It is a truth universally acknowledged... (open)

[drownedfuchsia]

The following appears on several bulletin boards around the mansion.

A lady, a young 33 years of age, from a respectable family, is interested in corresponding with a gentleman, aged 35-50, with a view toward marriage.
Please address all inquiries to Lady Fuchsia Groan.

No other contact details are included.

[ooc: Characters may either track

Comments

[drownedfuchsia]

Fuchsia's not the most stable sort either, but could vastly improve if her own life was somewhat stabilized.

The response makes her literally squeal, and she quickly composes a reply.

Mr. Reese,

You sound like the most lovely of company with whom to spent the afternoon. Would tomorrow afternoon in the sitting room that gets the most sun in the afternoon, suit you?

Lady Groan

[cantplaygod]

She'll find a reply later in the same day, slipped under the door as before.

Dear Lady Groan,

Tomorrow afternoon sounds like a plan. I'll meet you in the sitting room as you asked.

Mr. Reese.

[drownedfuchsia]

Fuchsia's so nervous she can't sit down. This might cause a problem with the whole tea thing, but perhaps she will calm down eventually.

That eventually is not now. There is tea on the table, and scones (were they someone's from the kitchen WHO KNOWS). Fuchsia is standing by the window, as if the outside might give her a glimpse of her companion.

[cantplaygod]

We suspect the scones may have been Muraki's:

She likely doesn't hear her companion enter, since Reese moves quietly even when he's not on a case. But she might hear someone clearing their throat gently from the far side of the table. "Lady Fuschia?" a soft, light baritone voice might ask. And if she looks up, she'll spot a tall, dark and handsome gent in a nice suit standing before her.

[drownedfuchsia]

Sorry, Muraki, but the scones are sacrificed in the name of something bigger?

Startled by the voice, she turns quickly. The material of her dress rustles, and she could never sneak anywhere. What she can do is grin. For her first official meeting in this experiment, first impressions are very positive.

"Mr. -- Mr. Reese," Sure, she stutters out his name, because she's terribly nervous. This may result in some terrible faux pas later.

"Thank you for coming." She holds out her hand, a little stiffly as if she's about to greet him, but then the gesture changes, to indicate he should sit down.

[cantplaygod]

"That would be me," he says, reaching to take her hand, but instead, reaching to draw up her chair for her. "Saw your message: you sounded like you needed some company."

[drownedfuchsia]

Tick one in the box of appropriate men -- he holds out her chair.

"Thank you."

"I appreciate your offer to keep me company."

[cantplaygod]

"Seemed like the proper thing to do: your notice made you sound a bit lonely," he says, not taking his seat till she's settled. "Or am I mistaken?"

[drownedfuchsia]

"I am." The second word cuts off as if she realizes she shouldn't've said so. "But I thought it's important to try and meet new people."

That sounds like a good excuse, right?

Now that she is settled, she's going to pick up the plate of scones, take one, then hold it out for him.

[cantplaygod]

"S'pose an advertisement is as good a means as any," Reese replies, accepting the scone. Hopefully Finch has taught him the proper way to eat a scone, rather than just chomping into it like a yobbo. "So... you an artist of some kind? Really fancy dress you've got."

[drownedfuchsia]

"There are so many people here and they do look at the boards." She speaks after taking a bit of the scone, crumbs stuck to the side of her mouth.

Scones are such fickle things.

"I'm a poet," Fuchsia responds with uncertainty. "But I'm dressed as my station."

[cantplaygod]

Taking his cue from her, he'll take a bite from his scone (somewhere in headspace, Harold Finch is rolling his eyes and snarking).

"You written anything of any length?" he asks. "Gotten anything published?" He's not much of a reader, but he'd give her work a go, just to see what it's like.

[drownedfuchsia]

Fuchsia shakes her head. "I wouldn't be, not in Gormenghast. Groans follow rituals, not work." The traditions can be tedious work.

Poor Fuchsia is used to people who work on great art all year, only to have it destroyed, if not selected. Publishing might work like that.

"I've only written for my closest friends." Well, friend.

[cantplaygod]

One wonders if Mervyn Peake was satirizing the practices of publishing houses when he thought up the Ceremony of Bright Carvings....

"Ahh, just wondering: There was a princess in my world, Diana, the Princess of Wales, who used to do a lot of charity work, helping the poor and the homeless, that sort of thing," he says.

"I'd like to hear some of your poetry, if you're willing to read it."

We wonder now how his much more educated employer and friend would react to it...

[drownedfuchsia]

It's a valid theory. So many beautiful things, rejected based on a whim. The hopes, and work of so many, refused, by those who likely know little of the process. Like the carvings, Fuchsia puts her heart into what she write, but couldn't take the rejection.

"She was allowed to have work?" What an odd concept.

"And I don't have any here. I didn't think to bring it." It barely leaves her writing desk.

[cantplaygod]

"Princesses and nobles are a bit different in my world," he says, with a shrug.

He'll take a sip of tea. "Well, if inspiration should arise and you write anything, I'd like to hear it."