Lord Merek Rajiv Aubert, Viscount of Champagne (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} merekaubert) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} toujoursliberer,@ 2008-08-12 03:05:00 |
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| Entry tags: | christine_aubert, merek_aubert, plot |
Lord Merek Aubert: New Beginnings
Subject: A Brave New World.
Where: The Aubert Estate.
Who: Merek Aubert.
Warnings: None.
Open to: All.
The Aubert Estate. They would call it that from now on, he supposed. The great rambling structure of stone, which for long sat empty. Practically archaic by modern standards of architecture. And now, at last, it had a man to call it home, to fill the empty rooms, and peer curiously from the windows. Such a shame it would need stay barren. At least for a little while.
Nothing had been planned properly, to that he'd freely admit. There was a certain haste in his journey to France to collect his sister, and even more to flee to the safety of England. Not so much for himself, no, he'd never been one to openly parade himself in public view. But Christine? Sweet, gentle Christine had been at the beck and call of their father's hand until the moment his head hit the execution deck with a decidedly wet thump. And there were the hangers-on, of course, desperate people, extended family clawing his arms and begging his assistance the moment they saw him whisk his sister away.
London would suit them, he thought, and it caused no pain to have left them there, grouped together and afraid, at the docks. Only his sister worried him, having slipped away as he arranged for a carriage to take them to their newly obtained home. Sweet, gentle Christine. Willfull little creature that she was, no doubt out and about taking in the sights and sounds of a nation she'd never once set foot upon. Had always been a bit flighty, that one, with a grand habit of returning just as the worry reached a frenzy. So it would be again.
He hoped.
And so it was that he stood in front of the giant catastrophy he now called home, perfectly aware that he had failed to arrange for furnishings in his hurry, praying to whatever Gods would listen that his sister would return quickly and safely to his arms, wondering idly about British Society (or at least how fast news traveled when pertaining to a new arrival), and where to find decent service so far from London, and just what his father had done to be so swiftly executed -- there were just so many options, really.
"To Hell with it."
Shifting from one foot to another, tired and languid in thought, he carefully fished paper and tobacco from his pocket, deftly rolled it, and let it hang carelessly from his lip as the smoke curled, and his mind wandered.
At least he had his books.
Nothing had been planned properly, to that he'd freely admit. There was a certain haste in his journey to France to collect his sister, and even more to flee to the safety of England. Not so much for himself, no, he'd never been one to openly parade himself in public view. But Christine? Sweet, gentle Christine had been at the beck and call of their father's hand until the moment his head hit the execution deck with a decidedly wet thump. And there were the hangers-on, of course, desperate people, extended family clawing his arms and begging his assistance the moment they saw him whisk his sister away.
London would suit them, he thought, and it caused no pain to have left them there, grouped together and afraid, at the docks. Only his sister worried him, having slipped away as he arranged for a carriage to take them to their newly obtained home. Sweet, gentle Christine. Willfull little creature that she was, no doubt out and about taking in the sights and sounds of a nation she'd never once set foot upon. Had always been a bit flighty, that one, with a grand habit of returning just as the worry reached a frenzy. So it would be again.
He hoped.
And so it was that he stood in front of the giant catastrophy he now called home, perfectly aware that he had failed to arrange for furnishings in his hurry, praying to whatever Gods would listen that his sister would return quickly and safely to his arms, wondering idly about British Society (or at least how fast news traveled when pertaining to a new arrival), and where to find decent service so far from London, and just what his father had done to be so swiftly executed -- there were just so many options, really.
"To Hell with it."
Shifting from one foot to another, tired and languid in thought, he carefully fished paper and tobacco from his pocket, deftly rolled it, and let it hang carelessly from his lip as the smoke curled, and his mind wandered.
At least he had his books.