♡ ━━━ purcell's pairings - pls lock

[ethereal .]

𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐄

𝟮/𝟭𝟬 | 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵; 𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗰𝗶 | 𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗱; 𝗻𝗼𝗻𝗲 | 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗱; 𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗮𝗻, 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘁

relief flooded all throughout emilina, a gentle smile spreading across her lips. very rarely did she come across polite strangers, but it was something she was incredibly grateful each and every time. perhaps she could have found her way on her own, but she would have hated to start off the night with distaste and discomfort. with a mild bow of her head, emilina extended her own arm to link with his. his presence in and of itself was comforting, though it was the way he spoke that really set her at ease. she had assumed she wouldn't be the only foreigner there; certainly not the only one who had traveled a long ways to get there, but seeing it herself was something entirely different. now she didn't feel so out of place.

just as she was parting her lips to answer his question, another voice was drifting towards them. blonde ringlets caught emilina's eye, and then a shade of pink so soft she just wanted to reach out and touch it. it was such a beautiful color, and it suited the woman speaking. slightly tilting her head at the woman, she offered her a smile of acknowledgement. "forgive me for being so forward, but your dress looks wonderful..as do you!" if she knew the woman any better she might just reach out affectionately, but the sound of her father scolding her about personal space was engraved in her mind. it was something she was constantly reminding herself of.

"my name is emilina browne, though you both can refer to me as lina if it's easier." eyes drifting back and forth between the woman and rowan. "it sounds as though we are all a little far from home. i've traveled from france, though thankfully i had more than enough time to brush up on my english long before the trip." emilina wanted to wince, thinking of how difficult things would have been if she resulted to practicing on the ship as her father had told her to. english might not have been her first language, but it wasn't difficult to learn the fowl language she heard more than once. she still had trouble with certain words and sayings, but it was better than nothing.

"as for you two..?" she asked as her attention was stolen for a moment by the worker at the door. she smiled politely as she handed over her card, not expecting him to hand her a brooch in return. "oh, merci." nodding as he told her to pin it to her dress before entering. inspecting the beautiful gem, her eyebrows furrowed together. perhaps it was meant to match her dress? though it wasn't quite the same shade of green. no, that didn't make sense. "pardon me, what is the purpose of the brooch again?" what she wasn't expecting, was the worker telling her it would help her find her match. oh, well, that's interesting.

[wait for me.]

𝐔𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

i. He/him ii. Heterosexual iii. Status: 3.5/9 iv. Paired with: Cosette Beaumarchais v. Mentions: -- vi. Tags: Harrison

Ulysses sized up the man in front of him. He chuckled a little at his dazed expression, paled face, wide eyes. Clearly, this was not a man built for the social scene. Or, at least not a scene as energized as this. To think that a man of such (apparent) wealth, likely well-acquainted with such parties and opulence as the Purcells had to offer, could still be dazzled by it all! It was a bit of an amusing thought, "That's quite alright. Tonight is a bit overwhelming, isn't it?" A small sip would serve this man well, and more than one would serve him all the more, just as he said, "You are welcome to as many as you like. I'm sure the Purcells are well stocked." He said as the other man reached out to take the drink he had offered.

Once he had both hands free, Ulysses took a sip of his own drink. He felt a bit uncomfortable when asked who he was. If this man - Harrison - didn't recognize his name, would he ask about his family? And, if he did, would Ulysses be willing to admit he was only a servant? He had never felt cause to be ashamed of his family before. Disappointed with his living situation, certainly, but he'd never been ashamed of it before. He and his family worked hard for what they had, and now they had to work to keep it. That thought alone gave him a very rapid change of heart. After all, how many of the other people in this room could say the same? So many of them had likely been born into wealth, and more than a few of them had likely squandered half of their inheritance by now, and would squander the other half before they turned forty. They had far more to be ashamed of than himself! Besides, if he got lucky tonight, he might have a wealthy woman on his arm by the end of the night. He had served Mr. Purcell well – surely he would have paired him well as a reward for his services? "I don't suppose you would know me. The name's Ulysses. Ulysses Miller." He said, puffing his chest a little. He took another sip of his drink, enjoying the warm prickle as it traveled down his throat, then set his glass down on the table to shake Harrison's hand, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Harrison."

It was almost too obvious that Harrison was thinking out every step of their small talk. Perhaps he was nervous for a reason? Something beyond normal anxiety? Tonight was of great importance, after all. Or Mr. Purcell had led him to believe it was, "So, what do you make of these?" He asked, tapping the cufflink on his sleeve, "It's a strange plan the master has devised, isn't it?"

[nocturna.]

- ───────. ❈|𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐒|𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄|❈.───────────────────────────
- - [ 24 yrs ]| [ 4/10 wealth ]| [ 6/10 social ]| [ paired with xx ]| [ mentions; guests ]| [ tags; leif, jasper ]

The carriage ride was something to beheld (oh what a magnificent carriage it was!). Thomas was not used to such luxuries, he often found himself not having the opportunities as many other of his university chaps. The opulent embroidered seating was almost too much for the young man to bare. He shuffled about the carriage cabin, desperately riffling through his various suit jacket pockets. An audible sigh of relief had resulted when fingertips felt the leatherbound spine of his journal. A second was spared to just relish the fact he was able to sneak the book past his ever-hovering mother. “Now don’t you dare think ‘bout bringing that tattered ole thing with you! You’ll give your poor mother heart palpitations.” Her screeching voice echoed through the man’s head. She’d find out sooner or later that the book was missing from his bedroom desk.

The thought brought a smile to Thomas’ face. Snapping from the vision, he pulled the journal from his jacket pocket, quickly flipping it open to a bursting spot – a well-used pencil holding the place he last left. Thomas worked diligently as he was unsure just how long this carriage ride was to last. The pencil scribbled across the page at lightning speed, describing every last detail of the carriage interior. A final brief sketch of the fabric pattern followed his notes. Looking down at the full page, he smiled contently before gazing up and out the window. He was just in time to see the Purcell manor coming into view. If Thomas thought the carriage was a wonder, this mansion well out-shined it.

Throwing himself to the window for a better view, he flipped the page, scribbling away further notations. The grounds - each manicured brush, the delicately carved stone accents encompassing each window, all of it. Every last detail needed to be preserved within the confines of his inspiration journal for future writing muse. Thomas was a kid in a candy store. Sure, the grand architecture of the Harvard campus was much more than he’d ever wished to witness – but this… the pure exquisiteness of Mr. Purcell’s manor was something he would have never been able to imagine. He continued to gaze about the entrance, writing and sketching away until a rational thought occurred to himself: “The interior and guests would surely be even more spectacular in comparison...” Feeling a tangled wave of excitement and embarrassment (the doorman having had cleared his throat after several moments of Thomas awkwardly gawking), the young man replied with an embarrassed head nod and sheepish grin. He ascended the stone steps two by two in a manner of seconds. The doorman was again quite taken aback by this.

Eyeing the eager boy, the doorman took Thomas’ invitation card and offered a small item in return. Thomas brought his opened palm close to his face and a stunningly beautiful pink cufflink returned his gaze. Puzzled, he glanced back to the doorman with an obvious look about his features. “To find your match, Sir.” Thomas gulped involuntarily before nodding far too much trying to correct his previous reaction. Steeling his courage with a heavy inhale and exhale, Thomas entered through the massive doorway and into a brightly colorful ballroom. Jaw hung slack as he took in the sights of the largest ballroom he’d ever seen. Gold leafed wall accents, the fluttering of ladies’ gowns, and… masks?

Masks! Completely dumbstruck by the grandeur, Thomas had forgotten to tie up his masquerade mask. Nearly dropping his journal in the process, he scrambled digging into several pocket before locating his face covering. Thomas rather loudly shuffled off to the side of the doorway, backing away along the wall while struggling to knot the ribbons behind his head. After what felt like agonizingly slow minutes, Thomas managed to tie and keep his mask in place. He sighed in relief, taking one final step backward and meeting a solid source with his shoulder. Swaying quickly stopped when he’d realized the blunder he’d now cause. He collided with another guest. Face as red as a rose, Thomas whirled around, arms outstretched in preparation to help the person if they were knocked off course. His blue-grey hues darted around him, seeing he’d not only bumped into one man, but two. The first appeared to have slightly brushed the other. The event barely lasted all but a few seconds, but drug on for poor Thomas. “I.. I...” He stuttered, clearly lost for words to describe his rude blunder. “I’m so-… My apologies gentlemen!” Thomas bowed his head low in a clear submissive and embarrassed move.

[senna_]

/
/

The night appeared to be going fairly well. Nobody had rushed out of the door yet, and Philip Purcell hadn't seen a ripped off mask or, worse, gem, from anyone. It almost seemed as though the ball was going to turn out to be a success. When the tall, pepper-speckled-haired man felt his guests had finally had a chance to properly get acquainted with one another, he drifted closer to the front of the room, where the band was playing. Raising his hand, he silenced them, then turned to address the crowd with a clear of his throat. "Greetings, fellow gentlemen and women." His voice appeared to ripple over them, making its way all the way to back with just as much clarity as heard in the front. "I am pleased to see you are all enjoying yourselves. It is time for you to find your match. Ladies with a brooch, please form a line at the front. Gentlemen, it is your duty to find the matching colour the ladies have to that on your wrist. You will share a waltz this evening. Good luck." A wicked grin crossed over his features as he stepped back into the shadows. "The night has only just begun."

[senna_]

────────:𝚃𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝚁𝙸𝙲𝙲𝙸

:'3.5/10 ● caribbean green gem ● pair: emilina browne ● mentions; emilina, leonora, tag ● tags; amelia → OPEN

Electric. That was one word to describe it. A dull zip of electricity, perhaps, given the lack of dancers and echoed hollers, but Tate had to remind himself that they hadn’t travelled very far into their evening yet. He also had to tell himself yet again that sophisticated, expensive events such as the one the Purcells so generously threw were far, far different from the neighbourhood gatherings back home. Back home, where strangers waltzed into the house, given the always-opened door, and laughter climbed over one another, and screaming and whistling and teasing fill every inch of the rooms they situated themselves in. Back home, where one could barely move from one side of the room to the other without bumping into anyone. Tate did suppose that part of the party might be something that could occur here as well, if there were as many people as lovely Leo had said there usually was. But right now? If he wasn’t feeling so anxious about meeting such wealthy people, he might even consider the party homey, or at least more personal.

“It was an interesting decision,” he mused, hazel-brown eyes still shamelessly wandering as he soaked in all the different choices of attire, “allowing people from all over, both in location and wealth, to come together like this. It makes it more difficult to figure out who is who ─ and the masks most certainly do not help, either. Perhaps that is why Mister Purcell decided to put in the use of masks; if we are to be honest here, between the masks and the dull lighting, how many people will we truly recognize come tomorrow? We will all be strangers yet again.”

He finally glanced back at her, attention having been hooked by the way she was twisting to properly adjust her dress. Though Tate obviously knew very little about it himself, he had enough sisters to have heard the expression “my corset is cutting off my air” about a dozen times a week. And they weren’t even proper, or, “proper” corsets, either. He did have to pity the women a bit ─ the dress was surely a whole sinking weight itself. The skirt looked to be, anyway. “Leo had told me this party was smaller than usual,” he told her, nodding his head towards the exiting doors in case Amelia forgot who Leo was. “It’s only just begun to sink in, but I fear she is right. This event is a joy, but it surely wouldn’t make newspaper headlines the way some of their parties do.”

While Tate was eager to continue speaking about the topic of travelling, or comfort in location, he supposed he could call it, his thoughts were cut off sharply by an unfamiliar boom of a voice. Shooting Amelia an apologetic look, he turned to face the speaker. Despite having never formally met him before, Tate knew without a doubt that the man up front was the creator of the party himself: Philip Purcell. He could feel the sweat in his hands begin to rise to the surface of his skin as the stranger spoke. Tate had been looking forward to meeting his pair, that went without a doubt. But all the worries about not being accepted, or not getting along, or what was to be expected of them… they were slowly beginning to swirl in his mind once more. So much so that Tate feared if he didn’t blink enough, they would shield his vision, covering it with question marks and taunts and fears, rather than the glamorous ball all around him.

The room had hushed, and it remained so for a moment longer once the man stepped away. Tate feared he couldn’t even speak, and it took an awful lot of effort to swallow; his mouth had turned desert-dry in a matter of seconds. Slowly, almost robotically, he glanced back at Amelia, making out the tiniest of smiles, one that could barely hold itself upright for a complete second. “I wish you the best of luck with your gentleman,” he managed to get out through his dry lips. He couldn’t quite seem to say another word, not even to part. Instead, wordlessly, he tipped his head towards her and began to cautiously move up to the front. He hadn’t even been able to ask Leo for a dance. How did she feel about this? Was she even back inside? And what about Amelia? What if neither of them got along with their pairs? For whatever reason, Tate found himself doing all he could to worry more about their situation than his own. And yet, despite that, his eyes were already beginning to skim the sparkling brooches attached to the ladies’ dresses as they sauntered past him. Green, he was looking for. Caribbean green. Would it be difficult to find it in the light? Was she even here? He supposed it would only be a matter of time before he found out.

[wait for me.]

𝐉𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐅𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞
i. She/Her ii. Bisexual iii. 7/9 iv. Mentions; -- v. Tags; Cosette ➜ Open
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ♜ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Jemima could see, by the glimmer in the other woman's eyes, that her lie had not gone unnoticed. Try as she might to collect her thoughts, they all seemed to cycle back to Jasper. She hated herself for it. She hadn't fixated on him like this when they were courting! Unless she had...the absolutely mortifying thought that she may have been one of those awful, dewy-eyed, love-sick girls one read about in amatory novels crossed her mind. Had she fawned and swooned over such a man as that? Had she made grandiose declarations to her siblings? What dreadful, dreamy things had she admitted? She had been with other men since him, but neither of them stuck in her head like this, perhaps because of how it ended. Everything felt so incomplete because of that ending, like a novel whose author perished half-way through. All the composite parts, then a sharp and sudden drop and no more. What if Jasper saw her? Would he remember as she had? Would that so grandly failed courtship be a subject for gossip all through the evening? What had Jasper told his friends about her? Jemima fantasized about turning tail and fleeing the hall, only stopped by remembering that it was Jasper in the wrong, not herself. Forget about him. Forget about him. She repeated over and over again in her head like a mantra. He isn't worth your worry. With that thought in mind, she returned her focus to the woman in front of her, "Scholars, if we must call them that simply for attending university. If my father's word is anything to go by," She leaned in closer to the other woman as if she expected to be overheard, "They're not among the best of them."

Though Jemima was mostly unschooled in French, she had a base knowledge of it, and knew enough that, upon being thanked, she could say, as simply as if it were her mother-tongue, "Avec plaisir, mademoiselle Beaumarchais. It's been no trouble at all."

As Cosette asked her about Mr. Purcell's plans for the evening, she found her hand traveling up to her brooch, nudging it thoughtfully with her thumb. Her father wanted her to come home with an intelligent, wealthy man, someone with inclinations toward business, ready to settle down -- a shame that that had never been her type. Every man that had ever sparked true interest in Jemima had never been the serious sort. She preferred the company of jokesters and creatives, those with a certain joie de vivre that her father and his compatriots seemed to lack (to think, being surrounded with all of the benefits of academia, and taking pleasure in so little of it!). Before she could say anything of her curiosities or theories, the familiar voice of Philip Purcell rang out across the room. It seemed it was time to find their partners, or for their partners to find them, rather, "Speak of the devil, hm? It's a strange plan, that's for sure, but my father says Mr. Purcell always was a bit of an eccentric. It's nothing more than a game, I suppose. Perhaps he has a betting pool on which pairs will work out." She chuckled. As she began to walk to the line of other women, she paused to touch her hand to Cosette's shoulder, perhaps a bit boldly, "Good luck with your gentleman. I hope he's to your liking." She said, then quickly walked off, keeping her chin pointed downward. She wasn't sure why, but a degree of embarrassment rose in her belly.