine Huggins. His issue:- di) ? Prynne (1943-?). biv) Reginald Meredith Crosse (Crosse-Kelly) (1883-1947) married Ethel Beatrice Bedingfeld Kelly. His issue:- ci) Richard C B Crosse-Kelly married Kathleen K Swan. His issue:- di) Angela C Crosse-Kelly married William E Strong. viii) Henry Alfred Lewis (1836-?). ix) George Lewis (1838-1858). x) Louisa Clemence Lewis (1839-?) married William Hewitt Seton-Burn. xi) Clarence Aleric Lewis (1842-1843). xii) Edward Lewis (1846-1847).

Please contact me at - [email protected]

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thebritishmonarchycouk · 4 years

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On This Day In Royal History . 8 October 1200 . Isabella of Angoulême is crowned Queen consort of England. . Isabella (born c.1186/1188 – died 4 June 1246) was queen consort of England as the 2nd wife of King John from 1200 until John’s death in 1216. She was also suo jure Countess of Angoulême from 1202 until 1246. . At the time of her marriage to John, the blonde-haired blue-eyed Isabella was already renowned by some for her beauty. Isabella was much younger than John & possessed a volatile temper similar to his own. John was infatuated with his young, beautiful wife; however, his acquisition of her had at least as much to do with spiting his enemies as romantic love.She was already engaged to Hugh IX le Brun when she was taken by John. It was said that he neglected his state affairs to spend time with Isabella, often remaining in bed with her until noon. . When John died in October 1216, Isabella’s 1st act was to arrange the speedy coronation of her 9-year-old son at the city of Gloucester on 28 October. As the royal crown had recently been lost in The Wash, along with the rest of King John’s treasure, she supplied her own golden circlet to be used in lieu of a crown. The following July, she left him in the care of his regent, William Marshal, 1st Earl of Pembroke & returned to France to assume control of her inheritance of Angoulême. . With King John she had 5 children, all of whom survived into adulthood, . King Henry III of England (b.1207–d.1272). Married Eleanor of Provence . Richard, Earl of Cornwall & King of the Romans (1209–72). Married firstly Isabel Marshal, secondly Sanchia of Provence, & thirdly Beatrice of Falkenburg. . Joan (1210–38), the wife of King Alexander II of Scotland. . Isabella (1214–41), the wife of Emperor Frederick II. . Eleanor (1215–75), who would marry firstly William Marshal, 2nd Earl of Pembroke; & secondly Simon de Montfort, 6th Earl of Leicester. . In the spring of 1220, Isabella married Hugh X of Lusignan, Count of La Marche, the son of her former fiancé, Hugh IX, to whom she had been betrothed before her marriage to King John. They had 9 children, all of whom survived into adulthood. . . . (at Westminster Abbey) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGGT2xyHbRS/?igshid=hb3af5wkatlb

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jackredfieldwasmyjacob · 4 years

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NAMES IN THE LANGUAGES OF SPAIN

I thought this would be cool, I'll make below a list comparing how names are spelled and change depending on the language so, whenever you see a Spanish name, you can kinda see where they are from! This is not 100% truthful as, for example, a lot of non-basque people tend to put Basque names to their daughters cause they are really pretty, but normally the names stay in their language area.

Before starting, the order will be:

English - Castilian - Catalan - Galician - Basque

(if a name doesn't exist in a language i'll write "x")

Let's go:

Adam - Adán - X - Adán - Adame

Adrian - Adrián - Adrià - Hadrián - X

X - Ainara - X - X - Enara / Ainara

Alexander - Alejandro - Alexandre - Alexandre - Alesander / Alexander

Alexandra - Alejandra - Alexandra - Alexandra - X

Alex - Alejo - Aleix - Aleixo - X

Alfred - Alfredo - Alfred - X - X

X - Álvaro - Àlvar - X - X

Anne - Ana - Anna / Aina - Ana - Anne

Andrew - Andrés - Andreu - André - Ander

Angel - Ángel - Àngel - Anxos / Anxo - Aingeru

Angela - Ángela - Àngela - Anxela - X

Antonia - Antonia - Antonia - Antía / Antoñina - X

Anthony - Antonio - Antoni - Antoiño - Andoni

X - Anunciación - X - Anuncia - X

Arnold - Arnaldo - Arnau - X - Arnaut

Arthur - Arturo - Artur - Artur - X

X - Ascensión - X - X - Igone

X - Asunción - Assumpció - Asunta - Dei / Jasone

Austin - Agustín - Agustí - X - Agosti

Aurora - Aurora - X - X - Goizargi / Ostargi

Bartholomew - Bartolomé - Bartolomeu / Bartomeu - Bartolomeu - Bardol

Basil - Basilio - X - X - Baraxil / Bazil

X - X - Begònia - X - Begoña

Benedict - Benito - X - Bieto / Bento / Bieito / Benedito - X

Benjamin - Benjamín - X - Benxamín X

Bernard - Bernardo - Bernat - X - Beñat

Beatrice - Beatriz - Beatriu - X - X

Blaise - Blas - Blai - Brais - Baladi / Bladi

Blanche - Blanca - Blanca - Branca - X

Bridget - Brígida - X - Bríxida - X

X - Carmen - Carme - Carme / Carmela - Karmele

Catherine - Catalina - Caterina - Catarina - Katalina / Kattarin / Katisa

X - Cayetano - X - Caetano / Caio - X

Charles - Carlos - Carles - Carlos - Xarles / Karlos

Christina - Cristina - X - X - Kistiñe

Christopher - Cristóbal - X - Cristovo - X

Claudia - Claudia - Clàudia - Clodia - X

X - Constantino - Constantí - X - X

Cyprian - Cipriano - X - Cibrán - X

Daniel - Daniel - Daniel - Daniel - Danel

Delores - Dolores - Dolors - Dores - Dolore

X - Diego - Dìdac - Thiago - Diegotxe / Xanti

Dominic - Domingo - X - X - Domeka / Domiku / Dominix / Txomin

X - Donato - Donat - X - X

Edward - Eduardo - Eduard - X - Edorta

X - Efraín - X - Efrén - X

Eleanor - Leonor - Eleonor - X - X

Elisabeth - Isabel - Elisabet - Sabela - Elisabete / Elixabete

X - Eloy - Eloi - Eloi / Elixio - X

Emil - Emilio - Emili - X - X

Emmanuel - Manuel - Manel - Manuel - Imanol / Mañel

Erika - Érica - X - X - Erika

Ernest - Ernesto - Ernest - X - X

X - Estanislao - X - Estanislau - X

Eugenia - Eugenia - X - Uxía - Eukene

X - Eulalia - Eulàlia / Laia - Olalla - Eulari

Faith - Fe - X - Fe - Fede

Felicity - Felicidad - X - Felicidade / Felicitas - X

Felix - Félix - Feliu - Fiz - Peli / Zorion

Ferdinand - Fernando - Ferran - Fernán - X

Francine - Francisca - Francesca - Francisca - Frantsesa / Frantxa

Francis - Francisco / Paco - Francesc / Cesc - X - Frantzisko / Patxi

Frederick - Federico - Frederic - Frederico - X

Gabriel - Gabriel - Biel - X - X

George - Jorge - Jordi - Xorxe - X

Gerard - Gerardo - Gerard - Xerard - X

Gloria - Gloria - Gloria - X - Aintza

X - Gonzalo - Gonçal - X - X

Grace - Gracia - X - Graciela - Gartzene

Gregory - Gregorio - Gregori - Gregorio - X

Hector - Héctor - Hèctor - X - X

Helen - Elena - Helena - Helena - Heleni

Henry - Enrique - Enric - Henrique - Endika

Hugh - Hugo - Hug - Hugo - X

X - Ignacio - Ignasi - Ignacio - Iñaki

X - Inmaculada - Immaculada - Inmaculada - Garbiñe

Irene - Irene - X - Iria - X

Isidore - Isidro - Isidre - X - X

Jacob - Jaime / Jacobo / Yago - Jaume - Iago / Xacobo / Xaime - Jakes

Joanna - Juana - Joana - Xoana - Jone / Joana

X - Joaquín - Joaquim / Quim - Xoaquín - X

John - Juan - Joan - Xoán - Ion

Joseph - José - Josep - Xosé - X

Josephine - Josefa - Josepa - Xosefa - Josebe / Joxepa

Julia - Julia - Júlia - Xulia - X

Julian - Julián - Julià - Xián / Xiao / Xillao - X

Julianne - Juliana - X - Xiana - X

Laura - Laura - Llura - Laura - X

Lawrence - Lorenzo - Llorenç - X - Laurendi / Laurentzi

Lewis - Luis - Lluís - Lois - Koldo / Koldobika / Luix

Lucas - Lucas - Lluc - X - X

Lucy - Lucía - Llúcia - Lucía - X

Luna - Luna - X - Lúa - Hilargi

X - Luz - Llum - X - Argi

X - Manuela - Emma - Emma / Enma / Nela - X

Marcus - Marcos - Marc - Marcos - Marko / Marz

Martin - Martín - Martí - X - Mattin / Matxin

Mary - María / Mireya - Maria / Mariona / Mireia - María / Maruxa / Mara - Maria / Miren / Maia

Matthew - Mateo / Matías - Mateu - Macías / Mateus - Matia / Matei

Maurice - Mauricio - Maurici - X - X

Mercy - Mercedes - Mercè - Merces - Eskarne

Michael - Miguel - Miquel - Miguel - Mikel / Mitxel

X - Milagros - X - X - Alatz

X - Modesto - X - X - Apal

Nicholas - Nicolás - Nicolau - Nicolau - Mikolas

X - Nieves - Neus - Neves - Edurne

Noelle - Noelia - X - Noela - Gabone

Pascal - Pascual - X - X - Bazkoare

Paul - Pablo - Pau / Pol - Paulo - Paul / Paulo

X - Paz - X - X - Gentzane

Peter - Pedro - Pere - X - Peru / Petri / Peio / Betiri

Philip - Felipe - Felip - X - X

Piety - Piedad - X - X - Errukine

Priscilla - Priscila - X - Prisca - X

X - Purificación - X - X - Garbikunde

Raymond - Raimundo / Ramón - Ramon / Raimon - Reimunde / Raimón - Erramun

Ramona - Ramona - X - X - Erramona / Erramune

Regina - Regina - Rexina - X - Erregina

X - Remedios - Remei - X - X

Rene - Renato - X - X - Birjaio

Richard - Ricardo - Ricard - Ricardo - X

Rita - Rita - X - X - Errita

Robert - Roberto - Robert - Roberto - X

Rocky - Roque - Roc - Roque - X

X - Rocío - X - X - Intza

Roderick - Rodrigo - Roderic - Roi / Rodrigo / Rui - Ruisko

X - Rosario - Roser - X - Errosali

Rose - Rosa - Rosa - Rosalía - X

Ruth - Ruth - Ruth - Rut - X

X - Salud - Salut / Salu - X - Osasun

X - Sancho - Sanç - X - Santxo

X - Santos - X - X - Deunoro / Sanduru

Sebastian - Sebastián - Sebastià - X - X

X - Sergio - Sergi - Serxio - X

Silvia - Silvia - Sílvia - Silvia - X

X - Sol - X - X - Eguzkine / Ekhiñe

X - Soledad - X - Soidade - Bakar

Stella - Estrella / Estela - Estel - Estrela / Estela - Izaro / Izar

Stephanie - Estefanía - X - X - Estebeni

Steven - Esteban - Esteve - Estevo - Estebe / Eztebe

Theresa - Teresa - X - Tareixa - X

Thomas - Tomás - Tomàs - Tomé - X

X - Trinidad - X - Trinidade - Irune

Valentine - Valentín - Valentí - Valente - Balendi

X - Valerio - Valeri - Valerio - Baleren

Verity - Verdad - X - X - Egia

Victor - Víctor - Víctor - Vítor - Bittor

Vincent - Vicente - Vicenç / Vicent - Vicente / Vicenzo - Bikendi / Bingent

William - Guillermo - Guillem - Guillerme - X

Xavier - Javier - Xavier - Xabier - Xabier

Yolanda - Yolanda - Iolanda - Iolanda - X

#typicalspanish #spanishnames #spanish names #galician names #basque names #catalan names

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familyromantic · 2 years

Video

#another period #comedy central #ship edit #tw:incest #shipcest #fan video #a: mine #r: brosis #c: video #canon: yes #beatrice bellacourt #frederick bellacourt #frederick x beatrice

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existential-celestial · 4 years

Photo

https://www.instagram.com/p/B9PEpndha5z/

ARTxLIT: William Shakespeare x Frederick Sandys

“Is he not approved in the height a villain that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O that I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour - O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place.”

— Beatrice; Much ado About Nothing (William Shakespeare)

— Frederick Sandys, “Love's Shadow” (1867)

#quote #shakespeare #art #literature #william shakespeare #lit #preraphaelite #frederick sandys #painting #much ado about nothing #ARTxLIT #original edit #graphic design #art edit #female rage #women #art history #*

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paintingsexplained · 5 years

Photo

Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, The marriage of the Emperor Frederick I to Beatrice, daughter of the Count of Burgundy, 1750-53, 500 x 400 cm, Würzburg, Residenz

This image, showing the marriage of Emperor Frederick I Barbarrosa in the 12th century is located at the palace in Würzburg. Here it is possible to see the dazzling theatricality, so characteristic of this artist.

The figures appear to extend beyond the frame and into our space. Typically, this is seen from below. The pale colors are a delight to see; they're very typical of the taste of the early eighteenth century. This is an end of an era type of art.

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

as the sun dies (trixie x violet) - chapter 1 - fannyatrollop

A/N: This is a mad piece of historical fiction. Poor Trixie is Marie Antoinette, doomed Queen of France. Violet is her sister-in-law. Katya has a role I made up out of whole cloth, achieved by reviving dead historical figures so they would be around at the time, and pretending an unhappy royal couple could have given birth to a daughter at the right time for her to exist. The story is about them doing their best to be princesses in the palace of Versailles, while time floats slowly on to the French Revolution. Vixie are the beating heart of this fic, but Trixya will also exist in some form.

I have spent a lot of my free time reading royal histories, and though I mess with things severely to bring you this fic, I still stress a little about accuracy. Because the Hanover dynasty of Britain is one of my favourites, I decided that Trixie would be a British princess. The king in charge of her life at the time had a moment of OOC behaviour to make this possible. Maria Theresa of Austria found steaming mad. At least in this universe, the real Marie Antoinette had a chance to end up somewhere nice.

Also really wanna mention that the actual irl Comtesse de Provence as a hot, stinking mess when she got to France. I expected Violet to somehow be born with elegance and the ability to quickly figure out how to be the most fashionable lady in court. Also, because princesses often underwent name changes when they married into foreign courts… I call her Violette.

Trixie’s wedding would have taken place on 16 May 1770. Violet would show up at some point in the next year, so I’ll give you all of their ages as of September 1771 for reference: Trixie, 19; Violet, 18; Katya, 24. I try to keep track of when a significant time jump happens in the narrative, and hope it’s not too confusing. I’ll blab about titles and such next chapter.

CHAPTER ONE: Royal Parcels

Princess Caroline Beatrice of Great Britain, aged eighteen, has barely recovered from seasickness when she enters her new home. She’s never liked admitting to weakness, so rather than explaining her nausea as a symptom of nerves, she prefers to think she’s still carrying the effects of that horrible voyage inside of her. If she has it her way, she will never again set foot on a ship, not even if her life depends on it.

She knows that when a princess leaves her home country, she’s unlikely to return unless she is an unfit wife. When she was informed of her upcoming nuptials, she had promised herself to succeed on that front come hell or high water. Her marriage will be a success, even if it kills her. If she ever does end up on a boat home, she will be a failure, and if it’s like that she might as well leap off and let the sea have her. She doubts she’d be sent to the stocks for returning home a spurned woman, but she doesn’t want that to be the outcome of her life. Something about her marriage feels like a grand, cosmic test, and it’s in her nature to want to do well.

Trixie has no mind for politics. She can ride a horse. She can grow her own flowers, and keep a small garden alive tolerably well. She is a gifted musician, which is something she takes immense pride in. From the day she was born, her entire world has been confined to the house she was raised in, and the occasional sojourn to another royal residence for holidays. She’s incredibly green, but even so she is aware that hers is an unusual match. Her marriage is meant to crown the end to a long war with France—wedding bells to ring in a deeper friendship between the two nations. She would have expected to be shipped off to one of the German states instead, somewhere nice and Protestant, where her bridegroom might turn out to be a close relative. Her sisters had been established through alliances where at least one of these things was true.

For Trixie, marriage has simply been one of the three possible outcomes for her future, the other two being a tragic, early death, or spinsterhood. It doesn't bother her to be marrying the Dauphin of France, and though it surprises her, there’s no point in questioning the situation. When a princess is told she is to be married, she seldom has room to object. She still feels rather queasy about the whole thing, but she’s tried very hard to quell that feeling with positive affirmations.

One day, I will be the Queen of France. There are worse fates, and it was never my choice where I wound up in life.

This cheerful mantra led her through her seasickness, through her dressing and undressing only moments after stepping foot on dry land, through the awkwardness of meeting her husband for the first time, not to mention her meeting with the King, and the first meal she shared with her new family. It has been with her as she feels the weight of history settling on her shoulders, the responsibility of finding her place in a new court when she scarcely has previous experience at her native court, and her knowledge that she’s not quite ready.

Admittedly, Trixie is a touch too sensitive, though she has learned to conceal it. Perhaps her mind has perceived more hostility in the people she has encountered thus far than she should have. Much of her energy has been expended in the service of performing as best as she can, while her lingering seasickness and compulsion to worry conspires against her. What she does know is that judging from their brief encounter, the Dauphin was not at all charmed by her. He could hardly meet her eye, even as he kissed her hand.

He’ll have to put up with her, nonetheless.

She breathes deeply, through her nose for greater discretion, as soon as she can make out the looming splendor of Versailles. She remembers that she was born to leave home and never return, that her most beloved sister bore it well enough when it was her time, and that another young woman was plucked from her home no less than seven years ago, to be her brother’s queen. Princess Caroline Beatrice, affectionately known as Trixie, has ceased to be; the girl in the carriage, desperately denying her fears, is the Dauphine of France. She should start referring to herself as such in her mind, and cast aside her childhood nickname. She won’t, but she will tell herself she ought to.

There is plenty of light, and nothing particularly foreboding about Versailles by design. Still, she feels a deep chill as she passes through its doors for the first time.

She toys with the ring on her finger, a gift from her mother. She’s not meant to have it anymore, had to hide it behind her teeth as she was stripped and outfitted with the trappings of a French princess, but she’s trying to derive as much comfort as possible from her little keepsake. Inscribed on the inside of the ring are words she believes were intended as a charm, one which she hopes will work: Bring me happiness.

***

Caroline Beatrice was born on August 23, 1751, approximately five months after the death of her father.

Whatever his faults as a person, and he was definitely seen almost exclusively through that lens by his own royal parents, Frederick, Prince of Wales was a caring, attentive father. He brought a liveliness to his household that contrasted starkly with the confinement in which the princess was brought up. As unfortunate as it was that she never knew him, for they would have likely gotten along rather well, it’s a small mercy that she was not able to compare the relatively bleak world she grew to know with brighter times.

The most crucial result of her isolated childhood was that when it came time for her to marry, her experience of life at court was minimal. Versailles, with all its formalities, would prove overwhelming for a sheltered girl who saw more of her native land on her way out of it than she had in all her life. The princess’ eldest brother, known to history as George III, had misgivings about the French marriage. He thought his sister unprepared for the challenge, yet it proceeded with his approval. Had he placed more faith in his gut feeling, things may have turned out differently.

George, though, had made a very aggressive push to broker a peace for a war that was bringing victory after victory to his country, engaging in political maneuvers that he found distasteful to put an end to a conflict that he saw as little more than a bloody drain on his coffers. How would it look if he made a fuss about garnishing that peace with a marriage, when both nations had suitable candidates on hand? His sister was of age, it was not unreasonable to assume she ought to marry; though she could be settled better elsewhere, with talks of marriage already underway and a hard-won end to a wasteful conflict it did not seem wise to imply that there were better potential matches for her.

He could not, at the time, have foreseen what would come of this marriage. No one could.

As it was, Caroline Beatrice was born in good health on a late summer’s day. She was named in honour of her grandmother, and would be said to resemble her physically later in life. It is probable that her resemblance to Queen Caroline helped to convince Louis XV of her suitability as a marriage candidate for his grandson: in her day, Queen Caroline was said to have the finest bosom in Europe, and Louis XV was a bosom enthusiast. The young princess’ portrait, coupled with a careful choice of words from an interested party, would have been enough to sway him…

***

In her defense, Trixie can say that the Dauphin was no more eager to fulfill his duties as a husband on their wedding night than she was. Sure, she was too busy agonizing over her performance at the official wedding ceremony to be of any assistance, but it’s not entirely her fault that nothing happened.

Her wedding gown had been an opulent confection made with cloth of silver, and covered in diamonds. The panniers on the hips added a significant amount of horizontal width to her silhouette, enough that she imagined she could comfortably seat a child on each hip with plenty of room to spare. She had very little experience with moving about in this sort of gown, and she could not easily overcome the fact that she’d noticeably stumbled the second she entered the cathedral. She wishes there was a way to go back and prevent that display from being the first impression some members of her court would surely have of her.

Even if she’d moved like an angel floating on a cloud, it would not make up for the fact that the bodice had been made far too small. There was no helping this by the time it was discovered, and she had to make do with a dress that gave the world a cheeky peek at her undergarments in the back.

Trixie and her husband were a match made in heaven on the dance floor. Trixie was technically competent in the art of dance, but contending with a gown that somehow managed to swallow her whole even as it was unable to fasten onto her body fully, she gave off the appearance of a badly conducted marionette. The Dauphin fared no better, and the young couple provided the court with an unintentionally comic first dance. Their bumbling performance in their first dance as man and wife likely acted as foreshadowing to their handling of the marriage bed.

A Dauphine has only one way to fully cement her position, and that is by providing her husband with an heir. If she can produce two, all the better. By the morning after Trixie’s wedding, her ability to achieve this simple task is cast into doubt. Shortly after her marriage, her brother’s queen gives birth to his seventh child. She dutifully writes a letter to congratulate him, all the while telling herself that she has no reason to be angry about it. If she tells herself that she will soon receive a similar letter, perhaps the universe will listen and make it so.

Despite her hopes, the situation remains dire for so long that a marriage for the Dauphin’s younger brother, the Comte de Provence, becomes paramount. In accordance to a long tradition of intermarriage between the royal families of France and Savoy, a Savoyard princess is sent for to be the new Comtesse de Provence. And so, less than a year from the time of her own marriage, Trixie gains some competition in the form of a sister in law.

***

Every day, Trixie must suffer the ritual of getting dressed in front of the whole world. It’s one of many daily tasks the Dauphine of France must undertake with an audience. She doubts she’ll ever get used to it.

Without a soul to confide in at court, she writes the contents of her mind to one of her sisters. She vents to Louisa, settled in Denmark, about the nonsense she dealt with every day of her life, and how she would not be surprised if it was suddenly decreed that she was not permitted to take a shit without being gawked at. Why, it would become the highest of privileges to wipe her ass for her after!

“I am certain,” she writes. “That there is scarcely a lady in this palace that has not had the privilege of seeing me in my most natural state. I sincerely hope it pleases them.”

The handing over of the chemise is a jealously guarded privilege that belongs to the highest ranking lady at the Dauphine’s dressing ceremony. This lady is apparently not obligated to arrive in time so that she may be present from the start of the ceremony onwards. What sometimes happens, then, is that as the social makeup of the room changes, the ceremony must adapt. If a parade of ladies, each grander than the one before, choose to drag their feet on the way to Trixie’s rooms, even if she’s caught with her arms outstretched, mere seconds from receiving her chemise, she must let it be passed about until the correct lady is able to hand it to her. It’s utterly ridiculous.

Initially, she gives the Comtesse the benefit of the doubt. She’s freshly arrived, so perhaps she wouldn’t know when it was time to assemble for her dressing. It may have also been news to her that, with them being so closely related, she could easily outrank every lady present upon arrival. Trixie knows how difficult it is to adapt, so she is willing to forgive.

Until she gets a look at her face.

The Comtesse is beautiful, with small, delicate features. Her nose is pointed down a little, but that does little to detract from the pleasing whole of her face. She’s a dark kind of beauty, striking enough that Trixie almost gasps. As comely as she is, the way the Comtesse smirks and locks eyes with Trixie sends an unpleasant chill down her spine. She knows full well that Trixie is standing there, completely exposed, shivering in front of all the ladies present and God. Yet she removes her gloves at an agonizingly slow pace.

By the time she deigns to hand Trixie her chemise, the Comtesse has already soured her day. Later, Trixie’s blood boils when she hears about her going around claiming the gloves were just too tight for quick removal.

A likely story!

Because Trixie habitually prefers to resolve conflict by stewing in her bitter juices for time immemorial, she does nothing in retaliation. The worst part is that she had hoped they’d be friends.

***

Maria Viola Giuseppina of Savoy, rechristened Marie Violette upon becoming Comtesse de Provence, is quick and bright, with an unreasonable level of self-assurance. As a princess from a relatively minor house, shuffled off to marry the current spare to the French throne, there is no reason for her to act so grand. But, despite the fact that she hadn’t been raised to be this way, Violette makes her way through the world as if seas ought to part for her.

Her mother, the quintessence of Spanish piety, always disapproved. She was taught to expect that her future would be dictated to her, and she ought to submit with grace, but Violette is not submissive by nature. And she never cared to cultivate that trait. There’s always been a hunger in her, a hunger for more than what she has. She wants to be exalted among women. Hell, even men.

At the rate things are going, whatever her fate had originally prescribed for her, she just might become Queen of France.

Violette has no personal quarrel with the Dauphine. They’ve hardly spoken, after all. It didn’t take long, though, for her to realize that she’s so lacking, the King had to send for reinforcements. She may have wound up here in time, but in a way she owes her current position to the Dauphine, and if she is not able to prove herself competent she may even owe her a crown.

Nobody has to know that her husband, being so grotesquely obese that he can barely walk unaided, is no more helpful in bringing about this glorious destiny than the hapless Dauphin. Only the promise of future greatness bids her to attempt her wifely duties, and all in vain.

Though no more capable, her husband still sees fit to needle his brother with constant, inaccurate boasts about the amount of activity their marriage bed sees over the course of a single day. So, Violette thought it might be fun to lay a small prank of her own on the Dauphine. She has to admit the look of impotent rage on the other girl’s face as she used the court’s own etiquette to tease her made her smile.

An unexpected gift arrives in the wake of her little stunt, to put a damper on her fun. The King’s sister in law, a former grand duchess of Russia now known to the French court as Madame, has presented her with a gorgeously embroidered pair of gloves.

There’s a note accompanying them, written in neat cursive: “I hope you find these more comfortable.”

Though a widow, Madame has been permitted to maintain the rank she held while her husband lived. As she remains closer in proximity to the current king, she outranks Violette. It may be true that the Dauphine also outranks her, but she does not see any wisdom in snubbing Madame. She can’t refuse her gift, as much as it irritates her to receive it.

***

Trixie wakes up with dread at the thought of seeing her sister in law so early in the day again. In the aftershock of the small slight she suffered, she has written a plaintive letter to Louisa, and a more witty letter to another one of her sisters, Augusta, to help ease her growing loneliness. The isolation of being a known disappointment to her new family is a tough patch of darkness to escape, though, even with all the solace she can find in writing to her sisters. She sees no need to trouble George, because she can’t imagine him providing her with the kind of sympathy she craves.

When it’s time to attend her dressing, Trixie senses a change in the room. The cause of it is soon attributed to a relation she has yet to see at the ceremony making her first appearance.

Madame had been pointed out to her at her wedding as her husband’s favourite aunt, the King’s one and only sister in law, and the second lady at court after herself. Trixie’s arrival, she was told, had demoted Madame from being the first lady at court, a rank she had held after the Dauphin’s mother had passed away. Already mortified by her inability to excel instantly at being Dauphine, Trixie had almost been compelled to apologize to her for this. Even so, in all their brief meetings, Trixie has not encountered even the smallest hint of hostility from Madame.

When they have the time to converse, it will be Madame who apologizes to her about not having attended to her sooner. She had been occupied in supporting her youngest step daughter as she made the choice to take the veil, and had retreated to another married step-daughter’s country home for a brief spell before returning to receive the Comtesse. By then, Trixie feels like there is nothing this woman needs to do to beg her forgiveness.

The Comtesse drags her feet on her way to her rooms once again, but it doesn’t matter. As long as Madame is there, the Comtesse’s arrival will not disturb the ceremony.

Madame smiles tenderly, and Trixie thinks she catches her winking as she hands over her chemise. Trixie feels like she is in the presence of an angel.

#rpdr fanfiction #trixie mattel #violet chachki #katya zamolodchikova #vixie #lesbian au #historical #eventual major character death #versailles #as the sun dies #fannyatrollop #royalty au #historical au

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teatimeatwinterpalace · 5 years

Photo

The Royal family at Osborne 24 May 1859. Prince Leopold, Princess Louise, Queen Victoria, Prince Arthur, Princess Alice, Victoria, Princess Frederick of Prussia, Princess Beatrice, Prince Albert and Princess Helena. (x)

#queen victoria #prince albert #victoria princess royal #princess alice #grand duchess of hesse #empress victoria #princess beatrice #prince leopold #prince arthur #princess helena #princess louise #duchess of argyll #england

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barbasbodaciousbeard · 2 years

Text

Blackout

One time I started this for a summer bingo, had to have surgery, and disappeared from the internet other than lurking reblogs. Now here I am. Here’s a ten page Chilton fic

Pairing: Frederick Chilton x OC

Frederick Chilton thinks Beatrice Viotto may actually like him, which is good, because a blackout leaves them locked in her apartment after his apology dinner.

When Frederick Chilton first met Beatrice Viotto, it was at an event Eric Thomas, a classmate from medical school had invited him to. He should have known better than to accept the invitation when Eric called out of nowhere when Frederick had healed after the accident. Quickly, he realized Eric enjoyed the notoriety he avoided. The sympathetic looks, the macabre interest, the nosy questions. They all bored and infuriated him. Eric, however, seemed content to bring up his bravery when a beautiful woman came near. As soon as he could, he stepped away to a tray of hor d'oeuvres, delighted to find a vegetarian selection.

“You are not a meat eater either?” a woman asked, giving him a soft smile. It took him a moment to realize she’d been addressing him at all.

“No,” he said, choosing to ignore it out of necessity.

“The museum’s event coordinator is a vegetarian. Means she worries about everyone having options because she has made it through too many events eating rolls and asparagus.”

“How fortunate for us. I owe her my thanks.”

“I will let her know. I am Beatrice Viotto, by the way.” The sly smile made him think she must know what had happened to him. He’d encountered one or two of those women before. Whether a fetish for gore, a desire for a story, or caretaker instinct, it played on the intense solitude that felt as a part of Frederick’s life as the scar on his stomach was now. Maybe he could be lucky this time, though. Maybe she was smiling at him like that because she felt she’d found company. He didn’t like it either, didn’t like the way his cheeks heated and his stomach gave a little flip.

“Dr. Frederick Chilton,” he said, risking the balancing act of putting the napkin in the same hand keeping his cane beneath his arm in order to shake her hand.

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Freddy, old sport,” Eric beamed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Making friends over the produce?”

“Frederick,” he corrected tersely, cheeks hot with embarrassment. He didn’t like the juvenile nickname, and he certainly didn’t like the implication there was something lesser about his required diet. The one required by the accident he certainly did not wish to discuss with the pretty woman stood before

“Aren’t you a delight?” Beatrice said with a roll of her eyes, and Frederick wanted to cheer when he saw Eric deflate. He was taller, broader, all hard planes of muscle. He worked in pediatric oncology, and it had quickly become apparent he wanted to use Frederick to make himself look better. And though they’d only been out for a drink on the way, Eric had taken the opportunity to discuss his research and stretch himself up to his tallest beside Frederick.

“He is always like this,” Frederick said plainly.

“Dazzling you mean?” Eric offered, flashing a toothy smile.

“I think he means smug.”

“Well, I’m going to have to take him away. Brenda wants to hear all about the ripper.”

“Dr. Chilton,” she said, giving her most rehearsed smile as she delicately stepped to his side. “You mentioned wanting to see the Rembrandt, and I was just about to make my way to it myself. Would you care to join me?”

“Ms. Viotto, I would be delighted,” he said, seeming both shocked and pleased at the opportunity for an escape.

“Ah, yes, we’d love to accompany you,” Eric said, close to the woman she could only assume was Brenda.

“Eric, did your mother never teach you to never invite yourself where you are not wanted?” Frederick said smoothly, stepping away and smiling back over his shoulder. The taller of the two men did nothing to hide his aggravation before turning his attention back to Brenda.

“Dr. Chilton,” Beatrice chided gently.

“I am forever indebted to you, Ms. Viotto,” Frederick said softly as they made their way towards one of the other exhibitions. “I have not spent much time with him since residency. Mistakenly, I assumed he had matured.”

“The moment he called you old sport I began to plan your escape.”

“An angel, I must say.”

“He seems like he is using you for something? Might I ask what it is?” She watched as the gears began to whirl behind his eyes. His composure was impressive though, and she would be willing to guess he practiced it in the mirror.

“I have had some experiences. I have the misfortune of learning that these misfortunes gain me attention I do not want, but Eric is willing to take advantage of. I would prefer to be known for my work.”

“Was he referring to the Chesapeake Ripper?” A tense nod. “I do not expect any further explanation. I do, however, expect you to look at the Rembrandt with me though.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice gentler than he expected, or frankly was okay with. “So Beatrice, I get a question now. The Viottos who have dozens of buildings named for them?”

“Yes,” she nodded tightly, and he gave a soft hum.

“From your response, I’m willing to wager your name gains you attention you do not want?”

“Precisely,” she smiled gently. “Does your friend think he’s Gatsby?”

“Not all of us are old money, Miss Viotto.”

“You are.”

“Excuse me?”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Cambridge.”

“Is the watch an heirloom?”

“Yes.”

“Bespoke suit?”

“Yes.”

“Old. Money.”

“A profiler?” His smug smile was now bemused.

“Curator that secured the vegetarian meal. But also old, old money. Old enough I do not mind discussing money when it makes the handsome psychiatrist nervous.”

That was enough to make a slight flush come to his cheek. He was quick to push it down. After a lifetime of solitude, he knew better than to think she was being anything but friendly. She may not know what happened to him yet, but there was a mysterious serial killer trauma. Maybe this was another version of the true crime fetishist or woman who wanted to nurture him into submission.

“Yes, well, I am glad you appreciate it,” he said, and it didn’t pass her notice that he’d stiffened and distanced himself from her ever so slightly. “Tell me, is it the cane? Or are you lying about knowing what happened to me?”

“Excuse me?”

“I asked if your fascination with me stems from a fetish for the disfigured or caretaking complex. I’m leaning towards the latter.”

“Maybe it is because you are quite handsome and not nearly as tactless as the men like your friend. I hope you enjoy the Rembrandt alone. Your friend has left with Brenda, and I would not want you to feel I am fetishizing whatever it is that happened to you. It is laughable however, that you are so familiar with the Viotta name and still believe that to be the case.” With that, she spun on her heel with surprising elegance and marched back to the main room. Pitifully, he watched her snatch up her clutch before putting on a less aggravated facade to kiss the cheeks of the people she seemed to know and leave.

He’d done precisely what he always did. A beautiful woman paid him attention and he didn’t like the heat as his face flushed, didn’t like how it would hurt when she inevitably spurned whatever advance he made, so he beat her to the punch. When he was at his desk in his home office, Frederick ran a search for the Viotto name and, after considering her parting words, added tragedy to the end.

“Oh no,” he whispered as stories of a beautiful young couple who were taken, luckily without their children Beatrice and Clifford. The stories made it apparent that the pair had been a fixture of social and gossip columns. When they returned, he recognized a haunted look. What disturbed him the most, however, was the series of stories accompanied by pictures of the two with their children and highlighting the angry red scars criss-crossing each of their bodies. He found her email on the museum’s website, typing up an apology and inviting her to dinner. It took days to hear back, his heart jumping to his throat each time an email reached his personal account. When she replied, it was with her phone number and a reminder it was pedestrian to attend to such matters over email.

“Ms. Viotta,” he said lightly when she opened the door that Friday, and he was relieved to see her smile, the one she’d given him when she snuck him away from Eric, not the one she’d given to her friends as she left. The latter was the one women like his mother practiced in the mirror as they readied for whatever social function they were leaving for. He supposed it was a side effect of her family name. His family had money, but not notoriety.

“Dr. Chilton,” she said, her voice warm. He hadn’t been willing to let himself notice how pretty she was, but now, he did. Her honey colored hair pinned back in loose curls, accentuating an elegant neck and delicate shoulders. Beatrice looked almost like a porcelain doll, and that was the moment he knew he was smitten. He was smitten because, though she looked every bit the delicate woman he should marry who will make him look every part the in control doctor with a housewife waiting to greet him, she’d already proven to be so much more. Those wide eyes weren’t looking around the room for guidance. They were sizing up everyone and everything around her and analyzing that data to navigate the situation. He was certain that her appearance was just as calculated. She curated romantic art at the museum, and he wondered if she looked so ethereal at work, so much like she should be the subject of a painting.

“Please, call me Frederick.”

“Not Freddy?” The mischievous glint in her eye and quirk of her lip would be the death of him, he was certain. He could survive Abel Gideon’s scalpel, but not the way Beatrice looked at him and made his chest constrict. His grip on the cane tightened as she locked the door behind her.

“I would prefer not.” He looked as though he’d been fed something truly rotten, offering his free arm to her. Beatrice slid her arm through his, hand delicate as it held his bicep.

“Well, please call me Beatrice.”

“No nickname? You seem so fond of them.”

“I usually insist people call me Bea. Beatrice is so stuffy. But I quite like the way you say Beatrice.”

“Oh do you?” The smug smile that overtook his face made her sure she’d like to slap him, but she was also becoming aware that, while her name didn’t hurt the obviously ambitious psychiatrist’s opinion of her, he seemed to be glad it was her flirting with him and not any of the other daughters of prominent families. If that wasn’t true, she would rather not know. He opened the door of his car, and she looked so out of place beside it in the gauzy pale pink dress that sat off her shoulders. She ducked into his vintage Jaguar, and he liked that much more he thought as he got in and started it.

“I should have known you would have a vintage car,” she teased lightly as he pulled out of her driveway.

“Pray tell, why?”

“Vintage rolex. I’m guessing both are…” she squinted at his wrist and then out the dash. “Sixties?”

“I would have guessed your antique knowledge would be more Edwardian.”

“Do not pigeonhole me, Frederick. I have a soft spot for anything mid century. When the mood strikes me, I even dress the part. But this kind of thing is my favorite.”

“Full of surprises,” he mused. “But I must say, you have been a vision both times I have seen you.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Dinner went smoothly, and any question he had if this was a date was answered. That had to be flirting. Besides, she called him her date. He walked her to the door, and she’d invited him in. Frederick quite liked this part, perching on her couch with a tumbler of nice scotch as he watched her. Her heels were discarded, natural curls unpinned after the last glass of wine. She was much less put together now, but Frederick liked seeing her giddy and just a little flighty after drinking a good deal more than she seemed to intend.

When the power cut out, she squealed, her hand grasping Frederick’s arm, and he might have let out an undignified sound had he not felt pride she clung to him now she was scared. Did she not know he was in a panic himself and far too much of a primadonna to go without air conditioning? Patiently, he waited for a generator.

“It is an old building. They have yet to add backup power.” Now a wholly undignified groan escaped him, and he pulled out his phone to see if his home was affected. Would it be uncouth to invite her to his house? He did just that, and she accepted, but when they reached the front door, her eyes went wide. “Frederick, you unlock it with this button.”

“Surely it has batteries. This is an idiotic fault if it does not.”

“What would you say if I told you it’s usually lit up?”

“Press it anyway.” She did and nothing happened, so he pulled on the knob to find it locked.

“I think you’re trapped here. I’ll leave you to be in denial. But I’ll light candles.”

“Surely the door will open.” He felt claustrophobic now too, so he worked on the door, eventually succumbing to the reality it could not be opened. It made him feel a dull panic to be trapped, something he thought understandable after being gutted. Still, he was in the apartment of a pretty girl who seemed like she might at some point in the next year be a pretty girl he kissed, and that was not a pretty girl he’d encountered in a long time. So, he walked back to her living room with its floor to ceiling windows mocking him with all the world he couldn’t escape to. He certainly wouldn’t try to kiss her tonight. If she rejected him he’d be forced to wallow in it in her presence.

The room was filled with candles now. Only one seemed to be scented, one in a long narrow container on the coffee table. He realized now how many tealights were in what he’d assumed to be vases in the room. It was beautiful and probably shouldn’t be so surprising for a woman with a library ladder attached to the wall that was an overstuffed bookcase. She’d poured herself another glass of wine and him a scotch, though both were a hefty pour this time. She settled on the couch, giving him a sheepish smile.

“Sorry my security system means you’re trapped here.”

“If I’m to be trapped anywhere, the view is exquisite in this locale in particular.”

“I lucked out with this place. We’re too high to escape from the balcony, but we can step out if you feel locked in.”

“Have I made myself that apparent?”

“You’re white knuckling your cane and have lost all the color in your face.”

“A fair point. Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” she said softly, opening the sliding door and stepping out. He followed her, and while Beatrice leaned against the railing and dangled her glass of wine over the edge, Frederick stood, one hand heavy on his cane and the other holding the scotch. “You can sit, you know.”

“I appreciate the permission.” From their little time spent together, she was surprised she could almost hear the corner of his mouth twitch up. She turned so she was facing him, back against the railing.

“So, if you’d been able to go home, what would you be doing?”

“At this time? Working on my book.”

“You write?”

“On psychiatry.”

“I’m primarily a fiction person, but I think that I could make an exception if you ever want a set of eyes on it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. This will be my first publication meant for the masses.”

“Perfect. I’ve no psychiatric experience.”

“Even better.”

“What do you read when you read fiction, Frederick?”

“Recently I finished Day of the Locust. I’ll always give a Victorian novel a try as well, but I find them rather hit or miss.” What he didn’t want to admit was that he quite preferred the romances. But that wasn’t something to share. It was sad and desperate, a time he could imagine he was the love interest.

“Do you read much poetry?”

“No. Should I?”

“Of course. At least the romantics. They’re quite lovely. And I have a soft spot for Whitman.”

“I’ve never read any of them.”

“Not even for school?”

“Not even for school.”

“You are really trying to say you have never read Whitman’s poetry?”

“I cannot say that I have.”

He was getting a little annoyed until she jumped up, and he was surprised how light on her feet she could still be. She rushed into the apartment again, and the tap of his cane followed her. Frederick found it quite cute to see her on the library ladder that matched the dark wood and the pale pink glitter on her toenails that sparkled in the combination of moon and candle light as she climbed the bottom three rungs to stretch and pull down a dogeared book.

“How’s ‘Sometimes with one I love’? It’s one of my favorites.”

“Give it a go.” God, he hated the dopey smile on his face. It was certainly not the one he rehearsed in the mirror or gave her over dinner. It was instead the one he gave when he was alone, reading novels instead of scientific literature, though he would never have found himself reading poetry. But now? Beatrice in bare feet, leaning back against the library ladder with the book held before her and the pink chiffon fluttering in the breeze from the open door? He thought it must be the most recent scotch, the one making his cheeks flush red, not the beautiful woman reading him poetry in her Baltimore loft. He hoped the magic of watching her wasn’t to one day be replaced with hurt or disillusionment. He suspected she was just as lovely in loungewear. Soon enough, she found a page, one of several deep cracks in the book's spine.

“A glimpse through an interstice caught,

Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner,

Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,

A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,

There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.”

She had a dreamy smile on her lips, and he realized she was probably drunker than she let on. Still, she pushed off the ladder to drop onto the couch, and the pale pink glittering toes were on the arm of the couch beside him. Frederick didn’t know how to react to the proximity, settling for setting the hand not holding a scotch on her knee and looking at her seriously as she held the book so the light from the city illuminated the pages.

“Do you always pick such romantic poetry?” he finally asked, and she laid the open book on her chest, empty wine glass forgotten.

“Love’s my favorite,” she shrugged. “Is that so bad?”

“Then why are you unmarried? I assume you have no shortage of potential suitors.”

“Well,” she said simply, flipping through the pages and letting out a self satisfied chuckle. She began to read again:

“Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse unreturn’d love,

But now I think there is no unreturn’d love, the pay is certain one way or another

(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return’d,

Yet out of that I have written these songs).”

“Who would be so daft as to reject you?”

“I don’t know I’d say it’s rejection.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m not marrying someone who wants to marry a Viotto. They have to want to marry me. And I consider feigned and insincere love to count as unreturned.”

“How do you know they chose you for being a Viotto?”

“They mention it to everyone. At dinner. On the phone. Ask me to use it as some sort of get out of jail free and into a dinner reservation card. It’s quite tacky. Or, if they’re old money, it’s less Viotto more a docile wife of the same breeding. Tackier still because I could be anyone.”

“And how am I fairing?”

“My name piqued your interest. But you’ve yet to use it for attention. You might have a creepy fascination with how my parents impact me? Also, you’ve humored me quite well while I’m drunk. I think you might like my name, but you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t also like me. Be honest in your response. I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth.”

“Your name is a draw,” he said reluctantly. “I will not pretend otherwise. But, you have been a surprise. You are intelligent as well as beautiful, even if you seem to romanticize far too much. I enjoy your company thus far and would have thrown myself from your balcony had I not. I don’t usually deal with such sentimental women well. But I am not used to this attention.”

“A handsome doctor? How?”

“I don’t qualify women allowing me their attention and expecting rewards in return love returned. But very few women are willing to put up with my schedule or arrogance. I call it taste, by the way.”

“You are a bit of a pompous ass,” she said, but her voice held no malice and he felt no attack. “But I think it’s all a cover.”

“Don’t tell.”

“One condition.”

“Oh?”

“Can I kiss you?” He tried to hide the way he swallowed when she asked, mouth suddenly dry. He’d written off the option, never dreaming it would be volunteered by her.

“You’re drunk.”

“If you hadn’t been an ass at the museum, I might have asked when sober.”

“Nothing more than a kiss.”

“I am a lady, Frederick. I don’t put out on the first date.” He seemed less paralyzed as he let out a huff and rolled his eyes at her comment, but he was soon frozen again as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Suddenly, Frederick Chilton was acutely aware how long it was since he received a kiss from a woman who seemed to just want him there. He couldn’t move as soft floral perfume overtook his senses and her hair fell like a curtain around them when she shifted to tuck her legs under her as she knelt on the couch beside him. Frederick would mourn the loss of her legs across his if it weren’t for the sensation of her lips moving over his. He thought to set the tumbler on the end table as his fingers brushed through her hair to cup the back of her head. His arm hooked around her waist, and he was greedy as he pulled her against him.

The sound that escaped him was undignified and revealed how thoroughly desperate he was to have someone touch him affectionately, much less press against him on their couch and kiss him. Much less someone he thought he could continue to spend time with. She pulled back, eyes sparkling and her lips parked as she smiled at him. God, she actually smiled. He was half expecting her to realize he was him. He was damaged and manipulative and craved accolades enough he got himself gutted. But instead, she just pecked his lips again. He collected himself quickly, acting as though he weren’t desperate to kiss her again. To crawl in her lap and be held.

As though she read his mind, pale arms slithered around his waist and her head came to rest against his shoulder. Her legs returned to his lap, and he placed one hand on her fabric clad thigh and held her to his side with the other. He let himself press his nose to her hair, inhaling as delicately as he could. He didn’t want to have restraint, but he did want her to see him again. If that meant liking poetry, but only when she read it, he would do it. If it meant finding a way to sound like he knew about romantic poetry without having to trudge through it, he would. Because Frederick Chilton liked this affection, and he wanted to get used to it instead of holding a beautiful woman with his frame tense and still.

“I can lend you some of my brother’s pajamas from the guest room,” she whispered after what seemed like an hour. He grimaced, but nodded gently.

“I can’t sleep in my suit. Please tell me your brother has taste.” She laughed at that, detangling from him and disappearing down the hall. She returned with navy silk pants and a white t-shirt.

“Good enough?” she asked, and he made a face.

“They’ll suffice.”

“The t-shirt?”

“The t-shirt.” She tossed them to him anyway.

“The guest room’s the first door on the left. You can sleep there if you want.”

“There’s another option?” She just gave him a coquettish smile, blowing out the last candle and shutting the sliding door. His eyes were wide when she disappeared down the dark hall, and he used the flashlight of his phone to navigate into the guest room. Fastidiously as he could in the dark, he hung his clothing when he was in the pajamas. He smoothed his hair before walking to her open door, limp more apparent without his cane. Frederick’s approach was also silent, and he leaned against the door frame to watch her. She didn’t know he was there yet, and she was sprawled on top of a comforter in shorts he would argue showed an unfair amount of leg and a long sleeve silk shirt that matched. A book was in her hands again, angled again so that the city light spilling in the window would give her light to read by. When she did look towards the door, she initially looked puzzled but then softened when she saw him, another response he hadn’t expected.

“You found the other option,” she teased gently, closing the book and patting the bed beside her. “How long have you been there?”

“A dozen pages or so.”

“Creep.” It was the same tone she used to call him a pompous ass, one that was almost fond and distracted him from the self consciousness he felt as he limped to the bed and dropped to its edge.

“The view was exquisite.” That wasn’t a lie, per se, but he wished he could install cameras, ones he’d have to remember needed external battery, so he could watch her without being noticed.

“Flattery is your strong suit, isn’t it?”

He rolled his eyes, laying back and pulling the blanket over himself as he lay frozen on his side of the bed. Frederick longed to be more comfortable, to initiate the casual affection she had. But, even drunker than he’d intended to become, he was painfully aware that he’d have been sent home eventually, and she certainly wouldn’t have held him as she had. Maybe, if he’d been lucky, Beatrice would have let him kiss her goodnight standing in her doorway, not with her in his lap. She was drunk, and he could take so much more advantage of that. When Beatrice did curl on her side, watching him, he realized that there was no air with the power gone, and he chose to blame the heat for the way his heartbeat increased instead of the woman whose gaze he could feel.

“Who’s a creep now?” he said, his voice more teasing than he thought it could be and stronger than he expected.

“You’re handsome,” she said plainly, yawning. He scoffed, looking to her, and he was pleased to see she looked offended. “You are!”

“You’re drunk, Beatrice. Get some sleep.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And I’m trying to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“I am.”

“Too bad.”

“We’ve had a delightful evening. Are you intending to undo that?”

“Are you intending to undo that?” she mimicked, and he would have rolled to face her if it weren’t for the painful strain he’d feel in his abdomen.

“You sound like a petulant child right now.”

“You sound like a stuffy psychiatrist.”

“I’m not stuffy.”

“I still want to read your book.”

“If you let me sleep, I will send you a chapter.”

“Deal.”

“If I were able to leave this apartment, I would.” His voice was barely serious, but his head rolled to the side to see her face had fallen. He didn’t like that, so he recalculated. “I require sleep, Beatrice. I do not believe cabernet replaces REM sleep, and scotch certainly doesn’t.”

“Nice save,” she said softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek before laying closer to his side. He wouldn’t sleep now. All Frederick wanted was to place a hand on her side, but their situation was precarious enough. He shouldn’t be there. A poorly designed security system and offer for a drink were the only reason he was. The longer he stayed, the quicker the clock ran out and she realized he was a miserable bastard, needy and judgemental all at once. Though he hadn’t mentioned it- for selfish reasons, not her comfort- he had a running tally of each thing in her home he thought tacky or low brow or just plain stupid. The cheap plastic dishes he prayed were for use on the balcony or at the seaside were displayed too prominently. She had an excessive number of candles and shelves cluttered with sentimental momentos. But some part of him, one he didn’t communicate with, reminded him he hated them because they were proof she had guests over who she didn’t need to use the good dishes for. Guests who were probably friends and contributed to the bric-a-brac by bringing her gifts.

He didn’t want to think about the guests that were why she was so able to light that number of candles.

She slept soundly, and Frederick laid beside her, content to watch her. It was probably invasive, but without her questioning stare or ability to mention it, he could let his eyes trace the gentle curve of her lip. He could memorize the swell of her hip and the dip where her neck met her shoulder. Frederick could watch the miniscule movement of her eyelids as she slept or admire how she stretched as she rolled to lay on her back. When he heard the air conditioning come to life and saw the living room light at the end of the hallway, he found himself hoping she would not notice, and he was grateful when she merely shifted before settling again. He fell asleep with the return of the power, and before he knew it, Frederick was waking to sun shining through the windows and a headache he could barely regret.

“You’re awake,” she smiled, stretching beside him.

“I am,” he said softly, almost waiting for her to rush him from her bed. The power was back now. She wasn’t forced to be trapped in her home with him. Instead, she kissed his cheek, rolling out of bed and wrapping a pale pink silk robe around her frame.

“I’ll make breakfast. If it okay as long as it’s vegetarian?”

“You don’t have to do that, Beatrice.”

“I want to. I didn’t just like you because of the blackout. But, I’ll have to go to the museum after breakfast.”

“Perhaps I can take you to dinner again?”

“I’d like that, Frederick. I truly would.”

#hannibal fanfiction #frederick chilton x reader #frederick chilton x oc #Frederick Chilton #writing

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