Chapter Text
The afternoon had settled into its usual hush.
quiet. safe. familiar.
You remained in the drawing room, basking in the golden light the sun offered on days such as this, where it pooled across the carmine carpet and caught on the frayed pages of a book you had taken upon yourself to read.
You remember your governess chastising you for reading less than you ought.
"A woman should have prospects of a varied sort" she had said "if she wishes to enter society with the intention of marriage"
The likelihood of that future now seemed poor. Your age had begun to mark you as unworthy, Your poor mama had been relentless in her efforts to find you a suitor, yet your father remained the greatest obstacle to her success. As head of the household, his approval was required for any gentlemen wishing for your hand, yet he had never given it. Perhaps he thought too highly of himself. He was certain that no man he had encountered thus far was worthy of any fortune this family might bestow, leaving little room in his mind for thoughts of you, or your well-being, at all.
Beyond the tall windows of this quiet room, the garden lay in it's state of peaceful obedience. the hedges trimmed to orderly height, paths swept clean, remaining the same colour as the day they were laid, despite the volatile weather the South offers.
You had long since learned that the house preferred things this way: orderly, restrained, unmarred by human presence. Even the servants moved through the house in a manner worthy of commendation for their practised silence, their presence marked only by the changes they left behind with a straightened cushion or the faint scent of beeswax lingering on the gleaming mahogany in the foyer.
It was a life of comfort, handed to you in the form of a silver rattle at birth. Such simplicity did not come without its burdens, however; all that was asked of you was to want nothing more than what had been decided for you before you were even born.
It was the sound of voices that finally drew your attention away from the window. Not raised, but firm enough to carry down the hall. Your father's voice came first, measured and unyielding, each word spoken with the confidence of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Followed by your mothers in softer cadence, her words indistinct throughout the large house but insistent all the same.
You could not make out the substance of their disagreement, their pauses weighted with displeasure, the subtle rise and fall that marked a conversation long rehearsed and never resolved. Still, your fingers paused against the paper, the book forgotten in your lap as the house's composed nature, revealed the faintest cracks within it's walls.
You did not need to hear your name to know you were the subject of it. You rarely were not.
Placing the book onto the damask that the stiffened settee wore, you rose from your original position. The weight of your skirts followed as you stood, the tailored silk taffeta settling with practised inevitability around your ankles. You took only a few steps toward the open doorway and lingered there, close enough that the voices carried but distant enough to remain unseen, your hand resting lightly against the cool wood of the frame as though it might steady you.
Your father's voice reached you first, low and stern, each word placed with the belief that the matter was already settled. Your mother's next, quieter, pressed with urgency and the care only a mother could devote, her sentences folding in on themselves as though they were rehearsed.
You could not hear the particulars, only the cadence of disagreement, the pauses where one waited for the other to relent and the familiar tension of a future being discussed into existence without your consent. It was not the argument itself that unsettled you, but the knowledge that every word concerned the course of your life. Your prospects weighed and measured as though you were an investment opposed to a daughter.
How was your pianoforte? are you still practising? And your art, had your latest watercolour looked any more satisfying than the last?
. . . Had a suitable man made an offer yet?
The overwhelming feeling that drowned you was not a new one, yet not a one you had become accustomed to, despite it's constant appearance over the recent weeks. You became seated once more, the hushed voices of your parents, mere background noise to the ringing inside your head. Shall you become a spinster? the mere thought of it sends your head spinning. No man in your society would want a woman over twenty and two, regardless of her wealth and status. that was well known.
With a shaky hand, you reached for the bell pull, Giving it a gentle tug. The tassels always satisfying to see fluttering above the floor. It was not long before your lady's maid appeared in the doorway, hands folded neatly before her, a concerned expression on her face that was easily masked with politeness.
"Elizabeth" you said fondly, a polite smile crossing your lips
"I believe i should like to go into town. would you prepare my walking suit, please. and make ready to accompany me." She inclined her head quickly, practised.
"Very good, miss." she replied, already turning towards the door with familiar ease.
You soon made your way up the monumental staircase, the patterned green runner muting your steps. Pushing open the heavy door to see Elizabeth setting out a muted blue walking suit, made up of a bodice and a full length skirt. Elizabeth set about her work with practised efficiency born from years of experience since you were a girl.Unfastening the clothed buttons of your day dress as soon as you stood before the mirror, her hands working with ease of long familiarity as she aided you out of your garments and into your walking suit. The wool firm beneath your fingers as she fastened the last button at your throat.
You took a glance in the mirror, smoothing a hand over the skirt. The bodice sat neatly over your corset, the skirt and it's many layers- heavy enough to remind you of its presence with every step. The fabric was plain but unmistakably fine, chosen for daylight and respectability rather than comfort. As she pinned your hair up, replacing a pearl comb with elongated pins, before settling a felt hat into place, its pale grey brim, edged with a ribbon that mirrored the muted blue of your dress.
"Thank you" you said after a moment.
You have always thanked Elizabeth, although she is house staff, you appreciate her none the less. Sharing some humour and gossip between you both over the years, away from listening ears. it would be untrue to say you do not care for her.
You make your way back down the grand stairs, allowing Elizabeth to ready herself as you pull on your gloves. Hooves come up the courtyard before stopping outside. you can see the familiar carriage through the foyer windows and that unsettling feeling returns to you, you know not why.
Just before the ringing returns to your head, Elizabeth approaches, her plain grey dress missing it's apron, a black shawl sitting comfortably over her shoulders and her bonnet tied snugly under her chin. Her appearance as unobtrusive as it was proper. You give her a small acknowledging smile, noticing your ivory parasol tucked under her arm, contrasting grossly with her dark attire.
"I called for the carriage, miss. if you are ready to depart yet" She says politely.
You glance out the large front windows, that unease still lingering in the depths of your stomach.
A deep breath in.
"I apologize Elizabeth, i should have mentioned earlier. I should prefer to walk into town, if the weather holds"
She paused ,only briefly, before inclining her head. “Very well, miss.”
You had barely passed the foyers table when your mother appeared at the top of the staircase, descending with measured composure, her expression carefully arranged as her gaze settled on you.
“You are going out?” she asked, her tone gentle, though it carried the weight of expectation all the same.
You raised your head slightly, peering at her under the brim of your hat.
“Yes, Into town for the afternoon, Mama” you replied, keeping your voice even. Her gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, taking in your hat, your gloves, the parasol already in Elizabeth’s care.
“Do not be long,” she said at last, the words less a request than a reminder, before turning away as quietly as she had come.
Stepping out of from the pillared porch of the manor, you are immediately reminded of how harsh the Southern heat can truly be. The air warmer and stagnant. less forgiving as it presses against your skin. Elizabeth opening your parasol and offering it to you the minute she witnessed the discomfort across your features. You're thankful for the relief it provides, however small.
Elizabeth falls naturally into step beside you, her presence a quiet constant as the gravel path gave way beneath your boots and the iron gates stood open to the city beyond. The road unfurled ahead in a gradual descent, hedges giving way to open views and first signs of habitation, the rhythm of distant hooves and voices threading through the afternoon.
Saint Denis does not smell of one singular thing, it smells of everything. Manure left to cook in the blistering Southern sun, the smoke and hot metal that lingered across the city from the mass reproduction of industrial proprietors and the stench of thousands of people suffering from the unforgiving heat. Even the affluent districts could not escape such an offensive smell
The short walk into town was pleasant to say the least, appreciating your earlier decision to avoid the carriage. The character of the streets shifted imperceptibly, the noise softening and the press of bodies thinning as you entered the more respectable part of town. Shopfronts stood in neat succession, their wide windows polished to a gleam and dressed with carefully arranged displays intended to be admired rather than handled. Ladies moved at an unhurried pace beneath their parasols, gentlemen patrolling the streets leisurely atop their kempt mounts.
Clerks and attendants watching from doorways with hopeful attentiveness. The streets here were cleaner, better tended, its order carefully maintained as though wealth itself might impose civility upon the city. You slowed your pace as the shopfront came into view, the familiar sign swinging gently above the door.
"Shall we stop at the Modiste Miss?" Elizabeth asked politely.
You nodded "Yes, the dress for the bazaar was not yet finished when last we called, and i should very much like to see how it progresses"
Elizabeth nodded at once "Of course Miss, I recall Miss Smythe wishing to make further alterations at the waist" she replied.
Elizabeth reached the door first, opening it and stepping inside with familiar assurance, You closed your parasol before entering, following her in just far enough to be removed from the street without fully entering the room beyond.
The modistes shop was cool and softly lit, bolts of fabric arranged with delicate care along the walls, Gowns and hats displayed on simple mannequins, ranging from the simple day dress to a more sophisticated evening gown. Their muted silks and satins lending the space a quiet elegance and a faint scent of starch and perfume lingered in the air and the low murmur of women's voices carried from deeper within the boutique.
Whilst Elizabeth addressed the woman behind the counter in a polite and professional manner, inquiring after the progress of your gown, your attention drifted to the street beyond the glass as the world outside continued on without regard for the quiet refinement within. Your parasol resting lightly against your skirts, you remained fixed, your posture composed.
Elizabeth soon concluded the exchange, rejoining you after. "Miss smythe says the waist requires further letting, and the hem adjusted once the final length is settled. She has requested your return before the weeks end, i have set a date in three days time for a fitting" You acknowledge this with a small nod and a quiet thank you, exiting the building as she holds the door for you.
"How would you like to promenade the-" your question cut short by a raised voice. The polite murmur of the district falters, and though you could not yet see the source, the disruption lingered in the air.
"A told ya, i got the money" a man snapped, irritation unmistakable in his tone. "I ain't askin' for yer' goddamn charity! Just sell me the damned thing" His southern drawl more annunciated for these parts of town.
"I'm sorry sir, we cannot serve you, that item is reserved. I'm afraid you will have to take your business elsewhere" A second voice, lowered and tighter, clearly attempting to keep the interaction contained.
The shop door opened abruptly a few paces down the street, the bell above it ringing sharper than before as the man stepped back into the open air.
Broad shouldered and plainly out of place among the polished fronts and measured movement of the street. His clothes simple and soiled by mud, Skin clearly tarnished from years in the sun.
He lingered for a moment, pushing his hat back before shaking his head.
"ain't right, that's what it ain't" he muttered, not quietly neither, turning back toward the doorway "Got more than 'nough money to spend and still ain't good for ya!"
The door closed firmly in response, leaving him alone with his irritation as he exhaled sharply, placing the crumpled notes back into his pocket, his hands brushing up against a gun holster sat snugly on his waist.
You watch him with fearful competence, Elizabeth's hand planted firmly on your arm. The sun draws your attention to the cool metal handle of the gun peering out from its holster, the metal shining under the suns rays.
A gun? In this part of town? Your chest tightens and that unsettled feeling once again returns, consuming you whole.
He approaches his horse to leave, or at least you assume so.
And as if he could feel your eyes burning the back of his skull, he turns. Staring at you.
His gaze not harsh, just uncomfortable. You admit, it was rather uncurt and brazen of you to stare at him but you find yourself stuck in your place, a sense of dread attaching you to the dull grey pavement below your feet.
Elizabeth's grip tightened on your arm, relieving the dread just a little, ushering you in the opposite direction, before you could think to move on your own. Her fingers firm as she guided you away towards the flow of the street.
"Come, Miss" she murmured urgently.
You nod hesitantly, still looking at the man before breaking contact.
Your shaky hands opening your parasol in haste, angling it over your shoulder in a stuttered sequence.
You allow yourself to be led, steps unsteady. Glancing back one last time to find his gaze still following your retreating figures. The sensation of being watched lingered like a weight at your back. Thankful when Elizabeth turns the corner with you onto the Main Street.
Safe for now.