[Closed] Chance Encounters (Chrysanthe)

[Georgianna Morgenstern]

Bethas 37, 2720
Uptown, early evening.

Vienda was, at least by Georgianna Morgenstern’s estimation, rather confusing. She remembered visiting the city several times with her family as a girl, but they had stayed with her Uncle Jerimiah and Aunt Rosalind, and they or her parents had been in charge of figuring out where they were going. Being a child, she was spared the daunting task of figuring out which street would get her to her destination. That was not true now, though. This time she was an adult, and she was on her own. She had finally gotten settled into the neighborhood where her small flat was, and could wander the surrounding streets rather easily, finding her way to the art institute and then home again without much trouble.

Today, though, she had found herself trying to find her way to the residence of a woman by the name of Eudora Marchegiano, who was reportedly hosting that week’s meeting of the local chapter of the Galdori Ladies Suffrage movement. It had taken her several weeks and several letters to friends from the Brunnhold chapter to figure out where they were meeting, and now that she finally had, she found herself slightly lost. Thankfully, the weather had held out. It was a cold and grey day, but it hadn’t rained or snowed, which she considered a blessing. For a moment, she had lamented not opting to take a cab. She had been convinced that she could find her own way, but at some point she must have taken a wrong turn. She had eventually stopped and asked directions from a couple who were passing by, and managed to get herself back on track, but had still arrived a bit late.

It seemed Ms. Marchegiano’s parlour was a bit too small to comfortably fit the number of women who had arrived for the meeting. There were too few chairs, all mismatched and clearly pulled from all corners of the house. Some ladies had opted to share, and others chose instead to stand on the edges of the circle. There was tea to be had, with the china being almost as mismatched as the chairs. Everyone’s fields were pressed all against one another, a mishmash of disciplines and feelings that were almost overwhelming. Georgie had entered quietly, shown in by Ms. Marchegiano’s housekeeper, and had elected to stand a bit back and not draw attention to herself or interrupt the conversation.

She searched the sea of faces and found she couldn’t recognize anyone that she could see, which was somewhat unsurprising considering this was her first time meeting with this particular group. She could see most of them, owing both to her height and the fact that she was standing. Only those with their backs to her were spared her searching in vain for someone she might recognize. The housekeeper appeared again and pressed a cup of tea into her hands, which she accepted gratefully. She tasted it and found it a bit too watery for her, but was still thankful for the warmth in her chilled, freckled hands as she listened intently to try and catch what the topic of discussion was this evening.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 37 Bethas, 2720
The Marchegiano House, Uptown

We missed you two weeks ago, Chrysanthe!” Angelique beamed up at her.

Chrysanthe grinned, wryly. They had gotten through the requisite exclamations over her hair, the sudden sharp shrieks which had greeted her careful removal of her coat in the hallway. The consensus had been generally positive; that had been something of a relief, Chrysanthe felt. It would be an enormous waste of time to sit about debating wisdom of her hair cut when there were much more important issues at stake.

“I know,” Chrysanthe said, shaking her head. “I was on a trip for work, actually, to the Rose.”

“And the month before that,” Rosalinde murmured into her tea cup.

Chrysanthe glanced sideways. “Work,” she began to say.

Rosalinde grinned at her. “I know, darling,” she said; she shrugged. “It’s rather awful of them to do these on sevens, but Marguerite always says no one who’s anyone should be able to come on the weekends.”

“As if they even know what weekends are,” Angelique giggled.

Chrysanthe grinned. “How’s Stanthorpe?” She asked Rosalinde, smiling.

Rosalinde’s grin went sharp. “Blustery. Two days a week I actually bring Incumbent Haverling his tea, in addition to writing his daily briefs; I think he pays more attention to the tea. He asked me last week if it was a new blend.”

Chrysanthe laughed. “What did you say?”

Rosalinde lifted her sharp red eyebrows, her perceptive field warming with a burst of bastly energy. “That it was, and if he wanted to know why, he should read the second page on Hessean tariffs!”

Chrysanthe laughed, and Angelique giggled.

“Oh, Good Lady!” Angelique said, smiling brightly. “I really miss working.” As one, all three of them glanced down at the softly rounded stomach beneath her waistband.

Chrysathe glanced back up at her, and smiled ruefully. “Perhaps after the baby?” She asked.

“No,” Angelique sighed. “And it was miserable, really, on my feet all day at the hospital, but I do miss it. Maurice says it wouldn’t do, though. I think I shall have him on about volunteering, at least. Really one can do much the same sort of work, and not need to bother overmuch about salaries and the like. Of course there’s no fuss about him continuing to work at the hospital after we’ve had the baby.”

“Of course,” Chrysanthe said. She adjusted her saucer, not wanting to spill any tea on her pale gray silk; she’d only just had the washing done, and she was hoping to last out a few days more.

“You met there, didn’t you?” Rosalinde asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes,” Angelique giggled. “Maybe he’s just worried I’ll meet another doctor.”

Chrysanthe pursed her lips. “I shall never understand men.”

“Good thing you don’t have to,” Rosalinde murmured.

They all three laughed, then, adding to the chorus of voices around the room.

“Ladies!” Ms. Marchegiano called; she hoisted her skirt up in one freckled hand, climbing onto a small footstool at what they had all sort of agreed, by mutual consent, was the front of the room. “Ladies, ladies, take your seats! Mrs. Henderson-Feerling will be here to start the talk any moment, ladies!” She waved one gloved hand.

Chrysanthe turned back towards the room to see a sea of women descending upon the chairs. She managed to grab one, then relinquished it to Angelique, who was already on the verge of waddling, and still with a month or two left to go, as Chrysanthe understood such things.

“Bells,” Chrysanthe murmured, glancing around. There, she thought, there was a chair; she went for it, and settled her hand on the back – just a moment too late, such that it landed not on the chair, but instead on a freckled handle, slightly larger than her own, and rather colder. Chrysanthe glanced up – and up, indeed, it was. Her eyes went very wide, and she grinned, a friendly, bastly warmth filling her caprise.

“Georgie!” Chrysanthe said, smiling; she thoroughly resisted the urge to reach up and touch her hair, no matter how tempting. Remembering herself, she lifted her hand off of the other woman's. “Oh, it’s been ages! It’s so good to see you.”

[Georgianna Morgenstern]

Bethas 37, 2720
The Marchegiano House, Uptown, early evening.

It seemed that she hadn’t missed much at all when she arrived, as it was shortly after she had walked in and been given her cup of watery tea that the woman she assumed was Ms. Marchegiano called for everyone to take their seats. A seat would have been nice, as she had been walking rather a long time, but they were all promptly snatched up and swapped around in a manner that reminded her rather a lot of the musical chair game that she had played as a child. She did see one lone, unoccupied chair, though, and moved to claim it. No sooner had her hand lighted on the back of it did another land on top of her’s. This one was a touch paler and certainly less freckled, though that was not hard to achieve, given the sheer number that marked her skin.

She followed the hand to the arm and the arm to the rest of the person. There was something familiar there in those sharp features and bright blue eyes. It took Georgie a moment to recognize the woman before her. She chalked that up to the way her hair framed her face. When they had been girls, that lovely, smooth, blonde hair had scarcely ever been in any style other than two long, orderly braids. Now, it was rather a lot shorter, and left down. It really was quite fetching. The recognition was solidified when she spoke, and Georgie's face lit up with a bright smile and returned the bastly caprise with one of her own.

“Chrysanthe!” she said, turning her hand to give the other woman’s a warm squeeze before letting it go. “Goddess above it has been ages! I had no idea that you were back in Anaxas!”

She looked down to the chair that was now between them, and gestured to it. “Please, go ahead,” she said, “I can see just fine standing. We really must catch up after the meeting, though.”

She could tell that the other ladies were keen to start, and while she would have loved to chat about all manner of things, she didn’t want to end up delaying or interrupting something important. She would wait. She would be on tenterhooks, but she would wait.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 37 Bethas, 2720
The Marchegiano House, Uptown

There was a moment where Georgie studied her, and then her face lit up, and she grinned, and Chrysanthe grinned all the wider. The other woman’s hand lingered on hers with a warm and friendly squeeze and Chrysanthe laughed.

Chrysanthe raises her eyebrows, smiling, and paying absolutely no mind to any half-remembered remarks Baz might have made about his sister. They were scarcely even half remembered, Chrysanthe thought. Perhaps a quarter, generously.

“No,” she shook her head. “No, really, I’m all right standing - you were there first after all -“

Georgie held standing too, and Chrysanthe glanced around at the room full of sitting women, and Ms. Marchegiano standing rather intently at the front.

“We can share it,” Chrysanthe suggested, smiling. They wouldn’t be the only two to do so; there were other women sharing chairs all around the room. “Come on, quick, before they get started.” She lingered, just a moment. She thought she saw hesitation on Georgie’s face, but whether she was right or not they both sat.

It was, in truth, rather uncomfortable. The chair would have been fairly comfortable for one, and was not in the least spacious enough for two. There was almost no way to avoid some contact between them; whenever one breathed, it seemed, some infinitesimal shift resulted and brought them together in some unexpected way, however brief and trivial.

Chrysanthe had, of course, seen Baz recently. She would have said she had rather a good memory of Georgie’s face as well, but perhaps not. She had remembered her as a sort of female Baz, in effect, and it was rather startling how very different she was, how much more feminine - how much prettier. It was the curiosity of it that had Chrysanthe thinking about it after they had sat down, of course, and nothing else.

“Ladies!” Ms. Marchegiano called from the footstool. “It is my very great pleasure to welcome Mrs. Henderson-Feerling to address us all on the subject of effective discourse! Please give her your warmest welcome!”

Chrsyanthe clapped, as did the rest of the room, a bright wave of applause.

“Good evening, ladies!” Mrs. Henderson-Feerling glanced down at the foot stool, and did not climb on to it. “The goal of tonight’s session is to empower you to engage in articulate and rational discourse on the subject of ladies’ rights. Too often, ladies allow men to talk over them, and to re-explain such things as they already know! I shall begin by explaining the art of preparing for such conversations. You must begin by making clear the point which you intend to make; do not weaken yourself and your position with the gentle qualifiers which our sex is taught to use. Do not say I think or I suppose, do not say you are unsure or imply hesitation! You know, ladies - you know!”

The talk went on in such a way for a time. Chrysanthe listened intently, scarcely aware of the faint brush of her shoulder against Georgie’s when she leaned forward, or the warmth of the other woman’s long leg.

“Now, for practice!” Mrs. Henderson-Feerling said. “Then to the lady next to you, and practice! Make your point first, firmly, and then offer the best of your arguments in three sentences or less!”

Chrysanthe turned just a little, shifting to try to keep from pressing her knee against Georgie’s thigh. “Would you like to go first?” she asked, smiling.

[Georgianna Morgenstern]

Bethas 37, 2720
The Marchegiano house, early evening.

Sharing the chair really wasn’t the most comfortable arrangement. Georgie found she needed to brace herself with her legs to avoid sliding off the side of it, and she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the arm that ended up pinned between them. Still, she felt it added to the atmosphere of the meeting. All these ladies, all pressed together in too small a space, talking about how to assert themselves in the face of men who always thought they knew better, and how to claim more space for themselves in conversations and discussion where a woman could — and often did — have as much knowledge as their male counterparts. It was, perhaps, a bit of a romantic outlook on the whole affair, but Georgie had always been fond of romance. It was inspiring, as well, looking around the room and seeing so many faces hanging on to the words of Mrs. Henderson-Feerling with such rapt attention. Georgie thought that this was the sort of thing she would very much like to capture in a painting, or sketch, but right now it would have been terribly rude, and she wasn’t really offered the space to do such things. She resigned herself to trying to do so from memory later.

The talk went on for a fair while, focused mostly on changing how they spoke and avoiding diminishing themselves. It came time to practice, and the room was slowly filled with the conversation of the others trying to put what Mrs. Henderson-Feerling had been talking about. Georgie turned to Chrysanthe as she asked if she wanted to start, and was instantly reminded just how close they were. Any idea she had formed was lost at the reminder of their vicinity. She could see the faint freckles across Chrysanthe’s nose. She didn’t feel like she’d ever noticed them before. Nor had she really appreciated how striking the blue colour of her eyes was. It would be a lovely shade to try and replicate.

“Ah…” she smiled, warmly, and said, “You go ahead. I need a moment to come up with something.”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 37 Bethas, 2720
The Marchegiano House, Uptown

Chrysanthe smiled back, not minding in the least. Georgie really did have an enormous number of freckles, even for an Anaxi; it was, Chrysanthe had to admit, a very appealing look, somehow especially when she smiled. Chrysanthe wasn’t entirely sure why that should matter, and yet it did seem to.

Stop it, Chrysanthe told herself. Georgie, she was sure, scarcely remembered her; Baz had clearly not known in the least what he was talking about. Well, she had been at their home quite a bit, so of course Georgie knew who she was - but they had never been close, not really.

All the same, Georgie had seemed excited to see her; Chrysanthe didn’t see any point in second guessing that. She was, too, excited to see Georgie, just as she would be to see anyone from her school days, just as she would be to see any beautiful, artistic friend attending a women’s suffrage meeting.

The suffrage meeting. Chrysanthe pulled herself into focusing once more. It was, she thought, rather a good exercise, for all it reminded her a bit of debates in school. The idea of distilling down their best argument for women’s suffrage to a simple declarative and a few sentences was a powerful one.

Chrysanthe thought she knew how to begin. And then she thought better of it, and she glanced away for a moment. The took all around them was full of the bright chatter of voices: some were passionate and loud, others were shaky and shy, and all of them joined together in a strange and beautiful choir.

Chrysanthe looked back at Georgie. Her face was a little more solemn now. “No woman,” Chrysanthe said, clearly, “should have her rights dependent on the good will of a man.”

Chrysanthe settled into it, leaning forward just a little. She looked squarely at Georgie; she was not, Chrysanthe felt, a particularly imaginative person, but she did her best to pretend as if Georgie needed to be persuaded. Certainly she had said her opening with feeling; she felt it, very deeply indeed.

“Women are citizens of the state, bound by its laws and contributing to its coffers with their taxes,” Chrysanthe went on. “Yet, when the time comes for participation in governance, a woman is allowed her own voice only if a man gives it to her, whether he is a relation, a husband, or she is otherwise entrusted to him. If women are citizens, then let them be citizens in full, rather than holding their votes in thrall.”

Chrysanthe stopped there; she could have gone on. She blinked, glancing down, and then looked back at Georgie, a small, almost shy smile on her face. She found herself suddenly self-conscious and nervous and almost afraid to hear what the other woman had thought. “How was that?” She asked, reaching up to brush a strand of loose pale hair from her face.

[Georgianna Morgenstern]

Bethas 37, 2720
Marchegiano residence, early evening.

Georgie tried very, very hard to keep her face in a straight, solemn expression. She did her best to look as though she was someone who needed convincing, rather than being someone who had been coming to these sorts of meetings since she was old enough to understand politics. She tried, but she failed terribly, and a grin began to fight it’s way through and creep across her features. By the time Chrysanthe had finished speaking, she found she was positively delighted. The chorus of voices in the room with them only added to that. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

“That was really good,” she said, “I get the feeling you’ve done this before.”

She shifted and cleared her throat, once again trying to maintain a straight face. “Alright. My turn.”

She thought for a moment, then began, sitting up a little straighter. “While marriages between two women are legal and socially accepted, they are not equal to other unions,” she said. She found it a little easier to keep a straight face when she was the one making the points.

“Unless both parties are granted emancipation by whichever male relative happens to have guardianship over them, they have no voting rights, and what property they accumulate in their marriage is not theirs, rather the property of said guardian,” she continued, “Moreover, even if one half of the pair is emancipated, she cannot grant her partner the same rights because unlike a man, guardianship of her wife does not transfer to her when they are married. It is entirely unfair, as when two men decide to marry, they are allowed to each be their own person without depending on anyone else to give them that freedom.”

Georgie could have also gone on longer, but there had been a limit on the exercise. Three sentences or less. She had already abused that by running them on, and so she stopped. The smile she had fought so hard against began to sneak out again.

“How was that?” she asked.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 37 Bethas, 2720
The Marchegiano House, Uptown

Georgie was smiling at her rather widely. Chrysanthe couldn’t say she minded, exactly. “Oh! Thanks,” she said, grinning back. There was something buoyant and bastly about all the enthusiasm in the room; she heard it in all their words, and felt it in the tangle of fields all around them, and saw it in the bright-eyed smile on Georgie’s face.

Chrysanthe tried to tame her own smile when Georgie began her own speech. She listened, very intently, her gaze fixed on the other woman’s freckled face. She found herself nodding along as the other woman went, her smile widening.

“Excellent,” Chrysanthe said, warmly, when Georgie asked her how it had been; she reached forward, her hand just barely resting on Georgie’s once more, this time much more deliberately. “It’s something I’m – ”

“Ladies!” Mrs. Henderson-Feerling’s voice cut through the room once more. “All right! Let’s come back together,” she clapped her hands lightly. “If you haven’t had time to finish your pitch, then that’s a lesson in keeping them short!”

Chrysanthe smiled regretfully at Georgie. She opened her mouth once, briefly, thinking to say – but the lecture was sweeping onwards, and she gave it up, turning to look forward once more. Her hands settled back into her lap, her fingertips tingling ever so slightly with the remembered warmth of the other woman’s hand.

Mrs. Henderson-Feerling called up several ladies to give their pitch to the room. Ms. Abigail Munderson delivered an impassioned demand for equality in one short sentence and three of explanation; Mrs. Faylinn Archambeau stuttered, pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, through a discussion of fairness. Both of them were met with sweeping rounds of applause.

Mrs. Henderson-Feerling took the front of the room once more, and went on, firmly, discussing the importance of making one’s case succinctly and well. Before long, the half-house had swept by, and Ms. Marchegiano was standing at the front of the room once more. “Let us all give Mrs. Henderson-Feerling a very warm expression of our gratitude!” She cried.

Chrysanthe joined all the rest in bright applause, smiling.

Ms. Marchegiano bowed to the room. “And one for all of us, ladies!”

Chrysanthe applauded again, an amused little smile on her face.

Ms. Marchegiano clapped her hands. “Thank you all so much for coming! We shall meet again in two weeks – just on the seventeenth – at Mrs. Jolicoeur’s house at 18 Marblebury road! Then, we shall be discussing the handing out of leaflets! You shan’t want to miss it!”

The room erupted into chatter once more.

Chrysanthe turned to Georgie, smiling. She hesitated, her eyes searching the other woman’s face. She shifted, once, against the chair, and then went forward with it. She didn’t see any point in being shy, just now. “Would you like to go and catch up over a drink?” Chrysanthe asked. “I know a place just a few blocks away.”

[Georgianna Morgenstern]

Bethas 37, 2720
Marchegiano residence, early evening.

Georgie beamed as Chrysanthe told her her pitch was excellent. It was something that meant a lot to her, and so the reaction was welcome. Chrysanthe placed her hand on Georgie’s and seemed about to say something when Mrs. Henderson-Feerling called their attention back to the front of the room and deemed the exercise over. Georgie gave Chrysanthe an apologetic smile and turned to listen once more to the discussion at hand. Chrysanthe’s hand left hers, and it seemed that whatever conversation she wanted to have would need to wait until after the meeting was over.

There were a few ladies invited up front to give their pitches. Georgie listened with rapt attention to each of them, applauding politely as they finished. She enjoyed the atmosphere of these meetings most of all. She had been involved in things like this since she was old enough to understand it. There were undoubtedly many in the room who had as well, but what made her enjoy being a part of such a movement was seeing all the fresh faces as well. Those who had come because a friend had suggested they get involved. What was even better was seeing them come back to more and more meetings, and getting more and more involved.

Mrs. Henderson-Feerling and Ms. Marchegiano wrapped up the meeting with a few more rounds of applause, with Ms. Marchegiano telling them where the next meeting would be taking place. Georgie pulled a small book and a pencil from her pocket, jotting down the information as ladies began to chat amongst themselves and some began to filter out, giving their regards. She felt Chrysanthe shift next to her and looked up, meeting Chrysanthe’s gaze and returning her smile. Chrysanthe really did have lovely features. Her smile only grew when she was asked if she’d like to get a drink.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she said, “I really would love to. It’s nice to have someone in this city that I actually know!”

She tucked her pencil back in the little book, slid it into her pocket, and got to her feet, smoothing out her dress. “Shall we, then?” she asked.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 37 Bethas, 2720
Flat Iron Pub, Uptown

Chrysanthe rose, smoothing her pale grey silk skirt and adjusting the matching jacket just a bit. All around them, the ladies of the reform meeting were doing the same, faces and fields bright with hope and optimism.

There were pleasantries to manage; Chrysanthe had been going to the chapter meeting for the better part of two years. She made several introductions for Georgie as they made their way out, and although she usually looked forward enormously to both the parts before and after the meeting, she found herself just a little on edge. It seemed for some minutes as if the moment one conversation another began, and they seemed to be making unfathomably slow progress.

“Mrs. Plamondon,” Chrysanthe had said, bowing lightly in the small space, smiling at the older woman with her neat gray hair pinned back. “Georgie, this is Lucretia Plamondon, our chapter president. Mrs. Plamondon, let me introduce Georgianna Morgenstern, a friend of mine from Brunnhold who I am most pleased to see in Vienda.”

Mrs. Plamondon greeted them both, smiling, and told a charming antidote about her first chapter meeting in Vienda, years ago, how there had been three of them and cold tea, and how they had come up with the name A Society for the Improvement of Ladies. “I should love to talk more, my dears,” she said. “You young ladies will, I believe, see change we never dreamt of. But - do pardon me, I had promised to say a quick hello to Mrs. Trembley.”

“This way,” Chrysanthe murmured, touching Georgie arm lightly. They were out in the hallway then, where half a dozen other women were adjusting coats and hats and scarves, all of them still laughing and talking.

It wasn’t, Chrysanthe told herself, a date; there was no reason to be excited. In fact, she thought ruefully, Georgie likely didn’t even know she was interested in ladies, in the general sense; Georgie had almost certainly never considered her in such a capacity. This was the attitude with which she had tried to face sharing a chair; she felt she had been rather successful, all told.

It wasn’t exactly that it was a relief when they made it outside into the brisk cold night, but it certainly wasn’t as much of a disappointment as leaving the meetings often was. Chrysanthe adjusted her hair over the collar of her coat smoothing the soft sleek strands, and she smiled at Georgie.

“It’s just down here,” Chrysanthe said, glancing down the cool street lit with phosphor blue lights; they glowed in the small trees set into the sidewalk, and off the metal gates that lined most of the Uptown houses. Carriages rattled past on a not so distant corner, kenser hooves and moa talons clacking steadily against the paved street.

“So tell me,” Chrysanthe began as they walked, glancing sideways at the slightly taller woman. The sister of one of her best friends, Chrysanthe reminded herself. Some of the sting was kept out of it by Baz’s cheerful, if passive words, which had been tantamount right encouragement. “What did you think of the meeting?”

The busier street was not so busy, really, at this hour; all the tea shops, bakeries, greengrocers and butchers were closed at the hour. They turned left at the corner, and Chrysanthe led them the last block to an elegant pub on the corner, all crown molding and a scripted sign.

It was quiet enough inside - it was a seven, after all - with a steady hum of conversation and laughter. It was all lit by handsome orange phosphor, lending a pleasant warmth to the atmosphere. There was a dark wood booth for them, at least, the bench seats a little hard but not unpleasant. Chrysanthe hung her coat on a hook next to the booth, and sat, smiling once more at Georgie.

“I’ll go and order - what would you like?” Chrysanthe asked.