tom_lefroy | Entries tagged with oom

"My nephew has devised a plan of metropolitan amusement."

A cheerful laugh.

"Pleasure is, as you would say - madame - his forte."

Jane's cousin, Madame la Comtesse, joins in obligingly.

Behind them, Tom finds Jane's fingers.

The touch is light, like butterflies wings.

*

It had been far too long since Tom last saw her face.

The instant the door opened and Miss Austen and her company had arrived, Tom remembered that night beneath the stars, hidden in the shadows of trees.

Letters hadn't been near enough to bridge the gap between them.

And now ... how foolish he feels, how stupid those words seem - useless to convey just how much he missed being in her presence.

Once they are directed towards their rooms, Tom's uncle, the Judge, leaves them to the afternoon, promising a most satisfying dinner in his company, but he had a couple of pressing engagements he simply couldn't ignore.

"You must forgive me, Madame," he says.

"Of course, sir. I would not dream of inconveniencing you."

Henry Austen makes excuses to help the Comtesse with her luggage, leaving Tom quite alone with Miss Austen in the hallway by the stairs.

Suddenly he feels like a school-boy, almost shy and most certainly tongue-tied.

"Ah - Miss Austen," he says, "shall I help you with your things?"

Current Mood: excited
Current Location: Judge Lefroy's Residence, London.

In a sweep of fine fabric and fussy women, the Lefroys soon arrive at the ball, hosted by one Lady Gresham, a woman whom he is not entirely fond of, if only because she seems (quite clearly) not to be entirely fond of him.

Her slightly dismissive look in his direction upon his entry made certain of that. A young man from the city, one who thinks he's better than everyone else; someone trying to charm his way into the aristocratic society's bosom with little to no money. Why wouldn't she look upon him thus?

*

There is a disparate air to this gathering than he is used to, having now attended his fair share during his stay in the country. The men here certainly attempted to master the pomp and glamour of a London ball (he'd crashed a few of those in his time), but the atmosphere is different. It feels refined, yes, but calmer somehow. Peaceful. Less prone to the outright conflict that often arises amongst the royals and politicians.

They had arrived early - all the better for his relations to mingle - during which Tom held back, occasionally chatting with the other men and women his own age of matters related to the law and of things in London. He kept the ladies entertained while he, himself, grew bored.

Finally, a moment alone, Tom takes note of the grand clock chiming the hour by the entrance. Then he is climbing up the steps, glancing out the window; his mind is preoccupied with thoughts of a woman, of what he should say to her, of whether he ought to bring up the novel he'd recently been reading - and why he feels like such a fool.

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Location: Hampshire - The Gresham Estate

The woods, despite any and all thoughts of rebellion, are admittedly ... calming. They provide a sense of tranquility he does not know of amongst the busy streets and buildings of London city.

He does not miss London's boisterous laugh half as much as he used to. The bruises on his ribs and at the corner of his mouth are a testament to his last visit, only reminding him of what he used to do.

(What he used to be.)

She may have lured him once, but the gentle fields and trees of Hampshire are slowly winning him over.

Tom Lefroy, enjoying a walk in the woods.

Who would have conceived such a notion?

Current Mood: calm
Current Location: Selbourne Wood

It has been a long morning, and after the church sermon, Tom finds himself standing by the edge of the creek by the church, looking out, deep in thought.

It has been a difficult week. Nay, weeks.

His family have been sending him letters he simply could not postmark a reply for quick enough; life has been complicated as it is in London and in Hampshire, and yet his family's debts have been rising. Everything has been growing hopeless, but he could never tell a soul this. His uncle would say the fault was their own, and while he had friends, none of them were the sort he could ... share this sort of bad news with.

They were for forgetting his problems, not sharing them.

And of course, there was the matter of his Door, the one that would take him to the bar at the end of the universe. He hadn't seen it for quite some time now; he was beginning to wonder whether he would ever see it again.

Finally, there was the little matter of Miss Austen, whom he has been watching a little more closely.

"I have read your book," a voice calls out to him.

He turns around, thoughts forcefully pushed aside. He pulls his hat off and bows politely, a smile - genuine, surprisingly - appearing as (speak of the devil) Miss Jane Austen approaches.

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Location: Hampshire: Outside the Church

He surveys the field space briefly, trying to keep his eyes from scanning the faces in the sidelines. While his uncle Lefroy works to set up the cricket 'court', Tom stands alone, his eyes half-squinting in the sunlight.

Henry is probably flirting with the Countess - again - and Tom has to admit, he doesn't think very much of that Warren fellow enough to engage in any sort of conversation.

The gentle laughter and giggles of the women as they gossip adds to the chirps of the birds and rustle of leaves in the trees. He can hear some of the other men chatting to each other about country business.

All in all, the day is a pleasant one - and this is one of the times when he doesn't think he minds the country all too much.

Possibly.

Current Mood: embarrassed
Current Location: Hampshire - Cricket Field

Tom is in the library, reading a book - the book Jane had mentioned previously, he recalls.

There is a sudden sound from behind the bookshelf - a squeaking of steps.

"Miss Austen."

Nervous laughter. "Ah - huh. Mr Lefroy."

Polite bowing.

Almost surprised, or perhaps suspicious, she asks, "Good reading?"

"Yes." Amused. "I've been looking through your book of the wood." He lifts the book up to view the spine as he recites: "Mr White's Natural History."

"Oh." She shrugs. "Well, how do you like it?"

"I cannot get on. It is too disturbing."

Incredulously, "Disturbing?"

He nods. "Take this observation." He opens the book, flipping to one of his more 'favourite' passages, one he had bookmarked in the event that he did run into Miss Austen. He clears his throat, and begins to read.

"Swifts on a fine morning in May, flying this way, that way, sailing around at a great height perfectly happily. Then..."

He looks up, awaiting her anticipation. He continues.

"Then one leaps onto the back of another, grasps tightly, and forgetting to fly, they both sink down and down in a great, dying fall, fathom after fathom, until the female utters..."

"Yes?" she prompts.

He looks at her, wondering how anyone could read this novel at all, and continues. "The female utters a loud, piercing cry...of ecstasy."

They look at each other for a moment, Jane looking more and more embarrassed, and perhaps regretful that she had ever mentioned the book in the first place. No, then. She had never read it, he thinks.

"Is this conduct commonplace in the natural history of Hampshire?" he asks, innocently. His smile is amused as he quirks his lips.

She struggles to say something - anything - and Tom snaps the book shut, a slow grin appearing.

"Your ignorance is understandable, since you lack...what shall we call it?" He pauses. "The history."

"Propriety commands me to ignorance," she says by way of excuse. She begins to walk off towards the other side of the bookshelf, but Tom will not let her go that easily. He follows, his path parallel to hers, though he walks along the windowside.

"Condemns you to it," he corrects, "and your writing to the status of female accomplishment."

She doesn't move.

"If you wish to practice the art of fiction...to be equal of a masculine author, experience is vital."

She turns slowly towards the bookshelf, fingers gliding across several spines as though she is wondering whether his advice is of any use, or whether she can easily discard it. "I see," she says. "And what qualifies you to offer this advice?"

He folds his hands behind his back, book still in his grasp as he watches her interestedly. He starts to walk towards her. "I know more of the world."

She laughs sarcastically. "A great deal more, I gather..." Her tone is daring, and he wonders just what she may have heard concerning...well, perhaps his reputation.

He lets that slide, as he hardly cares what she thinks of him. Right now, his intrigue of her apparent intelligence is enough to make him want to help her - or at least direct her to another world of possibilities. "Enough to know that your horizons," he tells her with all the confidence in the world, "must be ... widened."

She has, by now, picked up a book, and has begun to thumb through it. He already knows just the book he wants to recommend to her in return.

She stops.

"By an extraordinary young man," he says as he turns to walk back to the bookshelf opposite her, fingers already grasping for the title he is looking for: Henry Fielding's The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling.

"By a very dangerous young man," she corrects. "One who has, no doubt, infected the hearts of many a young -"

He is hardly listening to her, as he grabs the book and waits for her to finish. "Young - woman, with the soft corrupt -"

She stops directly in front of him, looking obviously flustered.

"Read this," he interrupts, as he starts to take several steps back, "and you will understand."

He bows and begins to walk off once more, leaving her with the recommended book.

Current Mood: optimistic
Current Location: The Lefroy Residence - Library

He hops out from the carriage without much effort.

"Oh no! We're so late -" says Lucy, as she tries to get out as quickly as possible.

Tom holds out his hand to his little cousin, Lucy. "Oh thank you, Tom!"

"Hurry - hurry!" she says as she glances back towards her mother, and his aunt.

They stand over the top, watching the group for a moment. Tom spots a certain someone, who amuses him greatly. It's that Miss Austen. Some clumsy lout has just stepped over her foot. She glances up. He smiles, amusedly.

---

"...Well, I call it very high, indeed. Refusing to dance when there are so few gentlemen."

Henry glances at her, then briefly towards something behind her. "Jane."

"Henry." She continues, and Henry gestures towards something. Tom exchanges an amused look with his friend.

"Jane," he warns again.

"Are all your friends so disagreeable?" she continues without fail. "Where exactly in Ireland does he come from, anyway?"

"Limerick, Miss Austen."

For a moment, the group pauses. Slowly, smiles begin to cross their faces.

Jane slowly turns around in what appears to be embarrassed realization. Tom's expression hardly changes, though he wonders what could bring a girl like Jane to view him in such a way - so seemingly below her - when she hardly seems experienced in what he has seen for himself. It is, to be quite honest, intriguing.

Daring to prove her views of him wrong, and remembering Will's rather forceful advice, he smoothly asks of her, "I would regard it as a mark of extreme favour if you would stoop to honor me with this next dance."

She stares at him, as though calculating his intentions. He simply watches her, a true mark of innocence. He awaits her reply, half-expecting her to refuse him, but knowing propriety would forbid her from doing so.

"...all right." Henry takes her glass and Tom bows, leading her down the staircase and towards the floor to join the rest of the dancing couples. The band starts up another song.

Aligned with the others in the room, they stand across from each other before bowing their heads. The music is light and very active, getting them to move to the rhythm in particular movements as is asked of the dance, making short turns about each other.

"Being the first to dance with me madam," he starts, "I feel it only fair to inform you that you carry the standard for Hampshire hospitality."

"Ah - then your country reputation depends on my report." She turns to look at him, pausing as they wait for the other couples to have their turn before it is theirs. Her expression is cheeky, slightly daring. He responds in kind with another blank look in her direction. "This, by the way, is called a country dance," she explains, "after the French: contre dance."

They dance. They make short jaunty steps around the couple to their left before joining hands as they continue the assembly.

"Not because it is exhibited at an uncouth rural assembly." Uncouth? Tom thinks, raising an eyebrow. For a woman brought up in this world of so-called 'uncouth rural assemblies', she certainly speaks of it negatively. "With gluttinous pies. Execrable Madeira, and truly anarchic dancing."

His amusement rises as he tells her, "You judge the company severely, ma'am."

"Mm - I was describing what you would be thinking."

Oh, is that so? "Allow me to think for myself," says Tom.

"Give me leave to do the same, sir, and come to a different conclusion."

The dance forces them to pause in their conversation, as it had done so several times this evening. It allows Tom to gather a sense of this young woman for all that she is, and all that she has said to him thus far. Most peculiar, the way she assumes his thoughts. While mostly true, he must admit that this is one of the less dreaded visits.

Indeed, it hasn't been particularly bad thus far.

"Will you give so much to a woman?" she asks as they come together once more.

"It must depend on the woman," replies Tom. "And what she thinks of me."

"But you are -" she pauses for only a breath's moment before continuing, "above being pleased."

"And I think that you, Miss - what was it?"

"Austen," she replies. "Mister..."

"Lefroy."

Most amusing, indeed, if she is to assume that this is how he thinks, when perhaps - well... "I think that you, Miss Austen, consider yourself a cut above the company." Standing beside each other, they take several steps forward, before they must break apart again to take the hands of the couple beside them.

She looks at him incredulously. "Me?"

They separate again momentarily, taking a turn around another person as the dance begins to come to its conclusion.

"You, ma'am." Pausing, he allows himself to smile more to himself than anything. "Secretly."

As the music fades, the crowd applauds the band for a wonderful dance. Tom and Jane join in politely. Tom is certain he has succeeded in ruffling her feathers when it was she, most likely, who had tried to do the very same to him.

He begins to walk off, leaving her with those last words.

Current Mood: amused
Current Location: Hampshire - Dance Floor

Dripping with perspiration, he readies himself once more. Dressed only in his breeches, his boots, and two boxing gloves - one on both of his hands, Tom is involved in a boxing match.

He is swiftly knocked in the face.

"-- Mr Lefroy?"

The crowd emits with immediate cheers and jeers, shouts and excitement. Tom simply grins, looking at his opponent; they circle each other.

Another punch to the face sends him sprawling on the ground on his side. As he draws himself up again, he is met with a kiss from the nearest serving-wench.

"You can have more o'that for later!" she calls to him.

Tom, feeling rather at home here, raises his arms. "Huzzah!" he calls, working the crowd up even further. Linking arms with his opponent, he draws in closer, knocking a boxing glove squarely into the other man's kidney. Then clinging to him, he tries to attack again only to be pushed away with equal strength.

"Come on, then! Hit him!" someone from the crowd shouts. Tom obliges.

Someone shouts out a very loud, "Lefroy!" making him turn. Before he can turn his attention back to the fight, he is met with a very sound punch into the side of his head. It sends him careening towards the ground once more.

Lying on his back, spread-eagle, his favourite whore bends over him, her ample bosom nearly spilling over the edge of her corset. "Glass of wine for ye, sir?"

He smiles, dazed. "Madam."

She lifts him to his feet and he turns, one arm around her shoulders. He turns briefly to exchange good sportsmanship with his opponent; together they clap gloves and then they tend to their separate parties.

"Displaying skill to your advantage, I see," Henry Austen says, standing in the crowd.

"Like the sword, Austen," Tom replies, seeing him in his regal garb. He turns back to the crowd for one last time, giving them his farewells in the form of a smile and wave of his boxing glove, before he proceeds through the crowd accompanied by the whore. Henry leads the way out.

"How long before you have to go back to the Sticks?"

Pause. "A day."

"So soon?"

Henry nods. "Hmm. But one must cut some sort of a fortune in the militia."

"Especially when one can do something for the family."

"Yes."

"Still. Who is this sour-faced little virgin?" He looks off to where a slightly pudgy and terribly uncomfortable man is being bombarded by women from the tavern.

"Ah, you'll pardon me," Henry says leaning towards one of the women. "Mr Tom Lefroy, may I present John Warren. Joining me in Hampshire, my father is preparing us both for holy orders." He looks glumly at Tom.

"I-I understand you've visited Hampshire, Mr Lefroy."

"Last year."

"Long visit, was it?"

"Very long, Mr Warren. Almost three hours." He looks at him, amused, as Warren tries to rebutton his waistcoat with increasing difficulty.

---

"Oh, Mr Austen, you are so devilishly handsome, leaving for Hampshire - quickly, a kiss! A kiss!" Henry drawls excitedly - and drunkenly - as he follows Tom down the long corridor of steps. Several women follow after and he drops his mask, recieving his kisses. "Whoops!"

Tom goes on ahead, laughing. John Warren follows obediently behind. "So Tom, where should we go? Boxtel Gardens?"

"Been there."

"Good evening," a woman dressed in very little croons on his way up and Tom smiles.

"Oh, hello," he returns, pausing for a moment. Henry pulls at his sleeve to keep him focused.

"There's a Tahitian Lovefest on the -"

Tom bounds down the rest of the stairs before he can hear the rest. "Seen it."

"Crocksford?"

"Crocksford? Done that! Or should I say, it did me."

They reach the front entrance, and Henry puts on his cap.

"Wh-wh-what is a Tahitian Lovefest?" Warren asks, coming to join them in several stumbling steps.

Tom and Henry exchange glances, bending in mock-bows as though to say, 'After you.' John Warren proceeds, innocently unaware of what he is about to get into. The two more experienced men exchange another amused glance, and then laughing, follow.

Current Mood: cheerful
Current Location: London brothel & tavern

The coach getting to his uncle Lefroy's residence takes a lot longer than he expects, and as he slowly drives out of London and deep into the wood, the level of civilization dwindles dramatically.

Feeling rather dismal and more or less filled with sulky gloom, Tom stares blankly ahead at the dark wooden wall of the interior of the coach, the seat across from him empty.

He knows his relations are currently attending some special ceremony with a family he knows well enough - the Austens. He and Henry Austen are friends; oftentimes they spend time together in bars and brothels. But Henry does not speak much of the rest of his family, and likewise with Tom. Discovering who these people are and what they are like is certainly something he will have to discover on his own.

As the coach enters the Austen estate, and he is, shortly thereafter, guided towards the living room where the rest of the families have gathered, he realizes he is late. To be quite truthful, Tom, who did not wish to be here in the first place, hardly cares for his tardiness. So, what? He is certain country-folk are sluggish and prone to things like relaxing - taking it easy, as they say, anyway. Why should he care for time in such a precise manner (as he is used to, more or less) when these people do not?

He hears a woman's voice behind the closed door, reciting something that he is certain will hardly interest him. Nothing here, it seems, interests him. As he pushes the door open with a whirl and sheds his coat - expecting that someone will take care of it, as that is what they do in the city (or at least he can act like this is something they do in the city) - the crowd turn to face him. He has their attention.

Well, all right.

A man - his uncle, he recognizes (and not without a touch of disdain towards the man for having ended up so far removed from polite society) - stands to his feet and clears his throat. "May I introduce uh - my young nephew...Mr Thomas Lefroy."

Tom nods.

An older man - Reverend Austen, if he is correct - gives him a welcoming gesture, patting his back and guiding him towards an empty spot to be seated. It becomes easily apparent to Tom that he has interrupted something important. And as he looks at the woman standing by the fireplace with a piece of paper in her hand, he realizes it is her ... speech that he has disturbed. "Well, you are more than welcome," the Reverend says, "Join us, sir. Join us."

He takes a seat by the window, joined by familiar faces. Those of John Warren and Henry Austen.

"A green velvet coat..." a young girl dressed in yellow, giggling (and admittedly a little obnoxious) - Lucy Lefroy, he believes - whispers, though not as quietly as she probably should "- vastly fashionable..."

"You'll find this vastly fascinating," Warren murmurs to him, before turning his attentions back to the young lady.

"His addresses were..." She stops herself and seems to begin again. "The boundaries of propriety were vigorously assaulted...as was only right, but not quite breached...which was also right. Nevertheless, she was not pleased."

It goes on.

"...her sentiments, noble. Her person lovely. Her figure elegant."

She flips the page over. Continues to read.

"Good God, there's writing on both sides of the pages," he mutters, his brain already beginning to numb itself.

Henry silences him with a frown and a hiss.

Another page.

"I repelled ... and his six million ..."

She looks up as she continues to read.

"... which would have lasted me only the twelve months ..."

He yawns. He cannot help it. How can all of these people possibly find this sort of thing stimulating? There are periods of polite laughter. Smiles. All he wants to do is have a drink - or perhaps sleep.

"The Fowl replied..."

Time passes. What is realistically an hour or two feels more like a week. Tom's eyes are closed and he feels his entire body begin to sink into his seat, starting with his head.

"And a treasure, greater than all the jewels in India: an adoring heart. 'And pray madam, what am I to expect in return?'

"'Expect? Well, you'll expect to have me pleased from time to time.'" She looks up at the man standing by a petite woman in pink.

"Is this who I am?" she asks, amusedly.

"And," the other woman continues, "... sweet, gentle, pleading, innocent, dedicate, sympathetic, loyal, untutored, adoring female heart." Beat. "The end."

All of a sudden there is applause, and he jerks himself awake. Ah, right. Applause. He joins in - albeit a little late.

Reception is soon afterward, and Tom is ready to leave all of this behind - immediately. Looking out the window, he stares sullenly at the expanse of trees.

"Well, excessively charming, I thought," Warren says coming to join him. He passes a small silver cup to him, and Tom accepts it, taking a sip.

"Accomplished enough, perhaps," Tom replies with a shrug. His manner is nonchalant. "A tutored mind may be less susceptible to extended juvenile self-regard."

Warren grimaces just a little as though confused, while Tom turns back to his drink.
A moment later, Warren goes off to mingle with someone else. All the better, really; Tom has had quite enough of all this.

Current Mood: bored
Current Location: The Austen residence

"A walk."

Right.

As he makes his way out into the open country, as directed by his uncle, he finds that the marshes, the greenery, and the so-called beauty of the area is severely overrated. How can any of this possibly be beautiful? It is all the same. It is much too wet. And there is no sign of a beginning, nor an end. Men could get lost within these bloody trees, and never find their way out again.

With his walking stick of no use to him, he trudges through the wet marshes, his boots getting sucked into old piles of leaves, blackened from decay until he spots a figure somewhere in parallel to him, walking. So. Walking really is something these people do, then.

"Miss!" he calls. He could use some direction, or perhaps even a simple distraction. "Miss." He tries to get his feet out of the blasted piles of leaves, but finds it a lot more difficult to do than he thought. Still, he cannot lose the only other sign of life in this wood, and she does look rather...familiar. "Miss! - uh, miss." He nearly trips. "Miss?" Perhaps she can help him? "Miss - uh -" Oh, blast. What was her name again?

"Austen."

He hastily stops, removes his hat and bows. "Ah - Mr Lefroy."

She curtseys, looking quite impatient. "Yes. I know...but - I-I am alone."

He scoffs. What prejudice does she have against him? Why, they do not even really know each other. "Except for me."

"Exactly." She continues to walk again.

"Oh, come. What rules of conduct apply in this rural situation? We have been introduced, have we not?" He knows he is testing her. He can see the frustration in the very way she carries herself, walking ahead of him without any regard for his...circumstance.

She turns around and stops. "What value is there in an introduction when you cannot even remember my name?" Beat. "Indeed, you can barely stay awake in my presence."

He looks at her, confused for a brief moment as he bows his head. She returns the gesture with another short curtsey. Perhaps she is not the best of distractions after all. After all, who wants to spend a pleasant walk with a woman obviously angry with him for no reason he can fathom? "Ma'am," he mutters under his breath, turning to walk back in the miserable direction he had come. Best to avoid upsetting a lady from the country. Who knows what sort of thing might happen in the middle of no where?

"These scruples must seem very provincial to a gentleman with such elevated airs -"

He turns around once more.

"- but I do not devise these rules, I am merely obliged to obey them."

She curtseys again then spins on her heel, proceeding towards her original path.

Oh. He is certainly not going to let this go just yet. She has...admittedly intrigued him. "And I have been told there is much to see upon a walk, but all I've detected so far is there to be a tendency to see green above -" He points his cane upwards to the upper parts of the trees, full of foliage and barely anything else "- and brown below." With an odd sort of smirk, he points his cane to the ground this time.

"Yes, well...others have detected more. It is celebrated - there is even a book about Selbourne Wood."

Feigning to sound interested, he remarks a quiet, "Oh." And as she turns back again towards her path, he looks ahead - away from her - and adds, "A novel, perhaps." He knows she will stop. He realizes and remembers just how he knows her; and besides, she is one of those 'aspiring' female writers.

Just as predicted, she turns back. "Novels?" Her tone gives nothing away. "Being poor insipid things read by mere women? Even god forbid, written by mere women."

"I see." He raises his eyebrows, well aware that she likely won't buy his act of innocence. "We are talking of your reading."

"As if the writing of women did not display the greatest powers of the mind, knowledge of human nature, the liveliest diffusions of wit and humour in the best chosen language imaginable!" She has now reached him, each step closer, filled with even more passion. Her voice is stern, venomous with anger, even.

Calmly, "Was I difficient in rapture?"

"In consciousness."

He sighs, shaking his head. "It was..."

She waits, looking just a little smug, as though daring him to speak his mind. Yet, expectant as well.

Thoughtful, he tries again. "It was - accomplished."

She nods, looking disappointed, hurt and angry all at the same time before she wordlessly turns away. He watches her retreating figure, expecting her to provide the last word. She seems like the sort to try to get a last word. She turns around once more, giving him a sarcastic smile. "It was ironic."

...Right.

"And you are sure I've not offended you?" he calls out.

Briefly, she turns. "Not at all!"

He turns back and sighs, glancing about at the sea of trees.

That was...well, interesting to say the least.

Current Mood: irritated
Current Location: Selbourne Wood

His uncle, the (Great and Honorable) Judge Langlois, slowly takes his black robe off, the wig still upon his head. Tom stands, his own white-powdered wig still covering much of his hair as he waits for his uncle to finish. "Why are you here in London, sir?"

"To learn the law."

"Which has no other end but what?"

"The preservation of the rights of property..."

"Against?"

Plainly, "The mob."

There is a slightly irritated pause, before the older man continues, readjusting his smaller wig upon his head. "Therefore order is kept because we have..."

"A standing army?"

"Good manners, sir," he says firmly. "And prudence. Do you know that word? Prudence?"

Eyebrows raised, Tom replies: "Yes."

Langlois lowers himself and settles into his seat, leaning back a bit to give his nephew the brunt of his insult. "Consider myself. I was born rich, certainly, but I remained rich by virtue of exceptional conduct. I have shown...restraint."

Pause.

Tom looks irritated.

"Your mother, my sister, became poor because she did not -"

Tom steps forward, unable to control the words coming out of his mouth. "She married my father because she loved him -"

"Yes," his uncle interrupts, "and that's why you have so many brothers and sisters back there in uh..."

"Limerick."

"Mm."

He rises from his seat as Tom stands stoically controlling his temper. He comes to stand right before him.

"If you hope, I say, hope - if you aspire to inherit my property...you must prove yourself more worthy." The older man begins to walk towards the window, Tom's back to him. "But what do we find? We find dissipation, wild enough to glut the imaginings of a Hottentot. Braggadocio."

Pause.

"Wild companions."

A slow smirk appears on Tom's face.

"Gambling."

Another wry smirk.

"Running around St. James' like a nick or nothing young blood of the fancy. What kind of lawyer will that make?"

Before he can stop himself, he replies, "Typical."

There is a long pause before his uncle comes back to stand before him. He scrutinizes the younger man's face with great contemplation. "Humour. Well, you're going to need that. Because I'm teaching you a lesson." He moves to stand behind his desk once more. "I'm sending you to stay with your other relations... The Lefroys."

"Uncle," he protests, "they live in the country." Tom moves forward once more, a stricken expression appearing on his face. No, that -

"Deep in the country."

Tom lets out a despondent sigh as his uncle begins to laugh. Clearly, the old fool will be enjoying this for days to come.

Current Mood: crushed
Current Location: London - Judge Langlois' office

London, 1796.

It is evening, and as per usual, certain streets are rowdy with activity - particularly those closest to the local taverns and pubs. Men and women alike (though the women are not even near the sort you take for wives) wander the streets, singing, laughing and causing all sorts of scandalous troubles wherever they can. Most of it looks enjoyable, if you are into that sort of thing.

He hasn't lived in London for very long, but Tom knows just the places to go to, and, equally, just the places to avoid. God knows just how many nights he's spent doing what most of these others have done, if not worse (especially when there is a boxing match involved).

"Come along then, Will," he says with a grin, clearly enjoying himself in the place he calls home, where his night-life (wild, free) is very much different from the life he leads during the day (distinguished, upstanding).

As they walk up the small set of steps into one of his locals, he is immediately greeted ("Hullo, love," she croons) by one of his favourite serving wenches (her large bosom, amply exposing more than it should) at the door with a brush of lips - very casually, of course - before leading the way into the space. He expects to see Henry Austen, a friend of his, hanging about somewhere near the entrance as is fairly common, but there is no sign of him.

All the better, really, he supposes.

"Welcome to London, year 1796."

Current Mood: drunk
Current Location: London