Lechance

Paul,
The second banns are read! Our wedding grows ever closer, and my heart feels full of joy at the thought.

Are you perhaps available today to meet with me? I have much to share with you. My journal becomes ever more full of fine words about you, my Ascendant, and yes, dare I say it, my love. Scarce a waking moment passes without your presence in it, and Paul, how I long to share my life with you.

Always your Beloved,
James

James was in the parlour that contained the Baby Grand in the Beloved's Hotel. It was the hour before midnight, and the room was in darkness, the heavy drapes closed. The only light was from a gas lamp that James had brought down from his room, and the dimmed light spilling in through the open door into the hall.  He was currently seated at the piano, the lid over the keys closed, his head resting on it as if to leech some comfort from it.

He was trying not to pace, he really was, hence sitting down, but it seemed like his stomach still wanted to move, even if he wasn't.

James had been sleeping better, he really had. His relationship with Paul was bringing him a great deal of peace, and the sleeping draught had helped some. But tonight it seemed like nothing had worked, and he'd been cursed with nightmares everytime he tried to rest his eyes.

He had at least dressed at least halfway to decent this time, favoured soft trousers, and a deep purple shirt. He was however still wearing his slippers.

Paul had told him to call for him if he had nightmares again, but James didn't want to drag him out over nothing. He worried that Paul would think he was using it as an excuse to see him. But god, he wished he was there to hold right now.

He crossed his arms under his head and sighed softly, before suddenly realising that there was a figure silhouetted in the doorway.

"Apologies. I didn't mean to disturb anyone from slumber," he said softly. "I wasn't intending to play the piano."

James was pacing the floor of the foyer of the Beloved's Hotel on Saturday morning. He had his red leatherbound journal under his arm, feeling a bit selfconcious about it, as if a casual observer was about to stop him and ask about it's contents. 

He was dressed slightly more casually than on the previous courting call, charcoal shirt and black pants, long black loose scarf and long black coat. His hair was swept back into a ponytail, once more, this time with a black ribbon.

When the bell rang at 11am, announcing Mrs. St. John's arrival, James nearly yelped in anticipation, before calming down, waiting for the staff to bring her through.

A note is delivered to Doctor Paul Roberts early on Wednesday afternoon:

Dear Paul,

A quick note to assure you that I did indeed get the Apothecary to make up the sleeping draught as per your scrip. It is now in my grateful possesion, and hopefully it should grant me peaceful sleep as planned. Thank you again for your care in this matter.

I write to also let you know that further to our conversation yesterday afternoon, I have become inspired to start journal-writing once more. I bought a most lovely looking book this morning for the purpose whilst I was in town. I am looking forwards to it, as I found it to be a most enjoyable experience in my younger days. Many thanks to you for your inspiration!

I do hope most sincerely that you enjoyed our meeting yesterday as did I, and to further more continue with courting if it suits?

Your servant,
James

It was 2pm precisely when Paul arrived at the Beloved's hotel on Tuesday afternoon. His best suit was freshly pressed, his tie doubly checked, his hair smoothed back and his friend and chaperon torn between teasing and delight. Paul bore with Harry's teasing all the way to the steps outside the hotel, and finally warned him to silence as they passed through the doors to the lobby.

The faint sound of familiar piano music suggested strongly that James was in a nearby parlor, but Paul resisted, supplying his card to the lady at the front desk and requesting that Mr. Warren should be notified of his arrival.

A printed copy of the soloists part from Beethoven's first piano concerto, and the attached note:

Beloved,

May I call upon you this afternoon?

Ever yours,

Paul

This time it was Mr. Jenkins who was accompanying Obediah to the Beloveds' hotel. The missus was tending the Black Sheep and had practically pushed them out the door. Obediah had brought his guitar and, after he'd sent word that he'd arrived, leaned against a wall and checked its tuning. Mr. Jenkins was relagated to holding the case.

When James appeared, Obediah played a complicated riff that matched the timing of his steps.

Late in the afternoon, a small crowd gathered in a field to participate in the gathering of the final harvest of the season. They loaded it into a decorated horse-drawn wagon and followed it into town, singing songs and waving sheafs of hay.

More people followed along as the parade passed them by, leading them into the square that normally held the merchants but had been cleared earlier for the celebration. There were still a few booths set up but they'd been converted to homes for games. The growing crowd was invited to march to the cathedral for a short service or to stay at the square to help set up for a feast.

Lanterns were lit all around the buildings and the square, casting a warm glow. There was just the slightest nip in the air but that would be dispelled when the dancing started later. Enormous amounts of food were heaped on a banquet table and long tables were set with glittering china and strewn with bouquets of late-blooming flowers.

Dear James,

I do hope that you took no chill from our recent walk. Perhaps, following our conversation at that time, you might grant me the pleasure of your company for the Harvest Festival this coming Saturday?

Hoping that this note finds you in peace and health, I remain your humble servant,

Dr. Paul Roberts

( Letters to Ascendants )

( Beloved )

(OOC note : details of James' background can be found on his profile here)

Late Saturday evening and James was up and awake. Woken screaming by nightmares, imagining his family crying out through flames, he'd gone outside to the porch of the Hotel to try to calm down and get some fresh air.

Wrapped up in a long thick woollen coat and scarf, and in stockinged feet, he was leaning forwards against the rail, fighting hard the urge to be physically sick. He was slowly getting control of his sobs, only occasionally hiccoughing with them, his whole body shuddering when he did so.

The last thing on his mind was worrying about what people might think of him out here, an unwed Beloved, out unattended late at night, face swollen and streaked with tears. He was barely aware that anyone else may be passing by, and didn't notice as a figure approached him.

A letter containing hand written sheet music and lyrics to 'Travel the Country Round', and a small, neatly folded note written in black ink on manuscript paper, are sent to Obediah via The Black Sheep. The return address on the back of the envelope indicates the Beloved's Hotel.

Lyrics:
I am a jovial ranger,

( Read more... )

Note attached:
Dear Mr Jones,
I hope this note finds you in fine form and fettle, and that the day has been kind to you.

Please forgive the forward nature of this missive. I wished very much to express to you how much I enjoyed our talk the other day, and how much this stranger to LeChance enjoyed the tour you provided. Thank you kind Sir!

Regarding the attached broadsheet. I heard this song played recently in a tavern, and excuse me for saying so, but it very much reminded me of your good self. I thought it suited a tavern owner, with a previous career as a travelling musician quite well.

I was wondering mayhap whether you'd had further thoughts as to the likelyhood of a courting call with myself? You mentioned that this may be a possibility that you may wish to take up, and that you were still receiving visitors. I do not wish to impose, nor offend, and so I urge you to please ignore this request if you find it not to be to your taste or desiring. The virtue of patience was never one I was much good at I'm afraid!

Your humble servant,
James Warren

[signed with a considerably large flourishing autograph]

James had been to the morning service at the Cathedral, and was now sitting on a wall in the grounds, waiting for Mr. Nichols to finish his rounds of farewells to folk. His eyes were closed behind his glasses, his head tilted back as he hummed along to the music still issuing from inside the building. Going to church had been strange, but the familiar rhythm of ritual, even with the slight cultural differences, and the hymns, despite the different accents they were sung in, had comforted him.

He didn't much believe in the tenets of religion much these days, not since all that had happened back home. The aesthetics however, the beauty in the building itself, the music of voices joined together in song, the communion of folk brought together under a common banner, now *that* he could truly believe in.

He had been neatly turned out when he arrived, but now some of his hair was coming free from the confines of the thin velvet ribbon that was trying to hold it back. Suddenly feeling a chill, he shrugged up the collar of his jacket, and pulled it tighter around him. He brought his head up, and opened his eyes slowly to see someone looking concernedly at him. 

"'M fine," he murmured softly, still looking like his mind was a million miles away. "Internal music," he 'explained'.

James had settled easily into the Beloved's hotel, and had even started to get the word around that he was available for potential tutoring.

He was currently sat reading and taking tea in companionable silence on the front porch of the Hotel with a couple of the male chaperones.

Taking his glasses off, he tucked them into his glasses case. He pinched the bridge of his nose, leant back in his chair, and rested his chin on his steepled fingers. He was content just to people-watch for a while, but when someone nodded to him as they they left the Hotel he smiled warmly. "Good day to you."