info
Name & Last Name: Lady Iolanthe "Ettie" Armistead
FC: Heida Reed
Age: 25
Traits: Affable, well-spoken, intelligent, eidetic, perceptive // pragmatic, sharp-tongued, single-minded, discomfiting
Interests: Ambrose Brandon, General Thomas Craddock, Miss Vera Stone, Dowager Duchess Persephone Warwick
Dance Partners: Lord Ambrose Brandon, General Thomas Craddock
Queen's Balli. these artless daughters
When a person had worked as long as Iolanthe had, and paid as much attention as she did, it was easy to spot the incoming signs of a commotion. To wit: the strange, louder buzz around the Armistead Estate, increased activity outside, how there seemed to be a frenetic energy in the air. But more obviously: the sound of hurried footsteps and hushed voices outside Iolanthe’s study, apparently by two young maids desperately trying to run on padded carpet… and not get caught.
Iolanthe looked down at the ledger in front of her, the ink-stained blotter and the lines and lines of arithmetic she’d scrawled up. She frowned at the paper, running it again in her mind. On days like these, she wished that caved, her pride be damned, and purchased herself an abacus. The very least she wouldn’t have to mind moving her figures around, or worrying that she’d forgotten to increment a number, or…
No point trying to focus now, not when she knew someone was about to come through that ajar door. So she set aside the fountain pen, her ledger, and looked up just in time for both maids to come through, looking very much out of breath. She raised one eyebrow, and waited for both girls to sheepishly smooth their dresses down. The attempt at propriety, however, was quickly shattered when they both tried to speak at the same time.
“Miss Armistead, it’s -”
“Your sister, a magpie came down and snatched up her ring because she set it down -”
“And now she’s taken off in pursuit of it -”
Iolanthe leant back in her seat, fixing them both with a look. The maids fell quiet immediately.
“She’s in a tree again?”
“Yes, Miss Armistead!”
On some days, Iolanthe felt less like an older sister and more like a governess, a nursemaid, and a schoolmistress at once. Fighting the instinct to press a palm to her forehead, she stood up and left her writing implements behind. She turned to the older maid - nearly eighteen summers now, with pleasant hazel eyes and a slightly upturned nose. She’d heard that Cook was looking to bring her into the kitchen proper - she’s have to speak with Mama on that.
“Where is she Adda?” Iolanthe asked.
“The back garden, Miss Armistead. The one the terrace overlooks.”
A somewhat unnecessary description, but Iolanthe had always appreciated accuracy. She followed the maids outside, wincing a little as she stepped into bright sunlight. At this time of year, London’s air was pleasantly brisk, sweet-smelling from the grass and the flowers in bloom. If only it wasn’t so difficult to write outdoors - and if the brisk winds weren’t so prone to knocking over inkpots and sending papers flying about.
Still, that was an unproductive line of thought, and she had an errant sister to see before anyone else caught sight of an Armistead sister hanging in a tree.
By the time Iolanthe had arrived, at least two servants had gathered beneath the tree, trying to coax a laughing girl down. Despite herself, Iolanthe smiled. Of course it would be Idelia, young and lithe and still too carefree for this season, cackling away while Isabella tried to coax her down, arms crossed and tapping her foot.
“I told you to - see! Ettie’s here and you’re still up there!”
“I’m almost dooone,” Idelia called back, her dress blessedly untorn but hair mussed. “I think I can see the ring just in - there - wait -”
Then Idelia’s head peered back round, and her eyes landed on Iolanthe looking up at her. Her youngest sister grinned at her, thoroughly unrepentant
“I’ll hop down quickly, promise!”
Privately, Iolanthe judged the distance between Idelia and the tree too far - at least, too far for her little sister to make any sort of dignified landing. Next to her, Isabella’s head had swivelled around, eyes full of “I told you so”s and waiting for her older sister to mete out divine retribution. Or at least, give Idelia a scolding. There were more pressing things to take care of: specifically the servants who’d begun to gather around, looking as though they were simply passing by. Any scolding would have to wait. Instead, she turned around to face the peepers at the door.
“I believe,” she said, raising her voice a little. “We have preparations for the season to make. Mertie, go check on Mama and see if she has any last minute requests. Nell, look for Mrs. Gregory and see if she needs anything else from the grocer’s by tomorrow. Dock, if you could run and get Mr. Vabsley - tell him the stepladder is needed again. And the rest of you?”
She let the words hang in the air. “Back to work.”
The servants scattered - peeping faces from around the door, those clustered around the tree, leaving Iolanthe and Isabella staring up at a grinning Idelia peeping between the leaves. Dock had already run off to fetch the master gardener - if push came to shove, Idelia could at least climb back down with as much dignity as permissible in this situation. Or she could do so without ripping another of her dresses. There was only so much budget Iolanthe could spare, between the season and making sure the very least, her littlest sister was presentable if she was brought to the Queen’s Ball.
By the time Mr. Vabsley came with the stepladder, Idelia had obtained what she needed and scrambled down with a small, satisfied smile on her face. Iolanthe thanked the older man, helping her sister hop off the ladder - and fixed her with a frown.
“Now what was that nonsense?”
Idelia wordlessly held out her prize, and Iolanthe felt her heart stop for the briefest of moments. She’d recognise that ring anywhere. After all, once upon a time it had been on Papa’s thumb, but this was his other duplicate - the one he kept in case he lost it.
“And what were you doing with that?” Iolanthe asked, careful to keep her voice calm, even.
“It was on Mama’s dressing table again,” her little sister answered, and the word “again” nearly made Iolanthe flinch. “And since she wasn’t anywhere near it, I thought I’d hold onto it for safekeeping and return it when I saw her.”
Except Mama wouldn’t back for a little while, not until after she’d taken tea with her friends and maybe promenaded down the fashionable high street. How long had it been, since Papa had passed? And why on earth had Mama thought it would be a good idea to take something so precious to her out, and not put it back again?
Absent-mindedness, Iolanthe thought to herself. They’d moved on, yes, but there was still that thick, heavy pall she would catch in the quiet hours at night, when Iolanthe had finished with her duties and went to join her mother by the fireplace. The strange, sleepy quiet and Iolanthe feeling as though Mama was far away, on her own little island of… grief? Nostalgia? Remembrance?
“Next time, bring this to me,” Iolanthe said finally, not finding the heart to scold Idelia. “Isabella, thank you for trying to keep order.”
“One of us has to,” her middle sister grumbled, tossing pretty fawn-brown curls over her shoulder. “You best not run into any trees during the Queen’s Ball, I have a reputation to uphold.”
“And you will do impecabbly, Isabella.” Iolanthe put a hand on her sister’s shoulder, and another hand reached out to hold Idelia’s own. “Shall we head back in? You both have your work to attend to - and Isabella, the modiste is coming for another fitting later this afternoon.”
“Another?” A momentary flash of horror crossed Isabella’s face.
“It will be brief I promise. You know what these gowns look like if they are not fit in properly.”
Isabella grumbled - she would, because while her middle sister adored the arts and music and in most situations was the perfect little lady, she could not abide by boredom. Certainly not having the same dress pinned on her for multiple times over the course of weeks. Still - Isabella’s debut was around the corner, and Iolanthe would not allow anyone - anything to ruin her sister’s chances even before it’d begun.
ii. thy whimsical school
“But surely you have other friends to accompany you today, Isabella?”
“Yes, but you’re always holed up in your study - pardon, Mama’s study - and it’d be good for you to get some fresh air.”
In truth, Iolanthe would really, really much rather be anywhere but here at the moment. She’d taken stock of the papers and the ball invitations and the tabs to be run up for this season, and it was about enough to make her head spin. But Isabella being Isabella, had deemed Iolanthe’s four days of house-sitting unacceptable and took it upon herself to drag her older sister out of the house. Rather, Isabella had asked Beryl - good, faithful, sweet Beryl, who Mama had handpicked to be her lady’s companion and who Iolanthe trusted with all her life - to pick out a promenading outfit, then very gently suggest that “Miss Armistead would like to spend some time with her much-neglected little sister”.
Beryl had spent time away in France, learning how to be a lady’s companion and had the loveliest, sweetest countenance Iolanthe could ask for most of the time. The problem was, Iolanthe was full aware that Beryl knew what her strengths were, somewhere between her clear, brown eyes and golden curls and cupid’s bow. And when she deemed it necessary, Beryl would indubitably use it to bully Iolanthe out of the house, usually in conjunction with Isabella. The papers weren’t going to deal with themselves, and Mama wasn’t going to be able to finish the lot on its own. Perhaps Iolanthe ought to swap her companion with Isabella - her sister’s maid was a good bit sillier, yes, but at least she didn’t have the wits to conspire and…
“… Are you even listening?”
Iolanthe broke off mid-thought and realised her sister had dragged her to a halt in front of a shop, its window showcasing beautifully carved figurines and music boxes. Isabella was looking up at her with something dangerously close to a pout.
“Not because of you, Isabella,” Iolanthe hastened to add. “The milliner’s caught my eye, and I was considering if Mama might want a new bonnet. Not for the Ball, but for -”
“The milliner was a street away, Ettie!” And now Isabella seemed like she was trying to smother a laugh. “I brought you out here to enjoy yourself, not to fret and worry.”
“I enjoy myself plenty when I’m working,” Iolanthe answered, but that deflection was weak at best. Isabella could tell too, because she beamed and proceeded to drag her into the toy shop, telling her “Pick anyone - my treat!”
Truthfully, it would be the family’s stipend, but Iolanthe found herself touched by the sentiment. So she let Isabella take her around the shop, pointing out the delicately carved wooden statues, the porcelain animals, even a few small clockwork mechanisms sitting on the shelves. The shopkeeper was kind enough, allowing them to browse the wares and answering any questions Isabella might have as patiently as anyone could.
In the midst of all this hubbub, one thing did catch Iolanthe’s eye: a small, music box exquisitely carved with wood. It was polished to perfection, but unpainted. Instead, its maker had chosen to use and showcase different wood grains, wood textures and colours instead, building a pretty scene of a castle nestled in the cliffs. The box was well out of reach, kept behind the counter but displayed visibly enough to catch many an eye, and Iolanthe wondered what tune it would play if she asked for it. She could. She might even be able to afford such a thing, if she balanced her spending and the household’s properly.
No. None of that, she reminded herself sternly. Isabella’s season was coming, and if her little sister were to be named either Diamond or to have a good suitor - or both - she could not spare any expense on the gowns or the accessories. Where would their family be if she let her sister go out dressed like an impoverished patrician?
“Something caught your eye, Ettie?”
And there was Isabella again, smiling knowingly at her. Iolanthe shook her head, and Isabella’s face fell.
“Come now, sister - I promised I’d buy you something, and you cannot just emerge from here empty handed!”
“I would much rather you spend your money on yourself, Isabella.”
“And I’m spending it on you. Go on then.”
Iolanthe gave one last, lingering look at the music box, and put it out of her mind. Instead, she chose a carved figurine of a shepherd dog - floppy eared and mouth open, seemingly panting as it lay sprawled on the floor. It’d make a pretty sight, and serve as a paper weight both. Isabella paid, but she seemed happy enough about it.
Of course, once Isabella had successfully persuaded Iolanthe to purchase at one shop, she seemed to be convinced her sister would also like to peruse other stores that she and Idelia might wander by, with or without their lady’s companion. So what was promised as a brief, light stroll around high street and the park turned into a few-hours-long shopping trip, Isabella insisting her sister must at least have a look at so-and-so or the newest fashion, isn’t that gown daring? Not that Mama or I would ever wear it of course, but…
Isabella would never even dream of scandalising the ton in that way, Iolanthe thought, but she would never say it out loud. Isabella had, after all, spent most of her life making sure her manners were pitch perfect, every incline of her head measured, her laughter sweet and breezy. And if Isabella could be wedded well and wedded for love this season, Iolanthe would not complain.
“Oh, the patissier!”
They had now come to a stop in front of another shopfront, this time decorated top to bottom with sweets and elaborate cakes. There was sugarwork, the pride and joy of any patisserie chef worth their salt (hah!), though this one stayed nice and still. She’d heard rumours about a particularly interesting piece of sugarwork in France: something about depicting the birth of the Dauphin, combining sugarwork, marzipan, and clockwork. She tried not too hard to think of how, the what, or more importantly, the why. Most definitely not the why.
“Do you think…”
“No.”
“But imagine!”
“I am perfectly content to do so, Bella.”
“We could get a small one! We don’t even need it custom made, just have the sugarwork delivered to our town house…”
“It would attract flies before the week is out, and we all dislike that sort of presence.”
“It would be a perfectly lovely decoration and you know Idelia and Mama would love it.”
“I would be inclined to agree.”
Iolanthe did not jump out of her skin. There was still enough of her manners, her etiquette from when she was still trying to earn herself a suitor from the days past. She didn’t try as hard now, but all those old habits kept her feet firmly planted on the ground, proper enough that Isabella would not be named uncouth.
A half-turned revealed Lord Ambrose Brandon, a polite distance away, but his smile was warm, welcoming as it had always been. She inclined her head, while she felt Isabella dip for a moment in a half-curtsy. Was that necessary? Iolanthe couldn’t recall.
“Lord Brandon,” she greeted instead, forcing her doubts and worries away. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“Neither did I, but it is good to see you out and about, Miss Armistead.” He nodded to Isabella, whose smile was now the kind she’d honed for countless hours in preparation for the season. “Miss Armistead. I did not see you with your sister. What brings you to this place?”
“Isabella thought I could use some fresh air.” Iolanthe let a small smile creep onto her face. “The household, however, disagrees, but my sister is right: I cannot stay with ledgers and papers all day.”
“Neither can I, but my father disagrees with that particular observation.”
“And you are here to clear your head, I presume.”
“To escape him, truthfully,” Lord Brandon answered with a rueful smile. “And to see if the patissier will grace me with one of their excellent rum cakes.”
“And have you been successful, Lord Brandon?” Iolanthe asked, even as she sighted the brown paper bag.
“I should hope so, otherwise I might have to have strong words with the proprietor.” There was genuine pleasure in Lord Brandon’s smile, one completely understandable: a good rum cake was a joy to have, even if there were some stricter citizens who would protest being anywhere near rum so early in the day. Their loss, really. “And you are here for the sugarworks?”
“Just to browse,” Isabella said, piping up beside her. “I have been trying to persuade my sister of the beauty of one of these, but she is resolved against it.”
“It would not hurt to see what else they have on offer,” Lord Brandon said. “The very least, a brief jaunt would very much lift your spirits.”
“When my lord has such strong recommendations, it would be remiss of me to disregard them.” That won a small, triumphant smile from Isabella, one Iolanthe saw out of the corner of her eye. But Iolanthe knew when she was beaten, and was more than happy to cede this one to her little sister. “I shall not keep you any longer, my lord - my sister seems quite eager to go into the shop herself.”
“Then I wish you a good day Miss Armistead. Miss Armistead.” With that, the man was gone, and Isabella elbowed her in the ribs.
“So when I tell you to go in…” Isabella began, a little mischievous smile appearing on her face. Iolanthe fixed her with a look.
“Hush. You would have me turn him down immediately?”
“I’d have expected a more skilful deflection!”
“I’m afraid I’m run out of my supply of skills and deflection this walk, so you will have at least a few sweets.” She nudged Isabella towards the shop door. “Go on, I’ll pay for this one. And if we can find the caneles Mama is so fond of , we can both count this trip a success.”
They did, of course - coated in a beautiful glaze, while Isabella picked out some delicately baked meringues, beautifully shaped into eggs by two silver coffeespoons and dusted with cocoa powder. The proprietor packed them into a basket for the two of them, which Isabella immediately volunteered to carry. Arm-in-arm, the sisters made their way back home, Isabella looking far too pleased for her own good.
Still, when they came home and were greeted by an overeager Idelia and a beaming Mama, Iolanthe was hard-pressed to resist a smile. There, in the parlour room, all three of them fussing over Isabella’s selections of pastries Iolanthe almost felt like it was back to when Papa was here, when he would bring strange little trinkets from his investors. Almost like he could walk through that door any moment.
“Ettie?”
Mama’s voice roused her from her reverie, and she saw her mother hold up a dish of canele to her. “I believe this one is lemon-flavoured.”
“Of course, Mama.”
Ever the dutiful daughter. And ever the loving Mama, who pressed the dish into her hands. These were Iolanthe’s little joys and moments, snatched away from the study. And she would do anything she could to preserve it, as long as she could.
iii. the old familiar faces
The Dowager Duchess had taken up residence in one of London’s newest townhouses. Its marble facade gleamed in the sun, adorned with boughs and boughs of flowers and perfectly trimmed trees lining both sides of the neatly-laid out pathway. She’d not heard much about the late and somewhat mourned Duke of Warwick, except that Persephone had ended up married to him and had been wholly, entirely furious about the whole matter.
After the wedding, Iolanthe would always think that the Duke of Warwick had been a poor match for the Duchess of Warwick, the season’s diamond. But the Duke, for his business guile and acumen, had been known to covet the most beautiful, the most exclusive, and it was no surprise he would covet and pay suit to Persephone during her season. Being a lady came more naturally to her than it did Iolanthe, and for most part, she didn’t seem to chafe at how much of a spectacle it was.
Or perhaps it was the thought of holding her family together, so Mama would not be embarrassed? Iolanthe never had the time to parse those questions. If pushed, she might even admit she feared what her answer would be.
Still, the Duke of Warwick took the newly-minted Duchess of Warwick to him to India, running his press empire from afar, and Iolanthe lost perhaps one of the few friends who she could truly, properly confide with. Letters grew sparser as Mama’s attention to the household waned, as the Armistead family fought to retain what was left of Papa’s estate - until Iolanthe found herself looking at a months-old letter, and not quite daring to reply.
So much so, that surprise was writ plain on her face when Beryl brought up a letter to her on silver plate, addressed to “Ettie Armistead” in familiar, distinctive handwriting asking if she would do the honour of joining the Dowager Duchess of Warwick for tea. So she did on the appointed time, appointed date, and feeling a little more nervous than she looked.
Still, the Dowager Duchess was as warm as she’d always been when Iolanthe crossed the threshold: all wide smiles and familiar gestures and with an odd hint of spice lacing her perfume.
“How long has it been?” the woman asked as Iolanthe was ushered to the delicately set up table. The usual accoutrements of tea were there: Meissen teacups and tiered silver tea stands and sweets and sandwiches all lined up in a row. Persephone had chosen to seat them by the window, where they had an excellent view of the estate’s own gardens.
“It’s nicer out in the country house,” Persephone told her, “but given the season and the ton, it’s more prudent to set up shop here. Imagine the gossip!”
“Imagine the scandal,” Iolanthe commented dryly, taking a seat opposite the woman. She studied Persephone’s face: she was as radiant as Iolanthe remembered her to be, coiffed hair and sparkling eyes and cupid’s bow painted with a precision most of the ton would give their foot for. But even with their long distance and their slow, gradual falling out in contact, Iolanthe noticed a cooler steeliness to it, a little more guarded.
“Oh I can imagine the scandals coming.” A maid came forward and presented them with several canisters of tea leaves, each picking one and it being taken away to be placed in the appropriate and matching teapots. For a few moments, they spoke idly of the decorations, Iolanthe complimenting her on her hosting and Persephone expressing delight at seeing her again. When the maids and servants had cleared off, however, leaving the two of them alone, Persephone’s decorum seemed to… drop.
“A little bird tells me,” the woman across her began, picking up her teacup. “A certain sister is due to make her debut.” Iolanthe’s smile was a touch more wry than she’d intended.”
“She is more prepared than I ever was,” Iolanthe answered, her hands in her lap. “The very least, she will have what she needs and wants - and the joys of the season.”
“The season. Do you remember how our season went?”
“You refer to ours, or my second?” Iolanthe considered the situation. “Last I remember, your season, or my first, someone forgot to get ahold of some errant pup and the poor thing crashed through the tower of glasses. Small miracle that no one was hurt…”
“Save for a few dresses that desperately needed to be rescued by the modiste.” Persephone hummed. “Though in truth, some dresses couldn’t have been rescued even before the pup wreaked havoc. You might say the stains were an improvement.”
Iolanthe remembered some of the more garish dresses on display, and hid her smile behind a scone. “That is not particularly nice.”
“But true!” Persephone protested. “I remember you giving Miss Willoughsby a look when she went by you.”
“You saw nothing of that kind. I only thought the blue clashed terribly with the wine.”
“It was good claret too,” her companion said ruefully. “Imported from France, and barely a touch of brandy in them.”
“We can live in hope.” They fell into silence for a few moments longer, until Iolanthe finally broached the topic on her mind. “So. Back to London?”
“India did not suit me,” Persephone said, and there was an edge to her voice that Iolanthe had not heard before. “And the ton is here, and I have inherited my husband’s estate and businesses, after all. So much to do, and I barely know where to start!”
“Mama said much of the same at first.”
“She would, didn’t she?” The Dowager Duchess sighed. “I do not mourn the Duke - unofficially, at any rate - and his wealth is a boon. Enough to sustain me, and with his printers and newshounds I daresay I have some drive to see it through.”
“The Duke of Warwick was not who I’d expected to make such an investment,” Iolanthe commented. “Or at least, not what I heard in polite society.”
“Oh, you know boys and their fancies.” Persephone waved a dismissive hand. “One moment he has an idea, the next he’s flitting off to God-knows-where, to stroke his ego a little more. Who knows? He’d never spoken to me about any of that.”
“Men, I find, are less inclined to deal business with women. Except perhaps widows with a large estate - and even then they seem more inclined to woo that do business.”
“Something the Dowager Viscountess would know.”
There was no question in that, and if Iolanthe had not been so close with Persephone before, one might have taken it as a challenge. But Persephone knew - watched Iolanthe in her seasons and promenaded with her when they both still had dreams of going somewhere, marrying well - and it was hard to read any malice into her words.
“She would, yes.”
“Then fortunate for her that she has astute advisors nearby.”
Iolanthe bit back a laugh, despite herself. “Or perhaps just good fortune.”
“Good fortune does not keep a family afloat.” Persephone’s eyes were on her - focused, kind even, but Iolanthe could read the intent, the way the Dowager Duchess held the coffee cup a little too carelessly, too easily, like she did not have a care in the world. “And if the Dowager Viscountess were to, say, recommend a way going forward to managing a poor widow’s estate?”
Iolanthe knew this game. She’d known it long enough, enough for it to be acknowledged as a quiet secret in the Armistead household. Perhaps Persephone knew Iolanthe better than she’d given her credit for, even though they’d lapsed in their letters.
“I cannot say,” Iolanthe answered, voice as even as she could manage. “But if I were to be presumptuous and guess at Mama’s thoughts, I would say rooting through all the Duke’s investments would be a start. Arduous, but worthy.”
“For a clearer overview, I suppose.”
“No. For any unwelcome skeletons in his closets.”
“Oh, those.” Then the mood was gone, and Persephone’s lightness and cheer was no longer edged with sharpness. “I wouldn’t worry about that myself. God pity the man who pursues a poor widow!”
“It would certainly be an uncharitable thing to do, especially so soon after bereavement.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in quiet pleasantries, Iolanthe drawing out more stories of India - and even then, for all of the Dowager Duchess’s insistence that she did not enjoy the trip, there were still a few small bright spots. Discoveries of exotic places, this thing called kari the locals enjoyed. And elephants. Iolanthe almost wished she could leave to see them herself.
Iolanthe’s mood was warmer, lighter when she finally departed, guided onto the carriage that had come to take her home. Even if this season were to turn out - well, disastrously, it was nice to tentatively begin to reconnect with a friend.
iv. the sultry pavement
“Ah, Miss Armistead!”
Beryl was close behind Iolanthe as she stepped into the bookstore, basket dangling off her companion’s arm. Mr. Thorreborne was already to his feet, bustling to the front of the counter as she approached.
“Good morning. Have Idelia’s books come in yet?”
“Well, yes, but I hadn’t expected you to come personally - if I’d known I’d have packed them ahead of time.”
“It’s no matter. I was meant to go to the modiste’s today to check on whether our orders were ready yet, when Beryl kindly reminded me your shop was en route.”
“Of course, of course. If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll fetch Miss Armistead’s new schoolbooks. As for yourself? Is there anything you’d like to peruse? I believe there are your usual preferred poetry anthologies, but there are several new promising writers from the Americas you could consider.”
“Alwys, Mr. Thorreborne. Perhaps point me towards these new American writers, they may have produced something worthwhile…”
“Shall I remain here then, Miss Armistead?” Beryl asked. “I can mind the books while you peruse them.”
“No. Feel free to browse the store, Beryl - whatever catches your fancy, let me know.”
“Miss Armistead -”
“Books will not bankrupt us. And I heard Mrs. Gregory mentioning something about the newest ladies’ magazines. If she needs them, pick those up at any rate.”
“Yes, Miss Armistead.”
There were indeed several new books on offer, and Iolanthe took her time perusing each one in turn. These American writers seemed - odd. Grim, even, like this strange Poe character who seemed obsessed with writing about the macabre. Perhaps in the same vein as Shelley then, though Iolanthe had yet to pick up the woman’s books either. She’d enough to worry about, and there was no need to add horror and fear of the dark to her list, imaginary or no. Instead, she picked up Headlong Hall, promising to be something interesting about those grand old country houses. The very least, the publisher seemed to promise it to be witty and amusing - a sufficient diversion for when she wanted to sit on the terrace and enjoy herself somewhat.
She returned just as the bookstore door swung open, the bell hung beside it tinkling. In came a young girl - no more than seven summers - accompanied by a much taller, much more imposing older gentleman, chiding her “Annette, no running” and her chirpily answering “Yes Papa!”
Mr. Thorreborne looked up from wrapping the books in brown paper and brown string, and nodded to the man.
“General Craddock. I’ll be with you just a moment.”
General Craddock - this was a stranger to Iolanthe. Had she heard of him somewhere? Perhaps not, but it was difficult to be intimidated when he had a smiling, gap-toothed girl at his heels, looking up at him expectantly like he’d hung the moon. Iolanthe had been there once, she thought, but she did not remember that at all. This General Craddock nodded curtly, content to wait for Mr. Thorreborne to finish with his work - and it was with that in mind Iolanthe approached the counter.
“Apologies,” Iolanthe said, addressing the man. “May I? It will only be a moment.”
He saw her, and moved aside, gently nudging the girl away with his hand. He kept her in front of him, but there was a hand on her shoulder, as if reassuring the girl of his presence.
“You have your book, Miss Armistead?” Mr. Thorreborne asked.
“I’m afraid I was rather dull today,” she answered, pushing the book towards him. “Have that added to the pile if you would. Once Beryl has what she needs, I’ll ring up the tab all at once.”
“Of course, Miss Armistead.”
And Mr. Thorreborne was gone again, leaving the book to join the pile. The two of them stood in silence, until a chirpy voice broke in.
“What did you get?”
Iolanthe blinked. For one foolish moment, thought that General Craddock had spoken - before berating herself and remembering there was a literal child at her feet. She looked down, and this Annette stared up at Iolanthe, a complete stranger - curious, fearless. Far too fearless for a girl her age, but Iolanthe had never been one to judge a child’s proclivities.
“A book about country houses,” Iolanthe said, not quite prepared to explain what “humour” and “Thomas Love” were to a young girl.
“Is it interesting?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping it will be.”
“But if you don’t know, then why would you get it?”
“Annette, it’s not polite to ask so many questions.”
General Craddock’s voice cut in, and Iolanthe looked up to meet his eyes. His countenance was stern, but there was a gentleness to his tone. “My apologies. Annette’s always been curious.”
“It is of no concern, General… Craddock.” she asked, recollecting Mr. Thorreborne’s greeting. He nodded gravely. “Papa has always said inquisitiveness should be encouraged.”
“And others would say otherwise, but I thank you for your understand Miss…?”
Iolanthe caught the question at the end of his words, and supplied the response. “Armistead. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise. These books are yours?”
“My sister’s. Her tutor has decided she is ready to graduate to more advanced topics, so here I am. But Mr. Thorreborne has always carried an excellent selection.”
“Same as Annette here then, though I am inclined to choose her selection for her.”
“Papa’s promised me a new doll if I’m very good,” Annette piped up again, seemingly forgetting her past lesson. Iolanthe smiled, despite herself.
“And what doll would that be?”
“I don’t know! Papa, when are we going to the toymaker’s?”
“When we are done here, Annie,” General Craddock said, and then looked back to Iolanthe. This time, there was a definite tinge of fondness and exasperation in his expression, but Iolanthe understood well enough. This conversation, however, was quickly brought to a halt when Beryl returned, two women’s magazines and a new book under in her hand.
“Apologies, Miss Armistead! These would be useful for the kitchen and the scullery, I’m sure, but -”
“Then it will suffice. Mr. Thorreborne, if you could be so kind?”
He could, and soon the bookshop proprietor had stored the books away. She bade him and General Craddock goodbye, inclining her head. Little Annette bobbed a careful curtsey, and Iolanthe complimented her on her form before leaving the bookstore and headed towards the modiste’s, making sure the receipts for the books were stowed safely away.
As always, the modiste’s was already occupied - though this time, it was by a character Iolanthe had both seen and heard rumours whispered of. Vera Stone, the incorrigible owner of a lodging house owning God-knew-what and offering all sorts of services. The kind that some women resented, but Iolanthe caught herself envying her freedom: she knew Miss Stone was a savvy businesswoman, building an mercantile empire that would - and had - caused many a man to covet. Of course, there was a line of what business was where, but Iolanthe found it more prudent not to pry.
“Madame Dusfresne,” she greeted, as the modiste bustled around. And then seeing Miss Stone at her spot, she nodded to her as well. “Miss Stone. A new fitting?”
“It’s the new season - these things will always be necessary.” Miss Stone waved an airy hand around. “I see you’ve seen fit to come out of your office.”
“Errands, as necessary. Such is when you need to run any sort of business or household, but it is difficult when certain factors get in your way.”
“Those I know about. But I am quite excited for the new season, aren’t you?”
“For the gossip, the scandal, or the headaches?”
“The first two. Headaches will always be around, it’s whether you can manage it.”
“I don’t think we’re quite as starved for gossip as that at the moment.”
Miss Stone looked at Iolanthe with clear amusement.
“You have no idea. Only the other week some lord-or-so was gossiping about secretive boxing matches and rigged results. That man had bet large - and lost, I’ve heard - but rigging was purely his conjecture.”
“To soothe his pride?”
“Why else?”
Miss Stone was cheerful - happy, that much was clear, and Iolanthe had no wish to sour the mood. For whatever gossip the crueller parts of the ton had, Vera Stone had a much, much better head on her shoulders than most women, and a far worldlier view to life. If people would so much stop and think, they’d be better for it too. The conversation carried on, until Madame Dusfresne came back with a fresh selection of cloth - and from there, it was pure business. Still, Iolanthe returned home feeling it was an afternoon well-spent.
v. while summer roses all their glory yield
Upstairs, Mama, Isabella and Idelia were all preparing. Downstairs, Iolanthe was moving from room to room, checking in with the pageboys and the grooms and Mrs. Gregory and the maids and -
“Miss Armistead, you might wish to prepare for the Queen’s Ball.”
Beryl’s voice cut through Iolanthe’s checklist of what needed to be done, what preparations she needed to have, what flowers to arrange, what sort of soiree she should be throwing if she were to fit in with the season and to entertain the ton.
“I’m not the one they’ll be looking at.”
“The Dowager Viscountess will still wish to have you at your best, Miss Armistead.” Beryl’s smile was perfectly placed, though a little pointed. “If fortune does favour us, it will be a boon to your sister’s chances - and all eyes will be on us.”
Iolanthe sighed. Beryl was being optimistic, but Iolanthe had regrettably spent most of her time fretting about finances and making sure her sisters had proper dresses for the Queen’s Ball than really keeping up with the gossip. Isabella would be better suited to that than she ever would - and her sister would be prepared most steps of the way.
“Of course. My dress -”
“Has been laid out, along with your coronet and jewelry. It should not take too long.”
Even with her late start, Iolanthe by a small dint of a miracle just made it down the stairs as Mama and her sisters gathered. Isabella, of course, was resplendent as Iolanthe knew she would be: white satin and train trailing behind her, a delicate circlet resting on top of perfectly braided hair, gloves and choker around her neck. Mama too smiled up at her, the faint pall of grief lifted entirely to watch her middle daughter enter society. She too was in white, but the gown was made of softer silk and lace, carefully cut diamonds and pearls forming a beautiful collar, the wrinkles around her eyes barely showing.
“Mama,” Iolanthe greeted, even as her mother outstretched her arms to embrace her.
“There you are Ettie.” She took Iolanthe’s face into her gloved hands, and Iolanthe was caught between the comforting warmth and flinching at how her face powder might accidentally ruin Mama’s gloves. “I thought you would be a little longer.”
“And keep you waiting?” Iolanthe smiled, despite herself. “Perish the thought. Shall we?”
They shalled in a large, comfortable carriage together: Isabella next to Mama, Iolanthe next to Idelia. Idelia looked darling in her own gown too, with carefully embroidered cloth flowers in her hair, but her youngest sister fiddled with the lace trimming and pouted at Iolanthe when she told her to stop moving around so much.
“Did anyone say how scratchy this is?” Idelia said quietly as Mama and Isabella spoke to each other.
“It comes with each ball,” Iolanthe answered, gently patting Idelia’s hand. “Just for a night.”
“Why couldn’t we just wear our tea gowns? They look the same anyway…”
“Do not let the modiste hear you say that, or we’ll be banned from her shop for good.”
Idelia pouted up at her. “But you know it’s true.”
“Not to be said out loud. When it’s done Beryl and the others will send you home.”
“Really? I don’t need to stay the night?”
“Not unless you want to watch everyone dance.”
Idelia blanched, and settled back down risibly next to Iolanthe. The rest of their trip was uneventful, right up until they jostled their way to the Royal Residence. When they arrived, courtiers and footmen swarmed the premises, lords helping ladies out of their carriages and the entirety of the aristocracy gathered here. Isabella was now every bit the proper lady, something distant and warm at once settling over her. Iolanthe took charge of Idelia; Mama of Isabella, and the two separated.
Nothing could hide Iolanthe’s swell of pride when they presented Isabella - with no mishaps, or fainting, or accidentally stepping on one of the Queen’s beloved pets.
Then came the evening’s main event: everyone with their dance cards, worried mamas milling around the edges while daughters and bystanders alike watched the ballroom with hawk-like eyes. Iolanthe was one of the watchers, having tucked herself further away to better keep an eye on her little sister - who’d immediately been swept away by one of the gentlemen at the ball. Isabella seemed to be cheerful, and interactions were - natural? Did this count as natural? God Iolanthe was so out of touch with actual ton society etiquette it was becoming laughable.
At least Idelia had been permitted to head out and return to their estate early - where she would undoubtedly refuse to sleep and instead stay up until it was too dark to do anything. Mama seemed to be catching up with the rest of her acquaintances, speaking animatedly and watching Isabella as avidly as Iolanthe watched her - though likely for different reasons. So far, so good.
“Miss Armistead.”
She looked up to see Lord Ambrose Brandon coming her way, tailored suit and velvet waistcoat and looking far more formal than she’d last seen him during her impromptu shopping trip with Isabella.
“My lord,” she greeted, inclining her head. “A pleasant evening to you.”
She’d have said a pleasant surprise, but they’d both be lying.
“Likewise. May I have the honour of dancing with you?”
Iolanthe had not expected to be asked. In fact, she’d expected to be simply watching most of the night, making small talk and listening for any news that might be of interest, or she could relay as an aside. Or perhaps if she was lucky, the men would be more loose-lipped and she would be able to listen in. But Lord Brandon was good company, from whenever they’d interacted, and she was more than pleased to have a little time.
“The honour would be mine,” she answered simply, and let him lead her to the dancefloor. It had been an age since she’d done this, or at least three to four seasons’ worth, and she was more worried about stepping on toes than maintaining a graceful figure.
She needn’t have worried. Where her dancing skills had failed her, Lord Brandon more than made up for it, leading her comfortably through the dancefloor, hand exactly where it should be on the small of her back.
“You did not partake in the festivities yourself, I see.”
“I’m here as a chaperone, not a debutante.” She kept her tone light, hoping that it didn’t sound like chastisement. “And I will confess, it’s always more interesting to watch from the sidelines.”
“And has there been anything interesting you’ve heard?”
“Not yet, but as the evening still holds some promise.”
Lord Brandon spun her around, and Iolanthe was careful to keep her footing precise, the spin in time with the string quartet at the far end of the room. There was a safety - reliability when she danced with Lord Brandon. Steady. Unsurprising, given his reputation in the ton, but a warming thought to entertain all the same.
“If I may say, you sound almost disappointed.”
“Do I?” Her smile widened, despite herself. “I would hate for you to think I was a gossip hunter.”
“You would be the last person to be accused of that.” Lord Brandon’s eyes were warm with amusement. “Hard working might be closer to the mark.”
“Not as much as the gentlemen do.” Iolanthe let her eyes glance around the area, then shook her head. “Especially present company.”
“When you are the eldest, it is difficult not to.” Another twirl, and back to circling the ballroom, eyes still focused on one another. “The burdens of being the first in your family.”
“So we both know a little too well.” As he led her around, she caught sight of Isabella on the sidelines, seemingly chatting to another lady. When she caught her sister’s eye, Isabella smiled and gave her a small wave. “What tempted you to come to this season?”
“When Her Majesty summons you, you would be a fool not to answer,” the man said faux-gravely, and Iolanthe did laugh there and then. “But it is tradition, and a good place to reconnect.”
“That we can both agree on. There is work, and then there is being a shut in, after all.”
And one could always listen to the latest news, gauge the latest currents in high society - if Isabella were to have a chance to survive, but Iolanthe could not say that out loud just yet. The last few chords of the song rung out, Lord Brandon escorting her off the dance floor.
“You are an excellent dancer, Miss Armistead,” Lord Brandon said, when they were safely ensconced away from the crowd - her now nursing a small flute of sparkling wine, and him a respectable distance away.
“Am I?” she laughed. “I’m still somewhat rusty, but old habits die hard, I am afraid. Work cannot be done prancing around in a study.”
“That would make for an interesting sight.” They shared a chuckle, and it was only now Iolanthe caught Lord Brandon’s eyes flickering elsewhere, his brow furrowed. When he returned, he gave her an apologetic smile.
“’Tis not your company that’s an issue,” he said by way of explanation. “My brother is at the ball today, and between diverting company and his proclivities, I find myself pressed to do what an older brother must.”
“Monitor their sibling? Something we both share.”
“Gladly so. I do take my duty as the elder sibling seriously.” There was a mock solemnity to his voice, and Iolanthe shook her head. She’d have said more, but then he was quickly intercepted by a younger lord, seemingly eager to speak with him. He parted from her with a wry smile, and Iolanthe nodded to him, wondering if it was sufficient to show both her amusement and gratitude for the diversion.
She was not left alone for long. After making a round the ballroom, quietly conversing with other society women her age and sympathising with Mama’s friends who had caught ahold of her as she tried to go for a small canape, General Thomas Craddock was her next dance partner. He bowed with the stiffness of the toy soldier automata she’d seen demonstrated before to ask for her next dance.
His movements too were almost clockwork like: precise, carefully executed, but where children were wont to recite by rote, his dance steps too felt like he’d practised and practised till he had the technique down. Still, his steps were sure and his posture was perfectly aligned. Moreso than some of the gentlemen and ladies who’d been in this season for a long while, if Iolanthe had to be honest.
As with her last meeting with him, he did small talk admirably: the people, the music. Perhaps from his years of having to interact with the same at high society functions.
“A pity Idelia isn’t here, if only for the food,” Iolanthe said pleasantly, as she felt herself lifted into the air for the briefest of moments. Part of the dance, but he was strong - stronger than she’d expected. “But these functions run late, and I would not keep her up.”
“Another sister?” the General said, sounding somewhat surprised. “I was under the impression your lady mother only presented Miss Armistead.”
“I have two. Isabella, who you’ve seen; Idelia is my youngest, but she is still several years away from her own debut.”
“And do you look forward to her debuting?”
“Idelia? Heaven forbid, let me have a few years to recover after Isabella’s.”
The General smiled, a small crack of warmth coming through his soldier’s countenance. “Fortunate then I have several years to prepare for Annette’s.”
“I remember - at the bookstore? She’s well-mannered and sweet. If only my own sisters were that behaved at her age.”
“I am - lucky in that regard. She has never been trouble, not even when she was very young. You remember your sisters at that age?”
“I am a few years older than them both, and when the governess was unavailable, it would’ve fallen to me to keep an eye. Takes the burden off Mama.”
“Yes. It would.” The man’s eyes went distant, and for a moment, it felt too precious to pry. Then he came back, and his attention was back on her. “How does your sister find this presentation?”
“Excited, if nothing else. She’s more well-suited to this than I ever have been.”
“And the suitors?”
“Well -” Iolanthe turned her head a mite further, and caught Isabella in the arms of Viscount Combe Magna, carrying on conversation as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. “She has yet to complain, though I suspect I might be hearing more later tonight once we are home. You would have your stories to tell to your daughter too, once home.”
“She pleaded to come with me tonight,” the man answered ruefully. “If I could, I would not turn her down. Alas, there are some places she should not attend yet.”
“She ought to enjoy herself a little longer. Perhaps she’ll take to them - or perhaps she’ll find them frightfully dull.”
“And which one would you be, Miss Armistead?”
“Neither,” Iolanthe answered truthfully. “The seasons are no longer about me, but it is a duty to be here, all the same.”
They parted shortly afterwards, and there were more dances: first with Lieutenant Wickham, who asked for her hand with the most charming smile she’d ever seen: perfectly innocent and yet inviting more, if she should so choose. Iolanthe knew of the Lieutenant, the way younger women fell at his feet, and for one slightly terrifying moment wondered if Isabella had already danced with him - or flirted. Or both.
Still, there was no denying his charisma or his manners. Here, Iolanthe noticed people were watching - her or the Lieutenant, she could not crane her neck far enough to see, but it was enough that there were pinpricks at the back of her neck.
“Worried, Miss Armistead?”
“Hardly. I’m not the one debuting this season,” she answered. “Still, I am unused to this attention.”
“More’s the pity. You cut quite the striking figure on the dance floor, and it’s a shame they only appreciate it now.”
“And yourself?”
“I am sorry to have missed this, being away from London long enough. The military life rarely affords us such pleasures.”
“And I presume now you are in the city proper, you will make full use of it.”
“The only way I know how, Miss Armistead. London is where everything happens - all the more reason to be present for it.”
“You do seem to be taking this quite light-heartedly.”
Lieutenant Wickham shrugged, easy, fluid, almost imperceptible as they spun around on the ballroom floor. “I have plenty of time to marry, and I do not place as much stock in these gatherings than most do. More practical experience to be gained elsewhere.”
What that practical experience was, Iolanthe did not ask for him to elaborate. What that practical experience was, Iolanthe did not ask for him to elaborate.
“Would the rest of the ton see it your way,” Iolanthe answered instead. “But I suspect they might perish of boredom if they did not have a house to visit every other week.”
Levi did laugh then. “Ah, but only that they’re unimaginative. Plenty of fun to be had elsewhere, if one knows where to look.”
It would be improper right there and then for him to state this - whether in this company or in front of a lady, but Iolanthe did not mind him saying so. Iolanthe was no fool, season or not, and she saw no point in denying or pretending to be horrified by this matter. So she moved the conversation to other things: the ton, the season, what operas and plays were being put on. When they parted, Iolanthe did not miss how eyes trailed after her, and ignored it. Instead, she sought out the Dowager Duchess of Warwick instead, the two of them quietly conversing and even more quietly pretending they weren’t quietly commentating on the nervous mamas and how blatant some matchmaking attempts were going.
As she was retreating back into the crowd, she saw Lord Brandon again, but this time there was concern writ on his face, as if he couldn’t find what he was looking for. She followed his line of vision, and saw what she suspected he could not: Lord Oliver Brandon headed quietly out towards the door next to gorgeous white-framed French windows.
Her last dance of the evening was with Lord Morland, last spotted dancing with Isabella quite happily. This dance passed by pleasantly: the Viscount was a perfect gentleman, even if his dancing and footsteps were a little clumsier than her other companions for the night. But it was a contented, comfortable one, with more gentle observations being made and questions asked after each other’s families. She was, of course, complimented on her sister, which Iolanthe thanked as prettily as she could’ve been taught.
When they parted, Iolanthe was content to rest, when a movement caught her eye: Lady Dido Morland, coming back into the room - followed moments later by the same Lord Oliver Brandon. She blinked, and cast her eyes around the room. So far, their re-entrance had drawn no attention, no comment , and Iolanthe was not about to change that status quo.
Besides, it was her turn toe finally, finally slip out to catch a breath of fresh air, to enjoy the cooling summer evening. Had socialising ever been this difficult? Perhaps so - or perhaps she’d gotten even rustier approaching spinsterhood. For now though, the quiet outside, contrasted against the golden lights inside the ballroom, was a soothing balm in itself, enough for her to recover her balance before she went back in for the social event of the season.
COMPLETE
Finally...
Last edited by Jadis (17/09/2023 at 19:42)
