{rping} Scholarly Interest

[uncalendula]

WHO Evelyn Carnahan & Arthur Kirkland
WHERE Arthur's home
CANON Some 1930s AU
SCENARIO "Scholarly interest" sounds a lot better than "huge crush."

[An evening with one of England's premier historians came unexpected, as acquisitions talks are wont to do, but refusing the quiet invitation of an associate of the British Museum (and immensely well-known patron of the arts) was tantamount to sedition. It was most peculiar, of course, working in the same circles - small ones, where everyone knows everyone else - for people not to fraternise, drink socially, and attend galas, but personal requests for company?

The Bembridge Scholars might scoff from their hideous wing-backed chairs, but Evelyn didn't claw her way up through archaeology and curation to be humiliated and close relationships with affluent eccentrics should be fostered, not scorned. (Of course, it does help that the aforementioned historian is a gentleman she shyly fancies.)

Nightfall sees her with several manuscripts in her satchel, wearing a dress of flattering style that abstains from ostentation for the sake of professional propriety.

She knocks thrice.]

Comments

[knackered]

[The restlessness of Europe was outdone only by the economic sickness that had swept over the entire global economy. For the first time in history--or at least since Rome--whole continents were affected by the financial decisions of a relative few. An evening chatting with a remarkable woman about crumbling ruins and long dead people was a macabre beacon amidst the otherwise dreary daily drudgery of which he's so weary.

Those Bembridge Scholars were pompous prats, in Arthur's opinion; content to sip expensive brandy atop their ivory tower of so-called academic superiority. For science and reason to flourish required the free expression of ideas and open exchange--and a willingness to accept that what you believed to be right was actually wrong. And sometimes... to believe that the impossible is actually quite probable, if it wasn't already staring you in the face.

Arthur has tea and biscuits prepared, along with a little tray of sandwiches he meticulously put together. He's dressed simply, wearing trousers and old leather shoes, a white collared shirt with a necktie and the sleeves rolled up, and a matching argyle waistcoat. Hearing the knocks, he gives himself a good once-over in a hallway mirror, tries to straighten his unruly hair (in vain), and answers the door.

It's unusual for him to feel butterflies when entertaining humans, but he does quite fancy Evie.

The dress stops him and temporarily renders him incapable of speech.]

I-- uh-- hello-- Ms. Carnahan. Good-- good evening. To you. Yes. Please come in.

[nascensibility]

[Blissfully unaware of Arthur's ailments - no thanks to the economic downturn and general social malaise plaguing the cities - Evelyn rocks quietly on her heels until he opens the door, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and looking amusingly put-together in a rumpled sort of way. For some reason he's always managed to appear as though he'd dressed for a lecture and thought better of it at the last minute, deciding a nap might be more worth his time.

It's charming.]

Hello.

[Canting her head to one side out of vague curiosity, she tries on a wary smile.]

...have we not yet reached a familiarity warranting first names, Arthur?

[Clearly not, but she understands the sort of mental fumbling one might experience in transitioning from a strictly work-oriented relationship to one of a slightly more personal nature. Evelyn takes the invitation in stride, slipping through the door and into his house without further prompting. Her jumper she hangs on a peg, peering into the sitting room.]

After everything you've done to help with my research...

[knackered]

[That is, in fact, how he's usually dressed, with the exception of parties, work meetings with the PM and Queen, and other public social engagements. The fact that he's ruffled however, indicates that a certain barrier of formality has been lifted.

Arthur's cheeks colour and he gestures to the sitting room where the stacks of books and tea tray lie ready for the two scholars.]

I... We have, yes. Evelyn. I apologise, I have to say I'm a bit old fashioned in manners, but that by no means indicates an intent of coldness. I just... I like to be polite. Respectful. If I may say so, you're... quite brilliant and under-appreciated.

Please, the sitting room is this way. I've prepared an assam blend--one of my favourites. I've a friend in India who sends me tea on the regular and it's just marvellous for reading with.

[nascensibility]

[Old-fashioned in manners is something she's noticed on her own, as proper etiquette is an extremely underutilised skill set and Arthur has always had it in spades. There are rumours about whether he's some lord's son and has the education thereof, but Kirkland isn't a name known in her county. (The Carnahans of Buckinghamshire, on the other hand...)

Unfailingly polite even now, his air hardly mistaken for a chilly greeting, he explains and she finds herself turning to look at him at the last words. Compliments are not given easily, particularly not in their field and particularly not to her. Evelyn often finds she has to work twice as hard as her male counterparts to be recognised, so having it acknowledged so plainly leaves her at something of a loss.

Arthur moves on before she can respond, so she quietly flushes and steps into the parlour. Perhaps if she carefully pretends that her face doesn't feel so hot from what should only be a casual, laissez-faire remark on her character, she'll get through the evening with little incident.]

It smells wonderful,

[Evelyn recovers, picking her way around books, side-tables, and framed photographs. Some of them appear quite old. Daguerreotypes?]

How have you been, by the by? You haven't been to the museum in over a week. Are you well?

[knackered]

[Influence from the current PM and reigning monarch always helped Arthur fly low, so to speak, staying relatively undetected but forever remaining a curiosity to those who wanted to question his money and connections. After the Great War, his social life shifted into a mess of escapism as he reevaluated himself and the world, and his position as the world's most powerful empire. After the market crash, his efforts in charity and academics increased, whereas his social engagements were kept to a minimum.

Arthur hadn't wanted to linger on the compliment. Just smooth sailing, so to speak, into the sitting room. He doesn't feel like a great empire--in fact, he feels quite small, and in his mind that feeling is one best left ignored and not dwelled upon. Strength comes not just from perseverance, in Arthur's opinion, but in understanding where one's priorities are. At the moment, his priority is entertaining an intelligent scholar and a beautiful woman. Everything else fades into the background compared to a night like this.

If he notices the blush, he doesn't seem to make any indication of it. Instead he pours them both a steaming cup of tea, not missing a beat when she asks on his whereabouts.]

I've been quite busy and perhaps I've been working too hard. Nothing tea and a week of rest won't help, I'm sure.

[He notices, finally, that she's looking at his numerous photographs, and thinks it might be best if he drew her away from them...

There is an arrogant young blonde man in many of them, most often posing in different military uniforms encrusted with medals. The young man is barely over 18 by the look of the ones dated during Queen Victoria's reign. He radiates a smug, undeserved sense of superiority in the military portraits.

The others--the civilian photographs--are far more natural. Expeditions into Egypt and South America, diplomatic visits to India, China and Japan, meetings with the Russian imperial family, and only one of a visit to the United States. They show, for the most part, an excitement to engage the world and all its wonders.

The most recent photographs--the ones after the Great War--depict the same young man. He has aged only a few years at most but the most remarkable change is in his countenance. He is no longer a self-important soldier, but a veteran of too many wars. There is no more pleasure from the so-called glory of it all.

In every photograph, Arthur's eyes stand out above everything. They are unmistakably his, and particularly piercing during the 1920s, as if he'd meant to stare down the photographer through the camera itself.

Arthur moves toward Evie.]

Evelyn. Let's not look at those old dusty things. I've translated a manuscript from the 1200s I think you'll absolutely love.

[He's been meaning to take down most of those pictures, but he just can't bring himself to do it. In a world with automatic weapons and bombs that can be dropped from the sky, reminders of the past are an anchor he just can't cut away.]

[nascensibility]

[Arthur is far too polite to point out a lady's fluster and for that she is immeasurably grateful, skirting the edges of the room while he pours the tea. Rest would do him good, she thinks, particularly if he's got that cold that's been going around, or the 'flu that's struck the curator. She hums thoughtfully as he arranges their cups, but finds she cannot quite drag herself away from all the portraits.

Some possess a single subject, the majority are small groups and pairs of people, smiles and stern expressions alike. Some are from safari, with natural compositions and genial ease radiating from the figures - others are stiff and uncomfortable, with bright eyes and sharp brows. Oddly enough, as she studies them Evelyn realises they are all comprised of a similar party member, a young man of varying ages with a hawk-like gaze.

It would be less strange if the images were labeled in such a way that suggested the fellow might be a close cousin of Arthur's, but the man (boy?) clustered with his mates in the trench, mouth a thin line of upset, is unmistakably him. Having seen him send withering glares to museum docents a number of times Evelyn would say with relative certainty that the young man in the uniform is Arthur Kirkland, but then, so is the one in the Daguerreotype, the tintype, the small painting dated to 1753. The resemblance is uncanny.

...Impossible, though, when he isn't that much older than she.]

Hm?

[She turns then, realising belatedly with his approach that they are altogether too close for propriety, and while she doesn't really mind she'd hate for him to feel awkward about it. Reluctantly, Evelyn pats his forearm in distraction and moves to the sitting arrangement, sending the framed photographs a vague, backwards glance.]

That young man looks exactly like you, [she observes, seating herself and sliding her fingers over the teacup. Evelyn huffs a light laugh.] Which is utterly absurd, since it appears it was taken in 1916 or 17. Is he family?

[knackered]

[Arthur doesn't mind their closeness, except he hopes it doesn't make her uncomfortable. He glances at the photographs from the Great War, and his mind drifts back to the wretched wet trenches drenched in blood, urine, and acidic rain condensed from clouds of gas and gun smoke. He thinks of France, his most hated friend, stitched up and burned and the both of them wondering what they could have done to avoid all this...

The expression in Arthur's eyes is so far away. Arthur wrenches himself back to the present after a moment and looks on Evie with a little warm smile.]

Family? In-- those pictures, yes. I have quite a large family. [Many colonies.] We get on... decently. [It's been decades since India last locked a tiger in Arthur's room at night.] And I have brothers--four. One younger. Technically three and one younger, as one has estranged himself. [And Ireland could stay fucked off for eternity for all Arthur cared.]

But enough about them. [He leans on the back of the couch rather casually.] You have a brother, am I correct?

[nascensibility]

[Ironically, they're both so terribly concerned about ensuring that the other feels comfortable that they've trapped themselves in an awkward cycle of dancing around the subject. Mutual attractions can be awfully inconvenient.

Talk of family, however, relaxes her in such a way that she is permitted to ease herself onto the sofa as well. It is perhaps less formal this way with them sitting next to each other, rather than a traditional tea setting with chairs on opposite sides of a table, but the familiarity is refreshing when she works in such a stiff environment.

Four brothers. She can't imagine the family reunions.]

Ah...yes, just one. Older by nine years, but he's the only family I have left. [The only one who matters, anyway, as the extended aunts and uncles and cousins came out of the woodwork like vultures after the passing of Lord Carnahan and his wife.] Our parents died when I was sixteen.

I expect Jonathan is in Thebes now, on a dig.

[Far be it from Evelyn to be jealous of her brother, but he does have the luxury of picking up and starting a dig wherever he likes. She misses Egypt's heat.]

[knackered]

[Arthur hopes she never sees a Kirkland family reunion. They are madhouses. His lips turn up a little at the thought of academia staying in the family. It remains polite, however, because of the news of their parents.]

... I'm sorry to hear that. And far be it from me to say, I'm glad you're here.

[He moves around to the other side of the couch.]

May I sit?

[nascensibility]

[Evelyn is older now, and has long-since recovered from the shock, but there are times when she misses the reassurance that family could provide. A naturally sociable creature, she prefers close ties and particularly those with people to whom she is related. All the more pity that her grandmother and the rest of the lurking extended family are absolute menaces.]

Ah- yes, please.

[She waits patiently for Arthur to sit, unable to keep that desire for amicable sociability from having her turn closer to him, decreasing the proximity in such a way that would be unseemly were they not acquainted.]

You know, it's- [Shyly, she looks down into her cuppa.] It's rather nice to see you outside of an academic setting.