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THE BLITHFIELD MANOR had never felt so fervently delighted of one's arrival since the day the estate had housed a distant relative of the Royal family's closest friends, offering some form of shelter at the time-being under the harsh frivolity of a tremendous storm, hoping to be put a good word to the Prince, more importantly, even the Queen herself. It was quite fanciful to expect such things, especially when they all knew fairly well that it would be too convenient to achieve such high regard over simple decency, but of course, their conjectures have yet been supported. The commotion was long overdue for a whole other happening as of this very moment.
A licit buzz was more than what lets on upon knowledge that Lady Beatrice Blithfield, with the grace of her younger sister Lady Ianthe, had finally come home.
Travelling from one place to another, accompanying the oldest during her betrothal endeavours was never one of those adventures Ianthe enjoyed, not for one bit, indeed. It was perhaps the enjoyment it lacked to provide, or maybe it was the pungent odour of Beatrice's perfume — the sickly amount of cherries and roses, of course ( a deadly pair, it has been ) — there was no telling of the reason why the middle daughter had taken such a distaste for their prolonged trips around England. Taking into account her love for travels, it was news that she loathed having to prance around awaiting her sister's maturity until she is ready to be presented to the high court.
News of their arrival purged the entirety of London. It had been quite a subject to prattle about, most certainly to those of significance to the nobility. But of course, none of this concerned dear blissfully ignorant Beatrice, the never-changing epitome that everyone most definitely admired. If it weren't for the vigorous fidgeting of her sister's feet, she would have constantly ignored the suffocating ambience in the already stuffy carriage.
"Oh, would you quit your squirming, Ianthe? We're nearly there." Says the young debutante in haste, stern to the bones. She gave a sharp look towards the lady who almost instantly ceased her fussing. Though it was quite piercing to that of which she could almost pass to perfect the same gaze their mother would use to reign Ianthe into her place, it had not nearly been enough to puncture the girl's interminable chattering.
It was a luxury to get her to shut her trap, but much more of a happenstance to maintain the now-fading tranquility of a few silent seconds.
"Are you quite sure there is nothing that you are even the slightest bit vexed about?" The girl questions with precariousness, biting her nails as she awaited Beatrice's response.
She finally spoke, "Oh, come now, Ianthe. On a day like this? I could never speak of worries and concerns! We're finally going home, after all!"
