Post by Lady Idril on Oct 3, 2006 16:05:43 GMT -5
Summary: None, really. Just drabble. I suppose it's an examination of personalities and opening your eyes to who a person truly is, rather than who you presume them to be.
Rated: K, it's just fun.
A/N: This is my alltime favorite painting, The Singing Butler by Jack Vettriano. it's a rather commercial piece, found on calendars and makeup bags all over the aisles of WalMart, but it means so much more to me for reasons I can't explain. I'm not going to touch on the subject of the title, the butler won't be breaking into a karoke version of "I'm Every Woman" or anything. This is merely me experimenting with words and writing what I personally see, not what Mr Vettriano painted for me. Enjoy! And comments/reviews are appreciated!
The Pleasure of Your Company
Why does he do nothing but work?” asked Genevieve Evans to her bustling maid Marie. “The man hardly realizes I exist!”
The maid did not respond, as the door to the kitchen was practically off it’s hinges; Peter Thomas Evans entered, having dressed cursorily, newspaper in hand. His routine morning escapade through the house was momentarily halted at the pleading look in his wife’s eyes.
“Stay with me for a moment, have a cup of coffee,” she requested hopefully.
“I am sorry,” was his reply, “but one must work in order to form a livelihood; you know how I wish to supply you with everything your heart desires!”
“Indeed, that,” said she, “but my desires are not so extravagant as to cost your very livelihood! I wish only for the pleasure of your company for one afternoon!”
Peter Thomas’s lips danced into a smile as he denied her words.
“Such an afternoon would not merit such an endearment, my dear,” responded he after a moment. “Should I be a much more pleasant fellow, that would indeed be a right sentiment. And now, enough of this silliness, I must be to work.” He gently lifted her chin and kissed her swiftly before hastily grabbing jacket and hat, making for the door.
And so began every day and ended every night in the manor of Lord and Lady Evans. An indirect member of The Peerage was Peter Thomas, his father the Duke of Edinburgh. Such was Genevieve’s disappointment in the hasty dismissal her husband made of her affections; she had never wished to be fawned over, that was certain, however her husband quite assumed she felt the opposite. Presumptions had always been his downfall, and some things, she thought, would never, ever change.
x x x
Peter Thomas ran a weary hand through his dark locks, not a shade of grey to be seen on his head. His desk was littered with discarded envelopes and letters therein, a Utopia of formal invitations, all perfectly eloquent as to be addressing His Lordship.
Pete Thomas scoffed at the title, pushing the pile of papers away and leaning back in his elegant deskchair, his hands enfolding themselves behind his head. The proverbial rogue, he had never felt as passionate about the Peerage as his father or grandfather before him, but it was his destiny to live up to such a title, as his father had told him, and one cannot deny their destiny. Peter inwardly acknowledged that it was Genevieve’s indifference to titles of society, prejudice and class that had driven him to such an ardent love. He found her stoical outlook refreshing and more than a little appealing. His only fear was for the woman’s sanity when, upon marrying her, she would be undoubtedly thrust forward into the throngs of untoward females and high-nosed judgements. Would she lose that appeal he so desired in her? It was to be expected, surely.
The soft cough from his secretary drew him from his reverie. Intentional though it was, Mr Flint smiled an apologetic smile and continued his work on the much more modest desk that resided across the room from Peter Thomas’. The lord smirked, knowing his secretary as he had for so many years.
“You have my apologies, Flint,” Peter sighed, shuffling the mangled papers together halfheartedly. “I am not in my right mind this morning.”
“Indeed, I have noticed,” Mr Flint replied. “May I be so bold as to inquire to the nature of this distraction, my lord?”
“If you must know,” was the tired response, “Genevieve and I will be celebrating our third wedding anniversary on the 23rd of the month. You can believe that is the reason for such commendations,” he added, motioning tiredly to the letters in disarray before him.”
“The 23rd, sir?” Mr Flint questioned, his eyebrows raising considerably. “You are aware, I presume, that date falls on the next Tuesday?” At Peter’s indifferent shrug, Mr Flint drew out his calendar. “That is precisely nine days from today, sir.”
“Ah,” Peter Thomas smiled. “You, sir, have experience in the matter of wedding anniversaries and the consequences therein!” Mr Flint smiled knowingly, replacing his calendar and focusing on the problem at hand.
“I am to assume you are in a bit of a spot as to the precise gift for the occasion, then, sir?”
“Indeed, yes!” Peter Thomas left his chair and ran rugged hands through dark hair once more, his eyes working out the window and over the spacious grounds of London. “She is a most confusing woman,” he mused. “Forgive me for sounding so forward, but after three years of marriage into the immediate family of a Duke, I would have expected her to...succumb...to the surrounding class. Am I not mistaken in thinking thus?”
“No, no, not at all!” Mr Flint looked slightly abashed at the other’s question. “Lady Evans is a most splendid woman. I would not wish her personality to be lost upon...” he trailed off, uncertain of the words.
“The ridiculous toils of the old British tabbies?” Peter Thomas offered. “The snobbery, like the lot at the Manchester house?”
“Ahm. Indeed, sir, that.” Another intentional cough left the old secretary’s mouth.
“I am making you uncomfortable, forgive me,” Peter Thomas laughed.
“Do not think on it, Sir.”
“Well. I suppose we must make this our top priority, Flint,” the lord sighed. “To uncover my wife’s truest desires, and hastily rush to meet them!”
Rated: K, it's just fun.
A/N: This is my alltime favorite painting, The Singing Butler by Jack Vettriano. it's a rather commercial piece, found on calendars and makeup bags all over the aisles of WalMart, but it means so much more to me for reasons I can't explain. I'm not going to touch on the subject of the title, the butler won't be breaking into a karoke version of "I'm Every Woman" or anything. This is merely me experimenting with words and writing what I personally see, not what Mr Vettriano painted for me. Enjoy! And comments/reviews are appreciated!
The Pleasure of Your Company
Why does he do nothing but work?” asked Genevieve Evans to her bustling maid Marie. “The man hardly realizes I exist!”
The maid did not respond, as the door to the kitchen was practically off it’s hinges; Peter Thomas Evans entered, having dressed cursorily, newspaper in hand. His routine morning escapade through the house was momentarily halted at the pleading look in his wife’s eyes.
“Stay with me for a moment, have a cup of coffee,” she requested hopefully.
“I am sorry,” was his reply, “but one must work in order to form a livelihood; you know how I wish to supply you with everything your heart desires!”
“Indeed, that,” said she, “but my desires are not so extravagant as to cost your very livelihood! I wish only for the pleasure of your company for one afternoon!”
Peter Thomas’s lips danced into a smile as he denied her words.
“Such an afternoon would not merit such an endearment, my dear,” responded he after a moment. “Should I be a much more pleasant fellow, that would indeed be a right sentiment. And now, enough of this silliness, I must be to work.” He gently lifted her chin and kissed her swiftly before hastily grabbing jacket and hat, making for the door.
And so began every day and ended every night in the manor of Lord and Lady Evans. An indirect member of The Peerage was Peter Thomas, his father the Duke of Edinburgh. Such was Genevieve’s disappointment in the hasty dismissal her husband made of her affections; she had never wished to be fawned over, that was certain, however her husband quite assumed she felt the opposite. Presumptions had always been his downfall, and some things, she thought, would never, ever change.
x x x
Peter Thomas ran a weary hand through his dark locks, not a shade of grey to be seen on his head. His desk was littered with discarded envelopes and letters therein, a Utopia of formal invitations, all perfectly eloquent as to be addressing His Lordship.
Pete Thomas scoffed at the title, pushing the pile of papers away and leaning back in his elegant deskchair, his hands enfolding themselves behind his head. The proverbial rogue, he had never felt as passionate about the Peerage as his father or grandfather before him, but it was his destiny to live up to such a title, as his father had told him, and one cannot deny their destiny. Peter inwardly acknowledged that it was Genevieve’s indifference to titles of society, prejudice and class that had driven him to such an ardent love. He found her stoical outlook refreshing and more than a little appealing. His only fear was for the woman’s sanity when, upon marrying her, she would be undoubtedly thrust forward into the throngs of untoward females and high-nosed judgements. Would she lose that appeal he so desired in her? It was to be expected, surely.
The soft cough from his secretary drew him from his reverie. Intentional though it was, Mr Flint smiled an apologetic smile and continued his work on the much more modest desk that resided across the room from Peter Thomas’. The lord smirked, knowing his secretary as he had for so many years.
“You have my apologies, Flint,” Peter sighed, shuffling the mangled papers together halfheartedly. “I am not in my right mind this morning.”
“Indeed, I have noticed,” Mr Flint replied. “May I be so bold as to inquire to the nature of this distraction, my lord?”
“If you must know,” was the tired response, “Genevieve and I will be celebrating our third wedding anniversary on the 23rd of the month. You can believe that is the reason for such commendations,” he added, motioning tiredly to the letters in disarray before him.”
“The 23rd, sir?” Mr Flint questioned, his eyebrows raising considerably. “You are aware, I presume, that date falls on the next Tuesday?” At Peter’s indifferent shrug, Mr Flint drew out his calendar. “That is precisely nine days from today, sir.”
“Ah,” Peter Thomas smiled. “You, sir, have experience in the matter of wedding anniversaries and the consequences therein!” Mr Flint smiled knowingly, replacing his calendar and focusing on the problem at hand.
“I am to assume you are in a bit of a spot as to the precise gift for the occasion, then, sir?”
“Indeed, yes!” Peter Thomas left his chair and ran rugged hands through dark hair once more, his eyes working out the window and over the spacious grounds of London. “She is a most confusing woman,” he mused. “Forgive me for sounding so forward, but after three years of marriage into the immediate family of a Duke, I would have expected her to...succumb...to the surrounding class. Am I not mistaken in thinking thus?”
“No, no, not at all!” Mr Flint looked slightly abashed at the other’s question. “Lady Evans is a most splendid woman. I would not wish her personality to be lost upon...” he trailed off, uncertain of the words.
“The ridiculous toils of the old British tabbies?” Peter Thomas offered. “The snobbery, like the lot at the Manchester house?”
“Ahm. Indeed, sir, that.” Another intentional cough left the old secretary’s mouth.
“I am making you uncomfortable, forgive me,” Peter Thomas laughed.
“Do not think on it, Sir.”
“Well. I suppose we must make this our top priority, Flint,” the lord sighed. “To uncover my wife’s truest desires, and hastily rush to meet them!”
