More than meets the eye

[Emma Edevane]

It was a ghastly afternoon, or so she heard her maid say before leaving the house. She did not complain to Emma, at least not out loud, as her facial expressions were doing all the talking for her. There was no wind, but there was a chill in the air, the sky overcast, and puddles of leaves covered the paths in Hyde Park. The sight was not inviting. Emma's cheeks were pink by the time she reached the lovely place, but she did not care. Perhaps she ought to. If not for herself, surely she should have taken into consideration her maid's health. They had taken the carriage to get to one of Emma's favorite bookstores in search of an appropriate birthday present for one of her friends, the mere reason she stayed in London now that the season was almost arriving to an end. Well, it wasn't the main cause, she had others, but only one with an invitation she had RSVPed. There was mist in Hyde Park, she realized, and it made her see her own breath. That made her smile, remembering the times when she used to play house and pretended she was her father, smoking. She did not love the man, but surely had fun imitating him. She sighed, deeply. As the third, she used to have fun, until the complicated world of adulthood dawned upon her, and she was forced to understand the intricacies of it. As an upperclass woman, she did not feel like she had the right to define the world as cruel, but she did. Especially for a woman. If she were a man, the ton would have called her a rake or a scholar. But as she was not, she feared the word "spinster". All those thoughts had been instigated by the modern world woman refusing to marry and interest in the changing of the world not unknown by Emma, although not shared. Not completely, for who was not scared of change? The youngest of society, like Elena, thought differently. And her little sister would often try to argue about it, with no success.

No, Emma fancied herself a peacemaker, and the only fights she ought to know were those in her books. She looked down at the basket she was holding, the weight of it a consolation. The best part of the end of the season was the marvelous quietude of the country, and the fact that she could read to her heart's content. Sometimes, she had to beg Edmund, or even Elijah, to buy her books and add them to the house library. There were volumes a lady should not be seen being interested in. Faust, First Part, by Goethe, was probably one of them. She thought of the books she had bought that day. Tales of Shakespeare, by Charles Lamb; The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Knickerbocker's History of New York, Complete, by Washington Irving; Marmion, by Walter Scott; Travels Into the Interior of Africa, by Mungo Park... The basket was heavy, indeed. It was a guilty pleasure to buy books even when she had yet to finish the one she was reading. Needless to say, she had not read every single book in the house library. And she would surely never do so, if she kept adding new volumes to it.

She slowed her pace, as she did one of her favorite passtimes, one of the best forms of entertaining: people-watching. It was a way to not focus on herself. It was unlikely, certainly impossible, but she wanted to believe that her family was the one shattered one. At least, in the upper class. She never dared to imagine what it was to be, well, less fortunate. She did hear the maids and cooks talking about it, as she used to seek their company when she was a child, and still did. When solitude became unbearable and London seemed an ocean away. The ton was always organizing and hosting charitable causes, and she'd like to think they were capable of wonderful things when properly encouraged. But they were, in a woeful ironic way, capable of the worst as well, like ignoring the starving ones in London as easily as if they were flies. She swallowed, then tripped, too focused as she was on her own thoughts, and had to drop the basket full of books rather than fall forward on the ground herself. She made a ridiculous squeal, cut off by the cool air that hit her lungs. And the hands of her maid, who started to lecture her in the faintest of whispers. Emma did not hear a word, her eyes on the books that had been scattered. She clamped her mouth shut, feeling ever so guilty for not having paid attention to her steps.

[Timothy Anderson]

After years weathering the worst of London's winters, Tim was well-accustomed to the cold, and how best to overcome it. It did not bother him much anymore, save for the worst days spent outdoors, when the wind chapped his hands and left them cracked for want of moisture. Today was not truly such a terrible day, either. Even if the weather wasn't so terrible, he'd still dressed for it; a thick woolen overcoat, a winter flatcap that covered his ears, an admittedly unpleasantly puce scarf tied about his neck (knitted for him by a kind elderly neighbor who insisted he wear the thing), and warm winter gloves on his hands.

Which was all a very long-winded way of saying that he had a rare day free, and had chosen to spend at least some of it out of doors. Hyde Park was a common location for him to escape to; especially with the weather – such as it was – having driven most of the crowds away. There were still people, yes, London was much too large a city to never have people around, but it was a scattering instead of milling crowds. It was also a far cry from the poverty, crime, and far too often filth that was found in the East End. Merely sitting and enjoying the greenery (when there was any, at least) was a perfect way to pass an afternoon.

Today, though, he had a rather specific plan in mind. There was a coffee house not far from Hyde Park that he had frequented before. He would go there, book in-hand, drink coffee, and maybe try sketching some of the other patrons.

All in all, the walk so far was downright pleasant, all that in mind.

Which meant of course it was to go wrong in some fashion; just for someone else, as it turned out. He'd noted the young woman and her chaperone, but after a glance had more or less dismissed them. They were going about their business, and himself his own. Until that basket of hers dropped as they were nearing each other, and books were scattered on the ground before her.

Tim didn't even pause to think, really; he did pause to sigh into the cold air at the woman's clumsiness, though. Kneeling, he began collecting the books, reading the titles out of blatant curiosity and his eyebrows raising out of recognition for some of them. "Are you alright, miss?" Another glance at her chaperone, and Tim internally winced. My lady undoubtedly was the more correct form of address, but too late for that now. With an armful of her books, he couldn't help but add in his carefully inoffensive London accent, "Interesting selection of books you have there."

He wasn't passing judgment, not really; it was said with a half-smile, though it broadened into a real smile as he caught sight of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. That, at least, he had read, and found a favorite in.

[Emma Edevane]

There was little more painful than the sight of brand-new books scattered carelessly across the ground. Emma mumbled a quick thanks to her maid, Lucilla, and was about to kneel to collect the fallen volumes when a gentleman approached her. The surprise of his sudden appearance took her aback for a few seconds, before she followed his example and began gathering the books. Lucilla did the same, her expression one Emma knew all too well, though she fully expected to disregard the scolding she knew would soon follow.

She allowed herself to overlook the fact that the young man—perhaps she ought to take a second, more proper look at him—had addressed her incorrectly. She saw no reason to take offense, nor did she find much pleasure in correcting him, particularly when he was assisting her so kindly. Lucilla took the last of the books, carefully holding onto the basket, while Emma finally decided to study the man more closely.

It was his eyes that first caught her attention. There was something about them, something that reminded her of autumn leaves—rich, warm, and fleeting in their beauty. Perhaps it was the simplicity of his attire, plain yet of undeniable quality, that sparked the association. Suddenly, it all made sense; if she had been asked for a description, the word crisp would have sprung to mind, as though it were a perfect fit.

"Thank you kindly, sir," she said, her voice warm yet faintly amused. "I'm afraid my balance is not what it ought to be today. It's a good thing I am not a ballerina. I take it you are a reader, Mister...?" She raised a brow, her tone just a shade more regal than she felt, though never unkind. She assumed he read, for his earlier comment would have been otherwise perplexing. A man who didn’t read regularly would hardly judge her books merely by their titles. Still, society had a tendency to judge by appearances, and perhaps it was too generous of her to assume every gentleman shared her love of literature. Innocence until proven guilty, after all.

Her gaze briefly flickered to Sleepy Hollow, a book she hadn’t yet read but intended to devour in the coming weeks—if, of course, her mother wasn’t about to complicate matters.

"I am Emma Edevane," she continued, her voice soft but clear, "but I’m afraid you must forgive me and refer to me as 'Lady,' lest my dear maid have a stroke on my account and insist upon proper station and all that," she added with a mischievous glint in her eye. Lucilla, ever aware of her lady’s intentions, was not so far as to miss the remark. A playful smile tugged at Emma’s lips, as she relished the small delight of vexing her maid. It was a pleasure that would surely come to bite her later, but she never minded paying the price for a bit of fun.