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

[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.