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Warren Roosevelt
Male | 28 | mr.

'Vielfaure' the name attached to the generous donation had immediately caught his attention, the winery family from France, which wasn't the end of the commotion they had caused within higher society. The type of commotion that had Warren ashamed, but it had given the Vielfaure the attention needed for Warren to actually descend from his attic, surprising all in the school that was already in full bustle. Enough for two students to collide in a moment of inattentiveness for the task at hand.

"Careful," Warren had called to them, smiling as if he hadn't taken notice of the unusualness of the situation himself before climbing into the carriage after giving the coachman some instructions on where to go.

Had Warren taken the time to throw a look into the mirror the man would have found his looks positively gaunt that day. The days he spent in the attic had done no good to his already pale complexion, accompanied with the days of sleep he had forfeited in favour of burning candles instead. Had the man allowed himself to be dressed by servants they would have told him as much, maybe convinced him to apply some powder and some rouge. However, Warren dressed himself, which could be told from the way his cravat wasn't as highly pointed as was fashionable. A state of carelessness that held another type of charm as he fumbled around with the little card that had come with the news of the large donation to the school he had set within his former childhood house, practising what he wanted to say to the donator several times before his eyes were caught by the landscape that passed him by, changed and yet so unchanged from the childhood to the years he had spent in the area now.

"Is the master of the house at home?" Warren eventually asked the servant that came up running to his carriage, the servant didn't answer immediately, neither did he run back to check if the master was presently at home, which really meant that the master was presentable and ready to receive Warren, as was custom. "Warren Roosenvelt, have my card," he introduced himself, handing over his calling card before the servant turned on his heel and ran off to announce Warren's presence. With that part done Warren pushed the door of his carriage open, taking in the view of the front yard that greeted him spread across in front of the Vielfaure household.

@PavellumPendulum
 
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Léona Vielfaure considered herself to be somewhat of a patron saint to those who had not been born into perfect circumstances. It was a self-awarded title, of course, but one that she often reminded herself of, sometimes using some of the Vielfaure fortune to help those who came from humble beginnings, as she did. Perhaps some would gawk at her generous donation, especially upon finding out that it'd been done without consulting her son, who was the legal owner of the Vielfaure estate, but truthfully, she had never been one to operate on the same rules as everyone else did. It had not been her willingness to conform that had gotten her chosen as the preferred lover of her late husband, after all.

Léopoldine was out on business that day, but that didn't mean that work could not be done in the Vielfaure home. It was rare that Léona spent much time idling around anyway. When one of the servants knocked at the door of her study, she stood, smoothing out her dress and leaving the letters she'd been penning for later. The calling card read a name that she'd spoken out loud before, one that she considered to belong to a fellow patron of her kind, even if they had been born in different circumstances. "Warren Roosevelt..." she mumbled, her thumb gliding over the cardstock, as if she could weigh the worth of the man from his inscribed name alone.

With the servant a few steps ahead of her, she strolled through the hallways of her modest home, paintings from France held high, the scent of flowers in the air, freshly cut from the garden, likely being prepared to be made into potpourri to keep the fresh scent around even in the colder months. Her dark hair flowed behind her, wavy tresses let loose instead of wrung together in some sort of fancy arrangement. By the time she had made it to the front door, stepping out into the fresh air, the man himself stood in front of his carriage, eyes fluttering over her front yard.

It was nothing to gawk at. The gardens, however small they were, were very well tended to, fragrant and colourful, how she preferred them to be. Warren looked like a flash of light among the prickly roses and humble shrubs, his skin pale and threatening to droop under his eyes. "A pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Roosevelt." she greeted, voice warm in tone, the undercurrent both inquisitive and knowing at the same time. "Léona Vielfaure." Her own name rolled off her tongue, ever familiar and smooth when english did not flow as naturally. She curtsied, just to be polite, a smile playing at her lips.
 
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Warren Roosevelt
Male | 28 | mr.

Instead of the servant returning to announce that the mistress is ready to receive him, the figure of a lady unmade and unfit for public came forth, hair flowing behind her without a care in the world and boldness radiating from her that was unlike what ladies usually were, or even Warren himself.

"Miss Vielfaure," Warren is quick to react instead of stunned, glad for the foregoing of all formality in their meeting inside of the mansion with tea and whatnot. The garden, while simple, felt more like home, more like a neutral ground as he watched the gardeners do their preparations for the months in which the soil rests. "You have skillful gardeners in employ," he makes sure to compliment first, honest in his remark as well as he wonders how his students would compare and if they could find themselves in the employ of such a splendid garden. Thoughts of business, which was also his entire purpose.

"I came out today to pass my thanks for the generous donation made. It shall be put to good use, if not to where most directly needed." The bow and smile that followed where both ingrained manners taught as much as they were genuine part of his character, a signal sent over to the lucky student that he had picked to come along with carrying a wheel of cheese presented to the lady of the house.

"As a token of our gratitude," the student piped up politely after Warren had introduced the student as 'Laurentine' to encourage the teenager to speak up further, for there was a reason why Warren had chosen this student specifically to show off the goodwill of his school.

"A double Gloucester cheese, a true English cheese that pairs well with ales or lighter bodied red wines," Laurentine introduced, encouraged by Warren who kept a close eye on miss Vielfaure, hoping to see something of approval before the student continued.

"It would be my honour if you could visit us, in Sutton that is," the student would continue, leaving little need for Warren to say anything else at the mastery of good manners and the evidence of good knowledge and professionalism so clearly on display.

"Laurentine is one of the best, hoping to open his own factory one day, not?" Warren concludes for the student, his pride evident before handing the wheel to a servant nearby.
 
The generous donation in the Vielfaure name had not been written out to Warren's school on a whim. There were two parts to the cocktail that had been Léona's decision, the prior being actual altruism, a desire to care for those that actually wanted to rise through the ranks despite their lack of birthrights. She herself had once been on that same slippery slope. Even if she had never lived on the streets, she knew that she was not who people thought of when they had the word power or influence in mind, yet here she was. She had made something of herself and Warren's institution provided help to those who wished to do the same. That was a cause that she could support.

The second reason... Her eyes flitted over Mr. Roosevelt, the paleness of his skin, the gentle swoop of his chestnut hair. Though Warren was not the most desired bachelor in all of London, he was not a target to be scoffed at. While many in higher places would find reason to not interact with her, a mere trophy, a whore abducted from her supposedly inferior country, leeching off the power and status of her late husband, his entire life's work revolved around people like her. He had money. He had influence.

Her smile was sweeter, watching him compliment her gardener's work, paying even closer attention to the smoothness of his movements when he bowed to show his thanks. "It was my pleasure, Mr. Roosevelt." she purred, obviously pleased by the attention, "You do good work for our community, our city... Perhaps even our country. It is only right that you receive the aid of likeminded people, in order to do more good."

A student, along with a hefty wheel of cheese were presented to her. This was pleasing, though Léona did not reach out to touch it or come any closer when admiring it, listening to Laurentine's explanation. "Oh? What a pleasant surprise." Briefly, she flagged down the servant that had escorted her out, having him receive the wheel for her, "I will have it served with our wine tonight. You will no doubt hear of my opinions when I visit." Her smile was knowing, perhaps almost closer to a smirk, easily showing that she had every intention of visiting and perhaps even singing their praises if she approved of the quality of the gift.

"I look forward to seeing it. The Vielfaure family is more than content with providing support to young, ambitious artisans like yourself."
 

Warren Roosevelt
Male | 28 | mr.

The call of Miss Vielfaure came to the school soon. Soon enough for there to be a lack of preparation and the entry of a new student that the headmaster hadn't entirely anticipated for. "The stairs, clean the stairs!" the head of the maids called anxiously as Warren made his way down, nearly tumbling down the wood as he found them still wet by the rub of one of the maids in training, his eyes wide as he barely hung onto one single arm while a crowd of students rushed up at him and started to tug him upwards from all directions.

"Useless!" The head was about to scold, as Warren raised his hands to signal the rest of the students to go on their way before he put a gentle hand on the shoulder of the head.

"Agatha, please," he intercedes, giving the culprit a look to quickly make herself scarce and fetch the items needed to get the stairs in their proper state. "Not to add more onto your load, but where is the new student to sleep?" Warren questioned, not remembering how many beds there were occupied already in the house and how many more rooms they had. Not all students stayed the night in the school after all. Those that could afford it went back home, to help out their households in the hours they had learned a trade. Others, those without a home, remained here, in the house, but were expected to run so many more chores. It was hard to say which type of student was more envious, but it was an occupation and it meant a chance to step up.

"I surely have no clue, your bed, perhaps?" Agatha had challenged Warren instead, and the students side-eyed each other at the way the head of the maids dared to speak to Warren for the same behaviour from their side would have earned them a rigid discipline. Not that Warren would ever tell on them, but it was the pointed difference as Warren smiled back at the older lady.

"If there is none to spare, gladly, I shall take yours," Warren cheerfully responded, knowing that all was well if Agatha had felt the need to quip back at him, "I trust you will count how many more beds remain open, that way we can hopefully ask the carpenters to build us new ones before a new student arrives," the headmaster warmly instructs the maid before descending down the stairs with utmost care, not wanting to repeat the earlier scene, or actually find himself down the stairs upside down.

"Oh, and Agatha?" Warren calls when he finally is down the last step, looking up at the frantic head of the maids who were already ordering the next girls around with barks and yells, "do remember to breathe."

It was a gentle reminder to the ageing lady.


@Zarko Straadi @PavellumPendulum
 

Clara Morgan|12|Commoner
Clara rode in silence until the wagon came to a lasting stop. A couple thumps on the front wall from the driver said they had reached their destination. Apart from a few small, barred porthole openings to allow some daylight in, the wagon was a featureless black box with two rows of small, backless wooden benches and a narrow aisle going down the center. On the outside, the only thing to distinguish it from a police wagon was white lettering that said "Mrs. Meriwether's Home for Girls."

"Right, you, come on then!" Miss Wickersham said, grabbing Clara's arm in a vicelike grip. It was no coincidence that Miss Wickersham was the tallest and strongest of the orphanage's governesses. Clara already had a number of failed escape attempts under her belt. Under ordinary circumstances, taking her first chance to bolt wouldn't be completely unreasonable.

Instead, Clara held herself back from giving the woman a cross look and allowed herself to be pulled to the door without resistance. From what she'd been told, she was being given the opportunity to go to school. That meant access to an education. Books would be unlocked for her, and she could hardly imagine what secrets they might hold! Before the orphanage, she'd tried to teach herself to read by pinching some books meant for very small children. It had been hard going keeping them hidden from Mr. Jacoby and other urchins who might be inclined to rat on her, much less finding free alone-time to study them.

In school, they would want her to read, and even learn maths. Clara wasn't exactly sure what the latter would be good for though. People with money could use numbers to calculate how much they had and figure out ways to make more by means that all but qualified as dark magic. Clara doubted she would ever have that much money, but if she could master the arcane arts of Number, who knew? It was a skill, a power, so if somebody intended to offer it to her, she'd snatch it faster than a lost wallet.

With a large, bulky frame and a square, rugged face, "Miss" Wickersham had never been, and would never be, pretty. In Clara's mind, the delicate-sounding epithet hardly seemed to apply to the human warship who unlocked the wagon's door and dragged her out into the sunlight. She blinked against the sudden brightness for a moment before her eyes went wide.

Clara found herself standing in a roundabout paved in spotless white pea gravel, with a tall spreading tree, immaculate flower beds, and a buffer of neatly trimmed green grass at its center. In one direction, a wide driveway, similarly-paved, led through a processional of trees lined up on each side, saluting with their branches to create a lovely archway. In the other, there was more grass, more flower beds, and hedge plants exquisitely trimmed into various shapes.

But what truly stood out, and earned her stare, was the utterly enormous house that held pride of place. While smaller branching driveways arced around the house, presumably leading to places for servants and incoming cargo, the main driveway ended at the foot of a grand stone staircase with sweeping balustrades and intricate patterns of different-colored stone set into the broad landings. It was not the sort of thing one was meant to just climb up step by step. Instead, it was as if the polished stone expected visitors to stride up its heights, confident in their wealth, power, and worthiness to even be here.

None of which Clara had as she was dragged unceremoniously upward, toward tall, carved wooden doors with oval inset windows decorated with flowers and twisting vines of stained glass. The house itself was richly embellished, bearing carved details too abundant for her eyes to take in. Her mind boggled at the amount of work it must have taken to raise this place.

This...is a school?! Clara kept that thought and her quizzical look to herself. As the pair reached the
doors, sure enough, there was lettering above them that looked to have been added at some later date, and one of the words, 'S-c-h-o-o-l,' matched a set she'd seen on schools in the city. She had no time to wonder why, if that was the word she thought it was, that it did not have a 'k,' before Miss Wickersham used the gilded cast-iron knocker to signal their presence.

That meant people from inside this building would be coming, to judge Clara and determine her worthiness to enter. With her free hand, she fussed with her bonnet and faded dress, knowing full well that she could not make them, and by extension, herself, deserving of admittance.
 
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That day, Léona Vielfaure was decidedly against the weather. After all her preparations, the sun had decided to shyly wander behind the clouds, greying out the sky above them. Though the air had yet to thicken with the scent of oncoming rain, she still disliked how dreary it had become in the hour it had taken her to get ready.

She'd announced her visit to Warren's school beforehand, making sure to comb through her dark locks carefully, smooth out her beautiful dress and apply her makeup with the utmost precision on the day of. Her appearance did not fit the societal standard of trendy fashion: she refused to pink her cheeks when such soft, pale tones barely made a difference on her face, especially since when they did, they made her look over powdered and dry, she typically kept her black hair loose and flowing instead of in any sort of intricate updo and maybe, just maybe, her dresses cut a smidge too low on her chest sometimes... But despite it all, she felt confident that the way she presented herself made her stand out in every way that mattered.

The eyes on her, from students catching a glimpse at her to staff realizing who she was after she'd gotten halfway through the courtyard, Léona reveled in the attention. Still, she stood like she barely noticed the gawking at all, only a knowing, pleasant smile and nod of acknowledgement doled out to a few key onlookers in order to show humbleness. Though it was particularly unladylike to solicit all the attention of a crowd, it wouldn't do to ignore all of them at once. Sometimes, one had to choose where to direct their precious attention.

And her precious attention zeroed in on the little one at the door, waiting and fidgeting. A student? Judging by the fact that she was being escorted by the older woman beside her, perhaps she was a newer addition to Warren's establishment. Politely, Léona made enough noise while walking on purpose, just to alert the two of them of her presence, a polite, warm look on her face despite her analytical gaze. The child was a little runt of a thing, thin lipped with a defiant chin, even in spite of her apparent nervousness. The woman beside her was more of a beast wrangled into human clothing, hulking and built like a brick home come to life.

She'd seen the woman use the knocker in order to get the attention of those inside, so she did not attempt the same, assuming whoever would greet them at the door would come soon. "Fellow visitors, perhaps?" she questioned aloud, slipping into faintly friendly small talk without even bothering with an initial introduction, especially seeing the sour look on the other woman's face. "Let us hope the young Roosevelt does not leave us waiting long."
 
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Clara Morgan|12|Commoner
The sound of approaching footsteps announced the arrival of another visitor. Clara turned, wondering if it might be a fellow student. Inwardly, she braced herself for a future of mockery. Her present undignified circumstances would no doubt be eagerly relayed to the rest of the student body at the earliest opportunity.

Instead of a child or even a teacher, the newcomer turned out to be a Lady whose apparel and jewelry probably represented more money than Clara would ever own in her whole life. At least that would be the case if Clara played by the rules laid out for her by people of the woman's caste...

"Fellow visitors, perhaps?" the Lady said in an unexpectedly friendly tone. "Let us hope the young Roosevelt does not leave us waiting long."

Clara glanced at her only briefly before lowering her eyes, her mind automatically calculating which bits of jewelry would be easiest to pinch and whether or not the Lady's purse could be...accessed...for a bit of freelance wealth redistribution. She set those thoughts aside. She was in no position to attempt a score at the moment, and certainly not at the risk of her one shot at an education.

She kept her face neutral, hiding her confusion at the Lady's abrupt comment. Weren't there hurdles of introduction and pleasantry that had to be bypassed first? Before Mr. Jacoby's thieving ring had been broken up, he had started training her in savoir-faire in preparation for the day she would be old enough to be dressed in a nice gown and sent to posh shops disguised as a young Lady in order to pilfer valuables for the ring. And of course, Mrs. Meriwether sought to beat Proper Behavior into her from the moment she'd arrived at the orphanage.

The Lady can do as she likes, Clara thought. The powerful made the rules; they could presumably set them aside.

Miss Wickersham was equally taken aback by the Lady's approach. People like that didn't engage in friendly conversation with people like her. It Just Wasn't Done. She fidgeted a little with her feet, reluctantly letting go of Clara's wrist, but keeping her under a hawk-like watch. "Go on, pay your respects," she hissed under her breath.

Keeping her eyes lowered, Clara gave a curtsy, Miss Wickersham clumsily doing likewise by her side before seizing Clara's wrist again, even tighter than before.

"Milady. I'm bringin' this one t' be a pupil for Mr. Roosevelt's school, ma'am."

Clara remained silent, her face expressionless. Seen, not heard.
 
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Warren Roosevelt
Male | 28 | mr.

"Hullo!" Warren greeted both the new student and the guest, his curls just a little out of place by the breeze that came in and the humidity of the air, but in overall looking far more cleaned up than usual, Agatha had made sure of that when she heard a patron was to come by, hence the meticulous cleaning of the stairs. All for good purpose, Warren understood, but it seemed to daunt the newest addition to the school far more than it needed to whose large eyes and rounder face was staring in amazement.

"Welcome to House Roosevelt, school for all students," Warren exclaimed, spreading his arms out in pride to show off the hard work of the students maintaining the place, and though it wasn't as exceptional as the best masters that money could afford it was as good place as any, if not better for in the end Warren was still a wealthy man.

He also didn't bother to introduce the school by its actual name, their denomination as given by parliament officially being 'school for the less-inclined' as he despised the name. The students here, though from poorer and less privileged backgrounds, weren't any less determined to make something of their lives. In fact, Warren felt that it was his type that were lacking in any sort of inclination to make something of their lives.

"Do be careful of the steps, one of the students dropped a pail of water earlier," he did warn the two newcomers, careful to avoid the word 'maid' for there were no true maids in this house, not even Agatha who was more of a head of maids and rather directed the maids-to-be. "Ah, but keep your coat on, we will be going to the cellars in a bit and it will be chilly," Warren didn't forget to add on when one of the male students studying to be a valet came to take their coats.

The principal was only brought to a halt by the stern look of madame Preston, the housekeeper of his place and a stern lady that could have easily beaten his mother in age had she been alive. "Mister Roosevelt, you seem to forget something," she sternly reminded him, and the man could almost hear the: "such as a proper introduction," which was indeed what he had forgotten.

"Ah, yes! I will take over from here, thank you miss Wickersham. What's your name, dear? Call me Warren, though many seem to favour 'principal' instead. Papa also works if that will make it easier."

Madame Preston released another sigh at the state in which the principal was acting, quick to take Miss Vielfaure under her wing instead as she held out an arm to accept the missus' coat.

"Forgive the principal. Mister Roosevelt is delighted to have you visit the school. It is the sudden notice of a new student which agitates him," she would explain, her tone measured and calm unlike the lively state in which Warren found himself in, earning another frown from the housekeeper whose worries headed into a dark place.

"Shall I set up tea for three?" The housekeeper offered her voice a pitch louder than in which she had spoken earlier to catch Warren's attention whose head snapped up, bringing his curls with him with wide eyes before nodding.

"Yes, lovely! Let's get to know each other over tea!"


@Zarko Straadi @PavellumPendulum
 
The two of them gawked at her. That was not uncommon. While perhaps someone of her status would've learned their lesson by now, shamed by such reactions into submission under the heavy hands of conformity, Léona would admit that it did nothing but pat her ego at this point, almost making her giddy. Who would stop her from speaking to the commonfolk? It was not illegal to strike up polite conversation with strangers, even if it was perhaps frowned upon.

The child was let go briefly, only allowed a moment to curtsy before her hand was wrangled back into that iron grip. Only a few words were offered by the caregiver (if much care was given at all, considering that rough treatment), a clumsy curtsy alongside it. Léona's eyes dropped with faint interest, though obviously she didn't think much of their introductions. "What a lucky day for her, then. This is a fine establishment." She regarded Clara with a certain scrutinizing look, but it was more one of amusement than of disapproval. That stony face spelled trouble. What fun.

The door opened, with Mr. Roosevelt immediately launching into a bright greeting, looking quite well put together and much more lively than she'd remembered him to be last, more manic than anything. Léona offered him a pleasant curtsy and nod of her head, though said nothing, allowing him to speak to the other two first. She could wait. After all, she had no qualms with spending the entire day here if she needed to, provided that she receive the adequate amount of attention later on in the visit.

She stepped into the building carefully, allowing the housekeeper to take her coat, even as she offered her apologies. "I take no offense to it. I am pleased to be greeted as a guest as is." Léona gave her own response smoothly, turning her head back to the rest of the group when tea was mentioned, "And tea would be lovely."
 
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Clara Morgan|12|Commoner
"What a lucky day for her then," the Lady said. "This is a fine establishment." Curious, Clara flicked her gaze up to the Lady, to find her returning an examining gaze. Her lips were pursed in a hint of a smile rather than disgust, so that was a relief.

Why is she here? Does she send her children here? Clara wondered. As the thought occurred, it made sense. While the Lady's clothes bespoke wealth, her dusky skin, flowing hair, and...somewhat unusual mannerisms probably indicated that she couldn't quite fit in with high society. Her children probably wouldn't either, not at a school for children of the Peerage. But a "fine establishment" like this would offer them a respectable education, in an environment where they could rule the roost.

Before Clara could begin to contemplate the threat one or more unassailable rich children would present, the door opened, and a young man emerged. "Hullo," he said, eschewing the polished high-born accent someone of his station (to judge by his clothing). "Welcome to House Roosevelt, School for All Students," he said, spreading his arms like a showman.

As the man continued, he went from slightly odd, to inexplicable. No grownup had ever permitted her to call them by their first name, not even Mr. Jacoby, and he was just some scoundrel from the streets. 'Papa?' He's not...adopting me, is he? She risked a glance at Miss Wickersham, who met her look with a Gorgon gaze.

"Don't you turn yer back on this one for a second, Mr. Roosevelt sir," the woman said, giving Clara a bone-rattling shake. "Little guttersnipe will take what's not nailed down, an' scarper off the moment she gets 'alf the chance. Make sure she's got plenty o' work t' do, an' give 'er at least one good hard caning each day, fer whatever she manages t' get away with."

Reluctantly, she released her iron grip. By reflex, Clara stepped out of her reach, flicking her hand to shake off the pain. There would be bruises later. What do I call him? Is this some kind of test? she thought. Two of the three options he'd offered would get her a quick trip to the Box if she'd tried it with any of the grownups at the orphanage. The third, 'Principal,' was a job title that would surely be disparaging to anyone who could own a house like this. Shouldn't I call him 'Your Lordship' or something? she thought.

Her knowledge of how to interact with the aristocracy was woefully incomplete, but everything she did know militated against the level of informality he was offering. Her mental wheels spun, but found no purchase. He'd asked her a question, which meant he was entitled to an answer, and was not to be kept waiting.

"My name is Clara Morgan, sir," she said. I'll just disappear into the crowd of students, and not call him anything until I see what they do, and what happens when they do it.

A servant had come out to cater to the Lady, talking with her in subdued tones. With a glance toward Miss Wickersham's departing back to make sure she was out of earshot, Clara said, "I promise I'll learn as fast as I can, and work hard. I don't want to take anything from here but whatever learning your teachers will offer me." She could have performed a flawless act of earnest sincerity, but in this case it was quite real.

"Shall I set up tea for three?" the housekeeper said. Wha?

"Yes, lovely! Let's get to know each other over tea!" Mr. Roosevelt said.

"And tea would be lovely," the Lady replied.

...Lovely... Clara thought sarcastically, willing herself not to show nervousness. Just keep my mouth shut and raise my pinky finger, she thought, gathering resolve for the ordeal ahead. They'll talk to each other, and want me silent. A couple minutes in, and they'll forget I'm even there. I'll get through this. I'm not losing this chance!
 
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Emilie Riebau | 20 | Commoner

Emilie rode up to the Roosevelt estate perched on the forward bench of a four-horse cargo wagon with Professor Dalrymple's Cabinet of Curiosities emblazoned on the side in gold-embossed letters. She had seen an article about the school while perusing a newspaper. A school for underprivileged children! She had been exceedingly fortunate to have been able to finagle her way into becoming the Professor's assistant as a child. Others would not be so lucky.

So, she had set out to offer the children here a chance to experience the wonders of natural philosophy, and perhaps offer them inspiration in the process. A few letters back and forth to get through the introductions and arrange a presentation. Since this was a show for schoolchildren, it was one she could do herself, without needing to trouble the Professor.

During her preparations, Emilie had come upon a difficult challenge: she could offer the children inspiration, but that would do nothing to break the barriers that stood in their way. Students of a charity school would not be able to afford University tuition, or gain access to laboratory and workshop facilities. What good would it do to light a Promethean fire in their minds, if their potential could never be realized?

Then she received an inspiration of her own: what if she could offer opportunity as well? Find the children with interest and ability. Recruit them, help teach them, and then: create an invention factory, a place where a corps of inventors could work together, learning and sharing information and ideas, and the proceeds from the inventions they created. To invent a better method of invention!

One of her enduring frustrations was that she simply couldn't learn enough by herself, could only pour so many hours into her work. While it was still common for scientists and inventors to be able to innovate in multiple fields, knowledge was expanding fast enough that she could not keep up with all of the incoming developments. It seemed likely that before long, scientists and inventors would have to specialize in one, or perhaps two fields of study.

A corps of inventors working together would be able to do so, yet share knowledge and ideas so that their ability to create as a unit would not be limited to some narrow focus. If many hands made light work, what could many minds accomplish?

There were still a great many devils in the details, not the least of which was how she would get the funding to establish such a thing. However, she would have time. They were children. It would be some years before they would be ready to join an Inventors' Combine. In that time, perhaps, she could find a way to create it for them. For boys and girls.

As the wagon drew to a halt, Emilie saw that there was a group of people at the door. She was seated between the driver and a male servant who would help with the heavy lifting. The servant dismounted, then helped her alight. Emilie willed herself to ignore the awkwardness she felt. "Thank you," she said, then made her way to join the group at the top of the stairs.

One of them was a young girl in a threadbare dress who briefly met her eyes with a keen gaze. Emily's heart ached to immediately begin spilling out her ideas and vision for the girl, offer her an open door if she wanted it. But she held back; now was not the time. Instead, she directed her attention to the adults, and gave a curtsy.

She wore a flowing light-yellow gown that took inspiration from the sorts of things Maergarethe liked to wear. It diverged from the popular styles, but that suited Emilie just fine. For one thing, instead of baring the upper chest and arms it had a high collar and long sleeves; less skin for men to gawp at, yet still presenting a dignified appearance.

"Excuse me, I am Emilie Riebau. I've had correspondence with Mr. Roosevelt, about putting on a scientific exhibition for his students after their classes?"
 
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Warren Roosevelt
Male | 28 | mr.

"Caning?" Warren gasped the word almost, as if it was some forbidden curse that his mother would scold him for and over which he would have to take a confession for in church, if Warren attended church, "no, that is much too wicked, and these aren't wicked children," the principal came to the defence for his students and for Clara, the offence almost clear in his voice as he was ready to pull Clara, as the orphan was named, out of the missus hands, hoping to keep that wicked suggestion and the evil thought of harming innocent souls out of reach in whatever way possible.

"I'm sure Miss Vielfaure doesn't approve of something as barbarous and outdated as caning either, right, miss?" Warren exclaimed, so in need of assurance from his dear patron that his voice pitched once more, his mind swirling as he was already reaching out for the poor unfortunate child in Miss Wickersham care and ready to take her over, "Miss Vielfaure is an important patron of this establishment, where we most definitely don't approve of caning, so wherever that suggestion may have come from, I hope that Miss Wickersham knows better than to bring it up beyond my doorsteps again," Warren concluded, his words growing increasingly stressed as his breath ran out, his eyes dimmer and straining further away down a lane of memories that none of those present were privy to.

"No caning, indeed," Madame Preston interjected, familiar with the principal's moods, as she was quick to pull Clara away from the miss that had brought the child and led Miss Wickersham out to the door, "thank you so much for bringing the student, I will send you out on your way," the madame informed the missus calmly, hoping that she could finish the job quickly enough to return to attend to tea before worse happened.

The door opened and there another visitor stood at its entrance, young and bold, and very much without invitation or expected. Madame Preston barely registered letting go of Miss Wickersham arm who had already left through the door in slight offence, before the words of Emilie Riebau reached her.

"Mister Roosevelt is about to have tea, I will inform the maids to prepare for one more," Madame Preston informed the female, stepping to the side to allow the female into the hallway in which Clara, miss Vielfaure and Warren still stood.

"Mister Roosevelt?" Madame Preston sharply called, shaking Warren from his state, as he turned to the newcomer, blinking at first until the housekeeper reminded him with a, "Emilie Riebau, the assistant," earning a clarity in his eyes as he turned to both Miss Vielfaure and to Clara.

"Marvellous company, indeed!" Warren exclaimed as he offered a hand to Clara and a bow to both missus, "tea for four of all kinds. A student, a patron, and a teacher, marvellous!" Warren repeated before Madame Preston finally escaped, ready to give orders for tea finally and something more to subdue the emotions of their principal.
 
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What a crowd they were drawing here.

Léona was becoming a tad agitated herself, hearing the other woman speak so honestly about caning a child. In all seriousness, though Léona did not care much for children (thus why she'd chosen not to have any others after birthing Léo), it did not mean that she wished any particular cruelty upon them. They were crafty little things, learning their place in the world, often with no choice in the matter. No one chose to be born, after all. Her face had smoothed into something more akin to contempt in that moment, but Warren was quick to interject without her needing to first, eyes wide and hands nearly flailing from all of his unnecessary gesturing.

"Violence does nothing but stifle a child's potential." Léona responded sagely, but added nothing more after noting the child's name (Clara), because much to her displeasure, another face was added to the group. With Wickersham's departure, another woman replaced her just as easily, one that was younger and much more of a possible rival when it came to acquiring Warren's affections. Emilie was a young, petite thing, with pale skin and a rounded face, something like a cherub fallen straight out of a painting. It was a look that would appeal to some, she was sure. If Léona had been more of an amateur in such a game, she would have narrowed her eyes, made faces and postured...

But she did not. She remained pleasant, resisting the urge to sigh at the young woman. "My, my, you are in demand today, Mr. Roosevelt." The oldest woman standing among them commented, a faint chuckle on her lips, "Let us carry on, then. It won't do to have all of these important conversations simply standing in the halls."

Though polite, her words ushered Warren to move them along.
 

Clara Morgan|12|Commoner
Clara tried not to give a stunned look when Mr. Roosevelt and the Lady responded to Miss Wickersham. She really tried. But as she entered the house, it was if she was being swept up into some kind of fantastical alien world. A world where preachers did not rail against "Original Sin" and "depravity and wickedness" in the hearts of children forced to listen to them each Sunday and be reminded of how richly they deserved every cruelty that came down upon them from above.

Before Clara could try to process this turn of events, another young woman showed up. The newcomer wore a gown in a style Clara had never seen before, a curious contrast to that of the Lady who had come before. While the Lady's subtly presented a bit more cleavage, shoulder, and bared arm than the norm, the newcomer reserved all of her feminine Mysteries to herself. It was still far beyond Clara's means, but did not flaunt excessive wealth. Cotton rather than silk, red coral and turquoise instead of rubies and sapphires. Even so, in Clara's eyes it made its wearer seem almost magical--sorceress rather than princess or queen.

A 'Sighentifik exhibition?' It seemed likely to be something different from the 'exhibitions' put on by snake-oil selling mountebanks and run-down traveling shows, if the presenter was anything to go by. The young woman met her eyes with a look of strange intensity...a yearning?

Clara quickly looked away. Whatever the young woman might want from her...well, she couldn't even imagine what it could be, but it was always dangerous to have something someone else wanted. Especially when that someone had wealth and power.

Land on your feet, girl, Clara thought, gathering her wits to assemble the information she'd learned thus far. The Lady was an important patron of this school. That meant her children, if she had any who attended here, would be beyond unassailable. But then, Mr. Roosevelt had referred to her as Miss Vielfaure. So maybe that lowered the odds of her having children? Lowered, but not eliminated. Any dark-skinned children in fine clothes would receive the widest of berths until Clara knew their origins for certain.

Vielfaure. The sound was as smooth as silk, with subtle nuances. Foreign, maybe even French. At least, it had the kind of ethereal beauty one might expect... Vielfaure. Vielfaure. Vielfaure. Clara thought, doing her best to imprint the sound of it in her mind. Should she find herself in a position where she needed to say it, she would have to pronounce it flawlessly. Most likely without any opportunity to practice in private.

The newcomer was a Miss Riebau, 'the assistant,' whatever that meant. Her arrival had sparked a veiled tension in Miss Vielfaure (Vielfaure. Vielfaure.). The Lady's posture became just a little more erect, a subtle hiking of the chin. "My my, you are in demand today, Mr. Roosevelt," the Lady said, a hint of mirth in her tone. Oooooh.

In the corner of her eye, Clara saw Mr. Roosevelt moving her way, a hand extending-- Evade, fight, stand your ground? The words themselves did not come to conscious awareness. Instinct operated faster than words. A swift mental calculation: either of the first two would surely get her cast out of this strange fairy-tale world before she truly had a chance to enter.

So she froze instead. But the hand did not strike or grasp. Instead, it came down low and stopped without touching. Clara clenched her teeth to keep from gaping, and gingerly took the offered hand. It was a little cool to the touch, faint twitches of nervous energy. But what if he wants-- Clara willfully turned her thoughts from that dark path. She would plan for that eventuality if it arose, but until it did, she was determined to remain in this fae realm if she could.

I'll take his measure during tea, she thought. He was peculiar, but with two attractive women to keep his attention (and he theirs), she would have plenty of time for silent, unnoticed observation.
 
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Emilie Riebau | 20 | Commoner

Emilie completely missed the competitive cues Miss Vielfaure gave off, as well as the subtext of her words. She did notice Mr. Roosevelt's excitable state and the lead housekeeper's efforts to rein it in. While not exactly the same, it was close enough to her relationship with the Professor that its contours offered a hint of familiarity. There was agitation in the air, but she had not been present to observe its source.

"Thank you," Emilie said to the lead housekeeper when she extended the invitation to tea, giving her a nod and a smile. Tea. Emilie had been to enough high teas with the wives, and sometimes daughters of Fellows of the Royal Society while the men peeled off to drawing rooms to puff cigars and discuss interesting things, rather than matters of fashion, courtship, and the latest issue of In Confidence. Well, maybe just other uninteresting things, like fox-hunting, horse racing and the like, who knew?

"Marvellous company indeed!" Mr. Roosevelt said. When the planets of lucidity and inspiration aligned for the Professor, he too could give excited outbursts. But not about tea. Emilie returned his bow with a graceful curtsy, easily slipping into 'show mode.'

She was pleasantly surprised to see him extend a gentle hand toward the young girl, though probably not nearly as surprised as the girl herself. When Emilie looked to the child, she could see her doing her best to keep her emotions hidden. Be invisible. Be a cipher. I understand, she thought. She'd had plenty of sternness in her own upbringing, mainly from her mother, and teachers who did not like it when she asked too many questions. Especially ones they couldn't answer.

Emilie had seen the orphanage wagon out front, and the seething fury of the beastly woman who had brought her, so she was sure the child had it far worse.

"Tea for four of all kinds!" Mr. Roosevelt said enthusiastically. "A student, a patron, and a teacher. Marvellous!"

"Indeed," Emilie offered with a da Vinci smile. Or at least unusual, she added in her thoughts. She cast a glance toward the girl, who almost certainly felt far out of her depth. I'll help her through it, she thought.
 

Warren Roosevelt
Male | 28 | mr.

When it rains, it pours and today it poured visitors into the Roosenvelt estate. While students running in and out wasn't uncommon, given the amount of students that passed by the principal with a firm greeting as they went on with their tasks, some in awe at the fanciful crowd, Warren had finally managed to settle the crowd down in the tearoom, his smile a little tense at the realisation at how diverse the group was and barely able to look into the direction of Miss Vielfaure for fear of facing any disapproval for so badly arranged a meeting.

"I had not expected all to come in at once," Warren finally admitted, a terse chuckle escaping him as he wondered if he had been under influence when writing the invitations Had it been quite this crowded when his parents were still alive as well? Warren could barely recall any of their family-friends before their passing, nor if any of them had ever returned to call.

"But allow me to introduce everyone," Warren started after everyone was seated and madame Preston had left for the tea, arm waving into the direction of Miss Vielfaure with a slight bow as he was about to start, "in order of…" and here he had wanted to say age before remembering that it was always impolite to mention age. The next word that came was 'wealth' but that felt even more unbecoming as Warren didn't want Clara to feel anymore diminished than she already did, and thus he settled for something more neutral "experience," after a slight pause that really didn't hide anything of the original word.

"Miss Vielfaure, dearest patron to the school," Warren quickly moved on, "the Vielfaure own the wineries, which is a fine business to get into, but Miss Vielfaure should be an inspiration for all us young girls," he introduced, speaking as if he was one of the girls himself.

Moving on to Emilie Warren gestured towards her in the same way. "Another fine example for all ladies is Miss Riebau, who will be a most valuable asset as an expert in the sciences, inspiring many ladies to come." And this he truly hoped, the realisation that he was in the presence of two great women sinking in as he turned towards Clara, his eyes shimmering in delight at the thought that the newest student of the school had such fortune and honour, even if it hadn't quite sunken in with her.

"And then there is Miss Fortune herself, Clara!" Warren spoke, clasping his hands together at the delightful idea that Clara's first exposure to the school was to both Misuses, "doesn't it feel like fate brought you all together?" he continued, as the door opened and two maids entered with the tea and the plates, their eyes wide in surprise. Setting everything down they lingered around for just a moment longer, tempting Warren to invite the maids to join them as well before a ring in the distance could be heard, signifying that Madame Preston was running a tight ship with the girls as they quickly made themselves sparse.

"I almost feel inadequate to be in such great presences," the man had laughed when the maids scuffled off, "perhaps I should follow the maids myself," came the jest as Warren finally took a seat for himself.
 
With the child's hand in his, Warren Roosevelt escorted his guests into the school's tea room. Léona did well enough to conceal that initial wave of irritation that had blown its way through her. If she could not secure Mr. Roosevelt as a potential partner, she would leave her association with the academy as more of a silent deal. She was not heartless enough to cease her patronage of the establishment simply because her own conquests had not gone well, but she could not spend all her time gallivanting around him if it did not eventually work out in her benefit. She admired his work and the way that the academy provided a space for those like her, but she wasn't getting any younger.

She sat, prim and proper, her pleasant smile remaining when Warren took it upon himself to make sure that they were all properly introduced. At the mention of her name, she gave a little nod to the other two, but she did wonder, in what way was she an inspiration to young women? Seducing her way out of slavery? Guaranteeing the profits of her family's wineries from the shadows, while her young son (admittedly, against his will some of the time) received all of the good reputation and credit? Throwing her money at an academy for the less fortunate? She was nearly certain that Roosevelt only knew the last point on that list, but anyone with spare change could donate to anything if they desired to.

The introductions continued down the list. A scientist (hmm...) and a young student. Warren was awfully cheery, the word fate nearly a dreamy sigh on his tongue. "If fate's name is your own, I suppose you would be right." Léona's response was amused, closer to a tease than an insult, but still perhaps a bit of a jab nonetheless. "It is a pleasure to meet you both. I imagine the two of you will become very busy very soon, what with all that goes on at this academy."

She had done her research. The school was often bustling with activity, filled to the brim with bright eyes and ideas bubbling over.

The headmaster's jab at himself, no matter how joking, had her feeling quite disdainful, however. "No need to be modest." Her voice came out slightly more curt now, "You are the reason we are all here at the current moment, after all."
 

Clara Morgan|12|Commoner
Clara tried to take it all in as she and the two women were ushered through the school. Students bustled to and fro on various missions. Some were tasked with various sorts of cleaning and maintenance work. Others carried books, slates, and papers while they traveled between classes, or perhaps to or from the school library. Some of them gave Mr. Roosevelt friendly greetings and received their like in return. It was an organized chaos, somewhere between the strict regimentation of the orphanage and the anarchy of the streets.

Clara got more attention than she liked due to handholding with the Principal, but that couldn't be helped. The thing about the students that stood out most for her was...they weren't afraid. Nor did any of the girls give her dire 'you're next' looks. Nevertheless, in a moment of close proximity to Mr. Roosevelt made necessary by the Brownian motion of the crowd, Clara caught a familiar scent. Waiting for a moment when his attention was directed elsewhere, she took a fleeting glance toward his eyes.

Oh. While in Mr. Jacoby's employ, Clara had seen the inside of opium dens, illicit fight rings, brothels and other places where men of means could go to indulge themselves with opium, laudanum, cocaine, and the like along with all manner of alcohol. Under their influence, men made easy, profitable marks so long as she could stay out of their grasp, and that of the toughs who guarded such places. Does he go there? she wondered.

Mr. Roosevelt did not seem like the type. But then, the men she had seen in hives of iniquity, vile creatures all, became Respectable Gentlemen once they got their clothes buttoned up and their cravats tied just right.

Clara was led into a tearoom, as beautiful and fantastical as anything else she'd seen thus far. Elegant white trim and slender fluted pilasters framed walls painted in sunny yellow, with a pattern of delicate, stylized climbing vines. The ceiling was painted to look as if the room was open to the sky, a spectacular summer day with golden sunbeams and fluffy white clouds upon which were perched cherubs, angels, and mythical figures Clara did not recognize. She was not familiar with the concept of 'perspective' in art, but the effect was stunning. She had to tear her eyes off it by an act of will as she was shown to her chair, an intricate Baroque creation in white lacquered wood and velvet upholstery she would never have expected to be allowed to dust, much less sit in.

Clara took her seat carefully, as if the chair might break under her weight, though of course it didn't. Mr. Roosevelt began stammering through introductions. It seemed that someone had committed a faux pas, but that wasn't Clara's problem. 'All us young girls?' she thought, hiding a mixture of mirth and confusion.

She turned to give Miss Vielfaure closer consideration. The Lady's dark skin meant that she probably hadn't gotten her fortune the old-fashioned way--by being born into the right family. Under other circumstances, Clara might have given a smirk. Perhaps, later when she was alone, she might think of this moment and laugh out loud.

She could probably cause quite a stir simply by asking, with purest innocence, just how the Lady had gotten her fortune. Clara was fairly certain Miss Vielfaure would have had to earn it on her back, or perhaps by being a pirate, or the relative or lover of one. Or maybe by being a really good thief. Of one thing she was certain: there was no way Miss Vielfaure could have gotten it through Honest Hard Work. The game was rigged to make that impossible for white people among the lower classes. People who looked like the good Lady were as often as not treated as livestock.

So yes, Clara decided that she could definitely take inspiration from Miss Vielfaure's rise. She just couldn't ask her how she'd managed it, not in 'polite company.'

The younger lady was more of a mystery. What even was 'an expert in the sighences?' Mystery? Hidden knowledge? Power. Yes, Clara would glean whatever she could from the young woman. Then Mr. Roosevelt turned to Clara.

'Miss Fortune?!' Clara thought, stifling her reaction, which would have been a cynical laugh. Misfortune, more like. Huh. Either one'd be a good street name, she thought. 'Fate?' That's just a word people use to justify how some folks get to live in places like this, and others sleep on cobblestones. Ask Miss Vielfaure, and I bet she'd say Fate was somethin' she had to wrestle to the ground to get where she's at.

"It is a pleasure to meet you both," the Lady said to her and the young woman. Clara gave Miss Vielfaure a brief smile and a little bow of the head. She hadn't been addressed directly, so it was safe to assume her words were not wanted. Clara did not miss the subtle tones of teasing and the sting at the end of the Lady's little speech, making Mr. Roosevelt himself, rather than 'Fate' the reason for this gathering. It's all on you, bruv.
 

Emilie Riebau | 20 | Commoner

Emilie soaked up the atmosphere of the school as the group passed through. It was not as 'academic' as Oxford, and certainly not as stuffy. But it was a place of learning, with the subtle scents of books and chalk, students milling around or hurrying about their business, all curious eyes and the eager energy of youth. She returned attention directed her way with smiles and little waves. Indeed, she had to resist the temptation to wander off with them, explore this place, talk to them about their studies and do her best to answer their questions. It was not like 'home' exactly, more like returning from abroad to a province of one's own country one had not been to before; a mixture of the familiar and the new.

Entering the tearoom however, Emilie felt herself plunged back into the foreign. Mr. Roosevelt's degree of self-deprecation for a man of his station left her with no idea for a proper response. Miss Vielfaure's words carried subtle tones with meanings she couldn't quite interpret. "You are the reason we are all here at the current moment, after all."

Emilie looked back and forth between Miss Vielfaure and Mr. Roosevelt in confusion. He wasn't the reason she had come, not directly. She opened her mouth but caught herself just before she said something that would probably have been a mistake. Does she think--

Emilie paled a little as she flicked her eyes toward Mr. Roosevelt. Does he think that I am here to court him? she thought, feeling a trap close around her. Contradict Miss Vielfaure's words, and she would probably be insulting them both. Let them pass, and...well, she wasn't sure Mr. Roosevelt would take it as a signal that she was here 'for him,' but what if he did?

Worst of all, Emilie could easily imagine Maergarethe offering logical reasons for her to actually consider such a thing. First and foremost, he was kind, or at least seemed to be. He had taken this splendid house and turned it into a school for underprivileged children, instead of using it as a place to squander ridiculous amounts of wealth on balls, foxhunts and other useless but expensive amusements for others of his own station. Second, he had acknowledged her as 'an expert in the sciences,' and considered that to be a source of inspiration for young girls, rather than a scandal or a threat to the traditional order. Third...he was rather handsome, despite looking a bit tired and disorganized.

All of this left Emilie frozen uncomfortably with her mouth open, for far too long. "Uh...uh yes, it is a pleasure to meet all of you," she said, fumbling for calling cards to offer to the other three. Her eyes slipped nervously from both of the adults, but lingered longer on the child as she briefly met her eyes and gave her a smile before the girl lowered her gaze. "Though...perhaps not so much a matter of 'Fate' as the stochastic outworking of probability and causality?" she stammered, cringing inwardly as she awaited the others' reactions.
 
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