» An Opportunity for Much Missed Activity, [Open]

[Josephine St. Just]

Josephine was not having a very pleasant St. Valentine’s Day. Her heart was aching for someone across the strait and she could not very well tell anyone. Lyra was unlikely to care in any way, shape, or form, particularly because she did not approve of much anything that Josephine enjoyed, and she was hoping that Madame Marceau was not having a very pleasant day either – perhaps she had a case of the sniffles or one of their children was being especially irksome.

She rather liked to think that Francois was thinking of her as well, and being at this ball, surrounded by happy people, she just wanted to lash out and scream, or perhaps just sink into the background. She did not want to sink to their level; after all, she had enough of this country business. And sighing softly, the redhead put a hand to her mouth, yawning daintily into the gloved hand. Perhaps she would be able to show off a bit.

“Josephine…” Lyra began, but Josephine was in no mood to listen. Breezing past her, she left Lyra in her wake, confused as to what was going on, and watching her back as she approached the beautiful and currently unoccupied instrument. Everyone should be blessed with music, and who better to do such a thing than the woman who sorely missed performance?

Smoothing her deeply colored silk over her legs, she surveyed the keys. They were a little worn, but not too offensive. This observation led her to believe that she could remove the gloves from her hands and she laid them next to her on the bench, Lyra snatching them up as she did, causing Josephine to laugh a bit. Shaking her head, she laid her pale hands on the keys, the long digits stretching over the keys as she tested them, pressing the pedals with her toes, just to see how sensitive they were.

Satisfied that the piano was in proper tune and she could adjust to the sensitivity of the instrument, she began to pad out the beginnings of an Italian melody. It was quite beautiful, in her opinion, and would be something easy she could do without much warming up. After all, she didn’t have the time or the space in order to bring her voice to its full strength; she supposed that was why all these terrible English songs were so breathy – not made for a strong voice!

When her mouth opened, a liquid sound poured forth and the Italian coming as a second nature, her eyes fluttering between closed and half opened as she concentrated on both the keys and the notes, it felt rather like old times, and she felt at home for the space of a few minutes. When her voice was resting, her eyes turned down to the keys, the typically flippant and playful St. Just was far more concentrated and Lyra looked on anxiously, glancing at the crowd as though they were going to be upset with her. Ridiculous! She was happy to do it and they should have been honored she would do that for them, after all, a professional didn’t have to exert herself in such a manner.

She just hoped, when her fingers pressed the final chord and her foot hit the pedal that she had not slipped in those few months. Even if she practiced every day, sometimes the separation from the stage hurt the performance that much. She positioned herself to strike the final notes, pleased with herself, at the least.

[Henry Everson]

It could not be helped. Henry Everson was bored.

And had been since he had moved to this place.

Not that he had expected any different.

Unwilling to commit himself to a conversation he would not wish to endure until the end, Henry had kept himself unattached and disengaged the entire time, causing both his aunt and cousin to frown at him from across the room. He'd asked a girl barely out of society to dance--causing her mother to frown as well.

A wise man chose one's enemies very carefully, but Henry wasn't feeling particularly wise tonight. He was feeling cantankerous. He was feeling surly. He was feeling tempestuous.

He heard some music playing in the next room--not that scraping the musicians here were trying at--and moved over, recognising that the musician had some skill, though he couldn't quite make it out over the talk and the dance and the squeaking violins. Still, it sounded as though she knew what she was doing.

As he entered the room, finding a small crowd congregated, Henry's complexion changed darkly. He knew the tune and the memories it brought back, the accents of home brought a tenderness and sorrow he resented. If the woman did know what she was doing--and upon seeing who it was, he wondered if she did--he deeply resented it. She was enjoying this, every last, selfish moment of it.

Two measures before the song was over, he caught eyes with her and promptly left the music room with the cold click of boots upon the wood flooring.

[Josephine St. Just]

Typically, Josephine would be quite pleased with the reception she received upon performance. She enjoyed having people enjoy her music, and more importantly, she enjoyed making it. Her skill level was still up to par, she assumed, as no one said anything against it, and she was sure, with the amount of friends that she did not have, no one would have been afraid to let her know just how they felt. There was one person who, though said nothing, seemed to convey quite clearly how he felt about the matter.

Coming into the room in the middle of a song was perfectly fine, she did admit it had a certain siren’s quality about it, and she would have very much enjoyed the comparison of herself to a siren. Leaving the room before the song was finished, however, was a very different thing indeed and a person who did both in the same evening during the same song…. Well! Josephine could not and would not stand for such an action. Smiling in a gracious, but false manner to those who watched, apologizing for not being able to give an encore at the moment, Joie looked to Lyra.

“I need a bit of air,” she lied, grabbing her gloves from her hands with one swipe. “You can stay inside.” It was far harsher than a suggestion though, and Mademoiselle St. Just was quite adamant about Lyra staying behind – she barely even had a moment to protest before the slighted redhead jaunted out of the room, following the man out of the room.

Thankfully he had taken a route that was not congested with the hordes of country folk that might want to listen for some new piece of gossip and Josephine cleared her throat. “Signor Capellio,” she began, one hand across her chest as the other rested under her chin, a probing look on her face, “you do know it is rude to leave before the artist has finished her piece,” her lacquered lips curled into a bit of a smirk, that eyebrow rising ever higher as she sincerely questioned him. He couldn’t imagine he’d get away with such a thing, could he?

[Henry Everson]

Henry turned and lifted his eyebrows in response to the accusation. "I didn't like the piece," he said simply. "Manners go in and out of fashion--I don't keep up. But opinions, Mademoiselle St. Just, are always fashionable, for few can afford them. Forgive me for thinking myself richer than I am. I am, doubtless," he said with a little bow, "not the first."

He looked about and smirked. "And I go by Henry Everson, here. If you please, Mademoiselle St. Just." He looked at her expectantly, wondering what else he could possibly want from him, having now extracted an apology of sorts.

Not waiting to hear, he moved into the main room, assuming that if she wished to renew the conversation, she would either do so or drag him to some other place to carry it out. Women did have their pretty little ways of doing things. He reached for some punch, then moved to a stronger drink and drank it with quick dispatch.

He turned. Aunt Cordelia was frowning at him from across the room. He took the punch and drank it more slowly.

[Josephine St. Just]

Part of Josephine was deeply offended. The other part was intrigued. Who exactly did he think he was to speak to her in such a manner, and what gave him that right? She knew who she was, when she had an opinion on something, generally it was founded in some experience, and even if he did have a problem with the song itself it wasn’t as though it was chosen expressly to irritate him. She chose what she wished, regardless of her audience. “You are a poor man, indeed,” she replied flatly, pursing her lips at him.

Of course, what surprised her more than his clever sort of opinion was the fact he was going by a different name now. Ah! She was intrigued. The woman, far more interested in continuing now that she had a reason, was again affronted by the gentleman. For someone who seemed so worldly, he was quite rude! He had not been lying about his manners!

Setting herself to the chase, the redhead strode after him with determination set in her blue-green eyes. He was not going to escape, and the likes of Josephine St. Just did not just give up or play the coy miss when confronted with someone who piqued her interest. She was far too brash for such a thing and she certainly knew he would not approach her. It was a woman’s job sometimes to make acquaintance where it was not immediately wanted.

She followed him into the main room and spotted him almost immediately – quite glad to see he was not that difficult to spot. Maneuvering her way around the crowd without becoming entangled in conversation (quite the feat), she finally made her way to his side and picked up a glass of her own, glancing down at it. The English and their silly punch. Taking a sip, she grimaced: a fine wine would be far better.

“Then, Monsieur Everson,” she made sure to stress his name, holding a gaze with him, disregarding what may have been said around them – as though she cared, “since you do not like my music, perhaps there is something else that interests you. I know your appearance in a place such as this, meeting again, interests me quite a bit,” she took another sip of the punch, her lips lingering at the glass as she tilted it downwards, still trying to hold that gaze all the while.

[Henry Everson]

“You are a poor man, indeed,” she had replied flatly, pursing her lips at him. To this, Henry only gave a bitter smile before heading out, amused at something.

When he turned around again, there she was. He smiled pleasantly as though in surprise. "Ah, Mademoiselle St. Just! Here you are again, I see. There's no need for Messieurs or Citoyens or whatever the French may be calling it now. Mister Everson works here in Middleton," he said with a broader smile.

As he watched her drink a few moments, he said, "No, there is little here that interests me. My aunt, Lady Stanley-Lyon," here Henry sad turning slightly and nodded to Aunt Cordelia who remained in her frowning stare, "hopes that the Middleton air agrees with me more than London's."

He took a sip of the punch himself and shook his head. "I have to say, however, that my aunt may be right. Sometimes it is nice to be disinterested; it is safer at least. Don't you agree?"

[Josephine St. Just]

She was not quite sure if his shift in mood was because he was mocking her or the plethora of people around, but either way, she did not like it. Fallacy, when committed against her, made her uncomfortable. Joie was in the habit of smiling at people when she did not mean it or complimenting a truly awful excuse for a gown in this town, but something about being lied to herself – she did not deserve such a thing, partially because she knew better.

“Perhaps, but it is so bland. There is no excitement in ‘Mister,’” she scrunched her nose before taking another sip: it might have been disgusting, but it was something to drink. “It is far too cold – much like England,” she commented. There was no passion here, she thought to herself, perhaps it was why he seemed to fit in.

She followed his glance to the woman he referenced as his aunt and made certain to not make a face of any sort. In fact, she managed to smile a little, though knowing the woman probably thought she was a scandalous tart before even introduced (it seemed the general consensus of older women in the town). It was at that moment she realized she desperately wished for a cigarette. Perhaps she would be able to coerce him to continue their conversation outside where she could indulge. It appeared she would have to wait, however.

Shaking her head in disagreement the redhead eyed him curiously. “I dare say, I am quite bored.” This was probably not something wonderful to say in front of so many inhabitants who found this to be an idyllic little alcove, but it was how she felt. “I would much prefer the city. Though, I suppose I would have to agree on its safety… there is no trouble to be had in a haven like this.”

[Henry Everson]

“Perhaps, but it is so bland. There is no excitement in ‘Mister,’” she scrunched her nose before taking another sip: it might have been disgusting, but it was something to drink. “It is far too cold – much like England,” she commented.

"Then clearly," he said, raising his eyebrows as he sipped from his glass, "you have not met the right 'misters'."

He considered his next words carefully. He did not wish to make her feel incriminated on her own grounds. It would profit him little. And yet, he did not wish to yield, either. "I should have thought," he said in his careless British manner, "That you and I had both had enough trouble. I'm sure I could tell you some if you'd like," he said, but the words didn't sound pleasant. "Or make some, but I fear my skill in that may pale even to your own. For myself," he added more easily, "I do not think trouble and amusement to be the same. Someone's amusement may be someone else's trouble, but if we are talking about wealth and poverty, here, I must say you have learnt yourself the high cost of one's amusement. You are not so rich yourself, Mademoiselle St. Just." The words were delivered with as much empathy as he could afford.

But Henry was, after all, a poor person in some regards.

[Josephine St. Just]

"Then clearly," he said, raising his eyebrows as he sipped from his glass, "you have not met the right 'misters'."

Josephine was no stranger to flirtation, particularly with men like Mister Everson. It did not surprise her that he was the kind to say something of the like and a low chuckle bubbled from her throat, just barely smiling at him over the rim of her glass. “Perhaps you could introduce me to them then, since you seem to know where they might be.”

Of course, she knew what she was saying was pushing the envelope, especially for the older woman who was standing nearby looking at her with such contempt it almost made her smile at her for spite. Oh, what that woman didn’t know! If she knew of Josephine’s past (she assumed it would become common knowledge soon enough), she wouldn’t have even been standing in the same area. Perhaps pulling out a cigarette would have been good for a laugh.

Of course, her craving for tobacco was slowly becoming less out of amusement and more out of despondency as he spoke. Trouble, at least harmless trouble, had always been something Joie found amusement in, and Mister Everson seemed to be one of the people who actually knew of her particular brand of amusement and trouble, rolled into one. “If what you are saying is true, about one’s amusement being another’s trouble, then are they not the same?” she asked, taking another sip of the punch before placing the cup back on the table, “And, sometimes the price paid is well worth it.”

“I have found, in my experience, any happiness, even for a blink of time,” she knew that did not sound how she wished it too, but with English being her fifth language, she found it difficult to sometimes communicate a clear thought, “that it was worth it.” Pausing for a moment, she looked at his face searching for something, “Have you any news from the continent, Mister Everson?” she asked, curious to see if he knew what she was expressly asking about and if he would tell her what she wanted to know.

[Cecily Hurston]

Cecily was bored. And when at a ball, it was never a good thing for Cecily to be bored. She had wandered about for quite awhile,and now was standing at the perimeter of the ball floor, listening to the wheezing of the violins.

They sounded downright asthmatic.

She quietly got herself a cup of punch, ignoring her Aunt's ferocious glare from down the room. If Aunt Anne chose to make a fuss about Cecily's choice of drink, she could do it when they got home.

Her gaze wandered around the room again. Sometimes, she sorely regretted cultivating a reputation as a wild tomboy. It made people so reticent to dance with her. She took a sip of the punch, and ran her gaze along the wall. Not many people were standing about. The older ladies and gentlemen, along with a few younger people who apparently were, like her, at a loss for a partner.

And Mr. Everson, not five feet from her, engaged in a lively discussion on someting with Miss St. Just, the redhaired 'city girl'. She shrugged, uninterested, and turned her attention back to the dance. How she wished she could be out there. This inactivity was galling her.

[Henry Everson]

"But," Henry said now, raising an eyebrow and looking about the ballroom, "perhaps you are not into 'misters' at all? What of lords? Deveraux, for instance? I could introduce you to him." a smile curled at his suggestion. He'd make it as innocent as possible, particularly with Miss Hurston and the old woman listening in.

Henry had news from the Continent, and of the variation she seemed to be driving at. 'She must not know,' he thought grimly to himself, 'else she'd not be asking for it.' That would need to wait for another time. First, he would serve his purposes with some light banter. He left all talk of trouble and amusement behind for the moment and looked to Miss Hurston.

"Miss Hurston, it is a pleasure to see you this evening. Have you yet made acquaintance with Mademoiselle St. Just? Mademoiselle St. Just, Miss Hurston," he provided, smiling between the two.

[Josephine St. Just]

Josephine could do nothing but laugh at his suggestion. What did he take her for, honestly? She had money of her own accord and did not need to be bogged down with that sort of existence. Lords were notorious for marriage and she would have none of it. Misters were far more likely to fit her ideas of a healthy partnership, if there was one at all. No, she was far more interested in misters – or officers, a particular officer really.

“I’m acquainted with Lord Deveraux,” she informed him, taking a sip of her punch, “I’d prefer to meet more interesting characters… How funny I should happen upon a man of so many names this evening. Quite interesting,” she smirked at him, shameless in a lot of respects. She saw one of the older ladies looking at her incredulously. Apparently her brash behavior did not go unnoticed.

How could she think it would anyway? Everyone looked after the posh girl and in her flattering gowns that were far too lush for a place like this, it was hard to imagine they would be able to take their eyes away from her. Unfortunately she was too much for some of them. Henry was too little though, and he did not give her what she wanted. A disappointed look crossed her face as he changed the subject, introducing her to someone instead.

She inclined her head toward the young lady and summed her up in a few seconds. She did not appear that interesting and was of the country breed if she had ever seen one. Well, she supposed she could show some manners. “Hello Miss Hurston, enchante,” she said, though she did not particularly mean it. She wished that he wouldn’t have tried to change the subject. She wanted to know what he knew, and he was not allowing her such information. Perhaps he was teasing her, vexing man!

“How are you this evening?” she asked, moving closer to Henry so that he would not be able to dart. She assumed he wanted to go and that was why he turned her toward Miss Hurston. Well, she was on to him!

[Henry Everson]

Henry smiled, glad at least to have an unspoken ally to vouch for Deveraux's sullen and droll character. Once more he lamented Horatia's self-proclaimed bad taste in men. He had not believed her at first when she said that she did not like charming men. Experience taught Henry that she was deadly honest in that.

"Lord. Deveraux." Henry said, pretending not to catch on. To Cecily, he smiled and recapped, "Mademoiselle St. Just here has just been proclaiming her distaste for misters. Tell me, Miss Hurston, are there any rectors in these parts?" he asked, looking up innocently to Josephine. "They *do* marry here, you know. We don't much take to papism."

Henry was enjoying this very much and looked to Cecily, convinced of an ally.

[Edward Hurston]

Gr...multiple characters...

[Cecily Hurston]

Cecily started a bit as Mr. Everson addressed her. She turned towards the two, and curtsied prettily. "Enchanted Miss St. Just." Cecily said- abstaining from using her own languages. She could have...but she got the feeling that this young woman believed her to be a simple country miss, with little manners.

Well, let her think so. And, if Cecily was at all able to lead her on and make her thnk more so- well, Cecily was mischevious ad loved doing such things. "I am excellently well Miss St. Just. Though the lack of partners appears to have affected many young ladies tonight, regardless of their social standing. A pity." she smiled sweetly, projecting an aura of pointed innocence.

"And why is Miss St. Just so adamantly opposed to 'Misters'?" Cecily inquired. "I myself know many, and they are all perfect gentlemen. Or is Miss St. Just only concerned with the higher up strata of society?" still with an innocent, sweet smile.