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eddapoetic · 6 months

Text

- - foile pour un @lostsovl

England, Byrne Estate, in the aftermath of the Treaty of Paris, 1814

An amicable bustle of light conversation mingles with the early summer air, laying comfortably mild across an otherwise lukewarm soiree; It is a modest congregation of gentlefolk that has come to dawdle in the gardens of the good Captain's estate, ladies in arms and men of the states, men of war, gathered far and not so far at all to partake in the clandestine performance of aristocratic repertoire. To show face, so to speak, as contracturally obligated by their standing in light of recently wordly events which might merit such a perfectly muted display of tactful camraderie.

It's almost impressive how dutifully they perform the charade of civility, expressions downright cordial, regardless of which sir or dame might otherwise stand to be associated with whom amongst their neighbour at any other time of day--

Or night, at the risk of tempting indiscretion. But that is to digress. What stands to matter is that the neatly trimmed lawn is host to many fine people on this particular eve, milling about to the strum of vaguely convivial chords and partaking in the finest selection of quaint appetizers His Majesty the King's money could afford. What stands to matter is the arrangement of finely laid out tables, neatly framing the grassy borders at the far brickwall, offering their bounties of fruits and tarts and fruity tarts with, at their center, a truly impressive layered trifle.

What stands to matter is that that's the one she goes through, first.

A cacophany of shattered glass and ungraceful clatters heralds it. The aftermath of one sly figure's improvised fence vault rings a discordant note throughout the merry gathering she interrupts, affronted gasps and startled squeaks taking the attendants like a wave as their baffled gazes tear from each other to fall upon her character - and she must look quite the image indeed, gaudy in her swallowpaint tailcoat and dandelion undershirt, the distinguished rosy-pink pantalons a sight to catch the eye even before she'd bepeckled herself with the benobled's early-dinner desserts. And stunned as they be, she doesn't stop at simply thus.

She breaks into a dash across the lawn, swift, steady, footing hardly lost from the fall and weaving through the crowds with little but quick nudges and darts of 'Pardon Me's'. At the heel of her wake, two constables struggle to make it over the wall in pursuit, clumsy in their scrabble of alarmed shouts whilst a third appears further down the lane - having evidently opted to spare himself the dignity and go through the gates, instead. He sprints whilst his companions drop onto what remains of already turned over tables and tarts, attendants splitting aside from his beeline to allow him to catch, to reach--

His target, however, is not yet lost for diversions.

"Spare a hand, lass?" The swallowtailed interloper ducks, for lack of a better word, into the brace of a singled-out lady ahead, dark-haired, fair-figured and keen eyed all at a gaze; A flash, for a blink, strikes her of something poignat she can't quite put her tongue to, through she does not wait to find the words, nor does she wait for a response before her arm shoots around the woman's waist and her hand finds a clasp in hers. With a smile and a mischievous glint, she spins them both aback - letting go to twirl the other straight into the arms of the constable behind, who promptly stumbles in reach for propriety. That'd be her cue to leave.

"Much appreciated. Enchanté--!"

#❱❱❱ t: circus aevitas #lostsovl #thread foileun #// unreasonably hyped for this thread #me at 2am #reading about 1810s mens fashion #and regency trifles #long post

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