rhubarb and flavour of the day with whipped cream and fresh peaches
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Introductions
Rating: G
Challenge: Rhubarb ‘My Treat’ #16: I think I feel a song coming on (a ball!), FOTD: lickerish
Toppings/Extras: whipped cream, fresh peaches
Wordcount: 1,374
Summary: Isaac Prowse meets Rosalind Ashdown for the first time. And Caity Fourment.
Notes: Marina’s treat! Follows Mentor. Now I have “Uptown Girl” stuck in my head. Warning; I go description mad in this. Lickerish: Greedy; longing. Lustful; lecherous. Fresh peaches: The Moon moves into bold Aries today, introducing a fresh start and a new perspective on life. Although you may run into a few obstacles this evening when the Moon squares Pluto, you can overcome any challenges you happen to encounter if you cultivate patience.
The hall was decked out impressively and was stuffed to the gills with men and women in fantastic attire. Isaac Prowse was suddenly very glad for his drabber clothing: he stopped feeling ridiculous and began feeling fascination at just how much make-up the dandier of the men were wearing. And the periwigs! Prowse had raised his brows enough at Ashdown’s wig, which was a whitish tied-back affair: some of the other wigs in the room at the moment were great gleaming tides of curls that flowed down men’s backs in every sort of colour, from vibrant reds to glossy blacks and powdered white-blondes.
Older women wore wigs too, but the younger girls did not-or at least, most of their hair seemed natural-and this was the case for the girl that instantly fell upon the two of them when they entered the room. Prowse scarcely had time to take in his surroundings before Rosalind Ashdown burst from the crowd and clasped her brother’s hands warmly.
“Teddy!” she exclaimed happily, and Prowse tried not to seem too shocked when her brother leaned forwards to kiss her on the cheek. Ashdown being affectionate was something he had never thought he would witness.
“Rose.” He indulged in her a half-smile and began steering her away from the door, as more people were bound to arrive shortly. “You look well.”
Prowse wasn’t at all certain that she did look well, not that he would say this. The first thing he noticed about her-the first thing he couldn’t help but notice about her-was how terribly thin she was. Even beneath the padding of her grey-green gown, he could tell that she had no substance at all, and her skin-while fashionably pale-did not seem healthy in the least. Her broad, starched lace collar only seemed to highlight how narrow her shoulders were and the bodice was flat against her chest: Rosalind had no bust at all, and Prowse could scarcely guess at her age. She could be ten or in her late teens.
As he had been scrutinising her, her attention turned to him, and quickly he thought back to the plentiful and painful lessons that Ashdown had given him for just this occasion. Gaze slipping to his master hesitantly, Prowse managed a fairly decent bow towards Rosalind, trying not to seem too embarrassed in doing so.
“Good evening,” he said sombrely, trying to disguise his accent as best as he could. “Isaac Prowse.”
“Mr Prowse,” Ashdown corrected as Prowse pressed his lips briefly to the teenage girl’s pale, skeletal hand and then straightened again. Rosalind gazed at her brother a moment, then back towards Prowse with a smile: it was a bright, cheery bite of a smile.
“It’s good to meet you, Mr Prowse,” she said with so much warmth in her frail voice that Prowse was won over in an instant. It was the first time in quite a while that anyone had been so welcoming towards him and he realised as he looked down at her frail frame that he fully agreed with the orders Ashdown had given him in the carriage: if a man was to try anything untoward with young Rosalind, he would see to it that he suffered.
The bandoleer of knives was snug and reassuring underneath his silky doublet.
“How are you feeling?” Ashdown asked, resuming conversation now that the necessary introduction was over. Prowse stepped back meekly and gazed across the ballroom, trying not to seem too awed by the sheer amount of jewellery he could see in one sweep. “Better than you were, I hope?”
“Yes, much better,” Rosalind replied, still smiling warmly. The satiny folds of her dress and petticoats rose out, padded at the hips to give some illusion of shape, before streaming like a fish’s tail back inwards at the ankles, where a frothy mass of white lace covered her feet. Her puffed sleeves were made of grey, almost translucent material and were tied at the forearms with pale green bows. Her eyes were green too: murkier and darker than the hue of her dress, but pretty nonetheless, framed by eyelashes so pale they were hard to see. Her hair was very pale too, slithering down one shoulder.
Although he could see a resemblance, Prowse didn’t think she looked a lot like her brother. Both of them were smaller than average in stature, and there was something about the delicate lines of their jaws, but that was where the similarities ended. Ashdown’s natural hair was darker, a sterner wheat-brown, and his eyes were ghost-grey with a dying breath of blue just about traceable within each.
“Good,” Ashdown said gently; it was so odd seeing his master sounding so affectionate and caring, so raw, that Prowse almost couldn’t bear to listen. It was acutely uncomfortable to the point of being embarrassing.
“So how has Mr Prowse come to accompany you here?” Rosalind asked, suddenly dragging him back into focus. Prowse wasn’t sure he liked it, but he appreciated that she was trying to be polite and managed a hesitant smile.
“He is my new aide,” Ashdown said idly, not even glancing at the man in question. “Still in training, but I have brought him here to teach him a few things. And,” he added, “to keep you out of trouble.”
“Teddy,” Rosalind sighed, “I’ve never been in trouble.”
She sounded almost disappointed about this fact.
Her troubled expression did not last long: in fact it cleared faster than any raincloud that Prowse had ever witnessed into a brightly joyful expression. Suddenly she dived away between them and came back a moment later with another girl in tow; although perhaps the girl in question was better described as a young woman.
“Caity,” she cried happily, “my brother is here!”
“Wonderful,” the one called Caity said peaceably, her smile an indulgent curve.
“Miss Fourment,” Ashdown said formally, bowing to her a little. “Good day.”
“Good day,” she replied, and turned to look at Prowse, lashes low over oceanic eyes. “And who’s this?”
Prowse couldn’t find words at that moment. He stared at the young woman with her thick doe-eyed lashes and rich, dark brown hair, swept up stylishly with some strands left tumble in intricate coils about her pale throat. She wore a purple satin jacket-bodice with long tabbed skirts and a long petticoat to match, this one unpadded and simply cascading to the floor from her hips liquidly. Her sleeves-which ended at the elbow-ended each in an explosion of white tulle.
“This is Mr Prowse, my new aide,” Ashdown said after a rather longer than average pause, taking the time to shoot a disappointed glare his way. Prowse realised that he probably should have said something rather than stand there, stunned. “He is a little simple, I’m afraid.”
Never in his life had Prowse wanted to kick his master more than he did at that moment.
“Sorry,” he muttered, bowing deeply to avoid meeting her eyes. “Good to meet you, ma’am.”
“And you… though ‘Miss’ will do,” Caity smiled, offering him a hand and seeming perfectly comfortable while doing so. In Prowse’s mind, he half-expected her to smell the streets of London on him and recoil. He brushed his lips against the knuckles, embarrassed, smelling the rosewater she had doubtless dipped her fingertips in before coming out that night. “Catherine Fourment.”
In response Prowse merely nodded, abashed.
“There are people I have to see,” Ashdown said seriously, turning to Prowse, “but I suggest you stay here and work on your introductions. And please, Mr Prowse, do not make a fool of yourself.” He leaned forwards. “And remember my instructions.”
“Yes, sir,” Prowse replied warily, remembering being ordered to cut anyone that so much as squinted at Rosalind and wondering if he was also allowed to cut any man that began leering over Caity.
“I would suggest the palm of the hand,” Ashdown said, before treating him to his most frightening vampire smile. Then the teenager turned to his sister. “I will come to speak to you more before the night is out, I promise,” he said, allowing her take his hand. “Try not to let my aide do anything ridiculous.”
Rosalind just giggled.
Title: Introductions
Rating: G
Challenge: Rhubarb ‘My Treat’ #16: I think I feel a song coming on (a ball!), FOTD: lickerish
Toppings/Extras: whipped cream, fresh peaches
Wordcount: 1,374
Summary: Isaac Prowse meets Rosalind Ashdown for the first time. And Caity Fourment.
Notes: Marina’s treat! Follows Mentor. Now I have “Uptown Girl” stuck in my head. Warning; I go description mad in this. Lickerish: Greedy; longing. Lustful; lecherous. Fresh peaches: The Moon moves into bold Aries today, introducing a fresh start and a new perspective on life. Although you may run into a few obstacles this evening when the Moon squares Pluto, you can overcome any challenges you happen to encounter if you cultivate patience.
The hall was decked out impressively and was stuffed to the gills with men and women in fantastic attire. Isaac Prowse was suddenly very glad for his drabber clothing: he stopped feeling ridiculous and began feeling fascination at just how much make-up the dandier of the men were wearing. And the periwigs! Prowse had raised his brows enough at Ashdown’s wig, which was a whitish tied-back affair: some of the other wigs in the room at the moment were great gleaming tides of curls that flowed down men’s backs in every sort of colour, from vibrant reds to glossy blacks and powdered white-blondes.
Older women wore wigs too, but the younger girls did not-or at least, most of their hair seemed natural-and this was the case for the girl that instantly fell upon the two of them when they entered the room. Prowse scarcely had time to take in his surroundings before Rosalind Ashdown burst from the crowd and clasped her brother’s hands warmly.
“Teddy!” she exclaimed happily, and Prowse tried not to seem too shocked when her brother leaned forwards to kiss her on the cheek. Ashdown being affectionate was something he had never thought he would witness.
“Rose.” He indulged in her a half-smile and began steering her away from the door, as more people were bound to arrive shortly. “You look well.”
Prowse wasn’t at all certain that she did look well, not that he would say this. The first thing he noticed about her-the first thing he couldn’t help but notice about her-was how terribly thin she was. Even beneath the padding of her grey-green gown, he could tell that she had no substance at all, and her skin-while fashionably pale-did not seem healthy in the least. Her broad, starched lace collar only seemed to highlight how narrow her shoulders were and the bodice was flat against her chest: Rosalind had no bust at all, and Prowse could scarcely guess at her age. She could be ten or in her late teens.
As he had been scrutinising her, her attention turned to him, and quickly he thought back to the plentiful and painful lessons that Ashdown had given him for just this occasion. Gaze slipping to his master hesitantly, Prowse managed a fairly decent bow towards Rosalind, trying not to seem too embarrassed in doing so.
“Good evening,” he said sombrely, trying to disguise his accent as best as he could. “Isaac Prowse.”
“Mr Prowse,” Ashdown corrected as Prowse pressed his lips briefly to the teenage girl’s pale, skeletal hand and then straightened again. Rosalind gazed at her brother a moment, then back towards Prowse with a smile: it was a bright, cheery bite of a smile.
“It’s good to meet you, Mr Prowse,” she said with so much warmth in her frail voice that Prowse was won over in an instant. It was the first time in quite a while that anyone had been so welcoming towards him and he realised as he looked down at her frail frame that he fully agreed with the orders Ashdown had given him in the carriage: if a man was to try anything untoward with young Rosalind, he would see to it that he suffered.
The bandoleer of knives was snug and reassuring underneath his silky doublet.
“How are you feeling?” Ashdown asked, resuming conversation now that the necessary introduction was over. Prowse stepped back meekly and gazed across the ballroom, trying not to seem too awed by the sheer amount of jewellery he could see in one sweep. “Better than you were, I hope?”
“Yes, much better,” Rosalind replied, still smiling warmly. The satiny folds of her dress and petticoats rose out, padded at the hips to give some illusion of shape, before streaming like a fish’s tail back inwards at the ankles, where a frothy mass of white lace covered her feet. Her puffed sleeves were made of grey, almost translucent material and were tied at the forearms with pale green bows. Her eyes were green too: murkier and darker than the hue of her dress, but pretty nonetheless, framed by eyelashes so pale they were hard to see. Her hair was very pale too, slithering down one shoulder.
Although he could see a resemblance, Prowse didn’t think she looked a lot like her brother. Both of them were smaller than average in stature, and there was something about the delicate lines of their jaws, but that was where the similarities ended. Ashdown’s natural hair was darker, a sterner wheat-brown, and his eyes were ghost-grey with a dying breath of blue just about traceable within each.
“Good,” Ashdown said gently; it was so odd seeing his master sounding so affectionate and caring, so raw, that Prowse almost couldn’t bear to listen. It was acutely uncomfortable to the point of being embarrassing.
“So how has Mr Prowse come to accompany you here?” Rosalind asked, suddenly dragging him back into focus. Prowse wasn’t sure he liked it, but he appreciated that she was trying to be polite and managed a hesitant smile.
“He is my new aide,” Ashdown said idly, not even glancing at the man in question. “Still in training, but I have brought him here to teach him a few things. And,” he added, “to keep you out of trouble.”
“Teddy,” Rosalind sighed, “I’ve never been in trouble.”
She sounded almost disappointed about this fact.
Her troubled expression did not last long: in fact it cleared faster than any raincloud that Prowse had ever witnessed into a brightly joyful expression. Suddenly she dived away between them and came back a moment later with another girl in tow; although perhaps the girl in question was better described as a young woman.
“Caity,” she cried happily, “my brother is here!”
“Wonderful,” the one called Caity said peaceably, her smile an indulgent curve.
“Miss Fourment,” Ashdown said formally, bowing to her a little. “Good day.”
“Good day,” she replied, and turned to look at Prowse, lashes low over oceanic eyes. “And who’s this?”
Prowse couldn’t find words at that moment. He stared at the young woman with her thick doe-eyed lashes and rich, dark brown hair, swept up stylishly with some strands left tumble in intricate coils about her pale throat. She wore a purple satin jacket-bodice with long tabbed skirts and a long petticoat to match, this one unpadded and simply cascading to the floor from her hips liquidly. Her sleeves-which ended at the elbow-ended each in an explosion of white tulle.
“This is Mr Prowse, my new aide,” Ashdown said after a rather longer than average pause, taking the time to shoot a disappointed glare his way. Prowse realised that he probably should have said something rather than stand there, stunned. “He is a little simple, I’m afraid.”
Never in his life had Prowse wanted to kick his master more than he did at that moment.
“Sorry,” he muttered, bowing deeply to avoid meeting her eyes. “Good to meet you, ma’am.”
“And you… though ‘Miss’ will do,” Caity smiled, offering him a hand and seeming perfectly comfortable while doing so. In Prowse’s mind, he half-expected her to smell the streets of London on him and recoil. He brushed his lips against the knuckles, embarrassed, smelling the rosewater she had doubtless dipped her fingertips in before coming out that night. “Catherine Fourment.”
In response Prowse merely nodded, abashed.
“There are people I have to see,” Ashdown said seriously, turning to Prowse, “but I suggest you stay here and work on your introductions. And please, Mr Prowse, do not make a fool of yourself.” He leaned forwards. “And remember my instructions.”
“Yes, sir,” Prowse replied warily, remembering being ordered to cut anyone that so much as squinted at Rosalind and wondering if he was also allowed to cut any man that began leering over Caity.
“I would suggest the palm of the hand,” Ashdown said, before treating him to his most frightening vampire smile. Then the teenager turned to his sister. “I will come to speak to you more before the night is out, I promise,” he said, allowing her take his hand. “Try not to let my aide do anything ridiculous.”
Rosalind just giggled.