WELCOME

[Adriana Byron]

Adriana had always loved the rain, when she chose to be in it. Even now, it was raining as she moved through the woods, a hooded cloak pulled up over her head. It was late evening, and she was only out because she had sneaked out before her parents could say anything. She held tight to Constantine's, her Andalusian stallion, reins, keeping him in even as he pranced anxiously, gray tail flipping harshly. Her deep burgundy riding habit clung to her, the rains dampening it and causing it to stick to her skin. The black cloak she wore was damp as well, but kept her warmer than she would have been without it.

Thunder cracked above her and she smiled, loosening Constantine's reins ever so slightly so he could move into a trot, her body moving easily with him even as she sat sidesaddle. She came to a small clearing an tugged on his reins to make him stop. He did so reluctantly, still shifting as he stood still. Adriana's hand reached up at pushed her hood off her head so the rain could soak her dark blonde locks and stream down her neck into the dark material of her dress.

She smiled, tilting her face up to the sky and closing her eyes, enjoying the warm rain splashing onto her skin. All was quiet until suddenly, Constantine lurched. She sat it easily, but she turned her head to see what had spooked him. Someone was coming up the path.

[Lt. Keynes]

Hunched back into the collar of his greatcoat, the rain dribbling off the brim of his sou’wester, Christopher felt more at home than he had in a few days. With his sister still bending over backwards to keep him happy, he felt tense and out of place in the little house in Sauton road. It would have been impossible for him to explain to his relations why he felt so uncomfortable, because the matter was that Emily was trying to make him too comfortable. It left him feeling like a guest, instead of a brother: like an intrusion into their domestic peace.

The fact that his brother-in-law, Charles, was still tip-toeing around him after their discussion of some days past, did not help. If Charles would have continued with his usually frank, good-natured manners, it might have helped the atmosphere, but their quarrel had left Charles nursing his wounds under the pretense of repentance. Christopher’s own anger would burn hot for a short while, and then he would forgive nearly as quickly again. He understood that his brother-in-law’s resentment of him existed, but it was beyond him why the man should hold onto it so.

It was Charles’ own fault. He had never stopped gambling, and he was no good hand at faro, whist, vingt-et-un, or any of the other games that he believed himself a champion at. He always expected that if he played long enough his luck would turn around, and the natural result of this was that he lost far more than he won. It was foolish and irresponsible of him to continue with his gambling when he had a family to support, on a very small salary. Christopher had been obliged to discharge a number of gambling debts for Charles when he arrived in Meryton, and when a further bill was presented to him about a week after he had arrived, he had lost his patience and informed Charles of exactly what he owed to Emily and how Christopher expected him to conduct himself. And, though Charles had been unable to defend himself against Christopher’s words, it had left matters between them in an unpleasant way.

All of this left him longing for the sea again. His only link with his previous life, Angelo, had lost his memory entire. Christopher felt that he was liable to forget who he was, himself, if he was trapped in the small house for too much longer. But with no near hopes for an active posting, the future seemed to hold nothing more than years stretching out of this precarious, strange existence. He did not belong here on land, but nevertheless he was trapped in Meryton. If it had not been for Lily and Angelo he would have gone mad already.

The rain, and the distant rumble of thunder in the uneasy, lowering sky, reminded him a little of the sea. Breathing in the cold, clean scent of the rain, he pulled off one of his gloves and held his hand out, moistened. He could feel the wind in the west, his mental compass telling him the direction. He could not help estimating at the shear, and proposing to himself the best way to set the sails to capture the force of the storm. Had he been on a good sloop or brig, she would have been scudding across the waves at an exhilarating clip. Instead, he plodded along, boots sucking in the mud, grounded. Rotting in dry-dock.

The sound of hoofbeats, muffled on the wet ground, echoed from behind him, and Christopher stepped aside off the path. He looked to the side to see the rider – odd for them to be out in such inclement weather. The grey , neat-stepping hack was clearly a high-blooded animal. That was all he could see at a distance. As it came closer, breath steaming in the chill, his eyes flicked upwards to the rider. It was a woman. She was rapidly growing soaked, but her face lit up with a smile. She rode past him without noticing him, standing by the hedgerow as he was, and the horse’s hooves kicked up a splatter of mud onto his greatcoat.

He frowned after her. Was she mad, to go riding in an autumn rainstorm? True, the rain was not really bucketing down yet, but it was only a matter of time. Christopher’s own keen weather-sense told him that in a half-hour and no more, the wind would pick up to a regular gale and there would be a serious downpour. Moreover, it would be dark out soon. She was alone, unescorted.

Once they had passed, he stepped back out into the road and walked on. He had no intentions of troubling the rider, but she slowed and stopped a little ways ahead of him. Throwing back her hood, she looked upwards to the sky and simply sat there. Christopher’s frown deepened in the shadows of his sou’wester. She was either mad, or more than a little silly. About Lily’s age, but his niece would never have pulled such a stunt.

As he walked up behind her, intending to go past, her horse, nervous and probably unhappy with the rain and thunder, made a sudden motion. He’d spooked the horse. And the girl, it seemed. She turned her head, and saw him for the first time.

Christopher slowed his pace, out of common courtesy, and regarded her from under the brim of his hat. Her face was young, and set with haughty lines; her eyes passed him over with unconcern. A sardonic smile flickered over his mouth, and he raised one eyebrow at her, but lifted his hand to the brim of his hat and tugged on it with the faintest of wordless bows.

What an odd creature she was.

This post has been edited by Lt. Keynes on Feb 24 2009, 12:48 AM

[Adriana Byron]

Once Adriana saw who her guest was, she blushed. A man, and a handsome man none the less. An extremely handsome man who had come upon her riding in the rain like a child. Her hair had come down from it's elegant twist and was plastered to her face, setting off her elegant features and entrancing eyes. She didn't know what to say for the longest time, she simply watched him, her eyes looking him over, not in fear but in her own embarrassment.

She finally found her voice, and could not believe that it had taken her this long. Adriana Byron had never in her life been at a loss for words. She bowed her head in reply to his nod, reining Constantine in and turning him to face the man who had come upon her.

Usually Adriana never rode alone in the rain, especially without anyone with her. But ever since she had come to this blasted country, all she had dealt with was being locked up in her home. She hated every moment of it, but had endured it until today. "Forgive me, I know I must look ridiculous to you." Her voice was soft and elegant, the accent of her homeland licking the edges of it. "I promise I usually do not ride alone."

She brought her raised leg down off the pommel of the saddle and slid down, landing easily. She came to stand at Constantine's side, her petite form only reached the middle of his shoulder.

[Lt. Keynes]

He expected her to turn away once she had seen him; instead, a light of interest kindled in her eyes and she stared at him. He halted completely, wondering what her close study of him meant. What did she find so interesting in an ordinary country gentleman? She had completely forgotten about her hood, and the rain had dragged her hair down and was proceeding to soak her to the bone. Christopher wondered whether he ought to say something, but he waited in silence, as it appeared from the look on her face that she had something to say to him instead. He found himself waiting for seconds that stretched out as a flush rose over her face.

”Forgive me, I know I must look ridiculous to you.” He recognised the soft accent in her voice, the odd roll that she gave to the words. A Frenchwoman, then; presumably one of many refugees from the new regime. This told Christopher little in and of itself. She was also wealthy, he could see from the fine quality of the horse that she was riding – a showy grey hack, with Spanish lines unless he missed his guess. Though Christopher was no expert on horses. But wealth and quality did not necessarily go alongside one another, and a woman who would go out riding alone and in the rain showed bad judgement on a number of counts.

To begin with, she was risking a very good horse on the foul roads of England. When she had gone past him, she had been going at a quick trot. Much too fast; the horse would be liable to slip in the mud and fall. She ought to have gone at no more than a walk, or even to have led the horse herself. The frown in Christopher’s eyes deepened, though the little ironic smile remained on his mouth. Furthermore, she was putting herself in danger; this might have been Meryton, but there were still unsavoury types that lurked about. This did not even begin to address the likelihood of catching a chill, for which both her horse and the lady herself were at risk. The entire thing showed a recklessness that he disapproved of to the highest degree.

“I promise I usually do not ride alone.” She must have gathered something of his opinion, or else have guessed that such an opinion was the only one any passerby was likely to entertain. Sliding off her horse, she landed in the mud beside the grey. She was quite small, and not quite as young as he had first thought. A thin creature, appearing moreso with her clothing clinging to her, outlining her body in such a way that he thought it best to keep his eyes to her face. This, he noted, was like the horse: a high-bred face, with prominent bones and wide, dark eyes. He could see the French in her.

“I am very much afraid that you do, indeed, appear ridiculous,” he answered her, his smile quirking up further, though not with any particular good-humour. “But be assured I do not require you to explain yourself to me.” It was not precisely courteous, but Christopher had never been a man for pretty little sociable lies.,

It occurred to him that she was going to expect him to help her mount again when the interview she had begun was at an end. There was no mounting-block around and in skirts, it was physically impossible for a girl of her height to mount a horse that tall without assistance. And by the rules of a gentleman’s conduct, he was obliged to do it with a good grace. Well, so be it; he would play the groom, and kneel in the muck for her to step upon his hands to mount her horse. He wondered if she deliberately maneuvered others into acting as servants, or if it was an unconscious thing?

This post has been edited by Lt. Keynes on Feb 24 2009, 12:55 AM

[Adriana Byron]

She forced a small, half-hearted smile onto her lips at his reply, her blush subsiding slowly. Finally, her face was returned to it's soft, creamy color that showed summers under the French sun as a child. "At least you are honest. Even women get tired of being lied to." She replied, her curls falling into her face. She pushed them back with an impatient swoop of her hand. "I'm Adriana Byron."

She curtsied ever so slightly, as had become a habit by this point in her life. Always curtsy, never smirk, never slouch, men are superior, the list for modern-day social appearances was extensive, and she knew every part by heart. It transformed her into quite the opposite of what she was now: a perfect, self-assured young woman with no ring on her finger. And her mother was trying to find any beau of good breeding for her to start a family with. Quite frankly, Adriana hated the idea of marriage. It made her sick, and she internally rolled her eyes at the thought. Marriage was a political arrangement, and that was all.

She then reached up and took Constantine's reins in a hand to lead him and give him a break, even though he was agitated already. "Might you walk with me a bit?" She asked softly. "If you do not wish to, that's fine, I'm just not quite ready to go home and face my father's wrath just yet." She smiled ever so slightly once more.

[Lt. Keynes]

The young woman smiled up at him, even as he made a rather cutting reply to her, and her flush faded away. “At least you are honest. Even women get tired of being lied to,” she answered him, and he gave a brief smile in reply. He was not in the habit of lying to anyone, and he could think of nothing that he disliked more than being lied to himself. It was not a position that most seemed to hold, however. He wondered if she was, in fact, speaking the truth about that, or if she was lying to preserve herself from saying something unpleasant in return.

“I’m Adriana Byron.” She dipped him a curtsey, with a little difficulty considering that her skirts were still wet and clinging, and he gave her a short bow in return, touching his hat again. “Your servant, Miss Byron. Lieutenant Keynes, of the Royal Navy,” he replied. Byron? She was undoubtedly French, but that was an unusual surname for a Frenchwoman to have. Byron, instead, had associations with the English barony. How curious. Perhaps she was only half-French, and her father was English, or perhaps it was simply one of those odd and inexplicable inconsistencies that sometimes occurred in names, the result of a corruption of the original. It might, perhaps, come from Biron.

He waved the thought away, and attended to her politely. She looked slightly tentative, as she reached forward to take the horse’s reins. “Might you walk with me a bit? If you do not wish to, that’s fine, I’m just not quite ready to go home and face my father’s wrath just yet.” So she did not intend to ride further. This thought was immediately superseded by the request that she made of him, which upon looking at it from all angles, Christopher found himself in a rather inextricable situation. It was a choice between bad and worse. He could accompany her as she requested, and risk being spoken about. It would do no particular damage to Christopher’s prospects, though he might lose the good opinion of some whom he valued highly, but hers would be ruined beyond repair if anyone saw the two of them so. An assignation would be instantly assumed. Of course, if she had a penchant for this sort of escapade, her reputation might already have been dragged through the gutter, in which case there was no sense in worrying about it.

However, leaving her to go on alone when a glance to the sky showed him that darkness was less distant than he had thought, seemed worse by far. To go with her was merely indecorous, to leave her alone with whatever dangers she faced in getting home was inexcusable. From a moral point of view, Christopher had no choice. By stopping to speak with him, she had made him responsible for her, and thus hijacked him to her purposes. She really seemed to have a very curious talent.

“Of course I will escort you, Miss Byron,” he replied, and fell in beside her. A glance served to show that she had by no means come equipped for her expedition: her cloak was thoroughly damp, having soaked through to the riding habit she wore underneath, and since she still had not pulled up her hood, she was rapidly beginning to look half-drowned. In his own oilskin greatcoat, and waxed-leather sou’wester, which repelled water as effectively as a duck’s feathers, Christopher was perfectly warm and dry. He knew he ought to offer it to her, as she was a delicate creature, whereas he had built up a high tolerance level.

Because Christopher invariably tried to do what he ought to do, therefore, he spoke to her again, and resigned himself to the joys of getting wet through. “Might I offer you my coat and hat? They are waterproof, and would keep you warm better.” He had, after all, spent days on end in heavy storms before, when there was no possibility of being either warm or dry and he had considered himself lucky not to lose his fingers to frostbite.

His mind began to work further towards correcting the situation which they were in. An unmarried woman, out with a single man. A chaperone was needed, preferably a female one. Did he know anyone who lived in this area who might be able to act as an Abigail for the young lady? If he could have, he would have chosen to take her to a cottage and stop until the rain had passed, but Christopher thought it would be better to return her to her father’s house as quickly as possible. Thus, they needed another escort. Lucas Lodge was not very far away, but he did not think he would be able to tolerate the speculating gaze of Lady Lucas. There must be some cottages belonging to the Lucas tenants. If only a light would present itself, to show him where such a home might be.

Christopher had no desire to face her father's wrath directed at himself.

This post has been edited by Lt. Keynes on Feb 24 2009, 05:22 AM

[Adriana Byron]

Adriana couldn't help but smile a soft, sweet smile. "The pleasure is mine, Lieutenant Keynes." She replied before gently pulling Constantine's reins so he fell into step beside her. Her eyes were on the ground for the longest time before her companion spoke to her. She lifted her eyes to look at him, pushing her hair back from her face once more. "Oh, please, I did not ask you to escort me. If I wanted an escort, I would have brought one." She replied, her voice subtly flirtatious. "I asked for company, not protection." Despite her words, her voice was not the least bit rude or patronizing.

She looked down to her feet once more until he offered her his coat. She was slightly chilled, but comfortably so. "No, I'm quite alright, thank you." She replied, finally reaching behind her head and pulling the hood of her cloak up so it at least covered a majority of her head, leaving her face visible so she could converse with him.

She rested one hand on Constantine's neck as they walked, trying to keep herself at an eased pace, not like the quick steps she had learned in the French court. "We all know I'm horribly ridiculous and decided to go for a ride in the rain. But you seem to be of saner, sounder mind than I. May I ask why you are gallivanting in the rain?"

[Lt. Keynes]

She smiled over at him, again, but Christopher kept his face as blank as any stone. “The pleasure is mine, Lieutenant Keynes,” she said, and he made a noncommittal noise in his throat. In fact, the pleasure was indeed hers; he had been taken out of his way, and drawn into what promised to develop into an acutely embarrassing imbroglio. He fully expected a scene when he returned her to her father’s house, and it was too much to hope that he would not come in for a share of whatever words were exchanged.

After he had agreed to escort her, she looked sidelong at him. “Oh, please, I did not ask you to escort me. If I wanted an escort, I would have brought one. I asked for company, not protection.” She spoke in a light, flippant voice, with an undertone to her words that Christopher was at first at a loss to explain. That she was attempting to flirt with him was a possibility outside the realm of what Christopher had come to expect from the world, but after it had suggested itself to him he was unable to rid himself of the notion. It was not one which he wished to entertain. This was going to be awkward enough as it was, and he did not need something of the sort to complicate it.

“No, I’m quite alright, thank you,” she replied to his offer of coat and hat, and drew up the hood of her cloak to shelter her head a little better. He shook his head. Her cloak was clearly not waterproof; in fact, it was becoming thoroughly soaked, and would give essentially no protection.

“I am not generally accounted good company,” he replied to her first comment, “and what I offered was protection, whether you asked for it or not.” He answered her with no encouragement for attraction or flirtation in his voice. Christopher did not flirt; though he had of course come across a few women in his lifetime that he had found attractive, he had carefully avoided those women. His prospects did not permit an attachment, and he was not one of the sorts of men who played games with love. Flirtation was consequently something that he would have no part of.

“Moreover, I must insist that you will take my coat. You are already nearly wet through, and you will catch a chill. I will take no harm from the rain; I have spent twenty-five years of my life at sea,” he informed her crisply. He would not return her to where she belonged and have it said that he had behaved towards her in any way unbefitting a gentleman. Nor would he stop short of returning her to where she belonged; he had by now committed to this, and would see her all the way to her father’s house.

His gloved hands went to his collar, with the determined purpose of unfastening the greatcoat and bundling her into it. She detained him briefly, but by no means had dissuaded him, by speaking again. “We all know I’m horribly ridiculous and decided to go for a ride in the rain. But you seem to be of saner, sounder mind than I. May I ask why you are gallivanting in the rain?”

“I will lay claim to no especial knowledge of your general conduct,” he replied, “but for myself I had no intention of…gallivanting. I am accustomed to taking a walk at this time of day, whatever the weather.” He did not elabourate. He could have informed her that he walked because there seemed nothing else; because he was mad to be doing something. Because being grounded was not to be borne. However, Christopher did not tell her any of this. What he had intended to be a simple walk had, in fact, turned into a sort of gallivanting. And he could not shake his resentment over it.

“The coat, miss,” he said again, obdurate. “I absolutely insist.”

This post has been edited by Lt. Keynes on Feb 24 2009, 02:10 AM

[Adriana Byron]

Adriana rolled her eyes. She did not respond, but simply continued walking with Constantine at her side. She was not in the mood to fight with anyone today, least of all this man she barely knew. She watched the ground passing beneath her riding boots as she walked, Constantine snorting softly with his elegant gray ears pricked forward, observing for any possible threat.

His coat again? Goodness gracious, she was perfectly comfortable, chilled but in a relaxing way, a way that reminded her of her homeland in the winter. She turned her eyes to him. "Lieutenant, I am perfectly comfortable." She replied. Out of reaction, she jumped away when he moved his hand up to unbutton the collar of his coat, apparently very intent on wrapping her in it. Now walking a good few feet farther away, she spoke once more. "I. am. fine. I enjoy a slight chill. If I get too cold, I'll let you know." She continued walking there after, eyes now ahead of her instead of on the ground.

She finally spoke again after a moment, her natural, unintended flirtation still in her voice. "You fascinate me, Lieutenant." She replied simply. "You're far more honest and blunt than any of the men I've spent my life around. You say exactly how you feel, or at least indicate it. This is why I am quite sure, by your body language alone, that you would much rather not be 'looking after me', as you feel you are."

This post has been edited by Adriana Byron on Feb 24 2009, 03:50 AM

[Lt. Keynes]

It was not difficult to tell that he was frustrating her, but Christopher had never been a man particularly given to trying to please others. He did not need to be liked by the generality of people; he had the love of his family, and of his friends, and that was enough for him. He did not mind when she rolled her eyes after he insisted upon giving her his coat. And if she thought that would dissuade him, she was thoroughly wrong.

“Lieutenant, I am perfectly comfortable.” She had carefully put a little distance between them, apparently in case he tried to force her into it. Which he briefly considered doing, as a quicker expedient than talking her into it; he suspected her to be pigheaded. “I. am. Fine. I enjoy a slight chill. If I get too cold, I’ll let you know.” He allowed a brief pause while he brought together a series of irrefutable points, and a rather cutting reply, but she spoke into the breach before he could.

“You fascinate me, Lieutenant. You’re far more honest and blunt than any of the men I’ve spent my life around. You say exactly how you feel, or at least indicate it. This is why I am quite sure, by your body language alone, that you would much rather not be ‘looking after me,’ as you feel you are.” This oddly straightforward admission brought Christopher’s mental gears to a halt, and he was given pause for a moment.

However, as she had said, he was indeed blunt, and he replied in kind. “Yes, you are correct; I wish you at Jericho. I will make no bones about it.” He regarded her for a moment. “I should not think you would wonder why I am accompanying you, however. I will not leave you to go on alone. It may have arisen out of a remarkable piece of folly on your part, but the fact is that it is not safe to go wandering all about the English countryside on your own, when it is nearly dark out and about to pour buckets.”

He cleared his throat of the material that was collecting there from the rain and chill wind, and went on. “Perhaps you have been brought up in an environment where you were not taught to regard the national atmosphere. I daresay that you were, considering that you are obviously French, and the logical conclusion is that you are a refugee from the Jacobins. I believe that the behaviour of the upper class in your country was characterised by a peculiar blindness.” That was putting it mildly. They had callously disregarded the warning signs of the revolution, ignored the plight of the poor until the masses, pushed beyond endurance, had risen up and the country had fallen into ruin. Men and women exactly like this girl had been what broke France’s back.

“England,” he explained, “is at war. The natural consequence of war upon a country’s economy is inflation. The pound has dropped in value, and all goods have become more dear. It is not only in the city that men and women may starve; here in the country as well, we are feeling the pinch. The result is that many turn to crime. And you, Miss Byron, are obviously wealthy, and you are not ugly. You present a tempting target. Do you wish to be assaulted? I assure you that rape and robbery are very real possibilities. By riding out like this you have placed yourself in considerable danger.” It was a simplified summary of a situation that was rather more complex than that, but he was not about to explain to her the vagaries and implications of the several acts of Parliament that had led to this, nor the hundreds of other factors that were also involved.

He supposed no one had ever spoken to her like that; in his experience a girl was considered better-off not knowing the hard realities of the world. Christopher had by this time quite stopped walking, and turned to face her fully in order to give her the full benefit of his justified wrath.

“I have no choice in the matter. I am obliged by all the rules of decent humanity to escort you, and in consequence my name will very likely be spoken about in connection with yours by the vilest of tongues. Meryton is never content to let such a matter lie. If you think that I ought to wish my sister and her family to hear my name bandied about, and to be accused of an assignation with a young woman half my age who apparently has no sense of decorum - !” He had worked himself up into losing his temper; his voice had risen, though he was not shouting and it had remained at a conversational level, if curtly spoken. Christopher reined himself in, achieving control once more.

“I would prefer that, however, to behaving the blackguard and leaving you to your own devices. At the very least, however, I do ask that you protect something of my reputation as a gentleman and take my bloody coat. I would rather not appear in civilization with you looking like a drowned rat, while I traipse along as comfortable as can be. Will you oblige me in this at least?”

This post has been edited by Lt. Keynes on Feb 24 2009, 05:38 AM

[Adriana Byron]

Adriana listened without a visible comment to either side as he spoke. When he paused, she spoke once more. "Yes, I, as well as my three brothers, mother, and father are refugees." Her voice was noncommittal immediately, apparently having switched to the voice she used at court. "I support the rebels, as odd as it sounds. The King was a pig, an arrogant brat, and, quite frankly, a pain in the ass." She ran a a hand down Constantine's neck in a soothing manner. "My whole family supported the rebels, until we found out that we were next on the chopping block, so we fled."

She took a silence before she spoke again. "As far as my so called 'peculiar blindness', as a French woman, I was taught that when the eye of the public, I was eye candy, an object of lust, that my goal in life was to marry into high society or get myself pregnant with the king's child as to secure my place in society. My mother, however, taught me how to enjoy the simpler things in life. Fine liquor, dancing, riding in the rain." She moved to a stop and ran her hand down Constantine's face. "A real friend. Unlike you British people who apparently think you're so damn superior, we've learned how to enjoy what God gave us to look at."

She then moved to a walk once more. "As far as your jacket, no, I won't take it. I think you will look far more suspicious if your coat is around me, Lieutenant."

[Lt. Keynes]

When she replied, she had lost her former tone; her voice had cooled drastically. “Yes, I, as well as my three brothers, mother, and father are refugees. I support the rebels, as odd as it sounds. The King was a pig, an arrogant brat, and, quite frankly, a pain in the ass. My whole family supported the rebels, until we found out that we were next on the chopping block, so we fled.”

She paused, and he allowed her to continue, maintaining the high, ironic arch of one eyebrow as she spoke. “As far as my so called ‘peculiar blindness,’ as a French woman, I was taught that when the eye of the public, I was eye candy, an object of lust, that my goal in life was to marry into high society or get myself pregnant with the king’s child as to secure my place in society. My mother, however, taught me how to enjoy the simpler things in live. Fine liquor, dancing, riding in the rain. A real friend. Unlike you British people who apparently think you’re so damn superior, we’ve learned how to enjoy what God gave us to look at.”

Keeping her head held high, she added, “As far as your jacket, no, I won’t take it. I think you will look far more suspicious if your coat is around me, Lieutenant.”

As soon as she was done, Christopher spoke plainly once again. This time, however, he did not allow his voice to rise in exasperation, but kept his words as cool as ice. “The King of France,” he told her, “may have been a waffling fool, who did not know what to do with the throne he sat, but he was not the sole cause of the Revolution. One man cannot be blamed for the wrongdoing of an entire class of people.”

“The cause of the Revolution was extravagance. Extravagance so extreme that it bankrupted an entire kingdom. You cannot claim innocence in it; you may claim to be Jacobin yourself – a curious thing to say, indeed, when you are living upon the good graces of a country at war with those same rebels - you may claim whatever you wish, but all one need to is to look at your clothing, Miss Byron, to see that you were a part of it. Even now, you wear tailored clothing of the finest materials. You own, and ride, a blood-horse of imported Spanish stock, where an ordinary carriage-horse cannot be kept upon an income of less than four hundred pounds a year. Do not try to tell me that you enjoy ‘simple’ pleasures.”

“Should you be interested to know the cost of a dance? To rent the rooms of an assembly-hall, to hire servants to prepare them, to hire musicians. Merely to light the rooms with candles is a matter of at least fifty pounds. There are, of course, individual expenses for each of the guests; the cost of evening-gowns being perhaps the most noteworthy. In the end it is a matter of two hundred pounds, minimum, and that is only accounting for the expenses of the host. That is more than many gentlemen earn in a year.” It was more, in fact, than Christopher earned in two. Most of what he earned had always been sent to Emily, and now that his income had been cut in two by going onto half-pay, there was scarcely anything to spare.

It angered him that she should be so blinkered. It angered him that she treated the matter with such casual disregard. It angered him still more that she treated him in an equally petty way. By accompanying her, he would be losing the regard of some of his acquaintance which he valued highly. He was guaranteed to come in for some unpleasant shrapnel around town, and the situation was on the whole one which he detested. And yet he had placed himself in it, in order to find a way to give her – a stranger! - a modicum of decency, as well as protection against dangers which she persisted in refusing to recognise.

“You remain blind as to the point at hand, which is that you have endangered yourself for nothing more than larks – another of those ‘simple pleasures’ of yours. You have also placed another person under a distressing obligation to you. And you still, evidently, consider it to be nothing. Is it nothing to you that you have placed me between the two choices of either humiliation or of violating my principles? Is it nothing to you that you still insist upon compounding my embarrassment by refusing to take my coat?”

“Every word out of your mouth proclaims you for what you are, as much as do your actions. A spoilt and selfish child of the aristocracy.”

This post has been edited by Lt. Keynes on Feb 25 2009, 04:53 AM

[Adriana Byron]

"I do not deny that I am far more spoiled than most of the people we both know." She replied, shrugging. "As far as for my clothing, if it was up to me, I would be running in men's breeches and an overcoat, but neither of my parents will allow it. The horse was a gift from my father for my birthday, and I have to admit, I have grown very fond of him."

She rolled her eyes. "You can walk away now, if you wish. No one has seen us together and I will not hold it against you." She rolled er eyes and stepped over a log across the road, leading Constantine over as well. Could this man be so honestly bull-headed that not a word she was saying got through his head? Was he so damn set in his ways that he would not even agree with her on the slightest thing? She rolled her eyes in exasperation and, not looking at him, spoke once more.

"You really are blind to the lives of the aristocracy, aren't you?" She asked, turning her eyes alone to look at him. "You may think it is a fabulous lifestyle, and in some aspects it is. I have never wanted for anything, materially at least. But you don't know what it's like to be expected to be perfect. For everyone to be watching you, waiting for you to mess up. For every aspect of your life, including your love and your virginity to be traded freely for the advancement of men." She replied, licking her lips.

"At least you have a choice." She continued in the same icy voice. A cold wind whipped by, a sign of the oncoming downpour, and it quickly chilled her. She shivered slightly, but did not speak, unwilling to tell him that she was cold.

[Lt. Keynes]

She shrugged, dispassionately, in response to everything that he had said to her, brushing it away with that simple gesture as if it did, indeed, mean nothing to her. Christopher could think of no-one, in that instant, of whom she reminded him so much as his elder brother, Bartimaeus. There had never been any love lost between he and Bartimaeus. His face hardened still further, as she remarked, “I do not deny that I am far more spoiled than most of the people we both know. As far as my clothing, I would be running in men’s breeches and an overcoat, but neither of my parents will allow it. The horse was a gift from my father for my birthday, and I have to admit, I have grown very fond of him.”

None of this was, of course, an answer to any of his charges. Of course the horse had been a gift from her father; everything she owned would be, as it would be a gift from her husband when once she married. A woman could not own anything in her own right, unless she was a widow. The male clothing – well, Christopher would not even touch the indecency of that.

She rolled her eyes again, as she seemed to have a habit of doing. “You can walk away now, if you wish. No one has seen us together and I will not hold it against you.” He had told her explicitly that he was a man of principle. Did she truly think that he could bring himself to walk away at this moment? He had explained the danger of her situation in clear, unequivocating detail. Could she honestly be so thick-headed that it still had not penetrated? Or had she simply been so occupied in listening to her own internal, vain drummer that she had not listened to a word he said? She rolled her eyes a second and a third time.

“You really are blind to the lives of the aristocracy, aren’t you?” She looked at him again. “You may think it is a fabulous lifestyle, and in some aspects it is. I have never wanted for anything, materially at least. But you don’t know what it’s like to be expected to be perfect. For everyone to be watching you, waiting for you to mess up. For every aspect of your life, including your love and your virginity to be traded freely for the advancement of men. At least you have a choice.”

He gave a short, sharp laugh. How much choice had he ever had in his life? The only one which he had ever been given was between the clergy and the Navy. Now, he had no choices left to him; every door had been closed with the altercation with Hamilton. She believed she had no freedom in marriage? Christopher would never be able to marry; he had nothing to offer, and no prospects of advancement. He would never be able to bring himself to even try to shackle any woman to that. This was far from the worst of his concerns, but it provided a contrast to the idea she seemed to have formed that could not help but rise to the front of his mind.

Nothing of all of this was said. To speak of it would be to sink himself into whinging, which he was not generally accustomed to doing. She knew nothing, and he was done with trying to educate her.

“By all means, Miss Byron, indulge yourself. You will forgive me for not seeing any particular pathos in your situation.” He was, in fact, fully aware of what lifestyle was followed by the wealthy. Alongside Sir Richard, when they had been in London, Christopher had mixed with some of the foremost in England, though ignored by the vast majority he had been a mere observer. There was nothing in it that he envied, but also nothing that he pitied.

Christopher had a keenly observant eye, which had served him well in following and comprehending the politics of the London ton. He did not miss the shiver that rippled through her with the sharp gust of wind that snapped at his coat. So much for perfectly comfortable.

“The coat. Miss Byron.” His speech was now short and clipped. He had already spoken more than he wished to her.

[Adriana Byron]

Adriana did not speak after his response, tired of arguing with him and absently pushed her hair from her face. It had stopped pouring and the rain had turned into a light mist that felt good against her face and neck. She absently reached a hand out for his coat when Constantine lifted his head, ears pricked forward. Only moments later a group of four horses and riders came from off the trail and onto it, causing Adriana to pull to a stop quickly. She had raised a hand with an intention to wave politely when she saw who was in the lead.

Alexandre Byron, her father. She gulped hard and dropped her hand as the group came forward and she quickly realized her three brothers were following her father.

A sharp voice cut through the still air, speaking French, as Alexandre spoke to his daughter. "Adriana, où dans tout le feu d'enfer avez-vous été?*" His voice was regal, elegant, and laced with arsenic at the same time.

"Faire juste un tour, papa**" Adriana replied, her voice quite visibly shaking with each word.

"Sans surveillant? Sous la pluie? Dans la campagne anglaise?***" He replied even harsher than before. Adriana opened her mouth to respond when he made a sharp gesture of his hand at his waist, a motion she had learned over the years meant to shut her mouth. He dismounted and moved around her roughly to Christopher, bowing slightly at the waist.

"My thanks, sir. My daughter has the tendency to be a bit unruly at times." His voice was heavily accented, as he observed him with his piercing blue eyes, taking in the seaman's appearance. He then turned away from him and moved to where Adriana stood, towering over her by a foot. Without a word he grabbed her about the waist and lifted her easily onto Constantine's back. He then turned his eyes back to the sailor. "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." He grasped Constantine's reins.

"Je n'allais pas obtenir dans l'ennui, papa!****" Adriana replied in an almost defiant voice, her whiskey eyes blazing.

"Fermez-vous jamais vers le haut?*****" Adriana immediately shut her mouth and lowered her eyes.

*Adriana, where in all hellfire have you been?
**Just taking a walk, Papa.
***Without a chaperon? In the rain? In the English countryside?
****I was not going to get in trouble, Papa!
*****Do you ever shut up?