All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

[valdemars]

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.]

Comments

[mouthbreathing]

Though it might not have been entirely accurate to say that Warsman had quite been pinned to Robin's side since his arrival, it was fair to suggest that he certainly seemed a lot happier trailing after his old teacher than he ever did wandering by himself. True, he was a far cry from the man he met all those years ago, the Barracuda who made his life hell for the short time they were together, and it was truer still that he'd been pale and melancholy like a man possessed for the whole time he'd been here- but he was softer, too. Calmer. More reasonable.

More awkward, too. There was no mistaking the fact that now they shared a different sort of intimacy to the master-student hierarchy they'd constructed in St. Petersburg; he'd been humbled beyond frosty authority. Though Warsman had been reluctant to press for the details of his resignation it wasn't long before he realised that, somewhere past his to-the-point explanations and light conversation, something had broken his spirit. And nothing troubled him more than the thought that he might have preferred him this way.

The moment Robin rose from his pew, so too did he hurry towards him with a light, quick urgency, as though escaping from a shower of rain in the man's shadow. "Sir." He'd been trying to train himself out of it, but old habits died hard. Anyway, it wasn't as though Robin was undeserving of his respect. "Will you be busy today?"

'Will you be busy' was, of course, a coded question- the question his hesitance refused to let him ask was if his company was welcome- but he knew he'd be understood.

[gentlemanliest]

Was it loyalty that kept him close? It was unsettling to remember that it had been born from something so much more unpleasant and different from the new sense of companionship that they shared now. Their bond was, in a way, one of the only surviving landmarks of that time but it troubled him to imagine that it was still governed by the same imbalance.

As ever, Robin found himself momentarily troubled into silence, trying to read deeper into Warsman’s voice where the hard lines of his mask refused to betray any emotion- and failed.

Sir. Somehow it had a different sound to it these days than all the times he had said it before and Robin relaxed again. “I was considering a walk. Would you join me?”

It was a more direct question than he would have used with anyone else. Even now, Warsman seemed to respond better to commands than casual suggestions, maybe out of a fear that he was being a nuisance, only allowed to accompany him under sufferance. But Robin had already gotten quite used to his reserved presence and the way he followed him like a hesitant second shadow- it was what so often made him the perfect companion.

[mouthbreathing]

Warsman's shoulders visibly sank with relief, though he was quick to square them again; he hadn't wanted to impose, but Robin had ways of putting his mind at ease, getting to the point where he couldn't quite bring himself to be so blunt. It wouldn't have done for him to demand his attention, after all, and letting him make the decision for both of them was far more agreeable to the both of them. Besides, he suspected that Robin still rather liked telling him what to do.

"I'd like that," he answered warmly, voice lifting immediately. With anyone else he might have been more conscious of volume, but here he could lower his defenses a little. "I've explored the grounds a little, but there's so much to see... I don't think I really took any of it in."

Two gardens, the stables, a maze... not to mention the land beyond the river, all swallowed by acres of grey-green fields and woodland. There was so much to the estate that Warsman hardly knew where to start, and the thought of so much undiscovered territory was exciting to him in a way he hadn't quite anticipated. There was bound to be some personal little corner for him to slip into, some space he could quietly make his own.

[gentlemanliest]

If he had any more reservations, for the moment at least, they were eased by the new lilt in his voice and the way that his eyes appeared to soften. It had always fascinated him how a mask could express so much with so little but he took a different pleasure in it now- and not a little pride at his progress in learning to read those subtle expressions.

Robin smiled encouragingly. "Excellent. I have yet to fully acquaint myself with them either but I'm sure we'll manage between the two of us," he said, "We should use the folly as a landmark."

It was frankly embarrassing that he had probably spent more time staring forlornly out of the windows of his room at the grounds than actually being in them. The late autumn air, damp and crisp and prickling with smoky smells, had revived his appetite for exploration in such a boyish kind of way that he couldn't help but share Warsman's enthusiasm.

[mouthbreathing]

"Have you?" Warsman asked, with some surprise. "I would have thought that you would have memorised every possible route on the estate by your second week."

He'd barely spoken the words before he started to regret them. Robin had been here for a long while now, yes, but he'd already realised just how profoundly he'd changed in the intervening years. For all he knew, the man standing before him now hadn't even left the house in all of that time- and, God only knew, didn't need to be reminded of that fact by his clumsy observations.

Trying to make amends was, then, Warsman's utmost priority, even if it meant making himself sound like an idiot in the process. "This is going to sound incredibly ignorant, Robin," he started quickly, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to get the question out, "but what is a folly?" It's a horribly transparent cover-up and he knows it, but his intentions, hopefully, will be understood.

[gentlemanliest]

Robin would have been lying if he’d said that it didn’t sting a little to hear it put so prosaically and yet the surprise evoked a very different response to the humiliation he had anticipated. How long was he going to spend skulking around, a wan, hazy shadow of his former self? Warsman must have been bewildered by the man who had replaced his draconian teacher when they were first reunited.

“Quite right- and I intend to make up for that time by doing it in a week, if you’ll assist me,” he replied firmly, squaring his shoulders.

... not that it lasted particularly long. There was just something about the way that he tried to save that little blunder that shattered any attempt to look serious and resolved. He really did know him far too well, didn't he?

Robin chuckled, clapping a hand to his shoulder. "Wars, I think your English is better than that, you don't need to pretend for my sake."

[mouthbreathing]

Robin's determination, though brief, was still something worth seeing as far as Warsman was concerned; for those few seconds he'd wholeheartedly believed that he'd be staking his claim to the land within the hour, striding out in his riding boots like an old explorer. Cruel or kind, he'd always seemed to have the kind of passion that could stir just about anyone, and Warsman could only answer with a firm nod.

It was even enough that he didn't feel his confidence in the man waning even after the moment had passed- though when he realised that Robin had considerably overestimated him, even if his relief to see him back on form wasn't enough to stop him from answering with a plaintive shake of the head.

"I know that 'folly' means 'foolishness'," he said, giving him a faintly reproachful look, "but I've never heard it used like that before. Unless you're trying to make fun of me."

[gentlemanliest]

For the briefest of moments, he looked wrong-footed, brow creased with confusion, until he finally caught on to what Warsman was saying. Oh. Well then.

"Ah, I'd completely forgotten that..." Robin trailed off with an apologetic shake of the head. Really, now, and he was supposed to have graduated amongst some of the brightest minds in England all of those years ago. "English really is a devil of a language to navigate, isn't it? Do excuse me. A folly is a type of building- they're designed to look as though they have a purpose when, in actual fact, they're purely ornamental."

You didn't get many of those in London. Anyone trying to erect a miniature castle, assuming that they even found the space of it, would find it almost immediately populated by any number of wanderers and vagabonds. So much for 'purely ornamental'.

[mouthbreathing]

Completely forgotten? More like it hadn't even occurred to him. At the last moment Warsman had stopped himself from shaking his own head, but even so it wouldn't have been a fond gesture; sometimes it seemed that the cleverer the speaker, the more detached from the rest of the world they could sometimes be, as though their minds were too occupied with their own brilliance to take account of any of those silly, unnecessary things like clarity or simplicity.

"It is tricky, yes," he agreed warmly. He didn't have the heart to tease him. "I think I understand. Purely ornamental, though..." For a moment his mask's expression was clouded with a faint disapproval. He couldn't fathom having not only the money but the space to put up a building with the sole purpose of looking nice- and not even close to the house, if his memory of the grounds served him well.

On a sudden note of inspiration, he tilted his head. "Is it that shape to the north? I've seen glimpses of it out of the upstairs windows, but it's been very cloudy lately."

[gentlemanliest]

"That's it. Sometimes you can hardly see it for the mist."

Most winter mornings it was swallowed up by thick, white fog, the tip of the highest turret just barely peeking out of the fog like the prow of a wrecked ship until the tide finally subsided to reveal it window by window. Robin had visited it once before but something about its hollow, towering shape had set him on edge. He hadn't returned since.

With company, it might feel less desolate. Buoyed by that thought, he clapped his hands together in the way a teacher announcing the day's schedule to the class might. "Right. We'll explore the grounds together, shall we? The weather is perfect for it."

Not that he had expected Warsman to object account of a little chill in the air; he'd probably endured winters colder than anything England could throw at him.