aungier | All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

Date: November 2nd, 1888
Time: 10:00am - 10:30 am (service- characters may stay for longer, though)
Location: The chapel
Characters: Everyone [OPEN/~~CLOSED~~]

Summary: The household gathers together in the chapel for a short All Soul's Day service.
Warnings: None.

The Valdemar family are not, by and large, particularly religious. "My faith," proclaimed Lady Valdemar once, to the horror of her husband's parents, "lies while science and science alone. If God should have a hand in that, so be it. I couldn't care less either way."

Yet here they were, gathered together in silent prayer before the altar and the glassy purview of King Solomon and a host of angels, huddled in the dark pews at the front as if in collective repentance- not that Her Ladyship seems particularly repentant. From the slant of her shoulders to her poker-straight back to the upward jut of her chin, all of her bearing is far too proud for a humble servant; she watches her husband take to the lectern with an almost feline boredom, thin lips pursed. Even a servant watching from a second floor balcony might note the smear of carmine on them, as if brushed on for the sole purpose of better expressing her disdain.

"The righteous perish, and no one ponders it in his heart; devout men are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil." Lord Valdemar seems uncomfortable with so many eyes upon him, and he studiously avoids his wife's stare. He dabs at his brow with a handkerchief before continuing. "Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death."

His voice, though low and quiet, echoes throughout the space with a new importance that could only have been built into place by a canny architect with an ear for dramatics. A Madonna relief rolls her eyes piously to the ceiling; a spider inches its way down her shoulder and drops onto the organ, silent for years now.

The final stretch now. "I live in a high and holy place, but also with him who is contrite and lowly in spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly and to revive the heart of the contrite," he finishes- and, the bible closes in a dusty thump. With another mop of the brow, he murmurs something pleading about feeling faint before bolting for the hallway wearing a martyred look.

Lady Valdemar sniffs. "A migraine," she informs no one in particular, rising from the pew. She makes it sound like an accusation. "His health is so tenuous these days."

But for all of her snide comments, that she is the one left rather than her husband does allow for a little breathing room. If anyone should want to light a candle or speak a silent prayer of their own, now is the time.

[This is an open post for all of the household. Threads may either take place during, before or after the service. Lady Valdemar will also be available to speak with, assuming your character is either of the right station or has an excuse to do so- say so in your post's subject line if that would interest you.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Shirogane is, as far as men go, fairly harmless, unless you're a little rich boy trying to gamble with his daddy's money.

"I can see that...such a somber day almost seems to call for this sort of weather..." All Shirogane had to remember on this day was really his mother, and usually, the thought that she was no longer suffering in this world . If his long-gone father were dead, well, so be it. He paused for a moment, feeling like he should say something else. "As though nature itself were observing the occasion."

"Of course it's watching." She says it with such certainty, as if she didn't even have to stop to consider if the idea was ridiculous or not.

Mary is used to being watched by unseen things, even if they were only in her mind, she could feel their eyes on her. The wind was the breath of a great creature, a great and terrible creature.

To Shirogane, the wind is an old friend, a reminder that he's outside and free. There's nothing to be uncomfortable with now that he's out of the confines of the church, and he finds that certainty a bit odd. He's at least polite enough and practiced enough with his emotions not to let that show. "Good of it to provide something appropriate, then, if it must listen in."

Mary nods pleasantly in response, unlikely to argue with anyone even if she did disagree, not forcefully. She smooths down her skirts absentmindedly for a moment, letting her fingers weave in and out of the creases of the soft blue fabric. Her clothes are slightly out of fashion for England, truthfully, but she was fond of what she had brought with her from home.

"Is it listening to your prayers, footman?" Her eyes flicker up, more focused than they have been at any other point in this conversation, ice cold blue and intent. "Do you have a lost soul to pray for?"

A lady would ask the question more gently, there is almost a bluntness to her now.

Shirogane's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise not so much at the nature of the question, but at that lack of gentleness. "...my mother, actually." He frowns a bit at the thought of the woman; she likely would have been ashamed of how her only son had turned out. "She died of the consumption several years ago."

He wonders if he should ask the same of her to carry on a polite conversation...but the topic's sensitive enough that he hesitates to do so.

"Oh." Now Mary shows some kind of emotion, lifting her little hands -- pale and delicately boned -- up to her mouth, making a little steeple to catch her breath inside. A show of recognition for the terror of consumption.

...But truthfully, the disease fascinates her. The idea of the body eating itself from the inside out, of handkerchiefs full of blood. Of bodies withering away into a pathetic little nothingness--

"How difficult." She doesn't say terrible. "You seem so young, how difficult."

"Not so difficult. I learned how to take care of myself. Made my peace with it." If she'd lived, he likely wouldn't have spent so long hanging around gambling houses. Wouldn't have gotten ideas about using that to get rich. "I've found a place at a respectable house; I'm sure she would have been quite happy."

No, he isn't. But it's the sort of thing that sounds good in a conversation like this.

Her hands lower from her mouth, fingers interlacing to make a humble shape over her heart.

"What mother could be displeased that her son has learned to survive?" She muses this, seeming very earnest about the subject. "But we would all prefer to have been there to witness it."

She doesn't really mean to say 'we,' but her emotions for the subject cloud her judgement as she speaks.

"It's a mother's greatest joy."

"She always seemed to hope I'd be a trader like my father, I'd imagine." Not that he ever could have figured out why she'd want him to be anything like that man. Shirogane would have preferred the life he'd wound up in, prison and all, rather than running out on his own wife and son when fatherhood became too constricting.

But something Mary had said caught his attention rather well. "'We?'" he asked curiously, completely unaware of the possibility of that being a sensitive subject. He hadn't been aware the governess had any children...was she simply that attached to her own charges?

Oh. Her attention had drifted off of his face while she spoke so fervently about the love of mothers, but they slide back to him when she hears the word again. We. Her eyes are large, like a startled deer. We. Mothers, like us. She wrings her hands uncomfortably, feeling an itch somewhere deep that she wishes she could scratch out. The words of the dead buzz in her ears like so many flies circling her ever-rotting body.

"Oh yes," she murmurs very softly, that swell of emotion that had touched her a moment before is gone. She shakes her head back and forth slowly, mournful. "But I won't see my little one grow. She's gone. She's gone forever."

It is hard for Mary to think that she made such a sacrifice only to receive nothing in the bargain. The idea makes her mind scream, and so she tries not to think on it too often. Tries to believe, the way that the faithful believe there is purpose to their suffering in God's world.

"Oh...I'm very sorry to hear that." He was quite sincere about that. Shirogane had always liked kids. He didn't like to see them suffer, and he hated to hear that one would not survive to adulthood, even if such things were more common than he'd like. He wondered how it had happened, but he did not ask. To do so seemed rather impolite, not to mention insensitive.

She bats at her hair nervously, very careful not to make eye-contact lest she give something of herself away. Eyes are the windows to the soul and hers is so withered and virulent.

"Yes," she agrees faintly, a tremulous smile. "But I'll light my candles today."

As if that explains it all away, proves what a good mother she is.

Shirogane was enough of a gambler to see that a nerve somewhere had inadvertently been struck. He assumed the discomfort was simply upset at the mention of her child, not any sort of guilt over it. He tried to return her smile with a reassuring one of his own. "That's all any of us can do."

Even though he had no intention of doing so himself, nor did he think the practice would actually accomplish anything. But reassurance was reassurance, and if she needed such things, he'd not say anything otherwise.

All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

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