bakerstreet | Old-Fashioned

[Prefs in journal!]

[I was called out! Look at that lovely gif. Prefs in journal]

[prefs in journal, pm if you want to discuss things prior]

[here for being really old-fashioned with the ladies (and really subtle but old-fashioned with the gents)]

[I'm not super familiar with his canon, but I do like Matthew Goode's face. Would he like to court an English Lady? If so, any prompt ideas? I can just wing it, otherwise.]

[I'm not super familiar with hers! He could definitely court a lady when he gets back from ~~Sharpe's Prequel~~ the campaign I'm pulling him from.]

[I'm going to go the standard route of a fancy party with them meeting for the first time, though maybe they already know about each other. Families did like to mention not-so-subtle hints like that. She's from the 1920s, but we can just kind of fudge a time period. She's also a widow. Also let me apologize if this starter is crap. I'm half asleep but I wanted to get you a starter before I passed out.]

Mary does not often have to be introduced to men, as they usually find their way to her without any sort of encouragement. They tend to be like moths to her flame. It's mostly her beauty that draws them in, but she would like to think that they stay for her wit.

At this particular party, her cousin has ben talking up a military man whom she met, by the name of William Lawford. Mary protests the meeting initially. It's not that she doesn't trust her cousin's tastes, but she's a bit tired of meeting men at these parties and finding them to be unattractive to her. She'd rather not have to spend all night with a man she can't get rid of by her side.

Mary and her cousin pick up glasses of champagne from a butler's tray before her cousin points Lieutenant Lawford out across the room. Never let it be underestimated what a military uniform can do for a man's attractiveness. However, Mary notes that this man would still be quite attractive even if he was in civilian dress. Yes, she decides, she would like to be introduced.

Ignoring the smug look on her cousin's face, the two of them make their way through the crowd towards him.

[He's from way earlier (1790s-1800s) if you don't mind shading that direction; it's where the bulk of my war knowledge lies, and he's real tangled up in his service.]

The genuine oddity of being back in England has yet to fade from the middle of his shoulders. Most of William's mind is aware that this is home, that these are his people--but most of his heart feels the odd tumult of being this far removed from the rough company of his men. Even the other peppering of uniforms here were slightly wrong, unfamiliar facings and infinitely better maintained than the ragged soldiers and officers of the India campaign.

Strange, how difficult it is to keep the shadows of absent friends from the corners of his attention, even in a glittering room worlds away from the fight. At least he hadn't been wholly deprived of a mission to attempt to keep his focus. At least, as the presence of every well-dressed woman startled him, he was reminded of why his parents had pulled him into a fresh uniform and dragged him into this sea of half-known faces.

Officers didn't need wives, but men who had a name to pass along certainly did.

Champagne has tasted overly sweet after the years of arak, so the flute William clutches absently in one hand is almost decorative. Still, it's something to lift lightly in the direction of those who approach him.

A formal introduction is made as Lady Mary Crawley, first daughter of the Earl of Grantham, is introduced to the Honorable William Lawford. Mary imagines that if her cousin were not already married, she might have neglected to introduce her to him. As it is, Mary is a widow, an eligible one, and she knows that her family is encouraging in their desire to see her make a suitable second match. She would imagine that this introduction has already been approved. Mary loves her family dearly, but she would never marry a man simply because she thought her family liked him.

After a bit of polite talk, her cousin excuses herself, leaving Mary and William alone. She gives him a polite smile before continuing their conversation. "Where were you most recently soldiering, Lieutenant Lawford?"

It's impossible to fully suppress the faintly bemused expression that twitches the corners of his lips mid-introduction. Being home--being "the Honourable" again rather than "Lieutenant"--makes his own name feel faintly incongruous.

Which, conversely, makes his smile just faintly relieved when the title he uses in his own mind makes its way back into the conversation. That's something to help relax the faint tension from his shoulders in a way the untouched glass of champagne certainly hadn't.

"The south of India, my lady, with Lord Wellesley's army. With any luck, by the time I return they'll have made their way much farther north."

Reading a bit of his body language, Mary can tell that he is pleased to be called Lieutenant. Indeed, she's found that most military men like to be called by their military rank, unless their nobility rank happens to be particularly high.

"How do you find India?" Mary asks. Mostly it seems terribly hot to her. She doesn't think she'd enjoy it, but then most women would not enjoy being on a military campaign.

There really is an art, William suspects, to being a Lady of some stature. Perhaps it's the quickness of Mary's eyes or the lightness of her sussing, but something in her seemingly effortless presentation reminds him a good deal of Arthur Wellesley on the eve of battle.

That's oddly comforting.

"Infinitely hot," he replies with a faint edge of amusement. "I fear that even the chilly rains of London will never truly bring the heat out of my skin again." His hand with the untouched glass waves absently. "And the work there I fear you would find terribly boring."

None of the peers he had been introduced to cared particularly for the fascinating strategies being employed there. There was little hope that this would be the conversational partner to talk the ear off of about breaches and escalades.

"Have you been much abroad yourself?"

Mary is highly polished. An upperclass lady has to be.

She's not surprised to hear that India is hot, since she certainly imagined so. There's a smile as he seems to read her mind about that. "I suppose it would depend on the work," Mary replies. No, she would probably not be interested in military battles or strategy, but she's a clever woman and is usually able to understand the topics that men talk about.

"Only to the continent," she replies. "France and a bit of Prussia." When England is not at war with France, it's a nice holiday spot.

"That's certainly far from boring."

The tumultuous relationship between their little powerhouse of an island and the strange cyclical strength of France was fascinating enough in its own right. The chance to exist in the little breaths of comfort between the two powers would surely be beyond interesting.

"Did you enjoy yourself in France?"

Compared to some of the places he's probably been, Mary's sure it probably is boring, though she doesn't voice her doubt. There are only so many adventures to be had by a woman of the English aristocracy.

She shrugs delicately. "There is quite beautiful scenery and culture, but the people were, perhaps rightfully so, distrustful," she replies. "It was not overt, but my family felt it nonetheless."

One of her favorite waltzes begins and Mary watches as other couples take to the floor. "Would you like to dance?" she asks, her polished exterior fading for just a second. William is supposed to ask her to dance, not the other way around.

William certainly was supposed to ask. He also certainly wasn't supposed to laugh.

And yet, here they are, with her asking and him chuckling softly as he looks for a surface to set his untouched glass on.

"I would." Although Lord knows it would have taken him quite some time to realize that. Normal little things, even right in front of him, had been feeling terribly far away since returning home. "If you would be so kind as to forgive me in advance for the rust I'm sure will come pouring off my joints."

Mary's cheeks redden, the first chink in her armor showing. His laugh is good-natured, but she still feels foolish for being so bold. At least it hasn't seemed to turn him off to her.

Once he puts down his glass, he escorts her onto the dance floor and they move into dance frame before starting to twirl around the floor. His self-depreciating joke helps to make her feel a bit more comfortable. "Not much dancing happening in the army, then?" she teases. Despite his joke, he actually has good form and leads very well.

It is, apparently, quite a happy thing that his mother had been so insistent on his lessons as a boy. The first few steps aren't entirely graceful, but soon enough his body seems to have remembered without his conscious thought.

"It turns into quite a foolish mess, really. Everyone wants to lead."

That's probably better than discussing the women who followed the army with the baggage train. William has been away for some time, but he's fairly certain that isn't something meant for polite society.

She laughs at that joke, a short, quick sound that tells that she finds him at least a bit clever. Mary has heard worse jokes and at least William is trying. And he would be correct - mentioning the hookers that follow them around would probably not be a good social choice at this time.

"Indeed," she replies, "unless the enlisted men followed the officers, though that might create more trouble."

Even a quick laugh always feels like a victory. This one, William notes, has a particularly pleasant little lilt to it.

"A novel idea," he concedes, attention flitting from her briefly to ensure he doesn't accidentally turn them into another pair of dancers. "They might find it a bit exhausting, don't you think? Barked at to march all day, then barked at to stop stepping on toes all night?"

"You might find a mutiny on your hands," Mary agrees. Generally, she knows little about the military. Her father served some time, but it was never a lifestyle for him. Since he came from money, it didn't have to be.

They twirl again and Mary looks up into his blue eyes. "Where is home for you? Are you from London?"

It had been easy, as a slightly younger man, to imagine giving up his commission easily. The illusion of choice had faded slightly after his first tour in India. Something in the heat of battle, beside men like the Thirty-Third, had been like a fishhook stuck directly into the core of him, inexorably tugging him back toward the front.

But... well. Twirling lightly across a proper floor with a beautiful woman was really much lovelier.

"Not properly, I fear. I spent an inordinate amount of my youth with my mother's people in Scotland." Thankfully, sobriety thus far had smoothed the Scottish brogue entirely from his voice. Learning to speak like the boys at school had always been a full point of pride. "Near to Perth, if you've ever been?"

"Not to Perth, but to Scotland at least," Mary replies. "I have cousins who live there. It's not a terribly far ride from Yorkshire."

Probably about the same distance as it was to London, though in the opposite direction. Mary actually likes visiting Scotland because she enjoys the countryside more than the city. London has its merits, of course, but the country will always feel like home to her.

"I wouldn't have guessed that you were from Scotland," she continues. "Your accent is nearly perfect English. Your family home is here or in Perth?"

"I'm sure it's a credit to my nearly perfect English father." Or, more likely, to his nearly perfect English father's ability to marry yet more money even when marrying a thoroughly Scottish bride. "Perth's home, but school has always been in London."

And there was nothing quicker for getting rid of an accent, in William's experience, than being forced into a group of other young boys who sneered at the way one said one's vowels.

"You really ought to Perthshire if you can. Beautiful straths and mountains."

"I should like to see it," she said, wondering after the words were out of her mouth if it was too forward of a statement. Did it imply that she would like to see his home in particular? Maybe. "It sounds a bit like Yorkshire. I find that I prefer the country to the city anyway."

As the song ended, Mary curtsied to him and took his arm as he escorted her off of the dance floor. "How long will you be in London?"

The far bolder thing, to William's mind, is the careful shift of his own arm to keep hers slotted in against his. He suspects the done thing would be to allow her to find another partner, but perhaps she'll indulge him on the lazy wandering trip he intends to take toward the nearest window.

"Until the army decides they need me again--which will be at least a week, with any luck."

But who could say when things would devolve further in India and need all hands again? Who could say that the uncomfortable powder keg of Europe would next require young men to head over to die?

Mary notices that he's continuing to hold on to her even after the dance ends, and she finds that she doesn't mind. Any other man who was hoping to have her attention will just have to wait.

William's words make her feel a bit disappointed. For the moment, she's unsure of what to say. She cannot simply come out and ask him to see her again, can she?

"Have you heard yet if there will be any more balls like this?" she asks, knowing that there is to be one next week.

There's such a delicate art to the question that William can't help smiling. His fingers squeeze thoughtlessly at hers in unconscious appreciation.

It's been a while, after all, since there was anyone even faintly delicate in his life.

"I've been informed I'll be attending one next week."

"Oh, you have?" Mary smiles slightly. "You are informed of these things and do not choose them yourself?"

He's probably been signed up, as it were, by his mother or other family members. Surely men are not as interested in balls as the ladies are. His family wishes for him to court ladies and try to find a wife. He has perhaps made progress with that this evening.

"Is it the one at Lord Richards's home?" she asks.

Old-Fashioned

Steve Rogers | MCU

James Buchanan Barnes | MCU

Peter Parker || MCU

Ayla Darzi | Dungeons & Dragons (OC) | OTA

Emma Frost | Marvel 616

Abel | Starfighter (Comic) | M/M

Laurent of Vere | Captive Prince | M/M

Adam Parrish | The Raven Cycle | M/M

Tyrone Johnson | Cloak and Dagger | M/F

Lt. William Lawford | Sharpe's Tiger

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sorry for vanishing; rl happened ridiculously

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Loki | mcu | ota

Narcissa Black | Harry Potter | m/f

Nico Acosta | OC | M/F

Evie Montgomery | OC | F/M