XVI. William West and Philippe West
I previously mentioned a hatred for gambling; close enough to that is foolish financial speculation. Perhaps worse, for heedless speculation in this sense is granted more legitimacy than a game of cards, yet can forbear far worse results.
"I apologize, good sir," I said in the most polite way possible. "But your proposal is of no interest to me." The man who had insinuated himself at my table during Marquise Isabella Brisbois's annual autumnal gala was a speculator, and worse than that, he was an upstart member of the bourgeoisie: one of those who believe that their new money can overcome any element of distinction that has been honed by the aristocracy for countless generations. I could tell by the fashion of his cuffs (unstarched) and the cut of his coat (at least two seasons back), the he was not up to par in the circles in which I normally run, but had that strong desire to appear that he did.
I moved away from his diagramed parchment, which he had unscrolled and began to elaborate upon enthusiastically. Instead, he turned to the couple across from me, a lanky and dignified Earl William West and his wife. As the shameless speculator started up his conversation with Earl West, I turned my conversation to his spouse.
Unusually enough for the occasion, the Earl and his young bride had a curious third: their newborn son. Over the meal, the Earl had explained, rather sheepishly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, that the couple were close friends of the Marquise and were currently her guests in the castle. Lady Angelique could not bear leaving little Philippe upstairs in the care of the wetnurse while they attended the party.
Personally, I thought that the child's presence made the couple appear to be too attached to be proper and said so forthrightly.
"Well, I'm sure your opinions will change once you have a child of your own, Lord Frederic," Lady Angelique replied gracefully as she rocked the standing cradle situated by the table.
I peered over the basket's edge. Philippe, pink-faced and swaddled in silks and lace, was a smidgen of a thing with a black tuft of hair on his head. Graciously, I commented, "He is certainly well-behaved, I'd say."
At my words, the infant roused himself sleepily. Upon looking at our expressions, he beamed up toothlessly and cooed. "Go on, my Lord," Lady Angelique offered warmly. After a moment, I offered a finger toward Philippe, who grabbed it mightily in his tiny fist, emitting a delighted squeal.
"Well, then," I said gently, feeling a tad bit more affectionate, "at least the boy knows how to greet his elders."