Chapter Text
Two days later found Josephine Buckley’s delicate hand, sheltered by gloves of Morleyan chamois leather, dyed a lovely sky blue; holding firmly onto the velvet handle of the railcar’s open door as she descended the mechanical contraption, taking in with a deep breath all of the Imperial Capital’s aromatic mix of soot and burnt wood.
The skies were grey, just as they had been the day before, and the week previous; the perennial scent of stout, perfectly trimmed bushes resting in lush stone planters by the sidewalk masked to some degree the incredible stench of progress that hovered like fog over the city. Not even the Estate District was safe from the factories noxious clouds.
In the eyes of a recent arrival such as her, the sight of an artery such as Morgengaard Boulevard was, without a doubt, striking. Hulking, terraced manor houses rose like mountains at both sides of the throughway, leaving barely enough room for sunlight to bask the cobblestone below.
Still, underneath the shimmering grandeur, Dunwall remained above all a colourless, gloomy place that drained life away from visitors and citizens alike.
Peaked gables looked down upon her from the high rooftops, like grotesques perched from the cast iron rain gutters, all the while towering brick chimneys bellowed out their toxic fumes into the skies above. Of course, similar structures adorned Whitecliff, and the building housing the Academy of Music itself bore a striking similarity to Dunwall’s palacettes. But you see, scale is where the difference lies. At all levels.
In nowhere but Dunwall would you find such wealth, such high fashion and enriched cultural landscape, an interesting contradiction to the bleakness lingering over the city. Lady Josephine Buckley became aware of this fact from the very instant she set foot on the cosmopolis. This was the heart of the known world, her new stomping grounds, to which a countrywoman such as her was hardly made to feel welcome.
Having completely descended from the motorised carriage, she held firmly to her ocean blue satin picture hat, careful not to ruffle with the feathers adorning the crown. A loud bang startled her greatly, making her instantly turn around to find her fears unfounded. It was just one of the house’s porters, who had come out of a side service door to take the railcar back to its shed and had made his way in, slamming the door shut in a rather rude fashion.
She sighed in relief as she resumed contemplating the massive structure bearing down on her, as if she were a defenceless prey in the eyes of a large, hungry cat.
The street was narrower than she’d initially thought, with its sidewalk becoming the size of an insect's foraging path after what had obviously been the result of works to increase the thoroughfare’s width in line with the newer times and technological innovations. The buildings lurched forward even further than in other parts of the district, signs of the advanced age of this particular part of the city. A living piece of history inhabited by those whose names graced the numerous, heavy tomes taught in schools across the Empire.
Inchmouth Manor stood in front of her, five stories of stonework and latticed windows standing guard between two smaller terraced mansions by its sides. The trek toward the massive wooden front doors, framed by an imposing granite arch, was short; with the inevitable yet polite greeting from the random passersby promenading through town in all their fineries as she reached for the bell handle.
She gently tugged at the bronze pull, releasing it as a deep bong reverberated somewhere inside the fortified masonry facade, hidden behind rusticated walls and limestone friezes. Her hand hesitated for a second as it hovered over the doorbell, unsure if said gesture would lead to an initial bad impression; though her mind had no time to dwell on it, as the ancient entryway swung open with an extended crack, startling the young performer.
From the maw of the building emerged a stoic figure, clad in a black tailcoat, stand-up collar with matching bow tie and impeccably clean gloves, this man was, unmistakably, her host’s butler.
She was ceremoniously ushered into the mansion’s foyer by the liveried gentleman, his white gloved hand swiftly closing the door behind them and, in the blink of an eye. He greeted her with a courteous, solemn bow and proceeded to pick up a small polished silver tray, placed meticulously within reach on a marble console table under a gold plated mirror.
Having familiarised herself with the practice throughout her stay in Dunwall, Josephine frantically rummaged through the contents of her dainty silk handbag to find her personal visiting card, a small perfumed rectangle with floral motifs lining the gilt edges, she had them engraved the week prior, having grown tired of the Grand Hotel’s rather plain facsimiles handed out for arriving guests.
With a delicate motion, she placed the piece of paper on the awaiting tray, using the time it took for the older man to read it and nod in approval to remove her gloves and headwear, as well as fixing her lush, blonde pompadour on the reflective surface of the golden mirror.
Somewhere behind her, out of her immediate sight, a footman in navy blue clothing approached her, offering with a clear yet marked southern accent to take both her cloak and hat. She obliged, naturally, and her belongings were carefully carried away to be placed in a brass hanger, next to some stashed travel trunks and valises emblazoned with a distinct monogram: E. I.
Further study of her surroundings illustrated the enormous wealth of the home she’d been welcomed into. Dark oak wainscotting rose from floor to ceiling, its polished surface occupied by a myriad of ancient warrior shields, their heraldic motifs etched on wood cracked by the passage of time; below them hung ceremonial longswords and a small collection oil painted landscapes of the Gristolean coastline and battle scenes from the Morleyan Insurrection by Churchblood.
A crystal chandelier, undoubtedly powered by Roseburrow’s new whale oil technology, dangled over an Olaskir style table, its legs sculpted into gryphon caryatids firmly holding on their shoulders the round, dark granite mantle, atop which a wolfhound’s silver statuette had made its lair as the room’s centrepiece.
“Right this way, Your Ladyship.” Announced the head servant as he led the way.
“They are expecting you in the Crimson Drawing Room.” He continued, striding forward with a quick step, bringing her through the manor’s great hall, which housed the magnificent double grand staircases, positioned at the flanks of two twin arches, at the middle of which the head of a taxidermied fanged elk proudly hung underneath a similarly themed family crest in shades of yellow and black.
The echo of the butler’s steps against the delicate herringbone floor bounced against the dark oak panels cladding the walls, now playing host to many portraits of uniformed men with drooping, moustached faces and wrinkled women in lace, heavy jewels and velvet clothing covering their sickly skin. Prominent ancestors and ancestresses, she reasoned, pictured by the equally renowned brush of countless painters throughout the last centuries.
Lady Josephine Buckley hurried behind the manservant, paying no mind to the conspicuous cream lily floral arrangements on Tyvian porcelain vases, nor the offered, antique latticed oak seats scattered around the luxuriously appointed room. She barely even noticed the presence of a harpsichord by the rightmost corner in her hurried pace.
Josie had barely enough time to take in the previous surroundings before another, even grander room, replaced the previous one. This one was without a doubt, the manor house’s ballroom.
Most certainly a newer addition to the centuries old construction, the two-story affair with protruding balconies and a raised scenario sizable enough to fit an entire orchestra, was decorated in quite dated taxidermied fashion, hinting at the owners’ ancient roots and taste.
Hunting prizes looked down with dead, black beaded eyes upon her, the newcomer. The eclectic mixture gave an unusually oppressive ambience for such a lively room, with its split faced, marble walls and shiny, polished floors.
The whole thing was only made lighter by the abundant presence of large, arched mirrors and round settees upholstered in plush, light blue exotic patterns, taking the eyes of the beholder away from the mammoth alabaster green columns bearing the immense weight of the floors above.
The duo crossed the dancing floor in a diagonal, passing by a grey fireplace atop which the oval portrait of a young woman with old fashioned round curls and a ballgown held a bouquet of violets against a lush, forested background.
As they neared the other end of the room, she managed to spot a maid engaged in a lively conversation with a man of dark brown hair, parted on the right. His eyes were languid and his ears, big and sticking out like those of a Gristolean hare, such as the ones Father used to hunt with that old dog of his.
“Higgins! Mary!” Her guide hissed in a barely disguised whisper, his pace not faltering for even a second.
The servants quickly scurried away upon noticing their approach and the butler’s undoubtedly stern look.
Just a few more steps lay her final destination, behind the richly textured, sky blue damask curtains up ahead. Yes, the reception to be held in her honour. She fought against the urge to rush in, to apologise for her tardiness. There was nothing to fear, after all, they were expecting her .
The butler cleared his throat before gently tugging the cloth away from the entryway, announcing in the clearest of voices the arrival of “ Lady Josephine Buckley ”. This was it , her grand entrance into society and acceptance; and Josie was determined to make the most of this once in a lifetime occasion.
Concealed behind the cloth, a glass door with its doors opened inwards served as the gate into this new realm.