Wednesday, September 25, 2013

A fortnight is completely unacceptable to wait for a repose from a gentleman. I had originally decided to write another letter admonishing the 'most courteous servant' (what a farce) for his behaviour. But no sooner had I wet the tip of my quill did I hear a commotion in the courtyard. Not only was it my duty to get involved and make sure no harm came to my household, my curiosity is not something I find easy to quell.

Rushing down the stairs to the unexpected turbulence I was thrust into the arms of none other than the unruly messenger who had delivered the principal letter all those weeks ago. I couldn't quite believe my misfortune and I was not held in his arms for long before pulling myself away. Affronted, I demanded to know what was his purpose in disturbing my home, and I dared to say that it was not the first time he showed a lack of etiquette in my presence, nor would it happen a third time.

When the messenger did nought but grin and bow sarcastically, I stormed away from the courtyard, content in the knowledge that my household were safe. They had witnessed the entire event most silently, and I could only imagine what would be whispered in the kitchens. The messenger on the other hand did not take the hint of my absence and followed me through the corridors. He did not even call my name nor ask me to stop before he grabbed my wrist. 

Only at the contact of skin on skin did he refer to me properly as 'Your Grace' and I felt him slip a parchment from the inside of his coat in between my fingers. I turned, words had left my tongue and I looked at the messenger intently for the first time. He had dark sandy hair and blue eyes that made no apologies for his actions, a slight stubble engulfed his chin and he was taller than me, but not by much. It took me a moment to realise the messenger was studying my face as intently and I was perturbed by his confidence.

I asked him to explain himself, to which the reply was 'my lord gave me strict instructions to deliver this letter to your hands personally.'

Thankfully he wasn't quite rude enough to shrug, but the glint in his eyes told me to question no further. He bowed appropriately and left me with the belated response. His touch still resonating on my fingers, the warmth of his chest still enveloping the letter. 

D. S.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

There is nothing so frustrating as waiting for someone else. Whether it be a rendez vous, a soirée or even a humble acknowledgement of a letter so keenly sent, there is nothing that irks me more than waiting for someone else to consider deigning me with their time and effort.

I am still waiting for my 'most courteous servant' to respond to my letter appertaining to his invitation. Patience is not a virtue that I spent cultivating while in the Convent. Belle has patience galore and I marvel at her ability to wait, to not mind the time that passes, but I'd much prefer to have a more direct approach. In fact I don't appreciate the anonymity that has been veiled from me. I have an idea as to whom the invitee may be but I have no grounds for any of my thoughts.

Oh, I forget that in my waiting I have not even described the stance I chose when developing my own riposte. It was majestic;

But alack and alas, said courtier has stayed as elusive as before, nor have I even had the displeasure of his unruly messenger. I don't know how long I am expected to wait, but I shall not sit idly twiddling my thumbs.

I manage to keep myself busy wandering the streets of the City of a Hundred Spires. This country has so much history and knowledge that I was and still am completely ignorant of. I long to know more, but the language barrier is difficult and I am studying to become more coherent and understood to those that have their lives here. I enjoy the quiet and the opportunity to contemplate on all that has happened and all that has yet to happen.

But my fatigue increases as time passes with no response from this less than courteous servant.

D. S.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

I once again hold the unopened letter in my hand. For one week precisely it has plagued my mind, resting on my chiffonier next to my hair brush. I am reminded of the incident most keenly, both morning and eve, but I have not had the inclination to open it.

Not yet.

I have written myself to Belle for her opinion of the matter. I know she shall be frustrated that I have not yet torn through the blood red seal and absorbed the ink on the page through my eyes, but I need a second opinion. As much as I revel in my own company here in Bohemia, those I speak to have only broken English to converse with and my responses in their language cause impolite convulsions as I am far from fluent. So I need Belle to give me her most unapologetic counsel.

In fact, as I sit with this letter addressed to "The most splendid, illustrious, serene and eminent lady of pleasure" I am waiting for my own post master to return from his weekly rendez vous in the town centre. Belle is always concise with her hasty replies and I hope she has not disappointed.


Belle always delivers, a most reliable friend. I ripped open her letter without so much as a second thought, relishing in the familiar penmanship of one so dear. And she never disappoints. She admonished me for wasting an entire week before opening the letter from the utterly impertinent messenger and implores me to copy it word for word so she may be included in its untimely exposition.

It was all the gentle shoving I needed to gain the courage to tear past the blood red seal and feast upon its contents. The previously anonymous letter as follows:

How can one say no to a Ball in their own honour? Surely though, there is a lack of etiquette in not signing a name? I have many questions, but first I shall peruse my calendar for a suitable day for this Ball.

D. S.

Friday, September 06, 2013

I know I ranted previously about the incapabilities of men ~ the greatest flaw of that gender being their inability to comprehend that they may not be wanted. I claimed there was nothing in particular that spiralled me down to the level of loathing I had for the opposite sex, however that isn't strictly true.

There isn't one specific turn of events, just a compilation of experiences that I hope never again to encounter. Indeed, though I have no complaints whatsoever about how I live my life, and I am eternally grateful for all the generosities my parents have bestowed and what my social status accomplishes, it is rather like being considered a prize mare, waiting around for the highest bidder.

Of course I won't say I was running away from my responsibilities as a daughter, but Mother was none to please when I broke off my faux betrothal to the blonde Esquire, and I know she was less than indifferent to the Prussian Knight. I don't know what my parents expect of me. Am I supposed to somehow marry a Prince? And what of my feelings? Hark should they get taken into account.

But all of this was grumbled to myself in a carriage on a short journey between towns before an even greater liberty was taken, by none other than a chauvinistic male, a lowly messenger. 

The roads in Bohemia are as safe as any other roads on the Continent (I shall not compare them to the windy paths of the Shire that I would know blindfolded) but as it so happened, on a journey I was partaking, we were stopped. I was mid thought, mid curse, mid vent for I have been suffering from anxiety and frustration ever since I left the Convent and I barely noticed the carriage stall. 

Eventually I called out to my driver, Jeeves, to explain the meaning of the wait but was answered with an ambiguous yelp. It did not occur to me that outside may be dangerous, so I soon clambered out the carriage, bustling skirts in tow, to be faced with Jeeves waving his sword in the face of another man who was brandishing his own weapon most scurrilously. I was frozen in time for I could not believe what was before my eyes, and it was the two men who noticed me first (I blame the million petticoats that rustle as I move).

The stranger stopped as he saw me, lending an opportune moment to Jeeves who sliced through the man's navy lapels. Jeeves look positively horrified at the thought of making contact with an actual body that he dropped his sword. Most terrible was what occurred next; I laughed. It was awfully rude of me, but I couldn't help myself. Thankfully the atmosphere seemed to dissipate, but I was not foolish enough to trust a man with no name who yields at the sight of a lady.

As said stranger stepped closer, he stooped to pick up the sword from the dry ground and handed it, hilt first, back to Jeeves. I was perplexed, but had thankfully taken control of my laughter. Also I knew I had a small pistol mercifully sewn into the pockets of my underskirt. I was not afraid.

Two steps closer the stranger came, before he uttered a coherent sound. He addressed me by name and handed me a sealed letter. I had my fingertips resting on the trigger of the pistol in my pocket the entire time, but I think we both knew I would never pull it. He left with a bow, whistling to gorgeous black steed, and made no apology for his actions.

I am still furious with this individual for incapacitating Jeeves and for his rudeness. Nor have I yet opened the letter... All I can see is that it is addressed to "The most splendid, illustrious, serene and eminent lady of pleasure"... If that is not thinly veiled misogyny (or indeed an honest compliment) then I must question all I have ever learnt. 

I hold the letter in my hand. It has been two days. 

Shall I open it?

D. S.

Monday, September 02, 2013

What can I say when once again I have forsaken the Shire in the hope of learning more about another culture hundreds of miles away? I do not claim to comprehend all there is to know about my own Shire, my home town, nor even all the rooms of the South Wing ~ but I have that as my foundation, it is my rock and I have all the world to see before I surround myself with familiar walls and listen to the memories of amicable yet unchanging winds.

The Continent has beckoned and I have followed without a second glance of what could have been and what I have left behind. Time waits for no man, and nor do I. The world is my companion, the stars my guiding light, the adventure of the unknown that I crave has overtaken any physical desires. Maybe the Convent did spark an epiphany, it certainly changed my perspective on a few things, but travelling and writing are all that I want at this moment in time.

If one were to ask where I have travelled, my response may cause quite a stir ~ Bohemia and Central Europe. I have never seen countryside quite like it, nor do I know enough of the history to comment on its current politically tumultuous occurrences, al I know is I have a new home, and a new life to start. 

Of course new beginnings bring fond memories of the Antipodes and the young Captain whom I think of often, and even my longer acquaintance with the blonde Esquire... Here I am looking for no man, only peace and tranquillity that comes with a lack of the presence of testosterone and berating, pawing men.

Why are they never happy until they have consumed you and claimed you for their own? As flattering as it is to be wanted by a man, I shall choose and make my own decisions about whom I want. And if he does not want me, then that is a challenge I shall accept, as would be the rejection, should it follow.

Most men I have met do not seem to understand, or even comprehend the idea that they may not be wanted. It is the greatest flaw of the supposed greater sex. Their egos blind them and they view women as nothing more than a trophy.

I do not want saving. I do not want to be cherished. I want to be allowed to travel the world, I want someone who will dare me to climb the tallest tree and laugh at my failures. I do not want to be coddled and put on display like some dumb animal. I have a voice and I have never been afraid to use it, but men... How often they have tried to silence my thoughts and stake a claim that was never theirs to begin with.

No doubt it is easy to tell that I am somewhat infuriated and there is nothing particularly specific to render any blame. My writing as of late has been scarce and I am putting blame on my ability to get distracted by men. Here I am without men, without anyone, and I am writing more than I have for months.

Maybe I am my greatest downfall, I know how easily I give in to temptation, but I feel at peace knowing I am free of all men. I am my own person.

Sometimes, all I'd like, is to meet someone who wants me to be my own person.

D. S.