Wintersmith

[Nav]

@Elle Joyner​

 

[Nav]

Mason Osment​

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It had been the strangest autumn the master of Wintersmith Estate could conjure to memory. The trees had remained clothed in green until the middle of October when, quite suddenly as if overnight, they had turned into a riot of colour. It was as if the season had jumped in to the grand, ambling estate instead of fading in as it usually should have, and it was all the more magnificent for doing so. Upon the newly softened mud were the acorns—from green to pale brown, none yet the rich hue of a children's story book. The air was cooler with a tincture of earthiness- just a hint that brought to mind the cozy evenings and warm soups from his kitchen to come.

The master of Wintersmith Estate, Mason Rivers Osment, was unusual upon first glance. He wore a fitted silk jacket over his waistcoats and black trousers, juxtaposed quite darkly against the hues of red and oranges scattered about him. He did, however, get more attractive the longer one looked at him. His rich chocolate hair had a tousled curliness that promised finesse. He had strongly arched brows and eyelashes thick as a lady's of the time. Brown eyes, though usually quite a boring colour, were quite handsome against his skin—stained with the colour of hot coffee on a cold, winter night. They were warm and fetching, but not at all inviting. He walked alone with his hands tucked into his side pockets, his fingers fidgeting idly with the pocket watch in his left hand.

The magnificent Wintersmith Estate, now behind him a ways, was a palace sitting on a hill that overlooked the entire town of Morton. It's many pointed towers gave it a look of an eccentric crown. The walls were a white stone that glistened in the autumn sun and the roof was grey slate. It was as big as twenty or more of the ordinary houses of the town and employed a good number of townsfolk as servants, cooks, and other aiding hands. Around the estate were horse pastures and kitchen gardens for the residing wealthy family, a single man only. Wrapping about the entire estate was a stone wall topped with iron spikes. Mason hastily saw himself through the gait down the cobble path and oriented himself towards town.

He had a great number of servants and butlers willing and able to fetch him anything he could need from town. More importantly, grocers could string carriages to deliver his needs, as well, but every so often, the young gentleman, perhaps of his mid to late twenties, saw it to himself to depart his estate and head into town. Many knew his face, and only referred to him as 'sir' or 'master.'

His destination was a bakery. Behind him, a big black dog followed along at a languid trot. A collar wound about his neck and it jingled. Every so often, he fell behind his master but quickly loped so as to not let his human advance too far. "Pilot," Mason called every so often, "Come along." The dog obeyed him every time. Through the lonely, yet beautiful, grips of his estate, Mason continued. He hastened quickly into town, which was only about a quarter mile from his drive. In truth, he didn't need anything from the bakery that couldn't already be found in his own pantry or to be requested from the hand of his kitchen maid, but he liked the stroll. He took a great deal of pleasure from the clean, crisp air entering his lungs.

As expected on such a beautiful, Saturday afternoon, the bakery (and all of the town for that matter) was bustling with life.

"Good day, Master!" the woman, plump and wrought with age, called behind the counter as Mason entered. He greeted her cooly with a smile that was neither friendly nor sincere.

"Yes, hello," he remarked idly. The bakery air was more delicious than any flavor. Somehow, the aromas captured everything good in there: the coffee, the various cakes, the Danish pastries. The blend was perfection, but as a mixture of flavours they would be terrible: coffee-cake-pastry.

"What will it be today, sir?" the portly woman asked, very nearly ignoring every other customer in the shop quite suddenly when Mason entered for he always bore good money, which could not be guaranteed of the other shoppers. Dismissing anyone she had been helping prior, she focused solely on the tall, unusually handsome gentleman in well-dress.

"Ten tea cakes, please. Wrapped well, see to it, if you would."

"Ten, sir?" she mused delightfully, plucking the lightly frosted cakes from the display window and boxing them tightly as requested, "That is quite a splurge, if I do say so myself, sir."

"Say as you must," he replied lamely again, his inflection never changing from one of casual and cool aloofness. He passed a pound note over the counter—exceeding by some pence the actual cost of the tea cakes. "Don't return to me any change, ma'am," he said, "I dislike coin jingling in my pocket as I walk."

 

[Elle Joyner]

Georgiana Everdale​

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The air was cool. Cool and biting - the sort of weather that made one long for the warmth of summer, for sweat against the nape and the briny scent of the sea. Her fingers, curled lazily jammed deeply into a fur muff, were a bitter red, stinging from the chill, her nose pink and numb. She had forgotten her gloves, and that was her own folly, but Collins had promised her their outing would not be long and that was three hours since…

Their latest 'last stop' was a bakery. Moira Farrow and her miserable crutch of a mother were coming to Hollowsfield that afternoon and Madam Farrow had quite a sweet tooth. Why they were continuing to cater to the atrocious women was beyond Georgiana's comprehension, but Collins was hardly communicable with her regarding those details. She was, as he put it, a delicate flower and he loathed to involve her in such political affairs.

Money, no doubt, was the issue, and yet the had burned through several pounds in only one morning's time. The irony was not lost on her, but she had learned long ago that questioning Collins's motives would only make for a terrible headache…

As of late she had found herself exhausted by her fiance and his antics, exhausted by all of it, really, and this particular jaunt into society was no compromise. Collins was a creature of habit, and unfortunately, his worst habit was neglecting the interests of his bride to be.

"Georgiana? Were you listening, dearest?" As his voice cut through her ruminations, Georgiana glanced over to Collins with the ghost of a small frown. He wasn't a miserable sight to behold - her future husband. Tall and finely built, with a strong jaw, stoney grey eyes and hair in golden waves, but his lips were just slightly too full, his gaze set far apart and there was a thickness to his brows that made even his most gentle of expressions more severe.

"I'm sorry, Collins. I wandered a bit. What did you say?"

"Women and their daydreams…" Collins murmured, his broad mouth opening into a toothful grin, "I asked if you wouldn't mind running in for me. I'm terribly bored of these people and just detest the idea of waiting in that crowd. Be a dear, would you?"

A brow lofted, Georgiana glanced through the bakery doors, which had been propped open to allow for the small throng gathered inside, "I suppose…" But before she could finish, he had already thrust a handful of coins into her palm, and ushered her forward.

"The butter biscuits, my dear… and a loaf of that marvelous bread, if they've got any!"

These people, Georgiana had learned at last, meant only those Collins deemed beneath him, which to her knowledge included very nearly anyone the man met. In his mind, society was built upon his shoulders, and while he could mimic pleasantries as well as the next well-bred showhorse, he was terribly impatient when social interactions weren't called for. It generally fell on Georgiana then, to handle those matters, but she normally didn't mind - it was an escape, anyway, from more tiresome company.

Even with the door left open, there was a welcoming warmth to the bakery, the scents mingling in the air tantalizing after hours stuck behind a horse and cart. Less inviting was the length of the line, which stretched several people deep - good business for the bakers. Less than ideal for one with half frozen, aching toes.

Nearly ten minutes passed, when the figure dressed in an appallingly gaudy shade of red approached the counter. A brow lifted, as Georgiana watched the bakers divert their attention to the man as though he passed beneath a holy light from Heaven. She watched the interactions, watched him order and pass the payment across the countertop. The exchange happened swiftly, no more than a minute or so, but the pinching in her feet and the uncomfortable tingling in her fingers brought her self control to a head.

Stepping out of line, hands braced on her hips, Georgiana narrowed a glare at the man, "I realize that it might be difficult for you to see us all, from that high horse of yours, but there's a rather large line that you seem to have neglected to notice you've tread all over..."

The hand that gripped her arm, gave her a small start, and Georgiana twisted to find Collins beside her, her heart giving a small thud at the cool expression on his face, "That is quite enough Georgiana." He hissed, giving her a small tug towards the door.

"But he…"

"No! We are leaving. My apologies, Good Sir." Bowing his head, Collins gave another tug and with a frown, Georgiana bent to his grasp and followed him out of the bakery, to the awaiting cart.

 

[Nav]

Mason Osment​

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Though boxed, the buttery aroma of the cakes wafted tantalizing below Mason's senses. They were elegant lemon thymes cakes, Mason's favourites, with alternating layers of lemon curd and buttercream, then decorated with rich golden icing, candied citrus, and sprigs of mint to top it off. Sometimes, the master preferred just buying and smelling them to actually eating them, and once they made their way into his kitchen and parlour, he usually left them for the hired hands to eat in a few day's time after they had lost their quintessential warming smell. What about the smell of the tea cakes he enjoyed so fervently, he did not know, but they always brought him to a more peaceful place.

Despite the amount of food that collected in his manor, the master ate very little. He was a muscular, strapping man, but had a slight waist. His head housemaid, an elderly lady of sixty, often clucked at him and told him he ought to eat more and fill out his frame more handsomely. In response, he would always wince stiffly at her recommendation, thank her, and go about his way as he always did… owning lots, eating little. Dinner was often a meal he skipped—toiling away secretly in his library or study. A plate was always prepared for him, left to sit still and alone on the large, beautiful dinning room table until the maids came to clean it up, untouched, after their own suppers.

Thanking the woman once more for the cakes, he turned his back to the counter to see his leave. Pilot, the big black dog, gazed inwardly at the store through the glass door. He was just about to step through it and call to his pet when a woman intercepted him. It had caused him some alarm, though it never quite reflected on his face. These days, little emotion ever did. His mood, even when he smiled, seemed sullied by distress and deep-reaching unhappiness, though he should not have been unhappy: he knew every pleasure of every world with his wealth and status. "Ah, a little elf has seen its tricky way from the forest," he greeted her though her greeting was rather biting, not a greeting at all. A smirk curled the edges of his lips, amused no doubt by her unladylike outburst.

Not any woman, nay a man, had thought to ever speak to him such a manner in recent time. "I breed thoroughbreds," he mentioned off-handedly, "They are quite tall, indeed." He spoke with such cool indifference that it was hard to tell if he even understood what she meant by 'high horse,' but the twinkle in his eyes showed that he had. Unfortunately, the banter (playful on his part, upset on hers) was quickly cut short by yet another interruption.

"It's nothing, sir," Mason replied to the husband who quickly curbed his wife. His smile fell, though not unpleasantly so and he stepped around the pair.

Outside, he whistled for Pilot and at once the dog was at his hip. They strolled back down the gables to the stern, stately harbor of Wintersmith. Down the drive and into the belly of autumn that stood manicured on the lawn. It was still far enough from summer to have lost the heat and close enough yet to winter to have the remaining bite of cold. Entering into the house, he had forgotten already his encounter with the little elf at the bakery.

"Mary," he called to his head maid, "Prepare a fire in my study."

 

[Elle Joyner]

Georgiana Everdale​

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"I am telling you, Georgiana. You have embarrassed me for the last time." His voice was soft, as she was accustomed to hearing whenever he was in his foulest of moods. Collins found yelling abhorrent, and undignified, but it mattered little when he was capable of withering a man with a whisper. Georgiana, however, was in no mood to be cowed.

Upon their arrival at Hollowsfield, a fire had been lit in the study and Collins had sequestered his fiance in the small room with the doors closed, alone, save for the housekeeper, Simone Murphy. For several minutes, he had done nothing but stare at her, but upon breaking his silence, his fury was released.

"I will not tolerate such unseemly behavior in my future wife. Am I clear?" He continued, and Georgiana's grip on the armchair she sat upon tightened as her own resolve over her tongue began to weaken.

"What behavior is that? The expectation of fairness?? I have told you before that I won't sit idle and let anyone be trampled by those too mindlessly lofty to see their own arrogance… not even for you!"

Shifting forward, Collins moved closer to her - close enough that she could tell he had sampled his father's bourbon, "How dare you speak to me with such belligerence. If you were a man… I would strike you for such talk."

"If you were a man, I might do the same." she spat back, and she knew it was a mistake when she heard Simone's gasp.

"Now that is too much. Really Georgiana…" The housekeeper exclaimed, but Collins had already risen from his seat, pointing a sharp finger down at her.

"Indeed. You will do well… to hold your tongue, or I will be forced to act…"

Something in his words should have sparked in her a sense of fear or contrition, but instead, Gerogiana felt only further incensed, glaring up at him with a frown, "I am no bird… and I will not be caged. By you or any man!"

His expression shifted, darkened and he straightened, "Then you are of no use to me. You may go."

Simone stepped forward, a hand to her heart, "Cornell! You can't… She's… she's nowhere to… and the cold…"

"I said you may go." Collins continued, his voice a growl, "Now… Get out!"

---

It had been surprising and somewhat sad how quickly she was able to gather her things. In less than an hour's time, she had packed her life into a cart and said her goodbyes to the staff, then climbed aboard. Simone had driven her to the end of the gate road, the poor woman quietly sobbing into a handerkerchief. Only when they stalled to wait for the gates to be open did Georgiana dare to speak to the housekeeper, reaching over to pat her hand.

" It's fine Simone… I brought this upon myself. You mustn't fret."

"Where will you go?" Lowering the handerkerchief, Simone hiccuped, then dabbed at her eyes.

"Home. It's all I can do."

"That awful place?" simone gave a start, and her tears were forgotten as she shook her head almost violently, "Oh… you can't. Listen… I've heard tell the housekeeper up at Wintersmith is looking for a new maid for Master Osment. It's a bit of a climb down for ya miss… but it's better than where you'd be otherwise."

"I suppose…" Frowning softly, Georgiana let her eyes drift down the road.

"Oh. Please say you will." She grasped Georgiana's hands, giving them a nearly painful squeeze, "Please."

"For you, Simone. I will certainly try." Giving the woman a smile, and patting her cheeks, she chuckled softly, "Now… dry eyes. Can't let Master Collins see you weeping like that or he'll have you out next."

"I'd like to spit on him." She hissed, bitterly.

Laughing gently, Georgiana nodded, "Well, if you decide to, please… wait until I'm around to see it. Goodbye."

Climbing down, out of the cart, she gave Georgiana's hand one last hearty squeeze, "Goodbye, Miss."

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"So you've had no work experience, then?" Never in her life had Georgiana seen such a strangely shaped woman. Pinched, she supposed, was the word for it… Every part of her narrow, as though she had been pressed too hard between two very large books. Her hair was dark and pulled into a severe bun, her eyes nearly black and every feature on her face … just pinched.

She was, decidedly, an unpleasant woman, and every bit as sharp as her angled visage.

"None as a maid." Georgiana replied, "But I'm willing to learn…"

"You're awfully thin." The comment came with little emphasis, so matter of fact that for a moment, Georgiana was sure she had misheard.

"I…" Stammering, Georgiana raised a brow, "I'm not sure how that matters?"

"A regular bean pole…" The woman went on, tapping her chin with a long, bony finger.

"I beg your pardon?" Heat began to creep into Georgiana's cheeks, a sense of irritation rising within her.

"I suppose you're young yet… might outgrow that. Bit too tall. And your skin sees far too much of the sun."

Straightening up in her chair, Georgiana's frown deepened to a scowl, "What on Earth does this have to do with my potential for this position?"

"Well." The woman began, steepling her hands in front of her, her tone taking on an airiness, "You're not meant to stand out, child. Heaven knows a face like that will do nothing but distract. Mouthy, to boot. That will need to change. Can you do anything of use? Sew or cook?"

"I can…"

"Hm. Doesn't matter." The housekeeper interjected, waving the statement away like a moth, "We'll likely run out of things for you to do by weeks end. And I've no time for teaching you worth…"

"Now, then!" Georgiana balked.

"Can't see a spot of need for pretty, careless fluff…"

And that, was that. Rising from her seat, Georgiana narrowed down on the woman, hands gripping the desk before her with a sense that it was keeping her from strangling the poor woman, and in so many ways, she might have liked to, even just for a second or two.

"Listen here, you miserable shrew! I may be too thin, or tall, or dark… and perhaps I am lacking in experience and a bit unfocused… And maybe I run at the mouth a bit. But I would rather be all of those things and so much worse… than ugly on the inside! Whatever you may presume about me, you've no right to speak to me that way! No job is worth this!"

By the end of it, she was nearly shouting, and her skin had taken on a rosy hue that brought out the gold of her freckles, but the housekeeper seemed hardly vexed, dark eyes surveying Georgiana with what appeared to be a smug sense of satisfaction, "Well… Good thing you won't be getting it, then."

"Somehow…" Georgiana spat back, "I don't imagine I ever had a chance…" And turned, she spun to leave the room, her eyes stinging as she blinked back fresh tears.

 

[Nav]

Mason Osment​

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[size=4The perfect stillness of his evening spent reading was hastily disturbed. It usually was, for that matter… by groaning of the wind curling its back against the window, the rustle of trees, the murmur of wildlife in his expansive estate. This time, however, the sound was much more grueling. The shouting was a violence in the air and it transformed his study from a peaceful one to something of a tense, confined space. He closed his book and laid in his lap, straining his ears to make out the words but could not. Shouting continued to rent the air but Mason did not tense.

He slid the book to the side table and rose immediately. Whatever the meaning of such loud and uncomely words, Mason immediately needed to find an end to it. One could not enjoy coffee and a fire with some light reading with such a ruckus ongoing under his hearth. Entangled in the snarled shouts, he could barely make out Mary's voice… as calm and as cool as ever. Somehow, the focus of the argument did not surprise him but just as he swept into the room of the tension's source, he was very nearly knocked into by a young girl with tears brimming her eyes. The face was one he immediately recognized, but did not have a name to prescribe.

"Now then, Mary… Mary," he cooed, "What is the cause of such discord?" his large, broad frame blocked Georgiana's only exit, though it hadn't initially been his intention. Eyes fell to the young woman who nearly smacked into him on her way out, "Ah, I see the little aberrant elf from the bakery has made her way into my estate, has she? What is the meaning of all this? Mary?"

"Nothing, sir," Mary replied. Mason gazed at the old woman. At her age, she should have one foot in the grave, but it was sheer stubbornness that kept her alive. Her gait should have been wonky with arthritic joins and eyesight failing faster than a farmer's intellect, but had it not been for the lines I her face, Mason would have thought her only forty at the most given her sharp mind and easy motion. She whirled around Wintersmith Estate with a great ease. Her litheness and articulate speech got to him, an echo of youth in someone so old. Mason cherished her, though he understood the ruthless and cruel spirit she sometimes possessed.

"The young woman applied for the maid position at the house, sir," she continued after a beat, "She is not a suitable match."

"Not a suitable match? What makes you say so? She has two arms, two legs… is that not suitable for work?"

"Very suitable, sir, but she has the mind of a devil, that one. A scorned woman, she is. She would bring you nothing but grief, sir. Of that much I am sure."

"Mary," Mason smiled his frigid smile as if to soothe her own agitation before turning back to the young woman, "Fiendish elf, what is your name?" his gaze moved from his most respected house maid to the mysterious young fiend that had appeared not once, but twice now in his day and both time in a fever. It caused him wonder what she was doing appealing to his homestead as he was certain he had seen her earlier with a husband, or at least a fiancé. The tears that burned at the edges of her eyes seemed to him not only reliant on Mary, but that he could not tell for certain.

"You come seeking employment, is that right? As a house maid?" he considered the situation for a moment. In a fortnight's time, he'd be hosting a grand ball at his very estate and he needed hands on board to prepare for the noblemen and lovely ladies who would be attending. A small warning bell sounded in his head all the same, however, as she had treated him with some great ill-will earlier. He could not have a maid out of hand towards his future guests, "The pay is only twenty-five pound a year, elf," he continued without pause, "Yet you are finely dressed… almost too finely dressed for a woman seeking a situation of twenty-five pound a year."

"Sir—" Mary tried to intercept again, "She is a cunning, malevolent one, this. She has no place at Wintersmith."

"Perhaps," Mason considered, "But that is my decision to yield."[/size]

 

[Elle Joyner]

Georgiana Everdale​

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As the situation escalated swiftly from bad to worse, it was a wonder Georgiana could still stand, for it was dizzying, indeed. Turning around, she nearly collided with the very figure who had begun her terrible day, and to her horror, that same smug and unpleasantly unaware smirk donned his handsome face in such a way that twisted her sorrow to anger. Her left arm clasped the right and her fingers pinched, until a purplish-red mark appeared, as she fought against the oncoming tears, bitter and useless, meeting the man's eyes with something of a defiance.

He teased her. In her misery, he teased her. But worse than that, he had the nerve to give her hope, and undoubtedly, a false one. She might have sworn, if she wasn't entirely positive the horrible housekeeper would toss her out for it. Instead, planting her feet firmly, she continued to stare up at him, and she shrugged, "Georgiana Everdale. Was to be Cornell, but my fiance found me unfit and has cast me aside. That's his choice, and I won't argue it. Wasn't a good fit, either way, though as I'm sure you can imagine, I had very little say in the matter."

Her eyes very briefly twisted to the older woman and a frown found her features again, as she returned her eyes to him, "Not that it's any business of yours or anyone else, but I don't need the money. I've a fair enough sum of it on my own, from my family, though we don't see eye to eye and I don't see them hardly as often as they would like, because quite frankly, I find them to be quite loathsome. A salary won't be necessary, and in fact, I don't even want it. I'd be more than happy to give my share to the other maids, if it's all the same."

The frown softened a little, and her fingers relinquished their bruising grip, "I'm not cunning or malevolent, but otherwise, it's true what she says. I've a mouth, and a mind, I'll admit it, I speak both when I must and that won't be likely to change, however I'm willing to learn the job and I'm quick at it. And I'm honest, which until today I was only ever aware was considered a virtue... Apparently, not everyone agrees, but I don't cheat or steal, and I've no interest in causing trouble. All I need is a roof over head and one day a month, to visit some friends."

 

[Nav]

Mason Osment​

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"Well, Georgiana Everdale, not Georgiana Cornell…" Mason began to speak, though he trailed off for a moment, his mind quickly recalling anything he had very nearly said. Instead, he listened to her speak and nodded with some understanding. Whether it was to her plight or her former fiance's, it was impossible to say. Her words were digested by the quick mind that flickered behind his eyes, so obviously present, as he watched her with the chestnut gaze—entirely unwavering and unfaltering. A proud gaze, but also a sad one. The sadness was not for her or for her story or her former fiancé. Whatever divined such sadness could only come from some great, but former, tragedy. The hired hands of the house never spoke of it, though they had all noticed it.

As master, he was never to be questioned in such a way and as he considered, even Mary had the attention to bide her tongue though her response was evident enough in her eyes: banish the witch! Though he wished little to spite his most respected hired hand, Mason also felt himself irrepressibly drawn to the young woman in front of him. As if he wasn't in control any longer of his own lips, will, or tongue, he straightened and found himself uttering the following words: "Very well."

A simple enough statement, but an agreeable one. One that was affirmative and positive and had good meaning for Georgiana Everdale, not Cornell. "Very well," he affirmed again, whisking his hand towards Mary to draw her closer. "You shall be paid twenty-five pound a year, Georgiana," he addressed her, "No one under my house will be left unpaid. What you wish to do with your copper after receiving it, I care little," Mason clarified with a certain defiant decisiveness. She would receive her wage, leaving his own self debt and carefree on her behalf.

"You will stay under my roof here at Wintersmith," he continued on, "In the maid's quarters. You room shall be assigned by Mary, who will also be your mistress. In a fortnight's time, we shall be hosting a ball and every inch of this estate much be scrubbed, pruned, and refurnished. You will be mostly under her command." Mason had his own reasons for pairing the two. How serious Georgiana was about needing a roof under which to say, and how loathsome she truly found her kinsfolk would be tested by her dislike for Mary. Whether or not she walked out again through his front door was little concern of his own.

Mary practically leapt out of her skin at the conjecture. She desparetly wished to protest, that much was clear, but she didn't dare to. She swallowed down any argument she had, though the lump was practically visible traverse down her throat and slamming into her gut.

"Miss Everdale, one last thing," Mason had turned and was about to step back towards his library and study, "You must be hungry. After being seen to your room, I request your presence in my study for coffee. Please do join me. Mary, prepare the coffee and cakes, will you?"

 

[Elle Joyner]

Georgiana Everdale​

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Georgiana was not awed, often. In her life very few people had surprised her, and she had come to the conclusion long ago that no one likely ever would. But standing before the man, listening as he offered her a position she was all too reluctantly aware she neither deserved, nor held experience for, she was genuinely shocked. That morning in the bakery he had proven to, at best, oblivious to the concerns of others... but in front of her now, he seemed entirely different - generous and compassionate. Whether or not it was for her benefit or his own, she couldn't say, but she appreciated it.

And for the very first time in a long, long while, she was speechless. Utterly speechless.

She could hear the woman behind her, huffing back what was undoubtedly a lecture on the error of his decision, but he was, after all, the master of the house and whether or not it was poor judgment on his part to give her the job, the housekeeper seemed to understand her place. Soon enough, it was decided, and Georgiana nodded, as he explained the way things would work. She could do it - work with the woman. She had endured Collins, and he was entirely more detestable.

"Understood..." She finally replied, with another polite nod, reluctantly biting her tongue to keep from suggesting the older woman consider her own attitude... It wouldn't do, she suspected, to start off on a worse foot than she already was.

Or perhaps not so bad a foot, afterall... for as she turned to the housekeeper to wait for her first instructions, she found herself surprised a second time in only a short while and looking back at him, blinked, smiling vaguely, faintly, "...Th... thank you, Mr. Osment. It would be my pleasure." She hadn't, after all, eaten since early that morning.

 

[Nav]

Mason Osment​

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Though Georgiana didn't know it, she had unwittingly become a subject of Mason's social experiments. He was interested to see how she got on with Mary, as well as the other maids, who would not take so kindly to such a mouth. Would she sink? Would she swim? Her look of awe and appreciation was one that Mason could not take to his heart for his own goodness and morality, knowing he was keeping her for his own self-seeking hilarity. A situation that could benefit them both, he realized, but one he could not take selfless credit for.

Mary took Georgiana abruptly by the elbow, as if to drag her off. Her face was smoldering under her otherwise stony expression. Her eyes were narrowed decisively, "This way," she muttered seething, her breath whistling between her teeth with every exhalation she made. Departing from the hall, she half walked with, half dragged Georgiana through the estate home. The manor itself must have been the ego of the man who had built it laid out in brick; it was overly large and ostentatious to the point of intimidation. Mary continued to lead the much younger woman at a brisk, relentless pace.

They arrived at the servant's quarters, which proved all to be simple but nice. Each room possessed a single, dressed bed, a dresser, a desk, and a variety of necessary utensils: wash basin, towelette, brush, etcetera. Though Georgiana couldn't have known, Mary had very pointedly given her the smallest room, and the noisiest room, as it was the room closest to the carriage house where the stable hands would hoot, holler, and drink until the wee hours of the morning most days. "This will be your room, miss," Mary stated, flinging open the door so it rattled on its hinges, "You will meet me exactly at six in the hall and we will begin tomorrow morn."

Offering no help on how Georgiana could bring in her trunk or how she should get to the master's study (in silent hope she may fail entirely), Mary turned off. "Good night, miss," she remarked and saw herself off in a hurry to fulfill the master's request of coffee and cakes to be served. Never before had a maid or hired hand been invited into the master's study for coffee before and it wormed below her skin. Her pulse fluttered in her neck and in her temple at the very thought of it. Though she was much too old to try and win the master's favor in romance (nor she any interest at her age), she had earned his favor in friendship, and it pained her to see another so undeserving, so unworthy, welcomed to his hearth. During her time at Wintersmith she had served only most faithfully to Mason's right, and left, hands.

Yet, she had never been invited to dine with him… to share coffee with him.

She prepared the cakes and coffee with some anguish, both wishing quietly that Georgiana would disappoint him and scolding herself angrily for wishing so.

 

[Elle Joyner]

Georgiana Everdale​

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Had she not grown up in a home so similar, Georgiana might have been enticed or even intimidated by the size of Wintersmith. In truth, it was far bigger than her family's manor, but there was still the same stuffy, cold, uncomfortable loneliness to it, the same sense of hubris in the luxury and wealth on full display. Collins home, too, was large and ornate - and it had always made her feel like a very small pebble in a shoe too big.

But it did little to impress, and so she allowed herself to be led - though it was more or less a yanking sensation - through the halls and to her room. It was small - much smaller than she was accustomed to at Hollowsfield, but there was something homey and warm about the lack of opulence, something that almost brought a smile to her lips. It would do, at least, until she could figure out what she was going to do, where she was going to go...

Mary left as quickly as she could, but Georgiana was not sorry to see her go. She asked neither how she would know when six o'clock was, for there appeared to be no clock in her chamber, nor did she inquire as to where she was supposed to go... she had an inkling that the woman wouldn't have answered anyway, and if she had, Georgiana would not have believed her. It wasn't like her, really, to accept such unnecessary and disdainful manners, but she was to behave herself if she was to keep the job, and going home seemed so much worse by comparison.

So instead, she watched as Mary darted off down the hall in something of a tizzy, and without waiting long, followed after her. She was careful not to make much sound, her feet soft against the marble floor, and when she saw the room into which Mary disappeared, she smiled privately to herself. Not so terrible for her first task as a woman on her own...

Waiting only a few minutes more, she moved with purpose to the door of the study and raising a hand, hesitated only a second or two, before knocking gently.

 

[Nav]

Mason Osment​

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The bookcases lining the study were ornate, as if carved by a person with a profound love of literature. The engravings were of leaves, of autumn berries and birds on the wing—so sublime as to invite the fingers to take in just as much of the eyes. Under the flickering glow of the fire burning in the fireplace, the carvings seemed to come to life—fluttering as if on a breeze, though only truly fluttering in response to the peak and troughs of the flames consuming the wood. The fireplace was his tiny sun for the evening, casting long shadows over the rug. The piano looked eerie in the dim half-light, tucked away in the farthest corner.

The flames curl and sway, flickering this way and that, crackling as they burn the dry wood. It was so good to feel their warmth at last, even if it was only from one direction. He watched in hypnotized contentment, clasping his hands in his lap around a coffee mug that had been brought in by Mary only moments prior. As minutes slipped by, he began to wonder if Georgiana would come at all. If maybe she had forgotten or had found him untasteful. The thought brought a visible frown to his lips, though it relieved only a moment later, back into neutral.

A knock rented the silent and his eyes momentarily glanced up to the door before returning to the base of the fire. "Come in," he responded remotely, "And sit." The personal responsible for knocking on the front door of his study could have only been Georgiana. The other hired hands slipped in through the back maid door to deliver requested items or to clean, just as Mary had done a few minutes prior.

He sipped his coffee idly, setting the small porcelain crucible on the side table before returning his hands to his lap. "You must be hungry, Georgiana. Eat some cake." They were the same teacakes from the bakery… the exact teacakes that Mason only liked to have around, but never really eat himself. In true form, he had them sitting out and hadn't eaten but a bite of one. He had taken down a few sips of coffee though, and his porcelain was nearly empty. He filled it again from the steaming decanter brought along.

"Did Mary find you a dormitory then?"

 

[Elle Joyner]

Georgiana Everdale​

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At his response, Georgiana opened the door and slipped into the study. The first thing she noticed was the warm, homey smell of the coffee and cakes, her aching stomach growling with anticipation, the other was the bookshelf. Her heart gave a small lurch as she looked over the numerous books, and almost unable to help herself she started towards them.

Collins had a library at Hollowsfield, but it was, for most at least, purely for show. She had been enraptured by the sight of it, but Collins had been less than pleased by the notion of her reading... 'What does a woman need to read for?' He would ask, 'All it will do is plant ridiculous notions in your head...'

She hadn't intended to listen, of course, but he had the doors locked and he refused to give her the key. It had been heartbreaking... And she hoped with all her heart the experience would not be relived at Wintersmith.

"Hmm?" Looking to Mason, a brow quirked and she looked to the cakes on the table, then the chair he motioned to with a polite nod, before settling into it, "Thank you. I'm afraid in all the excitement today, I didn't have much time to eat."

Reaching for one of the cakes, she plucked off a corner and took a bite, nodding again at his inquiry, "She did, indeed. It's lovely, if not a bit smaller than what I'm accustomed to. But I find I much prefer smaller... Cozier. Thank you."

 

[Nav]

Mason Osment​

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Mason's eyes never really lifted from the stirring fire. He seemed to note Georgiana's presence only in some sort of second nature, aware of her there, but not entirely. From the corner of his eye, he could only make out the faint shadow of her form moving forward, taking a cake, and renting a seat he had motioned for her to take. What she had meant by the room being smaller than she was used to, he didn't care to contemplate. Already she had spoken of coming from a well-bred family. One that Mason had never heard of himself, though he didn't suspect there to be any truth in her claim.

It was no surprise to anyone he had trouble believing it. A woman of noble birth reduced to working as a hired maid? Even if she were of some good breeding and countenance, she surely must have been fallen out with them to be under his roof as a hired hand. That wouldn't be so hard for him to imagine either, seeing her display from earlier in the bakery. She had manners he could scarcely begin to define and while she was showing him some politeness in the present, he wondered how long the façade would remain. He accepted her gratitude with merely a nod in response and silence settled between them for quite some time. His coffee, freshly filled with a second round, remained untouched.

In his mind, Georgiana had already begun to play the part of enigma to him. She was strange and foreign, almost unpleasantly, but not quite so. As his status, blood, and money would have it, Mason had a great number of family's invite him to their estates to present to him their daughters. A train of young, handsome, and accomplished young women had passed below his eyes, yet none of them had received an offer of his hand, though Miss Archer had proven to be something of interest. Alas, the beautiful Miss Archer with her raven hair and catastrophic blue eyes happened to be the furthest thing from his mind in that moment.

"Do you enjoy reading, Miss Everdale?" his question was sudden, his head lifting and his eyes peeling away from the base of the fire to look her over. "I noticed the way your posture changed as you walked into the study. I haven't any doubt that it was in no response to my presence. I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading, how much sooner one tires of anything than of a book, isn't that right?" his words were punctual and succinct, speaking like he was reading from a transcript and not from his own mind.

"Do you wish to read to me, Miss Everdale?"

 

[Elle Joyner]

Georgiana Everdale​

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The cake was good - warm and savory - not like the sweet trifles Collins always bought, that made her teeth hurt from their sweetness. It was a refreshing change, and another positive note towards Mason. She wasn't entirely willing to forgive his rudeness that morning at the bakery, but if it was these cakes he was after, she understood at least to a degree what might possess him.

Of course, then he spoke and Georgiana forget the rudeness, almost entirely, "Do I enjoy it? Oh, very much, Mr. Osment. The library at Hollowsfield was never open, and it was a terrible shame. So many books, and no one ever read them." Rising, she took her cup with her as she moved to the bookshelf, her free hand gingerly brushing the spines of the books. So many here, as well, and idly she had to wonder if they were just for show, too.

But then he spoke again and she paused, before she turned to look over her shoulder at him, "I... Read to you? Can't you read, then?" It was unheard of for a man holding such a fortune not to have a proper education. But then, perhaps he was only being polite, and she had misunderstood. Had it really been so long since she had experienced kindness from a man of stature?

His voice seemed rather deadpan, but then, why would he have invited her to her study just to tease her, and about something he had no knowledge she was interested in to begin with, "I'm sorry. That was rude of me... Of course you can. And I would love to. Do you have a preference?"

 

[Nav]

Mason Osment​

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"I can," he defended himself, though not at all aggressively. "I have read every book in this library, actually. Not a single page here has been unturned." Quite a feat given the number of books lining the shelves. It seems likely he had even added to his collection often, as many of the prints stood new against their much older counterparts from previous generations. "But I have only read them with my own thoughts, my own history, my own voice. When another reads a book, I imagine they take on quite a different story than I do on my own."

He continued on without giving her chance to reply, "Listening to another tell the same story that I have read means I get to listen to a story anew. I get to hear a tale through the context of another." With that, he fell promptly silent, as though he had answered her question and that had been more than enough speaking. Mason was not a man to speak for the sake of speaking. Instead, he seemed to speak only when absolutely necessary, and never in more words than he intended or needed entirely. While many saw it quite off-putting for a man to be so ill-regarding, there was nothing overtly offensive with how Mason regarded his talking.

Georgiana begged her pardon and he didn't respond, though the corners of his lips tilted upwards in acknowledgment of her apologies. "I have no preference my own," he remarked, "The only preference I have is for yours. Pick what you like." He looked into the fire again, his fingers curling around the edge of the large armchair he had taken a seat in. Though he showed her kindness and politeness, it did not seem to come from a place of necessary affection. His gaze did not stir when he looked at her, nor did he spend a whole lot of time analyzing her beauty and countenance. Instead, he seemed genuinely interested in hearing her read for the sake of the story, not for her voice.

"Did you say you came from Hallowsfield?" he asked rather suddenly, his thoughts ripped away from the serenity he had been feeling before. He had heard harsh rumors of Hallowsfield of late. Though he knew none of its residents, he studied Georgiana almost entirely for the first time since their meeting. His eyes traced every inch of her, as if trying to divine the truth of the rumors before he glanced away again—back to the fire.

 

[Elle Joyner]

Georgiana Everdale​

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She would not have thought him a passionate man... Yet his words belied his tone with almost a polarizing effect. It was strange, to say the least, that he might speak so strongly about something, with so little emphasis, and she might have thought him facetious, except that in his eyes she could she it was a genuine enthrallment. Idly she wondered why he might hide it with such pacificity. He was, decidedly, a most complex man, and she wasn't entirely sure that she approved...

Still, he would allow reading, and even encouraged it, and to that she could see no fault. Plucking a book from the shelf, deciding swiftly, as soon as he acknowledged it was her decision to make. Alexander Dumas's The Three Musketeers. She had come to it at Collins's home, but had never been allowed to finish, and the thought of being able to read it again thrilled her. Returning to her chair, she settled into it, the book in her lap, and taking a sip of coffee, she glanced up at him as he spoke again.

His surprise was intriguing, but she suspected in some way that he might have doubted her honesty about her upbringing, and why not doubt, as well, her being promised to Collins. She couldn't blame him, of course - it was absurd, the idea of a woman with any standing to take up a position as a maid, yet what could she say... She wouldn't waste time trying to convince anyone of the truth, if they chose not to believe her at her word first...

"Indeed. It's quite a home, though as grand as Wintersmith." She spoke, not as though she were impressed with either of the manors, "But I trust Collins means for it to be a sight. He's meticulous about it... Or, I should say, the staff he keeps are. He daren't lift a finger and sully his pretty hands."

 

[Nav]

Mason Osment​

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"I can," he defended himself, though not at all aggressively. "I have read every book in this library, actually. Not a single page here has been unturned." Quite a feat given the number of books lining the shelves. It seems likely he had even added to his collection often, as many of the prints stood new against their much older counterparts from previous generations. "But I have only read them with my own thoughts, my own history, my own voice. When another reads a book, I imagine they take on quite a different story than I do on my own." "Yes, as I've heard." He had never met Mr. Collins direct, though he had certainly heard the gossip about such a man in his days. Such talk meant little to him, he cared little for how another tried to squander his or her fortune, but he was unable to become deaf to the whispers amongst his closest acquaintances. Whether there was any truth in the indignant words that Mr. Collins was, himself, driving into poverty, Mason couldn't drum up the will to be sympathetic to him. He didn't, for that matter, feel much of anything for a man he didn't know, but his good friends found it to be quite the scandal in the neighborhood.

Mason saw to it that the subject quickly derailed by speaking nothing more of it. He wasn't sure what to make of Miss Everdale. He could believe her tale, he supposed, of being a very wealthy, outcast woman or he could not. He didn't doubt she had truly come from Hallowsfield, but what role she played there, he couldn't quite decide. She came with no skill for the part of maid, but he had never known a woman of noble birth to step out in her own independence. Again, he considered carefully, perhaps she hadn't chosen to step out so much as she had been forced. A woman with a tendency of speech like she had would likely be unwelcome in a well-bred family. She was bound to embarrass them all.

The thoughts quickly retreated after a while. As she read, if he was listening, it didn't show. Cool indifference remained on his face for quite some time and he had finally returned to sipping his coffee, though he hadn't eaten a single cake offered on the table. For quite a while, until he finished his second cup of coffee, he remained entirely silent and willful, but once he had reached the bottom of his cup, he stood abruptly. "That will do very well, Miss Everdale." It was growing late; the clock suggested such. "I do not wish to keep you up any later than necessary. Good night." His bidding to her was civil, but aloof, and with those lasting words, he stepped out of the room.

It had been some time since he had been last so inspired to stay up to nearly midnight, lest by a woman reading. He quickly shook it off and retreated to his chambers, but the thoughts continued to tumult through his mind with some aggression. Trying not to think of it, he slipped into his pajamas, fell into bed, and promptly slept, though not for long. Gripped by insomnia, he stirred uneasily in the early hours of the morning. It was well before six AM and the sun had not yet blossomed on the horizon. Feeling anxious, though unsure as to wise, he rose and quickly dressed.

Not a single maid or hired hand he could hear stirring as he stepped out of the house and into the garden lane.

 

[Elle Joyner]

Georgiana Everdale​

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She could scarcely sleep. Between fitful, worrisome thoughts about where she might go when, inevitably, the life of a maid no suited her, to fears for dear D'artagnan and whether or not his love for Constance would win out over the wickedness of Milady... her mind was a caustic, frantic place. When she had enough of the tossing and turning turmoil, she climbed out of bed and dressed. It was shortly before dawn and she had no idea how long until six, but she was in little hurry for work and hoped that there would be coffee before hand. Somehow, she doubted Mary would be obliging, though.

Instead, she opted for fresh air to revive her, and so she found her way through the castle of a house and out to the gardens. Admittedly, if there was a favorite part of any house so large (apart from a library), it was always the gardens, and Wintersmith, despite its frigid name, did not disappoint. Even in the pearlescent grey of pre-dawn, it was splendid. Most of the summer blooms had long since died and shriveled down to bare twigs and branches, but the trees were extraordinary in color, brilliant hues that pulled her from her miserable stretch.

She had not, however, expected to run into company, and certainly not the master of the house. Pausing mid step, she spotted him along the lane and for a moment, considered turning back, leaving him to his peace. For a few seconds, she stood in a strange purgatory of confusion, before deciding it was better to say hello and have it over with.

Stepping forward, she cleared her throat, "Mr. Osment. You're out rather early. Of course, I suppose I am, as well. There are no clocks in my room and I was afraid I might wake too late and Mary would have me by my ears. Well, that... and I couldn't sleep. The gardens are lovely."

 

[Nav]

Mason Osment​

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Fresh air and exercise were said to be the cures for most evils, and they certainly did not disappoint him. Caramel leaves tumbled to life by brisk autumnal notes that roused them from slumber, requesting a last wistful dance before a wintry embrace would claim them. Soon, frost and then snow would makes it way on to the grounds, but winter never reached Wintersmith prior to the annual autumn ball he had been hosting for a number of years. It would be a splendid event with all the most handsome, well-bred people from near and far. His thoughts idled on the company Wintersmith would host during that week and a half long event.

Meanwhile, his eyes watched all that was around him. Autumn's hand was lying heavier than usual this time of year on the hillsides. Bracken was yellowing, heather passing from bloom, and clumps of wild-wood taking the soft russet and purple of decline. Faint odors of wood smoke seemed to flit over the moor, and it concerned him it may very well snow prior to his ball. He dismissed the thought hastily, fearing if he settled too much on it that it would come true. Much to his surprise, a sound echoed through him, and not that of a bird or a breeze. He tilted his head back, unsure of the source, before his eyes met the young woman he had shared a few hours with the night before.

She was cloaked entirely in the hazy half-light of early morning and it almost startled him to see her there. No one had ever interrupted his morning stroll before. "Miss Everdale," he replied in his usual brisk civility. A brunette curl fell over his forehead from the wind as he stopped and turned to her more entirely, his posture opening to her arrival. "No clock? Well, we must rectify that situation entirely," he mused, putting it to mind to tell Mary to install a clock in the young woman's room so she was neither early nor late at any time. If there was one thing Mason couldn't stand, it was tardiness.

"To answer your concerns, it is about an hour to six." Like clockwork herself, Mason was well aware of the time Mary was up and began her day around the estate, along with all the other hired hands below his roof. He made no reply to her comment regarding his early rising. "In two days time, a young lady will be coming to stay in the house. She is only six or seven or so, and she will be staying for quite a while," his choice of topic seemed unusual at first, but he had a reason for it, "Have you an education, Miss Everdale? Accomplishments? Can you draw? Sing? Play?"