Maybe she was a bit too harsh before, she thinks, as she listens to him -- not reprimanding her, but lecturing her, like her father would lecture her when she was a little girl and had spoken out of line, before the big boat took her father with it into the deep.
She looks at the older man, the ace lying quietly but loudly at the same time between them, and she thinks maybe it's a poor fit, in reality. Perhaps he is the type of king that her father never had time to become instead. Although, of course, England is ruled by a Queen now and she is not Lord Melbourne's wife. So, not-quite-king, then. Almost-king. Despite herself, she smiles a little; it's a welcome reminder, that before it ever was her brother's surname, it was the name of both her parents, Gallard. If she can take it from them, rather than from him, it might lead her onwards, it might be some freedom to consider.
Then, he puts down the three of diamonds, and it looks pretty next to the ace, complimentary colours, natural numbers. She'd have painted it as well, but remembers monsieur Dubois asking her whether she painted still lifes.
I paint people, she'd replied. That was before she knew, she wanted to paint true lives and that those two could be different things.
Her smile softening, she shakes her head, not to indicate no, but to lecture herself a little as well in extension of his gentle talking-to. Neither of them are out of line, really, both of them are in their perfect place here, like this, but her discomfort at Charles' continued pressuring of her shouldn't cast shadows over everything. The sun still shines, their mother would have said, Charles' and hers. Or there wouldn't be shade in the first place, shouldn't she know as an artist? Her shading has always been top-notch.
"You're right, Lord Melbourne," she tells him, smile fading slowly - it isn't said dutifully but honestly as she places a queen on top of his three of diamonds. She's a queen of hearts, this time, same colour. It matches. Sylvie swallows once, then charges onwards as is her way, she has run from France, from Charles, but when you run from something, it's really because you're running for something. Here is what she's running for, isn't it? "But you have to forgive me. What wouldn't you rid yourself of, to avoid being forced to marry someone who'll just serve as another bar in your cage?"
Wouldn't you rid yourself of your name, too, she means. Wouldn't you rid yourself of the nation that allows it to happen? She manages a wet laugh and even though she doesn't mean to, the tears finally brim over, it's not a hysteric display of emotion, or even a very evident one, it's her eyes swimming slightly, quietly, as stoicly as you can manage when you are in fact crying and on top of that, French to the bone.
The queen of hearts is so ill-fitting; he thinks Sylvie is far from a woman in love. Maybe that's why she gets rid of it while talking about the unwanted marriage her brother's machinations are pushing her into and in which she sees no love about to happen. It's very doubtful there's someone else she prefers, either, because if there were, surely she would have run to them, not crossed the English Channel to live among strangers. Unless the person she loves is unattainable, of course. Twice the pity in that case.
A king of hearts is just as ill-fitting yet that is the very thing Melbourne picks up from the orderly pile of the rest of the deck, hiding it among the cards in his hand. It'll hardly become useful in this game of pretend. When his eyes meet Sylvie's again, the forlorn look on her causes a missed beat on his heart-- well, mayhaps the previous thought was correct after all as he knows a thing or two about love, and the lack of it.
He leans back in the chair, pats the pocket of his waistcoat and finds what he's looking for. There's no need to make a spectacle of her teary eyes so when he places the next card on the table, it is discreetly accompanied with his handkerchief. It's nothing fancy, no silk or embroidered initials as he's over such fineries, but it's still a nice, soft cotton handkerchief with one row of hemstitching - though Melbourne would be hard-pressed to know the term.
"I don't know, to be honest. It's a difficult question. You see, freedom was never my calling. Duty to my homeland, on the other hand..." It had been a sore point with him and Victoria that he had been so devoted to serving this country. He most certainly would never rid himself of Britain.
"I would not wish you to marry out of obligation, nor for love alone, though I realise that idea is difficulf for the young to accept. Marriage is hard. There should always be more than one reason to enter such a contract."
[ooc: Fixing a sentence in previous tag: Do you imagine anyone in this room... etc.
A long moment passes in which he shuffles his cards and decides what to hand her, and when he makes his move, it's the king of hearts she gets - as well as his handkerchief, hemstitched and soft between her fingers when she picks it up discreetly, dabbing at her eyes with one hand freed from the cards, clutched in the other. The cotton is extremely soft, but without initials or any such finery that her brother favours, if nothing else because their father favoured it first and he walks in his footsteps, tall and proud.
Freedom wasn't his calling, Lord Melbourne informs her and in that, he reminds her of her brother with his business. He didn't serve his country well, like she's sure Lord Melbourne is, but he serves his own interests and maybe in some ways, that's the same thing. Their interests just differ.
And hers differ from the both of them. She wants her freedom, she wills the truth about herself! Maybe the man sitting opposite her, who is far older and more experienced in the matter than she could hope to be at twenty-three, is right insofar that one shouldn't marry just out of love or just out of obligation, but a mix of the two, yet she wants the choice to be hers. She wants to choose her own obligations. She wants to make those calls herself.
Hasn't he been? Wasn't that choice, at least, his to make? She wants to ask him, but dabs a couple of times more at her eyes before finding the courage, wetting her lips once before finally finding the English words and the bravery to ask, softly, "Why did you enter yours?"
Oh, but it's so personal. It's so intimate. But with the idea she has, forming more and more tangibly at the back of her mind, Sylvie thinks it's the way they must go under any circumstances.
She just hopes he is willing to tread the path with her.
Melbourne is excused from answering immediately as his niece Minny approaches the table, carrying her youngest son who is fast asleep and therefore listless, his head drooping on his mother's shoulder.
"Uncle... Sylvie... I came to say we're leaving. My boys are quite worn out from today's excitement." She glances back at her husband who has the older boy tucked against his side. He nods in their direction, giving his silent farewell from across the room.
"It was so good to see you," she continues with a smile and rests her hand briefly on Melbourne's arm, to which he reciprocates by placing his other hand on top of hers. "You too, Sylvie. Until next time, yes?"
"Of course. Your mother will make sure of that." Emily wasn't about to let him get cooped up at his London house for too long. There would be another invitation soon enough.
After Minny and her small family have taken their leave, it's Frances who sits in front of the piano now. As much she likes Sylvie, she's a bit more shy to show off her skills while the "sophisticated and worldly French lady" is in the room, so she plays little tunes quietly, without drawing attention to herself.
Meanwhile Melbourne turns his attention to Sylvie's question, though he's not keen to answer it. He doesn't know how much she already knows and whether she's trying deliberately to pull out the dirt... It's simple self-preservation on his part, he can't help but be wary. Still, he's fairly open about the whole thing, at least outwardly.
"She was beautiful and lively and I fell for her. She had a way with words. It was a good match on paper, too, some said." He wonders if he should have stressed Caroline's wit first, not her looks, but it was too late to change that now.
"Unfortunately love doesn't mean people are always good to each other."
Edited (Just added a small sentence to the paragraph starting 'Meanwhile...') 2024-03-29 20:00 (UTC)
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no subject
She looks at the older man, the ace lying quietly but loudly at the same time between them, and she thinks maybe it's a poor fit, in reality. Perhaps he is the type of king that her father never had time to become instead. Although, of course, England is ruled by a Queen now and she is not Lord Melbourne's wife. So, not-quite-king, then. Almost-king. Despite herself, she smiles a little; it's a welcome reminder, that before it ever was her brother's surname, it was the name of both her parents, Gallard. If she can take it from them, rather than from him, it might lead her onwards, it might be some freedom to consider.
Then, he puts down the three of diamonds, and it looks pretty next to the ace, complimentary colours, natural numbers. She'd have painted it as well, but remembers monsieur Dubois asking her whether she painted still lifes.
I paint people, she'd replied. That was before she knew, she wanted to paint true lives and that those two could be different things.
Her smile softening, she shakes her head, not to indicate no, but to lecture herself a little as well in extension of his gentle talking-to. Neither of them are out of line, really, both of them are in their perfect place here, like this, but her discomfort at Charles' continued pressuring of her shouldn't cast shadows over everything. The sun still shines, their mother would have said, Charles' and hers. Or there wouldn't be shade in the first place, shouldn't she know as an artist? Her shading has always been top-notch.
"You're right, Lord Melbourne," she tells him, smile fading slowly - it isn't said dutifully but honestly as she places a queen on top of his three of diamonds. She's a queen of hearts, this time, same colour. It matches. Sylvie swallows once, then charges onwards as is her way, she has run from France, from Charles, but when you run from something, it's really because you're running for something. Here is what she's running for, isn't it? "But you have to forgive me. What wouldn't you rid yourself of, to avoid being forced to marry someone who'll just serve as another bar in your cage?"
Wouldn't you rid yourself of your name, too, she means. Wouldn't you rid yourself of the nation that allows it to happen? She manages a wet laugh and even though she doesn't mean to, the tears finally brim over, it's not a hysteric display of emotion, or even a very evident one, it's her eyes swimming slightly, quietly, as stoicly as you can manage when you are in fact crying and on top of that, French to the bone.
no subject
A king of hearts is just as ill-fitting yet that is the very thing Melbourne picks up from the orderly pile of the rest of the deck, hiding it among the cards in his hand. It'll hardly become useful in this game of pretend. When his eyes meet Sylvie's again, the forlorn look on her causes a missed beat on his heart-- well, mayhaps the previous thought was correct after all as he knows a thing or two about love, and the lack of it.
He leans back in the chair, pats the pocket of his waistcoat and finds what he's looking for. There's no need to make a spectacle of her teary eyes so when he places the next card on the table, it is discreetly accompanied with his handkerchief. It's nothing fancy, no silk or embroidered initials as he's over such fineries, but it's still a nice, soft cotton handkerchief with one row of hemstitching - though Melbourne would be hard-pressed to know the term.
"I don't know, to be honest. It's a difficult question. You see, freedom was never my calling. Duty to my homeland, on the other hand..." It had been a sore point with him and Victoria that he had been so devoted to serving this country. He most certainly would never rid himself of Britain.
"I would not wish you to marry out of obligation, nor for love alone, though I realise that idea is difficulf for the young to accept. Marriage is hard. There should always be more than one reason to enter such a contract."
[ooc: Fixing a sentence in previous tag: Do you imagine anyone in this room... etc.
Also you can check wikipedia if you aren't already familiar with the term hemstitching:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hemstitch ]
no subject
Freedom wasn't his calling, Lord Melbourne informs her and in that, he reminds her of her brother with his business. He didn't serve his country well, like she's sure Lord Melbourne is, but he serves his own interests and maybe in some ways, that's the same thing. Their interests just differ.
And hers differ from the both of them. She wants her freedom, she wills the truth about herself! Maybe the man sitting opposite her, who is far older and more experienced in the matter than she could hope to be at twenty-three, is right insofar that one shouldn't marry just out of love or just out of obligation, but a mix of the two, yet she wants the choice to be hers. She wants to choose her own obligations. She wants to make those calls herself.
Hasn't he been? Wasn't that choice, at least, his to make? She wants to ask him, but dabs a couple of times more at her eyes before finding the courage, wetting her lips once before finally finding the English words and the bravery to ask, softly, "Why did you enter yours?"
Oh, but it's so personal. It's so intimate. But with the idea she has, forming more and more tangibly at the back of her mind, Sylvie thinks it's the way they must go under any circumstances.
She just hopes he is willing to tread the path with her.
no subject
"Uncle... Sylvie... I came to say we're leaving. My boys are quite worn out from today's excitement." She glances back at her husband who has the older boy tucked against his side. He nods in their direction, giving his silent farewell from across the room.
"It was so good to see you," she continues with a smile and rests her hand briefly on Melbourne's arm, to which he reciprocates by placing his other hand on top of hers. "You too, Sylvie. Until next time, yes?"
"Of course. Your mother will make sure of that." Emily wasn't about to let him get cooped up at his London house for too long. There would be another invitation soon enough.
After Minny and her small family have taken their leave, it's Frances who sits in front of the piano now. As much she likes Sylvie, she's a bit more shy to show off her skills while the "sophisticated and worldly French lady" is in the room, so she plays little tunes quietly, without drawing attention to herself.
Meanwhile Melbourne turns his attention to Sylvie's question, though he's not keen to answer it. He doesn't know how much she already knows and whether she's trying deliberately to pull out the dirt... It's simple self-preservation on his part, he can't help but be wary. Still, he's fairly open about the whole thing, at least outwardly.
"She was beautiful and lively and I fell for her. She had a way with words. It was a good match on paper, too, some said." He wonders if he should have stressed Caroline's wit first, not her looks, but it was too late to change that now.
"Unfortunately love doesn't mean people are always good to each other."