Lady Marguerite has taken it upon herself to salvage the day.
Or rather, the remains of the day. After the five o'clock tea, the bones of the day settle rather jagged. Promissory and sharp. In discord with the shivery clouds that will swallow them whole. Swallow them whole and suck every remnant of fleshy sunlight.
It is for this rather gloomy reason that she has invited Lady Beresford. Lady Beresford - Grosvenor Place's hungry shewolf.
Augusta Beresford.
Augusta had an enchanting childhood musing in galleries and museum. She had been as celebrated as a sarcophagus on display dug up from Egypt and placed like a shining jewel among the privileged. Augusta who, in the blossom of her youth, decided she would forfeit her father's advice to marry the rather odious and chubby Lord Baye. Lord Baye, at the time, had interests overseas and quite wealthy.
Instead, the blue-eyed blonde fell in love with the handsome chap who had strolled in from Bohemia claiming he was a disadvantaged citizen of the old world. All debts. Retaining a good name.
The debts were real. Or rather, his apparent lack of money became clear throughout their love-making.
His good name however was dubious. There was, of course, little way of securing knowledge of his genesis. Of course.
"Of course, a horse! Augusta, a horse! Ha! Ha! Ha!" He would laugh loudly like a strong farm-hand. Lady Marguerite shudders just thinking of his crude manner.
He claimed to have been the love-child of a beautiful chestnut-haired maiden from Bukovina. Half Romanian, half Slavic blood. In the meadows, he would twist and pull Augusta's thoughts every which way with heavy accents honeyed like acacia leaves steeped in marshy grounds.
"My mother...Lua. She was sad you know? Sad like a cow" He meant to complete the comparison with 'deer' but he had forgotten the word in English.
Augusta, wide eyed, like a ...cow...was lost and transported to another world.
"Well do tell me more of your mother dear"
"Yes.. yes of course. She was beautiful like the Sun. Like the forest. In Bukovina we have ancient monasteries filled with ...iasomie..it is called jasmine I think and the whole monastery is filled with this iasomie when pious women come with empty minds and full hearts. Whitened hands, all the gold their family owns melted in crosses on their breasts.."
Augusta drunk with this foreign story-telling. Scheherazade laughing in her grave.
"Well my mother, being an orphan and hungry always hungry hungry, she found refuge at one such monastery. They always took in these children. Lost children of mixed ancestry. Her pale golden eyes and high forehead, Romanian softness. Her downcast gaze and hungry cheekbones, a slavic and unfortunate inscription. Unsteady hands, Romanian. Foresty, slavic.
who knows where she came from?
Or rather, the remains of the day. After the five o'clock tea, the bones of the day settle rather jagged. Promissory and sharp. In discord with the shivery clouds that will swallow them whole. Swallow them whole and suck every remnant of fleshy sunlight.
It is for this rather gloomy reason that she has invited Lady Beresford. Lady Beresford - Grosvenor Place's hungry shewolf.
Augusta Beresford.
Augusta had an enchanting childhood musing in galleries and museum. She had been as celebrated as a sarcophagus on display dug up from Egypt and placed like a shining jewel among the privileged. Augusta who, in the blossom of her youth, decided she would forfeit her father's advice to marry the rather odious and chubby Lord Baye. Lord Baye, at the time, had interests overseas and quite wealthy.
Instead, the blue-eyed blonde fell in love with the handsome chap who had strolled in from Bohemia claiming he was a disadvantaged citizen of the old world. All debts. Retaining a good name.
The debts were real. Or rather, his apparent lack of money became clear throughout their love-making.
His good name however was dubious. There was, of course, little way of securing knowledge of his genesis. Of course.
"Of course, a horse! Augusta, a horse! Ha! Ha! Ha!" He would laugh loudly like a strong farm-hand. Lady Marguerite shudders just thinking of his crude manner.
He claimed to have been the love-child of a beautiful chestnut-haired maiden from Bukovina. Half Romanian, half Slavic blood. In the meadows, he would twist and pull Augusta's thoughts every which way with heavy accents honeyed like acacia leaves steeped in marshy grounds.
"My mother...Lua. She was sad you know? Sad like a cow" He meant to complete the comparison with 'deer' but he had forgotten the word in English.
Augusta, wide eyed, like a ...cow...was lost and transported to another world.
"Well do tell me more of your mother dear"
"Yes.. yes of course. She was beautiful like the Sun. Like the forest. In Bukovina we have ancient monasteries filled with ...iasomie..it is called jasmine I think and the whole monastery is filled with this iasomie when pious women come with empty minds and full hearts. Whitened hands, all the gold their family owns melted in crosses on their breasts.."
Augusta drunk with this foreign story-telling. Scheherazade laughing in her grave.
"Well my mother, being an orphan and hungry always hungry hungry, she found refuge at one such monastery. They always took in these children. Lost children of mixed ancestry. Her pale golden eyes and high forehead, Romanian softness. Her downcast gaze and hungry cheekbones, a slavic and unfortunate inscription. Unsteady hands, Romanian. Foresty, slavic.
who knows where she came from?
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