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Oh. A game!
( she takes a moment to consider what colours to pick, there are so many and she loves them all so dearly! but she also has to be able to explain them to him in a way that makes sense, nothing too visual, lots of emotion...
so, she goes with - )
Blue, first. It matches my eyes, and I used to dream about someone telling me so. "What a fine dress you're wearing tonight, Sylvie, it sure reflects your big bright blues." Now I like blue, because blue is deep and unending, vast like the Mediterranean and like that, I want to see myself with depth and no limits, too.
( she takes a moment to consider what colours to pick, there are so many and she loves them all so dearly! but she also has to be able to explain them to him in a way that makes sense, nothing too visual, lots of emotion...
so, she goes with - )
Blue, first. It matches my eyes, and I used to dream about someone telling me so. "What a fine dress you're wearing tonight, Sylvie, it sure reflects your big bright blues." Now I like blue, because blue is deep and unending, vast like the Mediterranean and like that, I want to see myself with depth and no limits, too.
I never thought of blue like that.
[ That's all he says at first. But he knows she'll want to know more, and she'll wait. So he adds: ] Blue was just our family color. My father's eyes. My perfect twin brother's eyes.
I would have loved to see your eyes.
[ That's all he says at first. But he knows she'll want to know more, and she'll wait. So he adds: ] Blue was just our family color. My father's eyes. My perfect twin brother's eyes.
I would have loved to see your eyes.
It's your colour as well. I noticed. Though, my eyes are a bit lighter than yours.
( although she had been drunk and more preoccupied by the wine last time, sylvie notices these things. she notices people's eyes the same way her aunties noticed someone's manners, like an inherent, telling part of their person.
eyes can say so much. the colour of them are part of that palette and she noticed, of course she did. )
Imagine that I carry a little more daylight inside myself.
( although she had been drunk and more preoccupied by the wine last time, sylvie notices these things. she notices people's eyes the same way her aunties noticed someone's manners, like an inherent, telling part of their person.
eyes can say so much. the colour of them are part of that palette and she noticed, of course she did. )
Imagine that I carry a little more daylight inside myself.
It's not hard to imagine.
[ He's a lonely grump and she's... well. If you could bottle sunshine in the shape of a human. ]
Your eyes are like the sky on a sunny day, then. [ He's not great at this, but he's trying! ] Or the sea just off the coast, where the water is shallow enough to reveal the life beneath it.
[ He's a lonely grump and she's... well. If you could bottle sunshine in the shape of a human. ]
Your eyes are like the sky on a sunny day, then. [ He's not great at this, but he's trying! ] Or the sea just off the coast, where the water is shallow enough to reveal the life beneath it.
( she thinks he's doing quite well, actually! for someone who feels like his last reservoir of light has been long emptied. so, she's going to encourage him. )
My aunts lived not far from a beach. When the sun was out and with your feet submerged in the water, your skin took on a special shine, from below.
Because the depths hold that kind of life, too.
( like your eyes, she means. )
My aunts lived not far from a beach. When the sun was out and with your feet submerged in the water, your skin took on a special shine, from below.
Because the depths hold that kind of life, too.
( like your eyes, she means. )
Monsters lurk in the deep, you know.
[ Great, he went and ruined it. ]
The worst of them just watch while you drown.
[ That's what it feels like, sometimes. It doesn't even have to be in the middle of the night, when he's alone in the dark; no, sometimes it happens at dinner, when his father and mother and brothers pretend like everything's normal, all the while waiting for him to crack. ]
[ Great, he went and ruined it. ]
The worst of them just watch while you drown.
[ That's what it feels like, sometimes. It doesn't even have to be in the middle of the night, when he's alone in the dark; no, sometimes it happens at dinner, when his father and mother and brothers pretend like everything's normal, all the while waiting for him to crack. ]
That's true.
( she doesn't hesitate to agree with him. while sylvie is unconcerned in most aspects of life, it's mostly because she knows what's there to concern yourself with and she has chosen a different approach. the sisters at her boarding school gave her too much liberty, her aunties (and charles) would say, but in reality what they gave her was strength. strength and courage.
she doesn't doubt hodr is both strong and courageous, too. but sometimes you freeze and someone has to come and unthaw you.
sylvie doesn't mind being that someone. )
But isn't the truth that monsters lurk everywhere and all we can do is learn how to fight them where they live? Inside us.
( she doesn't hesitate to agree with him. while sylvie is unconcerned in most aspects of life, it's mostly because she knows what's there to concern yourself with and she has chosen a different approach. the sisters at her boarding school gave her too much liberty, her aunties (and charles) would say, but in reality what they gave her was strength. strength and courage.
she doesn't doubt hodr is both strong and courageous, too. but sometimes you freeze and someone has to come and unthaw you.
sylvie doesn't mind being that someone. )
But isn't the truth that monsters lurk everywhere and all we can do is learn how to fight them where they live? Inside us.
[ He almost, almost dismisses her. Sylvie couldn't possibly harbor a monster inside of her, not with all the light she still carries — a light that he feels with her every kind word, with her every touch.
But then he remembers Geiravor, and he remembers how, despite how fiercely she burned, she was afraid of the dark.
Maybe that was even why she burned in the first place. ]
What is your monster like?
But then he remembers Geiravor, and he remembers how, despite how fiercely she burned, she was afraid of the dark.
Maybe that was even why she burned in the first place. ]
What is your monster like?
( a long pause. )
It's big and bulky like a bear, but naked like the young of rats. It's ugly and has sharp claws and it tells me I'll never belong anywhere, to any home, to anyone.
( another long pause. she's staring at the message she just sent, thinking about her brother, then about armand, about armand's home that is her home now, but because she lived so long without anywhere to call her home, it takes time to believe it can be hers, too.
then, she writes - )
Just because we know something to not be true doesn't mean our hearts feel it. Our hearts are silly things, they're easily convinced of the wrong things.
It's big and bulky like a bear, but naked like the young of rats. It's ugly and has sharp claws and it tells me I'll never belong anywhere, to any home, to anyone.
( another long pause. she's staring at the message she just sent, thinking about her brother, then about armand, about armand's home that is her home now, but because she lived so long without anywhere to call her home, it takes time to believe it can be hers, too.
then, she writes - )
Just because we know something to not be true doesn't mean our hearts feel it. Our hearts are silly things, they're easily convinced of the wrong things.
[ He understands not belonging. He's lived it. He's living it still. ]
You don't seem unhappy with him.
[ Just like how Nanna isn't unhappy with Baldr and had fit into the family like a glove. ]
Is it Paris? [ Not just the place itself, but society and its expectations and demands. Paris had always been hard on royalty. ]
You don't seem unhappy with him.
[ Just like how Nanna isn't unhappy with Baldr and had fit into the family like a glove. ]
Is it Paris? [ Not just the place itself, but society and its expectations and demands. Paris had always been hard on royalty. ]
Edited 2024-02-29 19:48 (UTC)
I think...
( that's all she writes for some time. just letting him know she's thinking, she's considering, she's trying to make sense of her own muddled thoughts on the matter, filled with bears and brothers and ducky boys.
finally, after almost a whole minute, she continues: )
It's my fear. Of not belonging in Paris. Because if I don't belong here, I don't know where to go. Isn't that sad?
( she hopes he can hear her laughter in that final sentence. she hopes he can hear the nervousness of it. )
( that's all she writes for some time. just letting him know she's thinking, she's considering, she's trying to make sense of her own muddled thoughts on the matter, filled with bears and brothers and ducky boys.
finally, after almost a whole minute, she continues: )
It's my fear. Of not belonging in Paris. Because if I don't belong here, I don't know where to go. Isn't that sad?
( she hopes he can hear her laughter in that final sentence. she hopes he can hear the nervousness of it. )
[ He appreciates the care she takes to let him know that she isn't outright ignoring him, or that she's upset by his questions. He'd worried that he had been too forward, that this isn't something she wanted to discuss with him; though he, too, hoped she'd realized that he understood her, as different as they seem to be at first glance. Night and day, darkness and light. ]
You could go anywhere.
[ Her husband might not permit it, society might frown upon it, but he believes that she has what it takes to make it anywhere. She's much stronger than she realizes. ]
But I guess that makes two of us.
[ Enlisting had been his attempt to leave and belong elsewhere, but even that fell apart in the most terrible of ways. He's then since thought there's no place for him anywhere — his father can't even marry him off now because no Parisian woman in their circle wants to be burdened by him — and it makes him so angry and frustrated. ]
You could go anywhere.
[ Her husband might not permit it, society might frown upon it, but he believes that she has what it takes to make it anywhere. She's much stronger than she realizes. ]
But I guess that makes two of us.
[ Enlisting had been his attempt to leave and belong elsewhere, but even that fell apart in the most terrible of ways. He's then since thought there's no place for him anywhere — his father can't even marry him off now because no Parisian woman in their circle wants to be burdened by him — and it makes him so angry and frustrated. ]
( you could go anywhere, he says, and she hears eloisa's voice still, talking about england, about shakespeare, about coming to belong to somewhere else, but eloisa hadn't showed up and the train had left without them and since then, sylvie doubts there is anywhere else she could go, really.
that train has left the station.
but she appreciates the sentiment. sometimes, it's nice to dream, right? sometimes it's nice not to live in this reality, however comfortable it feels. loneliness can feel comfortable as well, in its own way. )
Is that your monster, too? What does it look like, can you describe it for me?
that train has left the station.
but she appreciates the sentiment. sometimes, it's nice to dream, right? sometimes it's nice not to live in this reality, however comfortable it feels. loneliness can feel comfortable as well, in its own way. )
Is that your monster, too? What does it look like, can you describe it for me?
Is this what it feels like, having a family, she wonders, looking around the parlour where, until a few minutes ago, Countess Cowper's whole family (or, most of it, the younger of the brothers regrettably withheld from joining them) had been playing cards, Sylvie unaccustomed enough with such pastimes that she hadn't won a single round of anything, maybe she'd also been a tad too busy admiring the lighting that bathed the congregated family members in such a beautiful hue, who can really say. She used to play cards at boarding school, she shouldn't be at a total loss. Oh, but Sylvie would have liked to paint them, right then and there, although today that isn't her purpose with being present. The Countess had invited her along, because she - along with the rest of the family, obviously - is as English as they come and anything else would be improper, most likely, leaving the little artist in her rooms to contemplate nothing but her hands in her lap.
Still, if this is a normal family, then all the luck she didn't have at cards, she suddenly has in love, she thinks. Although she's only stayed at the Countess' house for a few weeks, she's already become quite attached to the whole set-up, all these people here. A mother figure. A father figure. A little sister, Frances, who's the only one Sylvie allows herself to be informal with, if only because she's never been the eldest in any constellation. Always little Sylvie with her, isn't that so?
The Countess' eldest daughter - she's brought her two boys, they're adorable, still, there's time for that all to change, of course - is at the piano, her hands coaxing lovely, relaxing music from the instrument, nothing like the Charleston on the terrace of her brother's manor house or the jazz noisily reverberating off of the walls of Parisian clubs. England is a different world, different from France in every way that matters.
Sylvie's gaze finally lands on the brother, the other and older one, and she's watched him the few times he's been visiting since her arrival. She's watched him, not with a plan but with a hope. Is it because he's someone's older brother, too, and it reminds her of the brother she herself is escaping? It doesn't feel like that, it doesn't feel like the coil and curl in the pit of her stomach that she's fought ever since setting foot in London, nowhere to turn, knowing no one, really, hardly even the language.
No, that had been her luck, remembering Countess Cowper just then. How asking just a bit insistently had led her to her door.
It has led her here.
Taking a deep breath, she moves over next to the taller man, arranging herself only slightly awkwardly, fingers buried in the folds of her tea gown. They have no nobility in France anymore, Sylvie has had to learn the ropes from scratch. While they have been introduced, Lord Melbourne and she, and while they have exchanged pleasantries, she only knows him as the one who isn't married. Anymore. The fact that he has no wife currently is the very thing that nurtures her hope. In time with more and more of her brother's letters finding their way to her, she will take it, although it isn't anything like daylight or water. Then again, Sylvie isn't a plant, and her hope isn't either. This is good enough. It has to be.
"Lord Melbourne," she says, her English pronunciation recognisably French, in just two weeks, she hasn't been able to rid herself of it, but she is practicing, Frances teaches her a little bit every day. "If everyone had the sister you do, there would be nothing but happy families."
A compliment. The English like compliments, don't they?
Still, if this is a normal family, then all the luck she didn't have at cards, she suddenly has in love, she thinks. Although she's only stayed at the Countess' house for a few weeks, she's already become quite attached to the whole set-up, all these people here. A mother figure. A father figure. A little sister, Frances, who's the only one Sylvie allows herself to be informal with, if only because she's never been the eldest in any constellation. Always little Sylvie with her, isn't that so?
The Countess' eldest daughter - she's brought her two boys, they're adorable, still, there's time for that all to change, of course - is at the piano, her hands coaxing lovely, relaxing music from the instrument, nothing like the Charleston on the terrace of her brother's manor house or the jazz noisily reverberating off of the walls of Parisian clubs. England is a different world, different from France in every way that matters.
Sylvie's gaze finally lands on the brother, the other and older one, and she's watched him the few times he's been visiting since her arrival. She's watched him, not with a plan but with a hope. Is it because he's someone's older brother, too, and it reminds her of the brother she herself is escaping? It doesn't feel like that, it doesn't feel like the coil and curl in the pit of her stomach that she's fought ever since setting foot in London, nowhere to turn, knowing no one, really, hardly even the language.
No, that had been her luck, remembering Countess Cowper just then. How asking just a bit insistently had led her to her door.
It has led her here.
Taking a deep breath, she moves over next to the taller man, arranging herself only slightly awkwardly, fingers buried in the folds of her tea gown. They have no nobility in France anymore, Sylvie has had to learn the ropes from scratch. While they have been introduced, Lord Melbourne and she, and while they have exchanged pleasantries, she only knows him as the one who isn't married. Anymore. The fact that he has no wife currently is the very thing that nurtures her hope. In time with more and more of her brother's letters finding their way to her, she will take it, although it isn't anything like daylight or water. Then again, Sylvie isn't a plant, and her hope isn't either. This is good enough. It has to be.
"Lord Melbourne," she says, her English pronunciation recognisably French, in just two weeks, she hasn't been able to rid herself of it, but she is practicing, Frances teaches her a little bit every day. "If everyone had the sister you do, there would be nothing but happy families."
A compliment. The English like compliments, don't they?
Melbourne, on the other hand, hasn't given much thought to this young lady yet. She seems friendly enough in his eyes, and if his sister has decided she's worth her time, that's all that matters. There has actually been a fairly long time since Melbourne has met anyone completely new; he's a solitary man and lives a quiet life. Oh, there's been the occasional new spouse for his nephew and niece but even they have not been strangers but instead children of people he's already acquainted with. Upper class circles aren't that big anymore.
Ever since retiring from politics a few years ago, he has more or less spent his days at Brocket Hall, a manor house approximately 25 miles north of the capital. He can be seen in London during winter months, and now it's still early spring so he's in town. The big parties his sister Emily likes to throw aren't his scene but being amongst family is. This generation of Melbournes are close-knit, and considering his younger brother George died earlier this year, it's become more important than ever to be with loved ones.
But Melbournes are also somewhat notorious, or if one prefers to put it in kinder words, controversial. Therefore having someone new in their daily lives now creates a delicate balance. Sylvie doesn't know all the gossip that lingers in town but is likely to become privy to it if she stays long enough.
It had certainly been unexpected to have this French girl suddenly standing at the Cowper family door - even if Emily had made an invitation while visiting Paris and meeting Sylvie and her brother some months ago - but she was nonethelss willing to offer her a place to stay. Earl Cowper rather thinks it's because Emily is starting to feel the empty nest syndrome. Ouf of their five childern, there's only Frances living at home full-time. Though Sylvie is hardly a child anymore, she is still someone who seems to need help, and as such, maybe Emily found Sylvie to fulfil her own need to be useful.
"I like to think so, miss. She has a big heart, I know firsthand," is Melbourne's reply as Sylvie approaches to talk to him. His signiture smile is small, often with just one corner of his mouth tugging upward.
"And you are settling well in London, I trust? I hear you've made fine progress with your painting."
[ooc: The term 'empty nest syndrome' wasn't really used until 1970s but I couldn't think another phrase for it. Also let's assume she's not painting in this parlour, because there's bound to be several rooms in the house. So somewhere else where she can spead out her stuff.]
Ever since retiring from politics a few years ago, he has more or less spent his days at Brocket Hall, a manor house approximately 25 miles north of the capital. He can be seen in London during winter months, and now it's still early spring so he's in town. The big parties his sister Emily likes to throw aren't his scene but being amongst family is. This generation of Melbournes are close-knit, and considering his younger brother George died earlier this year, it's become more important than ever to be with loved ones.
But Melbournes are also somewhat notorious, or if one prefers to put it in kinder words, controversial. Therefore having someone new in their daily lives now creates a delicate balance. Sylvie doesn't know all the gossip that lingers in town but is likely to become privy to it if she stays long enough.
It had certainly been unexpected to have this French girl suddenly standing at the Cowper family door - even if Emily had made an invitation while visiting Paris and meeting Sylvie and her brother some months ago - but she was nonethelss willing to offer her a place to stay. Earl Cowper rather thinks it's because Emily is starting to feel the empty nest syndrome. Ouf of their five childern, there's only Frances living at home full-time. Though Sylvie is hardly a child anymore, she is still someone who seems to need help, and as such, maybe Emily found Sylvie to fulfil her own need to be useful.
"I like to think so, miss. She has a big heart, I know firsthand," is Melbourne's reply as Sylvie approaches to talk to him. His signiture smile is small, often with just one corner of his mouth tugging upward.
"And you are settling well in London, I trust? I hear you've made fine progress with your painting."
[ooc: The term 'empty nest syndrome' wasn't really used until 1970s but I couldn't think another phrase for it. Also let's assume she's not painting in this parlour, because there's bound to be several rooms in the house. So somewhere else where she can spead out her stuff.]
Edited (fixing a typo) 2024-03-13 19:49 (UTC)
Sylvie was never one to listen to gossip much. Spending her late teens with her aunts in Marseille, notorious tattletales and feared in much of the city because of it, has made her used to not believing a single word anyone says about anyone else; if there's truth to it, the truth will find a way regardless. Gossip notwithstanding. Being in a new country, speaking a new language, learning new customs and etiquette in itself makes gossip difficult to pick up on. The English have another way of going about things than the French, that much she has learned already. They're a little stiffer about everything, not that she would tell any Englishmen to their faces, now. She does have manners, her mother brought her up with that for as long as she was allowed to keep her. Eight years worth of good upbringing aren't worth nothing, she thinks.
It's coming into good use now, even if she can't make herself be quite as neat and orderly about things as the family she's staying with. Lord Melbourne should see her studio, the room that Countess Cowper has put at her disposal, not as lovely as the one Armand's family had, the inflow of light not as perfect, but it's big and it has seen the life of this family which in itself gives it a magical atmosphere of its own. It's disorganized and with her painting tools spread all over, she has made it hers, because the Countess has allowed her and it was the only way she could make herself at home here. Where she would very much like to be at home.
Turning slightly towards him, she fidgets a bit uneasily, her fingers rubbing over each other in an obvious display of nerves. She could account to him all the fun she's had painting the inhabitants of this house, how she has made good work on the background especially, how it isn't her usual style (no surrealism for the Countess), so she takes a bit more care... But what she really wants to tell him is something else. Something much less flattering.
"I deliberately work very slow," she finally admits, thinking it's better to be forthcoming. Her mother didn't bring her up a cheat or a liar. Her brother didn't bring her up at all, so she hasn't become either thing in the meantime, although he might be. Her fingers still their fidgeting and she looks up at the older man. "Because I dread the time when I will have to leave here."
Please ask why, her eyes beg. Although it's obvious why, his family is wonderful and lovely, isn't it, but she'd like him to ask anyway, as she'd like for her answer to interest him.
She'd like not to be totally on her own once more.
It's coming into good use now, even if she can't make herself be quite as neat and orderly about things as the family she's staying with. Lord Melbourne should see her studio, the room that Countess Cowper has put at her disposal, not as lovely as the one Armand's family had, the inflow of light not as perfect, but it's big and it has seen the life of this family which in itself gives it a magical atmosphere of its own. It's disorganized and with her painting tools spread all over, she has made it hers, because the Countess has allowed her and it was the only way she could make herself at home here. Where she would very much like to be at home.
Turning slightly towards him, she fidgets a bit uneasily, her fingers rubbing over each other in an obvious display of nerves. She could account to him all the fun she's had painting the inhabitants of this house, how she has made good work on the background especially, how it isn't her usual style (no surrealism for the Countess), so she takes a bit more care... But what she really wants to tell him is something else. Something much less flattering.
"I deliberately work very slow," she finally admits, thinking it's better to be forthcoming. Her mother didn't bring her up a cheat or a liar. Her brother didn't bring her up at all, so she hasn't become either thing in the meantime, although he might be. Her fingers still their fidgeting and she looks up at the older man. "Because I dread the time when I will have to leave here."
Please ask why, her eyes beg. Although it's obvious why, his family is wonderful and lovely, isn't it, but she'd like him to ask anyway, as she'd like for her answer to interest him.
She'd like not to be totally on her own once more.
He chuckles at the confession but the second comment gives him pause. It's not a wholly unexpected thing for her to say, after all, she cannot imagine that this will be her home forevermore. No, she will move forward with her life at some point. When? They don't know. She's a bit of an enigma to them, as welcome as she is. But if she is dreading the future, and not fine with the changes that are about to take place, that is never pleasant to hear.
Emily hasn't told her brothers all her own concerns, especially not the worry that Sylvie might be in trouble. There is of course one specific type of trouble that young women are prone to get into, and if that's the case, she can only hope Sylvie will eventually come to her about it. Emily wouldn't judge but to possibly have a pregnant young lady in her care... Yes, she'd prefer to know in advance in case something goes wrong.
Melbourne is not thinking that far at the moment, and of that Sylvie could be grateful of.
"As far as I know, it doesn't seem you need to leave quite yet, not on our account at least. Emily is not about to issue a banishment." He says that lightly, with a friendly gleam in his eyes. "Not only are we looking forward to seeing the finished painting, your presence allows my niece the opportunity to practise her French." It's a two-way street: English for Sylvie, French for Frances.
"But naturally I do not know the particulars of your plans. If you are expected elsewhere soon, we will understand."
It isn't a direct question, but it is an offer for her to speak more if she so chooses.
Emily hasn't told her brothers all her own concerns, especially not the worry that Sylvie might be in trouble. There is of course one specific type of trouble that young women are prone to get into, and if that's the case, she can only hope Sylvie will eventually come to her about it. Emily wouldn't judge but to possibly have a pregnant young lady in her care... Yes, she'd prefer to know in advance in case something goes wrong.
Melbourne is not thinking that far at the moment, and of that Sylvie could be grateful of.
"As far as I know, it doesn't seem you need to leave quite yet, not on our account at least. Emily is not about to issue a banishment." He says that lightly, with a friendly gleam in his eyes. "Not only are we looking forward to seeing the finished painting, your presence allows my niece the opportunity to practise her French." It's a two-way street: English for Sylvie, French for Frances.
"But naturally I do not know the particulars of your plans. If you are expected elsewhere soon, we will understand."
It isn't a direct question, but it is an offer for her to speak more if she so chooses.
Oh, no. He's going all wrong about it! Less manners, more direct line, please!
Sylvie licks her lips and glances back towards the table where the two boys are engaging in their own little cardhouse game, the rest of the family scattered like merry geese around a goose house. She thinks about the latest letter from Charles, equal parts encouraging and threatening her to return or he will have to take measure, although she doesn't know exactly what those measures may be. He knows people, he has contacts far into the English upperclasses, that she knows, she's seen the correspondences in his office, the beautiful writing on the front of envolopes to Mr. this and that... Eloisa has left, he's told her in his recognisable scrawl, no trace of her.
Because of you, he hasn't written, not exactly.
And now there's only Armand left, her nice, bright and ducky guy, but even Armand is no sell anymore. Sylvie wants to live true and she wants to live free, she is tired of always being the Gallard sister, rather than her own person. Her late parents' youngest child, rather than Sylvie. She wants to be just Sylvie to someone.
She would very much like to be just Sylvie to herself as well.
Looking up at Lord Melbourne, she purses her lips for a moment, pondering how to put so much thought, so much doubt and uncertainty in a single sentence, one statement that can hold all the pleasantries of this kind of light afternoon conversation, but all the depths of how she would like for them to speak to each other. Honestly, openly.
"They are not my plans, I assure you." Her voice is insistent, a little bit too much so and she looks down again, holding back on a childish urge to reach for the man's nearest hand, to grasp it in her own for just a moment, to cling to that much. To be Sylvie to someone. "My brother... He's urging me to return to Paris, because his plans are being stalled for as long as I am here. He's urging me... very strongly."
What wouldn't Maman and Papa have thought of you, acting like this, he wrote in the last short note. It was their business before it became my business. Doesn't that mean it's your business, too, Sylvie?
Doesn't that mean it's her responsibility, he's trying to say, none-too-politely. He could do to learn a bit from Lord Melbourne, really.
Sylvie licks her lips and glances back towards the table where the two boys are engaging in their own little cardhouse game, the rest of the family scattered like merry geese around a goose house. She thinks about the latest letter from Charles, equal parts encouraging and threatening her to return or he will have to take measure, although she doesn't know exactly what those measures may be. He knows people, he has contacts far into the English upperclasses, that she knows, she's seen the correspondences in his office, the beautiful writing on the front of envolopes to Mr. this and that... Eloisa has left, he's told her in his recognisable scrawl, no trace of her.
Because of you, he hasn't written, not exactly.
And now there's only Armand left, her nice, bright and ducky guy, but even Armand is no sell anymore. Sylvie wants to live true and she wants to live free, she is tired of always being the Gallard sister, rather than her own person. Her late parents' youngest child, rather than Sylvie. She wants to be just Sylvie to someone.
She would very much like to be just Sylvie to herself as well.
Looking up at Lord Melbourne, she purses her lips for a moment, pondering how to put so much thought, so much doubt and uncertainty in a single sentence, one statement that can hold all the pleasantries of this kind of light afternoon conversation, but all the depths of how she would like for them to speak to each other. Honestly, openly.
"They are not my plans, I assure you." Her voice is insistent, a little bit too much so and she looks down again, holding back on a childish urge to reach for the man's nearest hand, to grasp it in her own for just a moment, to cling to that much. To be Sylvie to someone. "My brother... He's urging me to return to Paris, because his plans are being stalled for as long as I am here. He's urging me... very strongly."
What wouldn't Maman and Papa have thought of you, acting like this, he wrote in the last short note. It was their business before it became my business. Doesn't that mean it's your business, too, Sylvie?
Doesn't that mean it's her responsibility, he's trying to say, none-too-politely. He could do to learn a bit from Lord Melbourne, really.
Then... Maybe we must embrace that, Hodr. And if we can't embrace our own, we can embrace each other's, don't you think? I'll take your bird, you'll take my naked rat-bear.
( it's the most sincere thing she has ever written, she thinks. she always wanted to hold her brother's fear, but he'd never give it to her. armand carries his own and he carries it well. it's always only been herself and no one to share anything with, the bad, the good, the bad-that-becomes-good. )
Deal?
( it's the most sincere thing she has ever written, she thinks. she always wanted to hold her brother's fear, but he'd never give it to her. armand carries his own and he carries it well. it's always only been herself and no one to share anything with, the bad, the good, the bad-that-becomes-good. )
Deal?
It's a good thing she doesn't grab him by the hand. Melbourne is not that tactile and would probably jump backwards, and by doing so possibly leave Sylvie embarrassed. Just her words alone make his initial amusement shift to a slight uneasiness. He isn't oblivious to the many hurdles and restrictions in women's lives but it's not something he actively thinks about, nor waits anyone to bring the issue to him.
Obviously he himself is privileged, and as a man, able to shape his own destiny no matter how much it is expected to follow in the footsteps of generations of Melbournes before him. His father had been a politician and so had his grandfather but had he wanted to choose another path, he could have. What he knows of women's choices (at least for upper class women) is that they are raised up to marry and have children. Many of them are accomplished in various tasks (in music or art, for example) but those things are secondary to being someone's wife and mother.
He doesn't look down on the nonconformists who choose to be independent, to live alone, or with lovers, and to dress in unconventional ways - and, to be honest, he considers the current women's fashion style with bob haircuts and short flapper dresses as revolutionary. But even though he's sympathetic to women who don't live according to the norm, he also knows how much trouble that can bring.
So when Sylvie mentions her brother and his wishes, it's not hard to understand where those thoughts are coming from: she doesn't want to follow the path laid out for her.
None of that is Melbourne's concern, really, but seeing her distress makes him willing to at least listen, even if he can't do anything else. It's odd that she would come to him about it but sometimes an outsider's point of view helps the best. Sometimes it is easiest to talk to a person who is not part of the equation. Even Emily, whom Melbourne thinks might be a better confidant in general, is someone Sylvie is relying for an upkeep.
"Would you like to sit down, miss? I could bring you a glass of... cherry? Or something else." He gestures towards a side table where his brother Frederick and Lord Cowper had just a moment ago played cards. That could be the needed cover so that no one else in the room interrupts immediately.
He pulls out the chair for her but doesn't sit down yet himself, waiting to know whether she wants a drink or not, but also because he hesitates about a certain question. He's not supposed to ask for her age but it's still relevant. "Perhaps you'll soon find yourself old enough to make up your own mind?"
[ooc: I should mention that since Queen Victoria is such a big part of who Melbourne is (in his canon), I have to keep her for our thread, too. I can't write her off, so although George V was the king during Sylvie's canon, in 1927-1929, the monarch here is Victoria, in her mid-twenties.]
Obviously he himself is privileged, and as a man, able to shape his own destiny no matter how much it is expected to follow in the footsteps of generations of Melbournes before him. His father had been a politician and so had his grandfather but had he wanted to choose another path, he could have. What he knows of women's choices (at least for upper class women) is that they are raised up to marry and have children. Many of them are accomplished in various tasks (in music or art, for example) but those things are secondary to being someone's wife and mother.
He doesn't look down on the nonconformists who choose to be independent, to live alone, or with lovers, and to dress in unconventional ways - and, to be honest, he considers the current women's fashion style with bob haircuts and short flapper dresses as revolutionary. But even though he's sympathetic to women who don't live according to the norm, he also knows how much trouble that can bring.
So when Sylvie mentions her brother and his wishes, it's not hard to understand where those thoughts are coming from: she doesn't want to follow the path laid out for her.
None of that is Melbourne's concern, really, but seeing her distress makes him willing to at least listen, even if he can't do anything else. It's odd that she would come to him about it but sometimes an outsider's point of view helps the best. Sometimes it is easiest to talk to a person who is not part of the equation. Even Emily, whom Melbourne thinks might be a better confidant in general, is someone Sylvie is relying for an upkeep.
"Would you like to sit down, miss? I could bring you a glass of... cherry? Or something else." He gestures towards a side table where his brother Frederick and Lord Cowper had just a moment ago played cards. That could be the needed cover so that no one else in the room interrupts immediately.
He pulls out the chair for her but doesn't sit down yet himself, waiting to know whether she wants a drink or not, but also because he hesitates about a certain question. He's not supposed to ask for her age but it's still relevant. "Perhaps you'll soon find yourself old enough to make up your own mind?"
[ooc: I should mention that since Queen Victoria is such a big part of who Melbourne is (in his canon), I have to keep her for our thread, too. I can't write her off, so although George V was the king during Sylvie's canon, in 1927-1929, the monarch here is Victoria, in her mid-twenties.]
Edited (Fixing some typos) 2024-03-18 13:12 (UTC)
[ What has he ever done to deserve such kindness?
Force of habit sends him retreating into the dark, but the raven is there, watching, breathing down his neck. It is made of shadows; shadows cast by his twin's unyielding light, and his father's gleaming gold. He hates it, hates it all.
Is it weakness to want to hold on to the spark of hope Sylvie now provides? With Geiravor he'd been a better man, a better everything — yet they'd both paid a price so terrible, he knows she'll never forgive him for it. He will never forgive himself for it. ]
I can handle a naked rat-bear. At least I don't have to look at it.
[ He should let go. This isn't right, this is only going to bring trouble upon them both. But with Sylvie, he feels seen.
He feels. ]
Force of habit sends him retreating into the dark, but the raven is there, watching, breathing down his neck. It is made of shadows; shadows cast by his twin's unyielding light, and his father's gleaming gold. He hates it, hates it all.
Is it weakness to want to hold on to the spark of hope Sylvie now provides? With Geiravor he'd been a better man, a better everything — yet they'd both paid a price so terrible, he knows she'll never forgive him for it. He will never forgive himself for it. ]
I can handle a naked rat-bear. At least I don't have to look at it.
[ He should let go. This isn't right, this is only going to bring trouble upon them both. But with Sylvie, he feels seen.
He feels. ]
( his last comment makes her giggle a little. if he'd been there, he'd have been able to hear that she was laughing with him, not at him. )
And I can teach a black bird to sing. Or, if not sing, then at least dance the Charleston.
( she hopes he, too, will laugh a little at that. not at her, but with her. )
And I can teach a black bird to sing. Or, if not sing, then at least dance the Charleston.
( she hopes he, too, will laugh a little at that. not at her, but with her. )
In England, a Queen rules. A young Queen, even.
Not like in France where the age of royalty and nobility is dead and gone, beheaded even, they made sure it would never rise again, didn't they, the revolutionaries? If Sylvie cared for politics and ideologies (only she doesn't), she would think it symbolic that by doing away with one Queen in France, they've stalled women's rights there for years and years, whereas in England, now ruled by another Queen, the English women have the vote and they have the opportunity to inherit on the same terms as men. Perhaps Marie Antoinette should have been allowed to stay at Versailles after all. Sylvie doesn't wonder.
She marvels.
Lord Melbourne doesn't question her implications, or her motives, or any of it. Instead he asks her whether she wishes to sit, pulling out a chair for her at the abandoned table, inviting more intimate conversation and Sylvie's fingers finally halt their fidgeting, instead she looks up at him, beaming brightly, all blue eyes and golden hair. "Thank you," she says, sitting down as primly as she can manage, which - if she's honest - isn't much in her current, slightly shaken state, her daydress at least not cutting at the knee like a flapper-style dress would do. She's not here to dance the Charleston with him. No, theirs is going to be another dance entirely.
She hopes.
"Just some water would be nice." She suppresses the second thank you, meeting his eyes when he asks the question, the completely logical thing to ask, because by all accounts, Sylvie is old enough to do as she pleases, except there is legislation and laws and money doesn't travel the straight way along those lines. And it isn't that she's afraid of losing her inheritance or her allowance, she isn't afraid of being poor, it's that she doesn't find it very fair that she should be!
So, she raises her chin a bit, lips pursing, her first show of angry defiance today, and tells him, "I'm twenty-three, Lord Melbourne. Nothing is mine until I'm thirty and even so." A brief pause. She chews her lip and shakes her head and her voice turns a little bit shrill, though she keeps it down, dutifully. "At my age, seven years are an eternity, I could as well be dead and gone by then!"
It isn't fair, she means. It isn't fair, is what she is really saying. I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to.
What she is really saying, begging of him, is, don't make me.
Not like in France where the age of royalty and nobility is dead and gone, beheaded even, they made sure it would never rise again, didn't they, the revolutionaries? If Sylvie cared for politics and ideologies (only she doesn't), she would think it symbolic that by doing away with one Queen in France, they've stalled women's rights there for years and years, whereas in England, now ruled by another Queen, the English women have the vote and they have the opportunity to inherit on the same terms as men. Perhaps Marie Antoinette should have been allowed to stay at Versailles after all. Sylvie doesn't wonder.
She marvels.
Lord Melbourne doesn't question her implications, or her motives, or any of it. Instead he asks her whether she wishes to sit, pulling out a chair for her at the abandoned table, inviting more intimate conversation and Sylvie's fingers finally halt their fidgeting, instead she looks up at him, beaming brightly, all blue eyes and golden hair. "Thank you," she says, sitting down as primly as she can manage, which - if she's honest - isn't much in her current, slightly shaken state, her daydress at least not cutting at the knee like a flapper-style dress would do. She's not here to dance the Charleston with him. No, theirs is going to be another dance entirely.
She hopes.
"Just some water would be nice." She suppresses the second thank you, meeting his eyes when he asks the question, the completely logical thing to ask, because by all accounts, Sylvie is old enough to do as she pleases, except there is legislation and laws and money doesn't travel the straight way along those lines. And it isn't that she's afraid of losing her inheritance or her allowance, she isn't afraid of being poor, it's that she doesn't find it very fair that she should be!
So, she raises her chin a bit, lips pursing, her first show of angry defiance today, and tells him, "I'm twenty-three, Lord Melbourne. Nothing is mine until I'm thirty and even so." A brief pause. She chews her lip and shakes her head and her voice turns a little bit shrill, though she keeps it down, dutifully. "At my age, seven years are an eternity, I could as well be dead and gone by then!"
It isn't fair, she means. It isn't fair, is what she is really saying. I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to.
What she is really saying, begging of him, is, don't make me.
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