WELCOME

[Lt. Keynes]

She seemed to have acquiesced at last, and Christopher began to shrug out of his coat, his small success at having at last overcome her obstinacy somewhat tainted by the overall unpleasantry of his situation. It occurred to him that since he was obliged to spend some time in her company, he could at least have spoken to her civilly. But civility was difficult to achieve with such an aggravating woman. Her quiet was very likely far better than any words she might have said, and he was in the end happy enough to return her to where she needed to go in stony silence. He did not care for more sentimental outbursts about the rigours of her easy lifestyle.

The sound of hoofbeats ahead brought Christopher’s head up at the same time that the horse was alerted; his hand stole underneath his coat, to the carved wooden handle of the pistol he carried. Who else would be out in this weather? He kept his hand casually there, as if for warmth, but the subtle click could be heard as he slipped the hammer back into cock. The powder might be too damp from the air to fire, but it had been protected inside of his coat; moreover, it might be enough to hold off an assailant. There was more than one rider, but men were often cowardly in the face of a firearm.

Fortunately Miss Byron had stopped her horse. She had raised her hand to the approaching riders – four men, Christopher noted; with some relief he saw that they were well-dressed, apparently gentlemen. As the man in the lead called out to them, Christopher was more relieved as he addressed Miss Byron by name. He spoke in French, which Christopher was not especially fluent in, but he could understand to an extent. After all, he had fought against the French for a few years. If he tried to speak it, his accent would be intolerable, but he could listen and comprehend what was being said here.

She called the man father. Christopher had long since taken his hand away from the pistol, but he felt his discomfort rising again. Miss Byron was afraid of her father, as well she should be. The tone he was taking with her was more than deserved, considering the violation of propriety and even of common sense that she had made. However, he expected it was only a matter of time until the giant Frenchman turned upon him for having had the misfortune to be here with her. A graceful exit backstage might be the most sensible idea, while the man who must evidently be Mr Byron was occupied, but it was not Christopher’s way to take the coward’s path.

He rounded upon Christopher, who met his gaze calmly and stolidly. Christopher was surprised when instead of the tirade he had been expecting, however, he received a short bow and the comment, “My thanks, sir. My daughter has the tendency to be a bit unruly at times.” Looking to Miss Byron, Christopher found himself thinking that a considerable understatement.

Mr Byron hoisted his daughter into her saddle without ceremony, and returned to Christopher again. “Please, allow me to treat you to dinner and a good glass of French bourbon. It is the least I can do to thank you for keeping my petit-Adriana out of trouble.”

Christopher was put in considerable surprise, not for the first time that evening. He had not missed the amusement that had touched the other man’s eyes when he looked Christopher over, appraisingly. The invitation had been entirely unexpected, and at first he was not entirely certain how to answer. Miss Byron’s furious rejoinder to her father earned him a little time to consider, as did her father’s response – his eyes flicked to Miss Byron as Mr Byron’s voice lashed out. She had flinched, and subsided into a meek appearance.

Though the question was one which Christopher had been close to asking her himself, through much of their conversation, and her father’s severity was more than warranted, in that moment he felt closer to compassion for her than he had before. Perhaps because she had shown a weakness more admirable than simple foolishness: love for her father, which allowed his words to pierce her. He considered that she deserved this unpleasant scene, and yet he felt something closer to fellow-feeling.

This was deucedly awkward, but there was nothing else to do but to accept the invitation. Emily would not worry overmuch; she knew how long Christopher strayed out on his walks sometimes, and she would not wait up dinner for him. At least Mr Byron did not share his daughter’s intolerable disregard of the feelings of others; his invitation had seemed unstudied, and made in an open spirit of genuine gratitude. Christopher was pleased to find that the father was not so unreasonable as he had been expecting.

“I would be honoured, sir,” he said evenly, making his own bow, a quick military inflection.

[Adriana Byron]

Adriana's head shot up for a moment, and when her father turned, she immediately lowered her eyes once more. He walked towards her horse, quickly grasping her around the waist once more and lowering her to the ground, reins still in hand as he led his daughter's prized stud to the man. "Ride Constantine, he'll listen to you, unlike his owner." Harsh blue eyes were cast at Adriana's still bowed face.

He walked towards his horse and she followed, resting her hands on his forearms as he lifted her onto the back of his own black steed then mounted himself. Adriana kept her eyes on the ground while on the inside she was fuming. She rested her hands delicately on her fathers shoulders and tucked her legs up, her skirts falling over the horse's rump and base of his tail.

She looked up after a moment to see her brother's piercing eyes, Etienne, and she glared back. He was the one she was closest with, but she despised when he sided with her father. She ground her teeth inaudibly and leaned slightly forward as the horse set off so she would not be thrown off balance.

The ride back to the manor was a short one, and the minute they arrived, Alexandre dismounted and helped his daughter down, pointing with one hand that told her to go inside and make herself decent for dinner without him even saying a word. She hurried inside and up to her rooms to take a bath and change clothing.

[Lt. Keynes]

It had occurred to Christopher that he was the only one not mounted, and it would be odd to walk on foot beside all these riders. However, so it would be – or perhaps he had best cry off now. No sooner had he considered it, though, than Byron returned to his daughter, and took her by the waist again, removing her from the horse with no more ceremony than he had set her upon it in the first place. He led both his daughter and the horse to Christopher, and gave the reins over to him, with the words, “Ride Constantine, he’ll listen to you, unlike his owner.”

Surprise touched Christopher’s face again, quickly chased away by a look of slight amusement that he kept confined to a twinkle in his eyes. The young woman was as furious as she could possibly be, although her eyes were cast down onto the ground he could see it in the impotent working of her jaw, and the angry colour that was rising from below her collar. He assumed that she would ride with her father, and it was as he expected; she was lifted up behind Byron and held unto his shoulders to keep herself stable.

It was not quite possible for Christopher to ride upon a lady’s side-saddle. He regarded the horse for an instant, before uncinching the buckles and removing the saddle. Riding bare-backed was not precisely what he would have most liked to do, and it would be murder upon his poor breeches, but better that than trying to ride in a woman’s fashion. He could carry the saddle before him.

Miss Byron was still without a coat, but with her father and the other gentlemen present, it was no longer Christopher’s obligation to share his with her. He kept it to himself, therefore, satisfied with staying warm and dry. He gave her one brief look before he swung himself up onto the Spanish grey, observing the vitriolic exchange of eyes between the young woman and the eldest of the young gentlemen. A combined sense of relief at his apprehensions having been invalidated, and of an unholy sense of amusement at the situation – and, he could not hide it from himself, a certain satisfaction at seeing Miss Byron take her turn in discomfiture – made a laugh rise up in his throat, which he swallowed back with a convulsive motion of his face.

As he settled himself onto the grey – Constantine, it was – he patted the horse’s shoulder absently and urged him onwards to follow the other riders. The horse was large enough to bear his greater weight without much difficulty. He was not accustomed to riding a horse like this – if Christopher found that he needed to ride somewhere, he was obliged to rent a horse. The hacks that were available for rent were, needless to say, not precisely high-blooded creatures. This one in contrast practically danced underneath him, with a high-stepping gait, and required a firm hand to keep mastered and under control without saddle, spurs, or riding-quirt.

He followed the others in silence, murmuring a word or two of praise to Constantine when the creature obeyed him well. Once they had arrived at what was evidently Byron’s house – his eyebrows rose as they rode onto the grounds; he recognised the Queen Anne-era building as Columbine Manor, which had belonged to Sir Atherton Wingfield the last time he had been in Meryton. Sir Atherton had been forced to retrench about that time, but clearly his fortunes had fallen further since he had been obliged to sell his estate. The Byrons must have taken at least some of their fortune from France, when they fled the Revolution; either that or they were high in King George’s favour and were receiving an allowance from the English crown. If they were connected to the French royal family, they might figure into the English scheme to place Louis’ brother back on the throne. The name Byron was, however, completely unfamiliar to him – at least in connection to the French. They had redecorated Columbine in the French style, as he recognised from the clipped, shaved, and heavily topiary'ed grounds.

He put it out of his mind; he disliked that sort of maze intensely. Instead, he observed the grounds, and the others as they dismounted. Miss Byron was rapidly dismissed, and vanished within a few seconds. Christopher had dismounted again, and handed Constantine’s reins to a groom standing by to take them. It seemed that the horse had grown fond of him, for it lipped at Christopher’s hand for a few moments and whickered. He turned away from the horse, however, with only a perfunctory pat on the muzzle, and gave his attention to Byron. “May I have the advantage of your name, sir?”

This post has been edited by Lt. Keynes on Mar 2 2009, 05:10 PM

[Adriana Byron]

Alexandre watched his daughter go with a harsh glare before turning his eyes back to Christopher. "Oh, pardon me. Alexandre Byron." He responded. "Of course you've already met my petit-Adriana," he gestured behind him to the eldest of the young men. "This is my oldest son, Etienne, the one on the sorrel is Demitri, and the one on the gray is Felix." He lifted his eyes only for a moment to the window to his daughter's room, watching her move about behind the drawn curtains. "She has my spirit, she just hasn't learned how to control it yet." He said vaguely, his eyes never leaving the window.

He this turned his sharp, ice blue eyes back to Christopher. "Come inside, before the rain picks back up again." He moved inside the house and took off his thick coat at the door, hanging it on the large hall three standing in the parlor. The sons followed suit moving towards the parlor. With a gesture, Alexandre bid Christopher to follow them. As he walked by the stairs, he called up them. "Autrefois cette année serait incroyable, petit-Adriana!*"

He then moved into the parlor and quickly fixed five tumblers of brandy, bringing one to Christopher first then to his sons before seating himself in a large chair by the fireplace.

Adriana appeared moments later, dressed in the style of the French court with full skirts and a plunging neckline, her delicate collar bone and neck accented by the rich, cream color of the dress. She lowered herself on the couch next to her oldest brother, head still bowed.

*Sometime this year would be incredible, little-Adriana!

[Lt. Keynes]

Byron’s eyes were on his daughter, with a poorly concealed anger; presumably he had not spoken a word in order to keep his temper under control, but Christopher could read his face. He turned away from her when Christopher spoke, however. “Oh, pardon me. Alexandre Byron. Of course you’ve already met my petit-Adriana. This is my oldest son, Etienne, the one on the sorrel is Demitri, and the one on the gray is Felix,” he replied, pointing out each of the young men that had ridden with him. Christopher touched his hat to each in turn, giving a slight nod, before making a more formal bow to Byron.

“Lieutenant Keynes, of the Royal Navy,” he said. “I am pleased to meet you and your sons.” Although Byron had looked up at a window of the house, Christopher thought the man had heard him. His own eyes followed the direction of Byron’s gaze, where he could see faintly through the window in question a woman’s silhouette outlined against the curtains. He guessed it had to be Miss Byron, and the man confirmed his guess when he spoke, absently, “She has my spirit, she just hasn’t learned how to control it yet.”

Not yet familiar with Byron’s spirit, Christopher made no comment on this, but heartily agreed with the man’s next statement, which was made in what he was already guessing was a more characteristic strength of tone. “Come inside, before the rain picks back up again.” He was close on the heels of the other men, and gave up his dripping coat and hat to the servant waiting to take them, following after Byron into the parlour. “Autrefois cette année serait incroyable, petit-Adriana!” Christopher half-smiled to himself, recognizing the tone and wondering if he ought to let Byron know that he understood French. It was possible the other man might not speak so freely in front of a stranger if he had known. He decided, however, not to. Yet.

Byron had introduced himself as simply Alexandre Byron – Mr Byron. It had not escaped Christopher that he had not given a title, though he was certainly French nobility. Had Byron given up his title, then, after the loss of his lands in the Revolution? Most of the émigrés, however empty and worthless their titles were after they had fled, had held stubbornly onto them. Byron, then, had a little less pride than his daughter did. Christopher wondered what rank the man had once held.

It was clear that Byron had still not given up much of his pleasure, however; the brandy that he brought to Christopher was a very fine quality, a German spirit that had a fruity bouquet. It was somewhat wasted on Christopher, who did not have a discerning palate, but he did know enough to know that it was a good vintage. Byron had handed the glass to him personally, in what was a mark of considerable friendliness. Ordinarily, the butler would have served Christopher. Byron’s openly warm manner towards Christopher puzzled him, slightly. He had not expected such gratitude.

He was not sorry for it, as he found he rather liked the Frenchman. Seating himself not far from the fire, in the warm glow, he sipped the brandy and felt the spirits relaxing him into a more companionable mood.

When Miss Byron reappeared, having changed her clothing from the sodden riding habit and refreshed herself, Christopher looked up with less hostility than he had previously regarded her. He had by no means forgiven her, but he did not intend to directly antagonize her further. As he regarded her, he felt some surprise that she chose to dress herself in the heavy, ornate fashions of the former French court. He would have expected her to prefer the neoclassical style which was worn, in his experience, by most women of fashion under a certain age. Instead, she was wearing the obsolete style of the old regime. Here was a contrast between Miss Byron and her father: while he had released his title, at least for the present, she was clinging to the past.

He stood as she entered the room, bowing slightly again. He turned half to Byron, and told his host, “I have met Miss Byron, but I have not been formally presented to her yet.” Through asking her father to introduce them, Christopher realized he could allow Miss Byron to regain some part of her social dignity. He mentioned nothing of the inappropriate way in which she had introduced herself to him. Her father did not need to know of that.

[Adriana Byron]

Alexandre watched as his daughter seated herself elegantly on the couch next to his oldest and his eyes looked her over. She at least looked presentable now, not like a stray cat. His eyes traveled over her dress, the color very nice on her and the cut flattering her body far better than the styles of the English court. At least in the dress she wore, she looked like she had more of a form. She was a tiny thing and always had been. When their guest spoke, he turned his eyes back to him.

Adriana lifted her own as well, looking at Christopher for a moment then to her father. When his blue eyes turned to her, she stood slowly, gracefully.

"Of course. Lieutenant Keynes, I would like to introduce my daughter, Adriana Byron, to you." He began, gesturing to Adriana. With a practice manner, Adriana sank into a curtsy.

"Bonjouir." She replied then looked to her father once more. He made a small movement with his head. Over the years, Adriana had learned what every single one of her father's movements meant. With his gesture she moved to the piano in the corner of the room and lowered herself onto the seat, fixing her skirts and lifting the lid on the piano.

She poised her fingers and sprang into one of Beethoven's measures, slow and easy, concentrating on the piece alone.