OOC
Okay, yeah, no, this is a hiatus. Sorry.
I’m going to knit a blanket and maybe make a dolly, and I have a couple of challenge fics to write, and that (with normal life) will probably keep me busy for another month or so.
OOC
I’m being a responsible Tumblr user and finally getting around to blacklisting my big squick, child harm. Would appreciate if you tag it but, you know, your blog your rules, I get it. (I blacklisted child abuse, child death, child harm but let me know if you prefer a different tag.)
I’m only peeking in and owe everybody. I’m sorry. My difficulties continue the same as ever: Collapsing to sleep as soon as baby does, commute writing time only 2-3 times a week, multiple projects. I’m not on hiatus, just slow.
mr-henry-lascelles reblogged
Recognition sparked in the grey of her eyes. Norrell. That was a name Cecily knew. The great, self-proclaimed ‘Restorer of English Magic.’ Beyond the carefully crafted persona found in the papers, she couldn’t claim to hold much of an opinion on what sort of man he might be. The fact that he harbored one of the greatest libraries in the country– and without doubt the greatest in the subject matter of magic– was her primary interest in this moment.
Cecily took the offered card, listening as Mr Lascelles seemed to fall into his manners once more. It was always such a nuisance, no matter the amount of time which had gone by, that such manners and decorum had to be adhered to. Branching off from her father centuries ago had been no small feat. A woman’s curse was that everywhere she might go, a man must be not so very far behind. No matter how enjoyable one’s company might be, there was little denying the notion of a ball and chain that forever accompanied her based on her sex alone. Peter had been with her for the better part of two centuries now. Their temperaments aligned well enough to see them through the years. Aaron, too, had not been so very heavy once… But now…
She stayed close to Aaron, but relinquished her grip to produce her own card for the gentleman to take. “Cecily Teppes. Mr Artois and I are abroad from France…” Indefinitely, though she rather doubted that needed to be said. “We’ve taken to renting a home on the outskirts of the city. I have heard of a Mr Norrell. If I might inquire, is it the same Mr Norrell that works so closely with a Mr Strange? The magicians?”
A faint smile touched Lascelles’s lips. “It may be more accurate to say that Mr Strange works under Mr Norrell. Let us not confuse the apprentice with the master, however much the papers like to publish Mr Strange’s adventures in the Peninsula.“
The younger magician did not like Lascelles, nor did Lascelles like him, or his influence over Norrell. If news came tomorrow that Strange had died a war hero, Lascelles would have staged a private little celebration before offering his condolences to Strange’s pretty little widow. Perhaps in time.
Abroad from France implied good breeding--and no loyalty to the little emperor. He could find out more from the gossips later. He accepted the card. “Thank you, madam. I do hope the book brings you all expected pleasure.”
He bowed to her, though not very deep, and nodded to the silent Artois. Perhaps the man was not confident in his English. “C'était un plaisir de vous rencontrer, madame--monsieur. J'espère être bientôt en contact avec vous. Au revoir.”
It was not difficult to melt away then, as the last of the auction’s guests flooded out from the sitting room and spilled into the street. He had nosy society ladies to talk to, and then Mr Norrell--and couldn’t quite decide which was worse.
mr-henry-lascelles reblogged
Childermass gave no response to the fact that his elocution had changed. His wits were still with him and his cunning had increased tenfold. It was, what Keres had viewed as interesting in the first place. It was why she had offered him a life of immortality. That and the promise that he would see Norrell again.
He almost curled his lips. Yes, Lascelles was right. Everything about them lead back to Norrell. He had been the core source of their rivalery. Childermass had worked for the hermit of a magician for all his life. And once he noticed how much Lascelles tried to push him away from his place, they had started to fight over the spot like mad. Until blood was drawn. His blood.
Childermass merely crossed his arms and leaned against the edge of the table. “Why do you care about either of them?”, he inquired back, “Last time I met you, you called Strange Norrell’s enemy. And nowadays people no longer believe in magic. It’s practically dead in their eyes! So there’s no more glory for you to find, if you hoped for that.” He still remembered how Lascelles’ main aim had been to climb the social latter as high as possible.
It did not seem like Lascelles had that chance any more. Their roles were flipped. Now Childermass was the one in control. The one, holding the power. The one, giving orders. Lascelles however was condemned to stay at the bottom and follow orders. Still Childermass did not lower his guard. Lascelles had been a false snake in his time. That would not have changed.
Originally posted by fainiel
“I am afraid I don’t, Lascelles”, responded Childermass, “If I did, we would not be having this discussion. However rest assured, I too looked for answers, whenever the spare time between my duties permitted it. Norrell and Strange will have the problem of being thrust into a world, they are not ready for. So finding them will be of the outmost priority. Before the wrong kind of people find them.” Bullstrode would likely lock them up, no questions asked.
Lascelles tutted at the man’s questions, barely worth answering. Glory did not mean to him what it once had. Looking down the decades, the man he had been now seemed somewhat childish in his interests—inventing goals to stave off boredom and inconsequence. Consequence, too, had a new meaning now. He would keep his reasons to himself.
“Your new masters seem to have very specific ideas about what the right and wrong kind are. I know of Tenebrae, of course, though until recently I did not know they numbered you among them. I have heard they seek to open the doors and keep them open, much as our friends once did. I do wonder what old Norrell would make of the idea now. They must be very changed, wherever they are. However--” He held up a finger and turned to the dresser.
The top two drawers came down, revealing a cabinet, out of which he pulled a short stack of folded letters. He held them out to Childermass. There was writing upon them, but it shifted as one looked at it. “I have these, procured by-- collected from various courts of Faerie. Childermass, fairies don’t write. At least, very few of them do, and fewer still fold their letters in their manner. It could be correspondence from, or between, our old friends. The trouble is, I have not been able to puzzle out how to read them. Perhaps you know someone who could?”
OOC
So, this weekend everybody in the household was sick. Except the cat. Lucky bastard.
Apologies once again.
mr-henry-lascelles reblogged
Lascelles recognised him! Even though Childermass looked nothing like the Yorkshire servant he had been centuries ago. Compared to his nemesis (yes, he could use that strong a phrase with Henry), Childermass had changed a lot more. His hair was shorter, he had grown a proper mustache and he was holding himself differently.
“Yes, it is me”, Dance remarked and nodded shortly, “Though nowadays I no longer go by the name of John Childermass. I am called Captain Dance.” His black eyes observed Henry, noticed the mocking bow. His throat tightened. Nowadays people were afraid of him. So seeing this reminder of his past was less then welcoming. Still from what Lascelles said, it seemed they both were debating over the same thing.
The years of imprisonment in the Tower of Darkness were drawing to a close, which meant that Mister Norrell and Mister Strange were bound to be released somewhere, sometime. Despite Dance now being loyal to Tenebrae (the army of monsters had given him a purpose, which he greatly appreciated), he still held a certain feeling of responsibility for Norrell in his pitchblack heart.Even though he had been the one toquithis services, however it had beennecessaryduring that time. Mister Norrell had always beenproneto making wrong decisions.
The sound of the brandy, being poured into the glass was the only noise for a short moment in the room. Dance then replied: “I presume, we have.” He poured some brandy for himself. “I also am probably right in assuming that we were looking for the same people. Mister Strange and Mister Norrel are bound to return to our plain of existence soon.”
“Astute as ever. Whatever else I thought of you, I never took you for an imbecile. Your elocution has improved as well. Jolly good. Yes, this is about Norrell. Isn’t it always, when it comes to the two of us?”
Lascelles lifted his chin, a proud twitch in the corner of his lip. He had not enjoyed himself so much in years. All that watching, looking, sneaking around in the ceilings of Europe and Faerie with his bowl of water had finally paid off. Finally here was someone who understood, even if it had to be blasted Childermass.
“I have been looking for them. That is how I found you. Most of the old doors slammed shut nearly a hundred years ago, only to begin showing cracks again as the new century dawned. There were stories of the Pillar of Darkness told in the courts and barrows of the Other World, here and there, though my-- though I have been prevented from seeking it out myself. Those stories stopped around 1917—and it isn’t unusual for a curse to die after a hundred years. They are rather fond of round numbers, fairies, don’t you know. So you see, they could be anywhere. Norrell and Strange. They could be here.”
He rolled his drink in its glass, studying his guest. He hadn’t been sure from above, but no, he hadn’t kept the scar Lascelles had given him. Pity. That atrocious moustache was really no improvement. “But you don’t know where they are, either. Do you?”
mr-henry-lascelles reblogged
As Mr Lascelles spoke, Aaron had finally found it within himself to make his own appearance closer to the conversation. She had thought perhaps he was headed her way, though a moment of a glance over her shoulder once it became evident he was looking past her as he walked indicated otherwise– A pretty young thing, with wide eyes and clearly searching for an escort that might have gotten lost in the shuffle. As Aaron moved past with a far more predatory glint in his eye than she took comfort in, Cecily’s hand reached out to catch in the crook of his elbow smoothly. A quick redirection saw the fledgeling at her side. “Mr Artois, have you met Mr Lascelles?”
Aaron had not been able to tug away without raising attention, and his pale eyes did not settle on Lascelles until the woman that he had been on his way to speak with was snatched up by her own escort. The diversion had been executed with such smoothness it could only have appeared as a slight hiccup in the conversation before them. “Mr Lascelles has taken a special interest in one of the books I won today,” she explained. Aaron extended a hand with a practiced charm as he assessed the other before them.
“An introduction would be most appreciated,” Cecily finally said in reply to the offer. “I am always interested in making connections with those who take as much joy as I do in such things. Is your friend in the city, sir?”
“A pleasure,” murmured Lascelles to Artois as he shook his hand. Lascelles had a firm handshake, given with an inclination of the head, a mere sketch of a whisper of a bow.
Like the lady, the newcomer had an almost offensive air of good health, as if he had been bred in clean country air but somehow escaped the ravages of the sun. The merits of proper decorum were beginning to materialize for him now as he wondered what the relationship between the two might be. Had they met at a soiree or a ball, his friends would have filled him in before they’d so much as laid eyes on one another. Now he would have to glean his gossip after the fact. On the face of it, they made a handsome pair—affianced, perhaps married, or cousins. He did not think they looked enough alike for siblings.
His eyes lingered on the gentleman only a moment before he addressed the lady’s question. “He is, and not far from here. A Mr Norrell.” It was his vanity that turned that famous name into an aside; he may as well have been referring to his aged aunt. He fished a card case from inside his jacket and handed her his card. “Perhaps I can call on Mr Artois? Or, indeed, we may further bruise all delicate feeling, if you will allow me to inquire for your own name and address, madam.”
OOC
Sorry for my absence guys, baby is sick. I stayed home with him which means no commute time, and the restless nights leave me so tired at the end of the day that I just crash. You'll hear from me on Tuesday at the latest.
mr-henry-lascelles reblogged
Lesser-known Fairy Servants
Beazley Wazzock, Liz-of-the-lantern, Mr. Polite, Licketty Lurb, the Knight of the Purple Rose’s Thorn, Thousand year Alice, Fennelfur the Unclaimable, Teeth Jenkins, the Fellowship of Perpetual Energy, John Cutaneous, Thurnorpaldreddel, Jennifer Flycatcher, the Underfamiliars, McClintock’s Millions, the Snail-shell Haunts, Normal John, Suri No-Sleep, the Sisters of the Lightless Garden, Hedge Bugger.
Tagged by @neverrunfromafight
Tagging @aspecialprovidence
Mask
You hide your pain behind a mask,. Maybe you feel you can't be helped, maybe you think no one cares, maybe you don't want to hurt anyone else with it, you're afraid of being judged, or maybe there's another reason. But whatever the reason, you fake a smile and try to function normally even though you're one step away from falling apart. Secretly, you wish someone would notice it's a mask, ask you if you're really okay, see right through and make it be okay somehow. You're hurt and a little angry that no one's noticed yet, but you'll never admit it. White lies, not that bad... Are they?
mr-henry-lascelles reblogged
Being no longer a human had only one major disadvantage. All monsters could be summoned if you knew how. And even though Keres had warned Dance about the fact that this could happen to him at anytime, the Captain had never really expected for it to actually happen. After all nobody knew of them anymore. Monsters were fairy tales nowadays and their powers had been weakened. It was, what Tenebrae worked to change.
Thus when the weird light tendrils appeared in the sky out of nowhere, Dance first did not really know what to do with them. In fact, he did not even recognise this was the magic of a summoning. Of course in his past life, Dance had seen a conjuring himself. Namely the appearance of the infamous Raven King himself.
However seeing a conjuring and actually being the victim of one were two very different things. The tendrils wrapped themselves around his arms and legs and no matter how much he struggled, he was pulled away out of Tenebrae’s headquarters. Dragged through some kind of vortex, it was as if his organs were twisted and turned around, ready to be ripped out of his chest.
And as fast as the pain had come, it disappeared again; and Dance found himself in an elegant drawing room, which seemed to be weirdly stuck in the past. The furniture was heavy and elegant, but downright antique. There were mirrors everywhere, their glass dusty and the reflections in them distorted.
Originally posted by vicivefallen
That was until Dance’s dark eyes found the man, who had summoned him. Though their attire had changed, that hollow, pride-strucken face with dark red hair was something Childermass would recognise everywhere. He was so stunted, his old accent came back, full force.
“Lascelles? Is that you?”
“It is you. I wasn’t sure.” Lascelles drew himself up and joined his hands behind his back, pressing his lips together tightly to suppress a proud smile. He had done it, and moreover, he had been right. This was no doppelganger, but the very man he had hated so much such a long time ago. “I saw you in my bowl when I was looking for-- Well, but we will get to that. I see you have come up in the world, again, as I have come down. I welcome you to my humble abode, Childermass.” He rested a hand on his chest and inclined his head in a mock bow. “May I offer you a drink?”
Once, he would never have condescended to offer a drink to a servant, but things had changed. Not so much, however, that he would honour the man with a ‘Mr’ in front of his name, or apologize for plucking him out of whatever business he had been about. Lascelles turned to a tantalus resting in an opened cabinet and lifted its grid to uncork a crystal bottle of brandy. He poured himself a glass. “It has been a while, hasn’t it? You and I have much to talk about.”
mr-henry-lascelles reblogged
My H.,
You have mistaken my meaning; I did not express myself clearly, for which I apologise. I have not forbidden the creature from visiting town, church, or whatever institution she chooses to frequent; it is her and her own foolishness which has made her unwelcome there. It seems the good wives of Great Gidding are unwilling to accept one who would conspire to make them an accessory to scandal, especially an uncivilised negro and a foreigner. I have half a mind to sell this place and try somewhere new; but that would be succumbing to the bullying of those infernal rattle-snakes, and I say to hell with them! I will not give them the satisfaction. Besides, Newton has crowned himself a master of the woods and it would break his heart to abandon his domain now.
You make an excellent suggestion however. Music would provide a fine diversion. A harpsichord perhaps? That would have to wait until I am able to travel once more. In the meantime I have acquired a couple of dogs, only pups for now but they would grow into fine beasts. I have to say that she is aware that I’m trying to buy her approval (she was very much impressed with your lady’s yapping pin-cushion), but I saw her playing with them yesterday in the garden. I would not call the situation peaceful, but there is definite improvement.
M.
P.S. Were I a wiser man, I’d advise patience. Since I am not, I would suggest you look in your mirror tonight. It is a poor substitute, but if things progress as desired, you would have the pleasure of the real thing very soon.
mr-henry-lascelles reblogged
Aislinn listened with intent, her brows furrowing when she thought over what he had said. When the mention of magic was brought up, Aislinn stopped short as her eyes locked onto his. She thought through the letters that were shared between her and this Mr. Drawlight. He had not mentioned money, but to obtain a necklace, a powerful amulet that contained ancient magic that had been in Aislinn’s family for generations. Her fingertips went to her throat where a dainty silver chain was tucked into the collar of the dress. She looked at Lascelles, gently taking his hand and tugging him through the busy streets of London. If he protested, she would tell him to hush up as she tugged him to a more private place. Emerald eyes flickered left and right before locking onto his, biting her bottom lip. Her hands were trembling slightly before her lips opened to speak. “ What I am to tell ya is ta held in confidence .” Aislinn’s fingertips slipped behind her neck, pulling out an amulet that rested against her skin. It was older, gold outlined the swirls and knots that were made into symbols and such. The middle was an emerald that shimmered in the sunlight that poked through the heavy clouds. Her own emerald eyes locked onto Henry’s, fingertips reaching out and taking one of his hands to hold it. “ This is an amulet that is older than ya or I. It was forged by the gods and gifted ta my family ta be protectors of Ireland. We are ta keep this amulet safe and Mr. Drawlight asked ta see it. I thought it was ya’r Mr. Norris… ”
Lascelles noted the pale hand that went to the silver chain the princess was wearing. Was it shock, or a confession that money had been requested? The next he knew, she had him by the arm, tugging him along. He sped up to keep pace, to save both their faces, but bristled at the sight they must make, dashing about like this in the middle of the day.
She must have a hunter’s sense of cover and danger, to find a nook in all of London that was secluded both from the paraders in the park and the miserable that huddled in every heated doorway, but find one she did, a corner of three houses in which architectural mismatch and a decorative cherry tree formed a nook of quiet, out of sight and out of hearing. He bowed down and hovered over her, over the amulet in his hands, his brow creased in concentration. “By the gods.” Scripture said there were no gods but one; but a few years ago, Henry Lascelles had not believed in any, nor magic; but he had seen a dead woman rise, had seen images appear clear as day in a bowl of glass.
“Norrell,” he corrected quietly. “Why--Now the question becomes, how would Mr Drawlight even know you had something like this? Myths and heirlooms only interest him if he can sell them.” The answer became clear to him even as he spoke the words. Before Norrell’s patronage and sometimes after as well, Mr Drawlight had been known to lure men to their ruin to benefit a moneylender or a gambling house. It appeared was once again acting as the agent of someone more sinister than he. Lascelles closed his hand around the amulet, feeling its sharp edges press into his palm through the thin white glove. The pain helped control the anger. “Your dark mage.”
mr-henry-lascelles reblogged
Lascelles. It was an echo of a name she might have seen somewhere, perhaps at the beginning of an article, or in the papers… But it still did not solidify to any form of true recognition. Cecily straightened her shoulders, squared off her posture as her head tilted to the side with the question. She did not care for the way this gentleman looked at her, never mind the abruptness of the questioning.
“Books, sir,” she replied, an eyebrow raised. It was a tone that alluded to a sweet innocence in response to the question that was posed, but with a spark in her eyes that made the point that she was well aware of the vagueness in her answer. “And yourself? Was it a fondness for the subject matter or the quality of the etchings that drew your attention to The Pipers and the Heart?”Or perhaps something else altogether?
“The age, madam, the period in which it was written, and the subject matter. I have a learned friend who takes a particular interest in fairy tales, you see, and as he was not here today, I thought to procure it for him.” There was only the slightest emphasis on the word ‘fairy’. Of course, to any who knew Henry Lascelles and his association with Mr Norrell, his meaning would be clear. But he did not know this lady, and he was not yet the last one of his name, though he had done nothing to continue his name himself. He could be anybody in the world to her.
“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to show him your book? His knowledge may well increase your enjoyment of it.” Though Mr Norrell’s discourse had so far brought delight to no-one but Strange, and bringing him a book of magic merely to look at would drive the magician sick with distraction over not owning it himself. “Introductions could be arranged.”
Soulmark colour - Filled for Lascelles
The color you fit most is Gold!
Considered a lucky color to have, the gold soul color is never short of achieving their goals and prospering. Analytical, intelligent, and cunning, the gold soulcolor is alluring to even those who aren’t their soulmate. You either envy them or hate them, there is no in between, and they’re fine with that.
This color has expensive tastes and chooses to live in the world of high fashion. They aren’t shy about showing off their achievements and wealth, and they often lose themselves in materialistic things. Bigger and better is their motto.
Gold soulmarks can seem shallow and judgmental to those who don’t know them well. They’re not afraid to cut nuisance out of their life and don’t put up with different opinions than their own. They are known to indulge in self care often, and they avoid things that stress them out as much as possible.
Always knowing how to get what they want, the gold soul color surrounds themselves with people who are not going to stand in their way. They are usually surrounded by a small clique of people designed to lift their spirits with praise. They are also clingy to those who make them feel good, and they are known for bending for those they deem important.
Tagged by: @faithfulhound Tagging: @neverrunfromafight @aspecialprovidence @anoldirishhymn (your characters specifically)
mr-henry-lascelles reblogged
My dearest Henry,
It may be bad form to equate you to a Knight in shining armour, to a sentimental figure such as Lancelot or Beowulf, but as the matters stand, I can’t help but think of you in this exact way. Pray take care; that awful woman has already caused me enough distress without making me responsible for an eventual damage to your reputation.
All is not well here. Newton’s mother has taken it upon herself to send letters to her new ‘friend’ through the Vicar’s wife; unfortunately for all of us the creature proved to be as much of a harpy as one might have expected from a self-important, moralising, small-minded provincial female. She had the gall to visit me at home and acquaint me with Magda’s doings; I’m sorry to say that there was an awful scene. I can not say whether I was more angry about the letters or abut that woman’s unkind and meddling ways. Magda has been 'discouraged’ from attending church, and even though I am not fond of the institution myself, I recognise that she found solace and diversion in it. She is now more miserable than ever and it affects the entire household; I am also deeply worried by her decision to go behind my back even though I had not forbidden her from exchanging correspondence. I don’t believe such a thing would have even crossed her mind before.
I am deeply in your debt, my friend. I find small pleasure in the anticipation of you taking whatever payment you deem sufficient.
M.
P.S. And since apparently I have not been bedevilled by enough complications involving women, I have received news that our mutual friend Miss Pratt has found herself confined by her accursed relatives. In this matter however, I do not elect to involve you. I doubt you would object to my decision.
Felix,
I believe I have bought us time. Her ladyship will take no action for now. It will give our legal gentleman the opportunity to operate unhindered. I must warn you that the Chancery works slowly and in ways so arcane it is nearly impossible to predict how long it will take to go to court, let alone come to a ruling.
Do try to settle your woman, Merivel. I expect any advise on this will be unwelcome, but if you will bear it for a moment, I would suggest allowing her to go to church, and to the market. Allow her to buy pretty dresses, flowers, jewelry; allow her to take up music if it is what she wants. Lady P--- wants her happy, or so she claims, so by all means let her be happy in the town where you mean her to stay. Let her be so pleased with her portion she will stop thinking about London.
As for Miss Pratt, I do not think I would be able to help you, however willing. As you know she does not think well of me, and neither does her uncle. I hope the matter will be speedily concluded to your satisfaction.
Do let me know when you will come into town, or if I am permitted to come to Great Gidding once again. I can do little here but return to my usual occupations and wait for you.
Yours, H.L.
mr-henry-lascelles reblogged
Solo, tying with the Trash Timeline of @mr-henry-lascelles
Phyllida breathes in the steam of her cup of tea. What a sweet scent—and it will make her face attractively rosy without resorting to blush. Her cheeks dimple as she looks across the coffee-shop table at the unmarried man she is shockingly having tea with in public. Or, well, it would be shocking, if Jane wasn’t sitting in the next table over. Her sour, respectable face the best guarantee of virtue any lady could wish for, even if she does sit out of range. In any case, Phyllida is nearly forty—another year and she will be practically immune to scandal.
They have had quite enough preliminary chitchat. “My dear Henry…” She sets the cup down in front of her without having taken a sip. “Would it be terribly rude of me to assume this is all about our mutual friend, Captain Merivel?”
“Astute as ever, your ladyship.”
“Oh, don’t try to sweeten me ladyships and compliments. That stiff neck of yours isn’t impressing anybody. I can tell you right now, you will not get what you want today. That dreadful man is holding my poor dear Magda prisoner, insisting she put up with whatever he wishes or he will take her son away from her. It’s simply unbearable!”
“It’s marriage, your—Phyllida.”
“Not my marriage.”
Lascelles inclines his head. “Your marriage is, I dare say, an exception in many ways.”
Phyllida lets out a frustrated puff of air. “I really don’t see why you insist on interfering on behalf of that man. He is no Mr Norrell. That was the most natural thing in the world. I understand he brings you stories and curiosities from exotic places, but I know you have nothing to do with Liverpool smugglers. You would consider it beneath yourself; besides, merchants tend to be Whigs. So either he has something on you, or you simply… like the man. Which would be very unlike you, I must say.”
Lascelles has a specific way of sighing which Phyllida knows very well, and which even at this moment she can not help but find endearing. It is a world-weary sigh, a sigh of loathing—his gaze drifts away as if he were deathly bored, and the air puffs out sharply as if his anger is only just about to boil over, only he can’t be bothered to act upon it. Like a pot of water beginning to steam. He lounges in his chair, resting his cheek on his fist. “Leaving aside the matter of my motivation for the moment, isn’t there anything I can say to persuade your heart to harden in this one case? Shall I remind you she is penniless and friendless, foreign, barely civilized? Many women in her position would do almost anything for the protection of a man of Merivel’s means. Furthermore, he assures me he does not intend to interfere with her life, so long as she stays in the house he set up for her and lives a quiet life. And there is the boy—he is very much interested in Newton’s future. And there simply isn’t one if the woman has her way.”
“Money is no excuse for tyranny.”
“And so you would replace it with a different kind of tyranny? Allow the mother to dictate when the father sees his son, or whether, and let him have no say in his education?” He clucks his tongue. “This is a family affair. Neither of us should be getting involved at all.”
Her eyes dart to the side. He has a point. It isn’t the done thing, especially on a slight acquaintance. Jane had told her as much. “I only wish to see my friend happy. To allow her to enjoy freedom, to a certain extent, and control her own destiny.”
He sits up and leans over the table, joining his hands in front of him. “None of us do that. Happiness? Why shouldn’t she be happy in the country, in a house he has given her and rarely visits? They quarrel—so let them live apart, but not separate entirely. Isn’t that precisely the arrangement you have with Lord Francis?”
Her temper flares. “Chucks would never talk to me the way that man talks to Magda.”
“Nonetheless–” He speaks firmly. Gracious, does he have to get firm with her now, of all times? “Nonetheless, I maintain you have no obligation to involve yourself, no guarantee of a happy result if you do, and a not inconsiderable risk of making yourself look foolish if she ends up embarrassing you. Not to mention you would be giving yourself a great deal of work that no one asked you to do.” He pauses; she glares; he is undeterred. “Allow me to make this easier. If you do not stop your campaign to deny my friend his natural right, our friendship will be at an end. I will attend no more soirees, dinners or balls where you are the hostess–”
Phyllida laughs. Her soirees can survive without one particular gentleman’s patronage, however well-dressed and influential.
“–nor take your or your husband’s part in the public sphere… Should we meet by chance, I would cut you directly, regardless of company. I will do no worse, as I know you could do as badly by me. But if you do give Merivel a chance to arrange his affairs to his own satisfaction…”
She has been sniffing her tea again, sipped it ever so briefly—she cannot abide tea that is too hot, or not seeped sufficiently—but at this she looks up, into his intense face. This is all rather thrilling, isn’t it? But why does Henry care so much? It is excruciating not to know.
“I promise to share with you secrets beyond your wildest imaginings.”
“Oh Henry,” she purrs, “you underestimate my imagination.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Not this time.”
She sets her cup back down in its saucer, mesmerized. It isn’t only his words that cast a spell on her. Even after all this time, that arrogance is intoxicating. She purses her lips. “Give me time,” she concedes at last. “I will do nothing to jeopardize my friend. But I will think about what you have said.”
Henry sits back. “And take no action before discussing it with me?”
She nods slowly. “If you promise me the same.”
Henry smiles, and for a moment Phyllida thinks she has made a terrible mistake somewhere, but his voice is perfectly mild as he nods and says, “Of course.”
That feeling follows her all the way home. “Jane, have I done the right thing?”
“That’s not the question. The question is what you will do now.” Jane shrugs; she has given her piece on the matter already. Phyllida plops herself down on a chaise longue and Polyhymnia struggles up beside her. She curls around the dog and sets about to do her thinking.