Fic: L'astre du jour
Title: L'astre du jour
Author: lareinenoire
Play/Poem: Richard II
Characters: Queen Isabel, Richard II, Prince Hal
Pairings: Richard/Isabel, references to Richard/Anne
Rating: PG
Summary: It was in the Louvre that Isabelle Vaillant first saw Richard Perrivale.
Warnings: Misinterpretation of art
Author's Notes: Written for angevin2, 'since the way Sweet Fortune's Minions works is that you do the het and I do the slash, how about some Richard/Isabelle? Song: Les oiseaux dans la charmille.'
It was in the Louvre that Isabelle Vaillant first saw Richard Perrivale. He was standing in a pool of sunlight before Delaroche's Jeune martyre, a frown pinched between his brows, and, as Isabelle moved closer, she overheard the murmured words.
"...mermaid-like awhile they bore her up, which time she chanted snatches of old lauds..."
"It is not Ophélie," Isabelle heard herself say, and when he looked at her, colour rose in her cheeks. "I am sorry. I did not mean to disturb you."
"No," he smiled faintly, "I don't mind." After a moment, he added, "I know it isn't Ophelia. It just makes me think of her."
"Me too," Isabelle admitted. The sunlight seemed to catch in his hair, bright as the drowned girl's halo. It was utterly inappropriate and if Tante Yolande were to catch her speaking to a strange man, she would never be permitted out of the house again, but she raised her chin and held out her hand nonetheless. "I am Isabelle Vaillant."
"Richard Perrivale." He raised her hand to his lips. "Do you like Hamlet, then?"
She pursed her lips. "I'm not meant to admit it. Maman tells me it isn't ladylike."
A fleeting expression of awful longing crossed his face and Isabelle wanted to sink into the floor. Lowering his eyes, he said, "No, I don't suppose it is. Ladylike."
"I am sorry. I...I should go."
Before he could speak further, she disentangled her fingers from his and all but ran through the doorway to the next gallery. She did not dare look back.
The last thing she expected, therefore, was that he would appear at her father's soirée the very next night. Her father had invited a young man named Harry Lancaster--perhaps a year or two Isabelle's junior--and, quite by coincidence, it turned out the mysterious Richard Perrivale was his cousin and travelling-companion.
"Well, second cousin, really," he was saying, one hand fiddling with a cufflink. "But he's brilliant, and it does him good to get out of England every now and again."
"Is it so awful there?" teased Isabelle. She was doing her best not to glance in Richard's direction. "I hear it rains a great deal."
Harry grinned. "Not as much as you might think. All the same, I don't see why I ought to spend the rest of my life there. There's an entire world out there--" he made an expansive gesture, nearly knocking over a passing waiter with a tray of champagne glasses as Isabelle dissolved into giggles. "Well," Harry added, composing himself, "you know what I mean."
"I do, Monsieur Lancaster," she managed. "So, you wish to be like the gentleman in Monsieur Verne's novel who travels all the way around the world?"
"You've read it?" His eyes brightened. "I've never met a girl who read it."
"I have not," she confessed, lowering her eyes. "But I have heard about it, and I think I should like it very much."
"Blast! I left my copy at home. Otherwise I'd have lent it you."
"You are too kind, Monsieur."
"Really, Harry, you haven't asked Mademoiselle Vaillant to dance yet?" She didn't want to admit to having recognised Richard's voice the moment he spoke, and yet she had. "I won't tell your father, I promise, but that is the purpose of these things."
Harry dutifully led her to the floor and Isabelle hid her disappointment as best she could. He was only a mediocre dancer, although she did give him great credit for enthusiasm. However, he surprised her halfway through the waltz by leaning close to murmur, "You've been watching him all night." At her startled glance, he added, "Cousin Richard."
Isabelle felt her cheeks grow searingly hot. "I am sorry; it is very rude of me--"
"Don't apologise." There was something oddly gentle in his voice. "He has that effect on people. Always has. Even Cousin Anne--" He stopped short and suddenly became fascinated by his shoes.
"Cousin Anne?"
Harry looked back at her, not a hint of laughter in his face. "They were married. Three years ago, she died in a riding accident. It was an awful summer, really. I don't think he's got over it, even now."
Isabelle nodded, catching sight of Richard across the room. As their eyes met, he smiled, and the light of it made her breath catch.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Harry said softly. It was only in retrospect that Isabelle realised he had sounded disappointed.
No, indeed. She had been warned, much good may it do her.
Author: lareinenoire
Play/Poem: Richard II
Characters: Queen Isabel, Richard II, Prince Hal
Pairings: Richard/Isabel, references to Richard/Anne
Rating: PG
Summary: It was in the Louvre that Isabelle Vaillant first saw Richard Perrivale.
Warnings: Misinterpretation of art
Author's Notes: Written for angevin2, 'since the way Sweet Fortune's Minions works is that you do the het and I do the slash, how about some Richard/Isabelle? Song: Les oiseaux dans la charmille.'
It was in the Louvre that Isabelle Vaillant first saw Richard Perrivale. He was standing in a pool of sunlight before Delaroche's Jeune martyre, a frown pinched between his brows, and, as Isabelle moved closer, she overheard the murmured words.
"...mermaid-like awhile they bore her up, which time she chanted snatches of old lauds..."
"It is not Ophélie," Isabelle heard herself say, and when he looked at her, colour rose in her cheeks. "I am sorry. I did not mean to disturb you."
"No," he smiled faintly, "I don't mind." After a moment, he added, "I know it isn't Ophelia. It just makes me think of her."
"Me too," Isabelle admitted. The sunlight seemed to catch in his hair, bright as the drowned girl's halo. It was utterly inappropriate and if Tante Yolande were to catch her speaking to a strange man, she would never be permitted out of the house again, but she raised her chin and held out her hand nonetheless. "I am Isabelle Vaillant."
"Richard Perrivale." He raised her hand to his lips. "Do you like Hamlet, then?"
She pursed her lips. "I'm not meant to admit it. Maman tells me it isn't ladylike."
A fleeting expression of awful longing crossed his face and Isabelle wanted to sink into the floor. Lowering his eyes, he said, "No, I don't suppose it is. Ladylike."
"I am sorry. I...I should go."
Before he could speak further, she disentangled her fingers from his and all but ran through the doorway to the next gallery. She did not dare look back.
The last thing she expected, therefore, was that he would appear at her father's soirée the very next night. Her father had invited a young man named Harry Lancaster--perhaps a year or two Isabelle's junior--and, quite by coincidence, it turned out the mysterious Richard Perrivale was his cousin and travelling-companion.
"Well, second cousin, really," he was saying, one hand fiddling with a cufflink. "But he's brilliant, and it does him good to get out of England every now and again."
"Is it so awful there?" teased Isabelle. She was doing her best not to glance in Richard's direction. "I hear it rains a great deal."
Harry grinned. "Not as much as you might think. All the same, I don't see why I ought to spend the rest of my life there. There's an entire world out there--" he made an expansive gesture, nearly knocking over a passing waiter with a tray of champagne glasses as Isabelle dissolved into giggles. "Well," Harry added, composing himself, "you know what I mean."
"I do, Monsieur Lancaster," she managed. "So, you wish to be like the gentleman in Monsieur Verne's novel who travels all the way around the world?"
"You've read it?" His eyes brightened. "I've never met a girl who read it."
"I have not," she confessed, lowering her eyes. "But I have heard about it, and I think I should like it very much."
"Blast! I left my copy at home. Otherwise I'd have lent it you."
"You are too kind, Monsieur."
"Really, Harry, you haven't asked Mademoiselle Vaillant to dance yet?" She didn't want to admit to having recognised Richard's voice the moment he spoke, and yet she had. "I won't tell your father, I promise, but that is the purpose of these things."
Harry dutifully led her to the floor and Isabelle hid her disappointment as best she could. He was only a mediocre dancer, although she did give him great credit for enthusiasm. However, he surprised her halfway through the waltz by leaning close to murmur, "You've been watching him all night." At her startled glance, he added, "Cousin Richard."
Isabelle felt her cheeks grow searingly hot. "I am sorry; it is very rude of me--"
"Don't apologise." There was something oddly gentle in his voice. "He has that effect on people. Always has. Even Cousin Anne--" He stopped short and suddenly became fascinated by his shoes.
"Cousin Anne?"
Harry looked back at her, not a hint of laughter in his face. "They were married. Three years ago, she died in a riding accident. It was an awful summer, really. I don't think he's got over it, even now."
Isabelle nodded, catching sight of Richard across the room. As their eyes met, he smiled, and the light of it made her breath catch.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Harry said softly. It was only in retrospect that Isabelle realised he had sounded disappointed.
No, indeed. She had been warned, much good may it do her.