open | well i've lost it all

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Lexie and the brave people who feel like maybe getting things thrown at them/being yelled at/cried on/some other flavor of ridiculousness.
WHAT: Breakup Drama ♫
WHEN: nowish (end of Haring)
WHERE: De La Fontaine apartments in Hightown
NOTES: if you're a melodramatic noblewoman with a sudden case of regency constitution clap your hands
[ if you want a certain flavor of ridiculousness, put it in your title or hmu on plurk (@shaestorms) or discord (shae#7274) ♥ ]



It has been three days since she returned to the apartments the Comte keeps for her and her sister in the middle of the night, and Alexandrie de la Fontaine has not emerged from her room. In fact, Alexandrie de la Fontaine has not emerged from her bed. The only mark of her continued residence is the persistent heartbroken sobbing from behind the door. It is largely quiet, muffled, a background sound to be filtered out like the ocean waves. It does on occasion become more energetic as some thought—new or revisited for the hundredth time—sets her off, or disappear entirely when the expenditure of it all sends her to sleep.

Meal after meal is brought, left, and found again untouched; the tea over-steeped, the coffee stale, and both quickly rendered cold, for she will not stand for a fire being lit in the hearth. (The first maid to find it silly and begin to kindle one in any case for her lady's own good received a thin bruise the shape of the side of an expertly aimed hairbrush and a tongue-lashing for her trouble. There have since been no other attempts.) Instead, she has wrapped herself in the covers of her bed, her attire unchanged since her return save to become rumpled, her hair slowly coming free over time as the pins vex her and are yanked out and thrown to disappear in the rug.

She is missing entirely. Silent on the network when she would usually be flip, absent from both duties and regularly kept company. Crystal messages go unanswered, and callers are turned away with the vague explanation that Lady Alexandrie has taken ill and is not receiving visitors; that they may leave a card, or a message, and she shall respond once recovered.

Some callers are, of course, slightly more insistent.

[ Here you still are! If you're not Evie and you're coming in the normal person way, Marceau is chasing after you right now in that sort of eminently austere way fourth generation lifelong butlers have. If you're a scalawag or something, she has a window. There's probably a trellis. We'll figure something out. Prose or brackets are fine! ]

Comments

[shri]

Working your way through servants was a fairly easy thing when you got the hang of it. You spoke very firmly ( 'she and Mademoiselle had business' ), and when they blustered at you ('madam, she is not receiving visitors', you simply walked past them like it was your right ( 'it is a good thing I am not just a visitor' ).

( Which isn't fair to the poor fellow, she will send him something afterwards to make up for utterly disregarding him in such a way. )

So it comes about that she is drifting through the door like it's nobodies business. A swatch of cloth over one arm and a determined look on her face as she peers about, looking for the Madam who hasn't been seen for days. "Lady Alexandrie. I'm told you are hiding from the world."

And she's here, to have nothing of it.

[coquettish_trees]

Of course the Rani Lakshmi Bai would stride right past Marceau. Of course she would.

"Withdrawn, rather," issues her voice from the pile with proper cadence despite its rough thickness. "The world has little to recommend it."

[shri]

Who else has that much disregard, truly? ( Kitty, the answer is Kitty. )

But she looks her over, up and down, one firm assessment with it before she turns back to the poor man that has towed after her in one long string of shocked and appalled noises. "Mister Marceau, I want a pot of tea. Sweet, made with honey in the hot water. Two trays of biscuits to be delivered to us immediately. Good ones, and a pot of cream to go with it." She slides her glance back over Lexie, a little pinch in her mouth then back. "And the Mademoiselle's favourite meal made for this afternoon. It will be delivered here, do not bother preparing the dining room for it." She wasn't about to toss the poor woman out of the bed just yet. Let it never be said she wasn't merciful.

Once she's done, she at least gives the space for Lexie to contradict the orders when she turns to go over to the chair and gently place the heavy fabrics over them, draping them carefully. Eye-catching and beautiful, as ever. Hopefully enough to coax a magpie out from her nest of blankets.

[coquettish_trees]

It would be, had she anyone to wear them for. As it is, Alexandrie’s glance at the shimmering colors is a flat and listless one.

“It is unnecessary for you to send someone to market in the winter to search for oranges, Marceau,” she replies in the space left for such things. Skip the meal. At least she does not contradict the tea or biscuits, despite having no taste for them still. Once he has departed, there will be silence. Then, “I cannot model for you this day, Bai Saheba. I am unwell.”

[shri]

"I would not dream of forcing you out of bed, my lady. This sickness of yours looks serious."

It's firm, shaking her head against any such notion. It is, it always is. Gangadhar, you soft-hearted fool. Rather she comes back, not to force her out of bed, but to sit on the edge of it. "Come, sit up a little, and we shall fix these blankets so you might be more comfortable."

[coquettish_trees]

It is enough, having someone—having anyone—treat her as if she deserved her tears. Enough to both make her pliant and to have them start again. And so, even as she bites her lip to keep it from trembling entirely and looks silently towards the windows to watch the clouds outside through the watery fuzz of them, she does slowly sit up. Does re-position herself as Lakshmi had suggested, and all with a kind of docility that had been entirely absent for as long as there had been any hint of pushback from anyone.

[rathercommon]

Alexandrie de la Fontaine.

[ Kitty had come inside (having insisted that Lexie be informed that she was there) and had been asked to wait by Marceau. Another caller had come to the door - the butler had vanished - and at that time, Kitty had spotted Lexie's maid. That's why she's here, now, in Lexie's room, having burst in without knocking or letting the butler know she was going to be charging back there.

So here she is now, in full fury: drawn up tall, eyes bright, lips thin, hands on her hips. ]

Why does your maid have a bruise on her?

[coquettish_trees]

Because she is an upstart chit of a girl with neither regard for polite instruction nor further words on the subject.

[ The voice from the covers is raw and thick and mulish. ]

I am not surprised you feel kinship.

[ After all, here Kitty is after almost certainly being told not to be. It's not a hairbrush—Lexie had already expended that ammunition—but there is a small shift in the lump and a hairpin bounces harmlessly off the interloper's shoulder. ]

[rathercommon]

Oh, that does it -

[ Kitty, more stung by the possible class-based reading of the remark (that she's an upstart) than by the personality-based one (that she's a bit of an arse herself), allows herself the luxury of a bit of fury. She comes over and, altogether without ceremony, grabs Lexie's blankets and yanks them off the bed and dumps them on the floor. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ Curled in them as she is, Kitty's cross yank—accompanied by a deeply affronted yelp—will turn Lexie entirely over so that she's facing her when the covers come off.

She looks absolutely wretched. More wan than pale, save for the angry red of her nose and the swollen puff of her eyelids, the curls that had been beneath her face flattened and stuck to her cheek with tears that are even now threatening again over the hot elemental rage that fills her eyes and pinches even her fine features, always previously so carefully worn to their best effect, to something ugly. Weakened by her fasting, it is entirely that same rage that powers her quick roll towards Kitty that ends in a savage slap. ]

Get out.

[ It's a snarl, quickly followed by another command that breaks in the middle. ]

Get out!

[rathercommon]

[ Kitty's eyes widen in a mixture of surprise and outrage when Lexie slaps her. How dare she. Kitty was the one who instructed her in slapping in the first place. For a moment, Kitty's hand curls into a fist, and she comes this close to punching her right back - but instead she whirls on her heel.

Not to leave, though.

Instead, she marches right over to the window. She unlatches it, and she hurls it open. Then the next window, flung wide. It's cold out there today, and windy - that stiff draft draws all the warm air right out of the room. ]

[bouclier]

[ Evie has experienced this with Alexandrie before. She has other things on her mind, and isn't always home in the evenings, so Lexie's little fit goes on longer than Evie would ordinarily allow. However, after some of the servants express concern and the smell of Lexie unbathed and uncaring eventually spurs her to action.

One afternoon after she hears of yet another refused meal and a maid in tears she fills a bucket with cold water and kicks Lexie's door open. With as much ceremony she dumps the water over the lump in the bed where Lexie is. ]

Get up.

[ She barks in Orlesian. Dropping the bucket she strides over to the windows and starts pulling open the curtains. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ Lexie is up instantly with a sharp cry of affront, quick as a striking snake, to throw off the covers and grab hold of the jug of water at the washbasin by her bed to immediately return the favor, hurling the water it contains at her sister. She hisses back at her in the same. ]

Perhaps I have my heart broken always so that the hole in my chest shall match the heartless void in yours.

[bouclier]

[ She grits her teeth as the water from the jug hits her back, and she clenches her teeth as she moves to the next window to throw the curtains open. ]

You're the fool who fell in love with a Tevinter snake.

[ Turning she fixes Lexie with a glare, before moving towards the fireplace. ]

Sitting here wallowing will change nothing. You pick yourself up and move on. Because you are better than this, Alexandrie.

[coquettish_trees]

Am I?

[ It's snarled as simple mulishness, but there's a bit of it that's in earnest. She'd played at being the pretty fluff-brained socialite butterfly for long enough, had allowed herself as much in the way of dramatics as any watcher could have desired. There had been little truth behind them, but is not falsehood woven finely as good as truth to any who do not lean far enough in to check the cloth?

And if it is, if a lie twenty times told is as good as true, is that constructed woman not who she is? Even more so, now that her heartsickness isn't feigned for some ploy or another? ]

And what do you know of what one does when such a thing has happened, mm? Whom have you ever loved and lost?

[keenly]

Fortunately, Colin was not rejected at the door. That was someone else, who came just before him. He witnessed the visitor being turned away and had a little time to come up with something else. He stepped up to the servant as the other person left and claimed he was here to see about the rat problem in the larder. He was let in right away.

Of course he hasn’t gone to the larder, but to Lexie’s bedroom door. He raps a couple of times against it before opening it and slipping in, closing it softly behind him.

The woman is an absolute mess. No doubt more noble problems caused this, which are different from real problems. He pads to her bed and sits on the edge of it, reaching out to gently rub her back.

[coquettish_trees]

Her head whips around at the gentle touch, the hope looking lovely on her for a moment despite her state, but once she realizes who it is—or, more accurately, who it isn’t—her face falls again and she turns back to her curl, pulling it tighter still around the rage that flares at her own self-deception. At the desire for such a thing.

“I cannot see you today, mon cher,” she says quietly. It is kinder than she has been to anyone else who has interrupted her.

[keenly]

“Then don’t look, cara.” Colin moves to set her head in his lap, the way she did when he was so gravely wounded. He begins to stroke her hair.

[coquettish_trees]

She stiffens at first, but as the cold damp of her pillow is replaced by the warm give of Colin’s leg and lays his hand on the mess of her curls, Alexandrie is quickly reduced to a forlornly weeping puddle of a woman again—although the sobs are the holistically broken ones of a young girl.

[keenly]

Colin gently begins to untangle her hair with his fingers, starting at the ends. He lets her cry for a moment before speaking again.

“Say the word and I’ll dangle him from the roof by his ankles.”

[rowancrowned]

Lady Alexandrie is Gwenaelle’s friend, and not Thranduil’s, but given that they are soon to be one flesh under Chantry blessing, he is compelled to look in on her while in Hightown to visit Romain for what but wedding plans, if for nothing more than to see if Gwenaelle ought to come.

In his favor is his experience dealing with Orlesian ladies, and, more importantly, Orlesian serving staff. Between that and his position in the Inquisition, he makes it past the staff and to her room. He is not so crude as to barge in, instead knocking with a light rap of his knuckles.

“It is the Provost,” he calls. “May I come in?”

He is not Gwenalle, but they are cut enough from the same sort of cloth that he might be able to offer comfort.

[coquettish_trees]

Here, finally, a brief twinge of genuine guilt. Less so than if it had been a visit from Ambassador Amsel, but nevertheless she has been indulging herself in her sorrow, and Gwenaëlle's husband (and soon-to-be husband) is, as he had introduced himself, the Provost of the Inquisition.

For this occasion, she will manage to struggle herself to reach out and fumble herself an actual handkerchief. It makes her cheeks slightly less damp, her affirmative response less nasal and stuffed, but on the whole does little to fix her appearance.

Should this be an official visit at all, well... she does look ill.

[rowancrowned]

He enters, and closes the door quietly after him.

"Mademoiselle," he says, and continues in Orlesian, faintly tinged with a Halamshiral accent, "I apologize for calling on you, but Gwenaëlle suggested you might enjoy company."

Nevermind that he's her friend's husband, calling on her alone- the elveness unmans him as well as the rifterness does, and he finds himself one of the lovely little chairs that find their homes in the estates of fine ladies, and brings it to the bed, and sits.

"That is for Gwenaëlle," he says. "As provost, I am here more to- make enquiries about conduct."

Gwenaëlle had been vague with the details, but at the end of the day, her beau was first, Tevene, second, a mage, and third, Thranduil's problem.

[coquettish_trees]

A small brief smile at his use of her mother-tongue, the diplomacy inherent in it. Alexandrie would happily allow herself to relax and be made comfortable by it, were she inclined to spill her woes.

Which she would be, were they only hers. It is strange to be so hurt, to have recourse for vengeance, and to not wish to employ it in the slightest. Soft. Unforgivably. That hurts again, and she rather daintily employs her handkerchief to dab at the evidence—an immense contrast to the forcefully unrestrained sobbing of earlier in the morning—before replying in the same.

"Your pardon, Lord Provost, but I believe your wife to rather have decided I ought to have company." The meddling bitch. (Affectionately thought, of course). "I shall not turn you away, however, provided you continue to be kind about the poor showing I make of myself."

[rowancrowned]

He’s picked up a great number of Orlesian effects from Gwenaëlle—his favorite foods, the cut and color of his clothes, turns of phrase, all the detritus of a foreigner picking up on the culture sheltering them.

“Not at all,” he corrects lightly, and pats his own jacket to find his own handkerchief, embroidered by Gwenaëlle in charming, faux-Dalish leaves and vines. “I think she might object. You ought to award the credit to me, and not her.”

He leans forward to offer the linen square to her. “I have seen worse.” Lightly. Implied either Ghislain or Gwenaëlle herself. All Orlesian ladies must take a class in it, for their similarities in acting out emotions too large to trap behind ribs. “Can you forgive the impropriety of my barging in?”