Post by emaline dawson on Mar 4, 2009 4:10:06 GMT -5
emaline charlotte dawson
[/b][/color][/size] A Miss Emaline Dawson at the dear age of eighteen has found herself upon the most curious of situations - entering into London's most tantilizing gossip. "[/i][/color][/font][/size][/ul][/blockquote]
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W R I T E R .
name: melinda
RP experience: WAAAAY too much
how did you find us?: i wonder that sometimes
age: older than 10, younger than 30
gender: a lady
P O R T R A I T .
eye color: dark brown
hair color: dark blonde
height: 5'8"
body type: slender
distinguishing features: american accent
fashion style:
M A N N E R S .
profession: n/a
adoration for:
distaste for:
dreams:
fears:
secrets:
main:
P A S T .
family:
MRS. CECILY DAWSON - mother
socialite
MR. JAMES DAWSON - brother - 21
LORD SAMUEL KENSINGTON, uncle
house of lords
LADY AMELIA KENSINGTON, aunt
socialite
GARRETT KENSINGTON, cousin
LILLIAN KENSINGTON, cousin[/ul]
main:
It had been the night of the Dawson family’s annual Christmas ball, their home filled with the sweet scents of gingerbread and pine. The large tree twinkled beneath the glow of hundreds of candles catching within the tin ornaments. All eyes were drawn to the young man, who, though dashing, was clearly not a guest, awaiting the first tantalizing scent of scandal.
Mr. Owen Scott stood uncertain before the host, his gloved fingers gripping his woolen cap. From where she stood, frozen mid-dance with a partner whose name she can no longer recall, Emaline could see Owen’s bright blue eyes flicker from her father to her and back again. His sandy blond hair fell into his eyes and he absently pushed it back as she has seen him do countless times before—as she had done herself. Her father’s dark eyes appraised the young man with cool indifference before returning his attention to the gentlemen he had been conversing with only moments before. “Of all the nerve,” her partner had murmured beneath his breath, twirling Emaline closer to the altercation lest he miss some piece of the drama and with it the ability to thrill others with the tale. Her breath caught in her throat as they neared, heart thrumming hard within her veins. She felt faint, her grip tightening within the other man’s grip. He had smiled at her in reassurance, thinking her too fragile for the scandal that billowed through the room like a perfume. But his look was not the one that held Emaline captive, instead it was Owen’s eyes that she could not look away from. In them she saw the familiar glimmer of determination she both loved and hated and Emaline knew what he meant to do. “Mr. Dawson,” Owen said once more, clearing his throat to garner more attention. “I realize this is not the most opportune moment, but if—”
Mr. Lorne Dawson turned then, the full extent of his steely gaze bearing down upon the young man who did not flinch beneath it. “If you know that, my boy, you would know that I most certainly cannot spare you a moment this evening. Perhaps tomorrow.” He dismissed Owen with a wave of his gloved hand. But Owen Scott was not easily forgotten, he had promised Emaline that he would stop hiding within the shadows, that he would chase after his dreams—the most ardent was the young lady in the deep burgundy silk, her dark eyes wide and pleading for him to walk away. It was the one thing Owen Scott could not give her. “It concerns your daughter,” he said softly, his hands twisting his cap into a thin line.
Her dance partner looked at her with question, Emaline’s reddening cheeks betraying the truth. Her father noticed her reaction as well. “Surely you do not mean to slander my own family within my own home, young man. My daughter’s reputation is above reproach and you are not welcome to speak of her or any member of my family. If you were a man of any clout it would be you dancing with her and not Mr. Thatcher. You are not welcome here, and I would thank you to leave at once.”
- - - - -
Owen Scott had left without another word amidst the nervous murmurs of those in attendance. “Do you know him?” Mr. Thatcher asked, resuming his waltz with Emaline once more, attempting to forget the unpleasantness beneath the soft rustling of silks and satins. “We met once when I was visiting my father at the train yards.” The murmured lie tasted bitter upon her lips. “But I cannot say that I recall his name or why he would be here this evening.”
He had come to request her hand in marriage, a request Emaline had known her father would refuse under the best of circumstances, but she had never imagined that Owen would come tonight—while her father sought to show off his opulence to anyone of importance within New York. Lorne Dawson was a proud man, intent on maintaining appearances. He had watched both his grandfather and father work tirelessly to rise within society to a position of prominence and envy and would not allow their hard work to be tarnished. He had made sacrifices of his own to ensure that his family did not lose their clout, his own children both strangers and pawns, their futures mapped from the moment they rasped their first shaky breaths. It was a path Emaline had readily agreed to follow without question.
And then she had met Owen Scott.
He was everything the careful men of society were not. He wasn’t afraid to share his dreams with her, to talk to her in a way that made her long for deeper opinions and greater insight. He challenged her to dream for herself. He both infuriated and enticed her, and in time, their careful friendship transformed into something more. No matter the depth of her longing, the two continued to circle around one another in a perpetual dance in which they never touched, the lines of society proving to be a thicker barrier than either of them had ever imagined. Notes were left tucked in the cracked mortar at the yards, beneath the rose bushes at her home. Like the first bud of spring, their love for one another soon filled the air with its sweet perfume.
Still, Owen had insisted that he wanted to court Emaline properly, to win her hand like a true gentleman. He longed to prove himself to her father, hoping that he would be able to recognize the same ambition that coursed through them both. Owen would make a name for himself, he only needed the opportunity—just as Emaline’s grandfather had years before.
Emaline, however, knew different. The ambitions of her family were deep-seeded. Her father would not be content for her marry a man who sought to make a name for himself. Instead, he wanted her to marry into an established family to further their ties. Late at night, while the rest of her home was sleeping, she would try to sway Owen’s mind in the dark shadows of the garden, but nothing would change his mind. He refused to allow her to relinquish her family and run away with him to be married. “We’ll make a name together,” she insisted. “As long as we’re together nothing else matters.”
- - - - -
That night, long after the last guests’ carriage had pulled away from the red-brick home, her father had requested for her presence in his study. Cigar smoke lingered in an ominous cloud above the doorway, her father’s back to her as he stared out into the darkened yard. All was silent except for the crackling fire as it lapped hungrily at the dry timber. “Father?”
“Who was that boy, Emaline? Do not lie to me” His eyes were cold and unfeeling as he turned to face her. He was no longer her father, but Mr. Dawson, a man desperate to preserve the life he had worked hard for.
Tears fell freely upon her cheeks as the story poured from her lips. How she loved him; that he was a good man who would provide for her. She assured her father that Owen was a hard worker who, given the right opportunities, would put any reservations to rest. She begged her father to trust her judgment and to permit his suit of her.
Lorne Dawson listened apathetically to her heartfelt pleas. Despite her sincerity, he knew he would never permit her to marry such a boy. His daughter was fair and cultured, educated beneath the best governess he could find. She would make a wonderful wife to any man, and he had seen how they prized her at balls. At sixteen she was near her debut and he would be certain to see that her marriage would benefit them both. While he wanted to see his daughter happy, his own ambitions obscured his mind. Emaline could not be happy with a boy of no standing, of that he was certain. Yet, as he watched the tears slip along the soft camber of her cheek, he knew he could not tell her this. His face smoothed into a tender smile as he extinguished his cigar and walked toward her. “I do not doubt he is a kind man—for that is what it would take to win the heart of my beloved daughter. But he needs to find his own way for me to accept his suit. I shall speak to him tomorrow at the yards.”
He had been true to his word, and two nights later, Owen met Emaline by the snow-covered hedges to tell her of his plans to enlist. The army would pay him well and it was an honorable career—one her father could find no shame in. He would work hard to prove himself, rising within the ranks, and, once he had made a name for himself, he would return for her and they would be married. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small pressed tin ring that had been passed through the generations of his family. It was a promise. Just like the butterfly fashioned onto the ring, he would transform himself into something beautiful and desired for her. “Owen, please,” she begged, clutching his hands tightly, “I don’t need my father’s approval. We can leave tonight. All I need is you by my side—”
He had cut her off, pressing his lips tenderly to her forehead. “Emma, don’t worry. I shall return before you’ve the chance to miss me. You are my world and I cannot bear to cause you any unhappiness.”
She remained silent, folding into his warm embrace and breathing in his earthen scent. She could not find the words to portray all of her fears and desires. He would find her silly and emotional if she begged him to stay, surely he knew best. He would return. He promised and Owen had never broke a promise to her.
Each week she wrote faithfully, devouring his letters as they came, the housekeeper stealthily hiding the letters from Owen from Mr. Dawson lest he keep them from his daughter. The pages were filled with promised of a home and future, flowered with words of love and devotion. In some she would find pressed flowers along with Owen’s wish to have been able to hand them to her fresh for it would mean they were together. His words sustained her. In the days between, she would pull them from the corner of her closet and reread each word, imagining his voice speaking them to her. Gradually the spaces between letters grew longer until, one day, they came no more.
Her world felt as though it had crumpled in upon itself as she searched for a reason. Dreams filled themselves with terrible imaginings of Owen cold and bloodied, searching for help where the was none to be found. Emaline often woke screaming, unable to be consoled. Days were spent staring with unseeing eyes at the yard, praying for a glimpse of his unruly hair as he rounded the familiar path. Owen had taken a piece of her with him and she was certain she would never get it back. It did not take long for other’s to begin talking about her change in demeanor; the way she would sit sullen and silent at social gatherings. No amount of reasoning by her family could dispel the dark cloud that ensnared her.
Desperate, and hoping that a change would spark Emaline to life once more, the decision was made to send her to stay with her distant relatives, the Kensingtons in London for the season. Her father secretly hoping that she would find a suitable match with a title to further their position. As she tries to find herself within this new world, one doubt continues to plague her:
That Owen left her because she was lacking something.
But she cannot keep from hoping that he will come for her still.[/ul]
E T C .
play-by: tetyana piskun
password:
rp sample:[/blockquote][/size]
