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“Who’s that?” Joseph asks, curiously.
Curiously, because it’s the first thing in the function this afternoon that has piqued the slightest hint of her interest. Not to say that the event itself wasn’t grand, of course. With the room’s high arched ceilings and the ornate carvings in its marble walls, the ball hosted by Lady DeRoss is anything but modest.
Women in voluminous silk gowns and identical white silk gloves giggle behind fans. Sparks of light twinkle in the afternoon sun filtering through glass windows-- from diamonds draped on necks, gold trinkets circling wrists, rings of turquoise, and sapphire diadems.
Their hairdos sit, perched proudly on their heads, primly preened and plucked of any imperfections. Men in coats and suits of all sorts converse with each other quietly. Waiters dutifully stand at every corner, balancing refreshments and glasses of wine on trays.
Joseph’s dress is a burrowed garment she had hastily found in the back of Claude’s closet this morning, a deep maroon red gown two sizes too big for the both of them and purchased at a price suspiciously too low to have been well sourced. Had Joseph known about the ball a few days ago, she would have at least tried to tidy herself up a little more.
Preparation. Being methodical.
Values that Joseph takes to the utmost seriousness. Values that are seemingly thrown out the window the moment Mary shows up at her and Claude’s door with a last minute invitation to a ball hosted by a lady Joseph has never heard of.
There’s been talk, he tells them, straightening from his bow, as Joseph and Claude look at him from the door, groggily and just woken up, about one Lady Desaulniers’ handiwork. Mary tells them about how the nobles are fawning over Joseph’s needlework. That the cross stitches, scorned by so many of their customers initially, is sparking the beginning of a new fashion trend after Lady Clark had dropped it after fainting during the last social gathering.
And that Joseph and Claude have the opportunity to make it big-- to make it really big, if they play their cards right. He invites Joseph to the next social gathering, and offers to introduce her to everyone else as his old friend and seamstress of the designs. To a ball, this afternoon.
Joseph and Claude run a tiny shop by the end of the street, selling little trinkets and the occasional handkerchief or decorative embroidery, if Joseph is feeling particularly whimsical that day. Money is difficult, but it comes by just enough for both of them to get by. But Joseph sees what Mary is proposing.
An offer. And Joseph would have been foolish to refuse. After all, she’s heard of all the fame and wealth and all that prestige that the events of the upperclassman can get her if she meets the right person.
But Joseph’s spent her time so far trying to stifle yawns since noon. Would have, at least, if the corset Mary had insisted she at least wear didn’t feel like it was trying to crush her lungs with every inhale Joseph took.
Quite frankly, the event is boring.
Joseph knows she shouldn’t be complaining. Who would be lucky enough to be recognized for their handiwork amongst the nobles, much less to have the duke, Mary himself, to personally invite her?
Granted, Mary has been nothing but helpful: introducing her as his dearest friend, charming polite laughter at every failed joke Joseph makes, turns every social fumble Joseph causes into a delightful conversation, and even muttering advice from the corner of his mouth to direct Joseph when she feels lost.
But Joseph still can’t help but feel left out in the conversations after introductions are over. The upperclassmen’s conversations are exclusive, conversations that Joseph has no say in and cannot comment about, about what new luxuries await them today, tomorrow, or the week after, fashion trends, political schemes, the newest ball gowns, if little Timmy has grown any taller, the weather, and oh, the weather--
Joseph is going to explode if she has to listen to how lovely or quaint the afternoon is again.
But again, curious, secondly-- Joseph asks because the girl is pretty.
Mary glances up from his paper. His glasses, gold rimmed and purely fashionable, glitter like slits of amber exposed in sunlight. The other nobles they’ve spoken to today speak to him with an air of formality that is sparse even amongst themselves. Mary is an eccentric fellow, with his odd quirks and things he gets up to in his pastime, but apparently is well respected and well spoken enough to be included in social conventions.
Smoke curls around his pipe as he speaks. “Whom is my dearest friend speaking of?”
“There--” Joseph lifts a gloved hand to point to the other side of the ballroom. “The lady in the lovely ashen frock.”
With her silvery locks and grey attire, the lady is easily distinguishable from the other guests. She sits by herself on a small writing desk in the end of a room, idly writing in a small antique book. Her posture is perfect: with a straightened spine, long elegant legs crossed, and her relaxed thin shoulders, she easily eludes an air of calm grandeur.
Her movements seem effortless, but Joseph’s own shoulders are aching just after a few minutes of sitting down with Mary, who refused to let her relax her own posture and went on rapid whispery lectures every time he saw her neck so much as dip on the grounds that it should be unsightly for a woman to be caught doing so in public.
Was it intentional for the lady to have been dressed in grey? To fade seamlessly into the background, to blend into the crowd as just another face and just as insignificant, like how little frays in the room’s wallpaper went entirely unnoticed?
Or had she wanted to stand out?
Because-- Joseph’s breath hitches as her gaze settles on the girl again-- grey complimented the lady perfectly.
But even that was an understatement.
The greys in the lady’s attire brightens her complexion, contrasting the darker undertones of her gown. Black lace starts from the base of her neck and ends in dark waves of ruffles diagonally beneath her breast, bringing out the healthy flush in her face. Her black gloves mischievously stop at her forearms, offering a glimpse of pale skin within the slight gap between her gloves and sleeves.
While other women are parading around with their ridiculously large hats, stuffed to the brim with colorful feathers exotic birds and silk, the lady’s was plain-- a flat-crowned black hat with only a simple yellow ribbon. Her silver hair is neatly tied up and pinned, revealing smooth creamy skin underneath, the sharp arch of her neck accentuated as she boredly rested her face on her hand.
Her solemn beauty is apparently evident to others too. A few men nearby are chattering to each other, but Joseph isn’t fooled by their feigned indifference. Every so often, at least one of them glances over at the lady interestedly.
Mary looks over. He laughs. The sound is harsh as it is sharp. “Lady Carl? I’d advise you to keep your distance, particularly in an event as distinguishable and sophisticated as this. Have you not kept abreast with recent tidings?”
Joseph reluctantly tears her gaze away from the lady. “And what may be the reason for such a statement?”
“Her father has recently passed away, the poor chap. In his wake, he’s left his daughter-- Lady Carl-- with an amassed fortune from his trade.”
“What occupation?”
“Makeup.” Mary says.
Joseph blinks.
Mary leans in and lowers his voice. Joseph has to concentrate in order to catch his words over the chattering of the crowd. “His death was a tragedy. He was always fond of creating and experimenting, even with deadly and harmful chemicals.” Mary sighs. “Perhaps it was inevitable.”
“What a nasty thing to say.” Joseph sniffs daintily. “How would that surmount to anything negative, particularly around the lady?”
“Ha!” Mary snorts. He takes a glass from a nearby waiter, and gives the glass a little swirl. Joseph patiently waits for him to take a few sips first before Mary continues.
“To have inherited the finest establishment in the country… Well, it is doubtless that Lady Carl is affluent, but the lady herself is somewhat odd. She tends to keep to herself too. I wonder why she decided to show up today.”
“Aren’t you one to talk?” Joseph mutters, defensively. “What of all the other functions you go about attending?”
It wasn’t uncommon for Claude and her to have discovered Mary lounging on their front door, particularly if he had attended an event in the city that lasted from night till the dawn. Mary’s estate was nestled far in the north, and while he easily could have purchased another house or even several, Mary preferred staying with them instead. Ushering himself into their home, Mary would complain about the different nobodies he had to entertain that night or how tired he was.
In a way, Joseph supposes she could sympathize with him now.
Mary gives her an amused expression, and sets the glass down. “Ah, but darling,” he hums, gesturing at the crowd before them in a grand flourish, “This is your debut!”
“Reflect upon it. It’s your first time showing yourself within high society, so make an impression. I daren’t think about the rumours that might circulate if you should be seen conversing with a castaway like Lady Carl. Besides, what use is there in connecting with her?” Mary tuts. “I could introduce you to my more useful acquaintances.”
“Have we not spent the past hour doing so already? It is most tiresome.” Joseph complains, half-tugging at her corset. “I find myself weary now.”
Mary elegantly slaps her hand away, and Joseph hisses.
“Take Lady Kreiburg, for instance. A true piano prodigy.” Ignoring Joseph’s ire, Mary breezily points to a woman dressed in scarlet. She’s talking to a man in a well-fitted suit. Both of them are closed lipped smiles and polite conversation, and as Joseph watches, the man nods at something she says.
“I must introduce the both of you. I think you’ll like her. But that will be after the dance, of course, since she has promised Lady DeRoss to open it with a piece she has composed herself.”
“A dance?” Joseph echoed in dismay. The corset already made breathing a laborious chore, waist being compressed by her ribs. Exerting any other physical effort more than walking seemed unthinkable.
That, and Joseph has never learnt to dance. Even in occasional festivals held in the city, she’s always preferred to watch as her fellow townsfolk mingle with each other with the happy lilt of the flutes instead of joining in.
“Of course. This is a ball, after all.” Mary smoothly continues. “As I was saying, next to Lady Kreiburg is Lord Lester. His is a bit of a tragic tale, but I believe coming to know him will benefit both you and Claude greatly. He is a gentle soul, a man of kind temperament and fond of children too, having established a toy shop for them.”
“But…” Joseph watches from across the room as Lady Carl concentrates on her writing. A strand of silver slips from behind her ear. But she doesn’t seem to have noticed, gently turning a page over. Joseph feels the corners of her own lips lifting. “Lady Carl is beautiful.”
Mary arches an eyebrow at that, turning to look at the lady too. “She is.” Mary admits.
As Joseph watches, a man stands from the next table. He seems to be struggling to keep his composure, anxiously glancing at the lady’s direction and back at the table. His companions are a rowdy bunch, laughing uproariously and clapping him on the back. They cheer as the man makes his way unsteadily to Lady Carl.
Observing Joseph’s gaze, Mary remarks, “Most of them seek the fortune her late father has left her.”
Joseph grabs the hems of her dress and stands up. The chair screeches as its legs drag against the ground. “I wish to speak to her.”
“Absolutely not.” Mary’s tone sharpens. Joseph turns to give him a glare, but Mary’s expression is firm, his jaw set. “We will be greeting Lady Kreiburg instead.”
In the distance, Lady Kreiburg’s gaze flits curiously towards the both of them. Catching the lady’s eyes, Mary breaks into a smile, giving her a small wave. Lady Kreiburg gives him a little curtsy before continuing her current conversation.
Watching the interaction, something spiteful and hot surges up within Joseph.
It was pointless to spend her time entertaining Mary’s whimsies. They were just as frivolous and superficial as the ball itself, just as of importance as the stuffing in Lady Kreiburg’s ridiculous hat.
Everything these people did and anything they said was a show. Even Joseph’s embroidery was nothing but a fashion trend to them. And to be denied the only person she’s genuinely curious about is nothing but an insult.
Joseph lifts her chin up in contempt, folding her arms. “I’ll do whatever I want.”
Both of them are equally stubborn, and Mary knows that just as well as Joseph, from the way he’s starting to frown.
Good. At least he understands.
There are soft murmurs and curious eyes from the table next to them. Mary glances back at them, subtle and quick, before shifting his eyes to meet Joseph’s again.
But they’re interrupted.
A quiet cough from the side, and their attention is directed to a servant. The servant seems nervous, wearing the same simple suit as the other waiters. He wilts under Mary’s cold stare, shifting uncomfortably. But he manages to stammer his words out.
“P-pardon me, Duke. But I-I have some news for you.”
“And by what right do you have to interrupt us?” Mary snaps, and Joseph almost pities the servant. There’s nothing more Mary hates than his subordinates not knowing their places. From the murderous way Mary is gripping his pipe, Joseph knows the servant will not be there the next time another social event is held.
It seems that the servant knows this too from the way he gulps at that.
“I-I’m sorry sir, but this is important,” the poor servant stutters. He’s a nervous wreck now, wringing his arms and eyes never leaving the floor. “S-sir, I must inform you…”
He casts a frightened look at Mary.
“Speak,” Mary commands.
The servant leans over, and starts to frantically whisper to Mary. His voice is hushed and hurried, and just as quickly as he had relayed the information, he stands ramrod straight, clearly awaiting future directions, flushed with panic.
Joseph’s anger is momentarily forgotten. “What did he tell you?”
But Mary turns away. “You’ll have to excuse me for a moment.”
“What? Why so?”
“A guest from the East." Mary sighs. He smoothes his vest and checks his reflection through a nearby window so polished Joseph could see even her reflection from far away. “My guest,” he corrects, smiling. “One that I have the privilege of escorting tonight.”
Then Mary’s face turns stern as he glowers at Joseph. “But-- whatever you do Joseph, you will stay put. I will search for you after I have attended to Prince Michiko.”
Joseph pretends to be disappointed. “Oh, very well, then.”
Mary sighs exasperatedly. “I mean it.”
Joseph gives him her most charming smile, widening her eyes and blinking innocently. “Certainly.”
Joseph has always been a good actor. Has to be, to sell her trinkets, of persuasion and elaborate tactics and theatrics for the customer too, sometimes, if she wants to earn money. Claude wouldn’t have been fooled. Joseph supposes that came with having someone that had been with her for her entire life.
But that was more than good enough for Mary to believe her.
“Good.” Giving her a last warning glare, Mary hurries away.
Joseph smiles and waves, watching Mary make his way towards the corridor at the end of the room, blending into the crowd.
When the last glint of Mary’s glasses are gone, Joseph grins. Satisfied, she shakes off her skirt, breezing over to Lady Carl.
Honestly, what did Mary expect?
The table Lady Carl rests is faraway from the center of the ballroom. Joseph immediately feels more at ease now that there are less eyes watching her with every step. There are a few curious gazes, but they quickly lose interest as they notice who Joseph is approaching.
Even as Joseph comes closer to her, Lady Carl remains calm. There’s no indication from Lady Carl that she’s noticed Joseph, even when Joseph has stopped directly in front of her, standing so close to Lady Carl that she can almost make out the words that Lady Carl is dutifully etching onto paper.
If Lady Carl is bothered by Joseph’s presence, she doesn’t let it show.
Willful ignorance, or plain indifference?
The only sounds between them are the soft scratching of the quill the lady is writing from, and the nervous strumming of Joseph’s heartbeat in her own ears.
“Good--” Joseph starts, the beginning of a greeting, before she freezes, catching herself.
The nobles had their way of greeting each other, didn’t they? A formal etiquette and display of manners before conversing with each other. Mary had taken the time to drill that into Joseph before they entered the ball together. But-- Joseph gapes, blinking owlishly at Lady Carl-- she can’t remember how the greeting went.
Joseph attempts to compose herself outwardly, closing her mouth into a smile. Internally, she’s frantically wracking her mind to remember how Mary had introduced her to his acquaintances.
But the words dry in her mouth as she’s observing Lady Carl up close.
“You’re beautiful.” Joseph blurts out, accidentally, and then turns furiously red.
But Lady Carl barely glances up. “You would not be the first to have uttered such sentiments today.”
Her voice is soft and melodious, but not timid. Lady Carl speaks with quiet confidence, and holds herself in a similar regard.
Joseph decides that she likes hearing it.
“Will I at least have been the first woman to?” Joseph asks, bolder this time.
Lady Carl’s writing halts. “What do you desire from me?”
“If I answer, will you cast me aside just like the other unfortunate fellows?”
A cheeky response, but intentionally crafted. Lady Carl’s words were straightforward and blunt, and she didn’t waste any time sugarcoating her words either. Joseph wonders if Lady Carl prefers bantering over idle chit chat. But maybe that was the wrong thing to say, because Lady Carl’s expression becomes guarded.
“Are you entreating me so?” Her tone is sharper.
Joseph isn’t intimidated.
“Good afternoon to you, Lady Carl.” Picking up the edges of her gown, Joseph curtsies. “My name is Joseph Desaulniers, a humble craftswoman invited by the Duke to partake in today’s ball.”
“I didn’t inquire for your name.” drawls Lady Carl.
The book snaps shut, and Lady Carl shifts her bored grey eyes to Joseph instead. “And no matter, craftsman or not, if repeating yourself is all you do, then your hands and mind is no better than those of them--” Lady Carl sharply tilts her head at the few suitors that stood nearby-- “foolish knaves.”
Even Joseph has to pretend the insult doesn’t sting.
“I… must offer my sincere apologies.” Joseph murmurs. Perhaps Lady Carl had truly meant to be on her own. “It appears that you do not desire any company today.” She’s about to retreat, but Lady Carl stops her.
“Wait.” Lady Carl orders. “What are you holding?”
Joseph wavers. She looks from Lady Carl’s impatient expression back to her hand.
“...This?”
It’s a handkerchief. Her handkerchief, to be specific. There’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary for a lady to be holding a handkerchief, especially in a ball.
Joseph never sews the same designs, letting her imagination and mind wander with colorful strings and arrays of stitches, so the design of Lady Clark’s handkerchief had been unique. Admittingly, it had been one of her best works to date, of flowering branches and white silk. Joseph had meticulously worked on its pattern, sleepless nights on end until she was satisfied with her handiwork.
But Joseph has personally selected this one to bring with her to the ball, to show off and to be admired. Barely anyone had taken note, and even Mary had given it a dismissive nod when Joseph had proudly displayed it to him. But-- Joseph hopefully looks up-- it had caught Lady Carl’s attention.
Lady Carl studies the handkerchief. “Did you fashion this yourself?”
“Yes.”
Joseph tries not to fidget with the folds of her skirt as Lady Carl cranes her head to peer at it closer.
Grey mice scamper around in fields of gold. Some are basking in sunlit warmth, framed with piles of toadstool and acorn. Others, equally as merry, frolick in wheat bushels. The scene is joyful, told in quick, fragile flutters of thread and needle. It’s the very essence of spring, both pretty and refreshing.
“Would you like to hold it?” Joseph offers.
Lady Carl wordlessly accepts it, quietly examining as Joseph lays it on one gloved hand.
In some odd way, Joseph thinks to herself, the handkerchief suits the demeanour of the lady she’s standing in front of.
Lady Carl’s eyes soften, one finger trailing the mice’s path. “It’s lovely.”
“Do you happen to sew as well, Lady Carl?”
“Not at all. But I am well versed in makeup.”
“You do quite a fine job of it.”
It was true. Joseph has almost never had the privilege of using makeup, but she remembers how difficult it was to do so, clumsy, awkward brush strokes all over her face. Lady Carl’s was done with precision, and blended so smoothly that her makeup was barely noticeable.
“Thank you.”
Lady Carl turns to Joseph properly, giving her a rare, sweet smile.
It’s the first time Lady Carl has smiled in the whole afternoon. Something flutters in Joseph’s chest.
Lady Carl looks pretty when she smiles.
“There is a certain subtlety to your craft,” Joseph murmurs, gaze flitting away. “It allures me.”
Lady Carl puts down her pen to peer up at Joseph thoughtfully, propping her head on her arms. “Hm. Is that so? If not for my own father I might’ve sworn off makeup entirely.”
“Your father taught the craft to you, I presume?”
“Oh, yes.” Lady Carl purrs, soft and silky, her lashes lowering. “Belladonna. Arsenic. Mercury in vermillion red, and pearl-- liquid pearl, of course. Father had his special concoction for it too. How could I ever forget? Naturally, I had the honor of being the last person to ever apply makeup on him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t. In fact, I’m quite glad he did.” There was a glint in Lady Carl’s eyes that suggested more than she let on. “He was a horrible man whose livelihood was nothing but pain and suffering for my poor mother. Anything he did was for his own wealth.”
Joseph’s own parents had passed on when Claude and her were young, and she barely remembered them. But she knows of the greed of the men that hounded after them, persistently and insistently, until they had paid off all their parents' debt. Claude had been terrified then, nightmares of the debt-collectors barging into their home plaguing her dreams.
“Good riddance, then.” Joseph declares solemnly.
That earns a laugh from Lady Carl, and Joseph perks up, surprised but delighted.
“Most people wouldn't have dared to say that.”
“Lady Carl--”
Lady Carl waves a hand dismissively. “Just Aesop is fine.”
To have someone request to be referred to by their first name establishes familiarity between them. “Aesop…” Joseph says, as though she’s testing the name on her tongue. But a gesture of goodwill must always be reciprocated. “Then, please refer to me as Joseph too.”
“If you insist.”
“Joseph,” corrects Joseph.
Aesop gives her a deadpan look, and Joseph is amused. “My apologies. If you insist, ah, Joseph, then.”
Joseph meets Aesop’s gaze playfully. “Something tells me you’re not the most sociable of individuals.”
“Something other than the papers recently, I hope?” Aesop dryly quips back.
Something light and affectionate sparks in her chest, and Joseph laughs. “No. Although the Duke has warned me of gossip of an unsavory nature.”
“The Duke!” Aesop exclaims, lightly scoffing. “What does that prattling twat know about me?”
Joseph splutters.
But Aesop isn’t done. “In fact, did you see the speeds at which he departed to meet Prince Michiko? I must say, they are far from being subtle.”
Then, Aesop says, “You’re really quite lovely, Joseph.”
She says it casually, like she was commenting about the weather, like at her words a thousand butterflies hadn’t exploded in Joseph’s stomach.
“Oh.” Joseph’s probably as red as her dress now, heat rushing to her face. “Well, Er-- thank you, my lady. But how could I-- Ah, are you certain?”
“Who else would I be talking to?” Aesop seems amused. “Don’t change yourself, Joseph. You’re pretty the way you are.”
“There’s nothing beauti--” Joseph stammers.
“You have such lovely hair, Joseph.” Aesop interrupts. She reaches out to briefly hold the ends of Joseph’s hair, and her touch lingers even as she withdraws. “Why, they look like they’ve been spun from gold.”
Aesop continues on. “Your strong arms are a testament to the care you demonstrate to your craft.”
Aesop leans in closer, and all Joseph can see are her eyes, silver and true. “And your blue eyes are so clear that I am sure they hold a piece of the sky in them.”
“Please, no more.” Joseph doesn’t know if she can handle it if Aesop goes on. Her face feels hot, too hot, and her heart’s beating too quickly. She ducks her head, abashed. “You are lovelier, my lady.”
Something changes in Aesop’s expression at that. The intensity of her gaze drops, and Aesop fidgets with the corners of her notebook.
“Well,” begins Aesop shyly. “Well. If you think so, would you care to dance with me?”
Joseph glances back to the ballroom.
Just as Mary had said, Lady Kreiburg had settled herself on the piano in the middle. Her fingers are moving on the keyboard, and the beginnings of a song are playing, its melody soft and lilting. Not a conventional song choice, but it’s starting to get the attention of the other nobles, pausing their conversations to listen in.
Next to them, a man offers a rose to his lady. The woman giggles with delight as she takes it, and the couple start to sway with the music.
“Oh. I’m afraid I must refuse.”
Aesop’s face fell for a fraction, before her eyes steeled, composing herself. “I see. In that case, please excuse--”
“But not because I don’t enjoy your company!” Joseph hurriedly gets out. “I’ve just… Well,” She stammers, feeling shame creeping up her face, “I’ve just never learnt how to.”
“Such a small issue.” Aesop tuts.
Joseph looks up, surprised when she sees Aesop smiling warmly at her.
“But it can be easily mended.”
Aesop lowers herself, extending an arm to Joseph. “After all, a dance is for two, is it not?”
Joseph hesitates. But the mixed uncertainty vanishes when she’s looking back at Aesop, beautiful and gentle, beckoning to Joseph. The lady Joseph had been trying to get the attention of for the afternoon had reciprocated, engaging her in conversation, and had even asked her to a dance. Where were Joseph’s manners?
So she curtsies, lifting her skirts up, before politely addressing Aesop again. “Then I would be delighted to accept.”
Aesop’s eyes twinkle at her as they make their way to the dance floor.