London-Hungry: Steampunk Tidbit

I - I wrote a thing, guys. It's weirdly written in terms of sentence structure and I don't know why but WHATEVER WHATEVER I'm just gonna post it. I also feel like the tense is fucked up but I'm too tired to fix it now. Any critique or advice in terms of grammar or character stuff is more than welcome. Like, yes please. Explanation in terms of character/plot at the end.

London, she realized after almost a full week back in that city, made Bryony hungry. And not for food, particularly. Yes, yes, when she needed to eat it was possible to scrounge up something halfway decent, something worth sticking in your mouth in this huge, sprawling metropolis; there were enough little restaurants, enough cafes, enough different people brining different spices and ways of mixing them together that it was possible. No, Paris was for food, if she were honest. 

London – London made her hungry in other ways.

It was an easy thing to forget, while away from the city. Grey and rather miserable for the large part of the year, it was often difficult to remember why she always ended up spending too much, indulging too deeply there. Especially while she was basking in the gold rays of Italian sun or lazing in a little boat off the coast in Greece, in danger of being swallowed by the overflowing azure blue of the sea and the emptiness of her own thoughts. 

This particular trip back to London had begun in Paris, rather unexpectedly, and at two in the morning. She’d been tucked away in a rather deliciously bohemian part of the city and had been loath to leave the company of good conversation, the atmosphere of the cabarets, and the supply of cheep and surprisingly decent wine. But now, having brooded in her hotel room for the first few days, with only a trip to an old friend at a pawnshop across town to interrupt her, the old, familiar hunger was beginning to bubble up in her. Yes, in other cities she had needs, wants, frequent whims of little consequence. London and the hunger it ignited in her was different. 

From the second story window of her hotel she watched the well-dressed models of male British perfection saunter down the walk ways or into shining motorcars and carriages. For most ladies – and especially at this distance – it would’ve been easy to dismiss them all as approximate doubles and triples of each other, copies in terms of their general appearances and the basic elements of their clothing. It was as if there was an essential checklist: top hat, cravat, waistcoat, overcoat, sensible yet well-cut trousers, shoes, optional spats, and, perhaps, a walking stick. It might seem a very constricting uniform and men’s fashion had certainly seen more flamboyant, expressive days, but if attention to detail was given, some fun, Bryony knew, could be had. It was all in the detail – material, pattern, cut, adornments, and, most importantly, color which some men these days couldn’t bring themselves to experiment with at all.

The sort of me who inhabited this part of town, however, dabbled in color quite well, though Bryony thought she could do better. As she watched from the window she spotted a lovely purple cravat, a striking top hat with a little clump of yellow and orange feathers at one side, a blue and silver waistcoat, another in periwinkle, and, in the case of one very tall fellow, otherwise dressed in all black and grey, a pair of violet and goldenrod socks just visible beneath his too short trousers. 

“Not too shabby,” Bryony murmured.

She watched them wander off in both directions, toward to different main streets. They were off to their clubs or, perhaps, in the case of a very few, to some sumptuous, oak paneled offices for some sort of meeting or perhaps to sign a complicated contract or wordy business deal. She smirked at the thought of any of these well-clothed men doing anything remotely resembling work this early in the morning before she closed the translucent curtains, stepped away from the window, and pulled her nightshirt over her head. 

Naked now in the grey morning light, she went to her traveling trunk and pulled a neatly folded pair of striped trousers from a tidy pile of its fellows. Next she reached for an embroidered silken shirt of deep yellow, the second in a stack of other shirts. A crisp, gold and maroon waistcoat with little buttons made of blue-green glass emerged next. Finally, an almost ostentatious bright turquoise cravat was selected with particular care. It was new, bought in Italy last month and she had been waiting until London to wear it. Bryony never really felt as if she had arrived in a place until she had been there a few days at the least. Traveling was always a hurried flurry, disordered and exhausting. But, by now, she felt rather settled in London.

It was time to wear the cravat.

From a little leather box tucked beside a selection of socks (from which she had chosen a deep red and aquamarine pair), she plucked two golden cufflinks, seemingly shone within an inch of their lives. All of this she lay, piece by piece as she pulled each out of the trunk, on the crisp cover sheet of the remade bed. Hands on narrow hips, she surveyed her selections as a whole and, after a moment, nodded at them with approval.

With a final flourish, after rummaging through neat stacks of trousers, shirts, and a rainbow of rolled cravats, she pulled out a length of soft linen. It was kept in its folded square by a pin, relatively small and quite unobtrusive. These two items, plain and unassuming, seemed very much out of place when she laid them next to the ensemble on the bed.

As she washed her face and oiled her auburn hair, the cravat on the bed seemed to eye the plain linen and dull little pin critically. ‘What’, it seemed to say haughtily, ‘is that doing here?’ But when fine pale fingers undid the pin, unraveled the linen, and began to wrap modest breasts methodically with just enough pressure to subdue them, as if carefully dressing a wound, the cravat quieted. As much as an appallingly turquoise cravat could.

Yes, Bryony thought some ten minutes later as she stood from doing up her off-white spats; shiny brown boots peaked out from beneath them. She picked up the top hat from its resting place on the brass bed post, twirled it in one gloved hand, and set it carefully atop her head. She glanced at herself in the mirror which stood in the corner of the room, flanked by two windows. Tipping the hat ever so slightly to the left so that it sat at a decidedly jaunty angle she grinned at her reflection. Before pulling on a pair of gloves she touched the cravat softly, so as not to ruin the elaborate knot. This was an excellent buy.

She turned to the window now and threw the curtains open. Gazing down on the street now a very different hunger rose in her. As the midmorning sun attempted to cast a golden light upon the street (and only marginally succeeding in doing so) a very different crowd of Londoners was descending upon the walkways.

This crowd was draped in sumptuous silks, cradled by delicate laces. Their waists were wrapped in artfully arranged ribbons, their hair swept up in elaborate confections and decorated by little flowers, tiny facinators, or mechanical birds. An array of femininity was emerging on to the steps of the houses and hotels outside. Some were walking, swanlike, down the avenue, their long skirts swaying a trees caught in a gentle summer breeze, their bustles quivering to and fro with each step. Others were alighting into open-air carriages and motorcars as footmen wound the mechanisms, drivers started the engines, or coachmen whipped the horses into action. Beribboned and veiled in silken layers as they were, these lovely creatures recalled presents, gifts one might unwrap with only a gentle tug upon a ribbon – a ribbon at the waist, a bow of a bonnet beneath the chin, a confection of trimming above a billowing bustle, or a tiny knot swimming out of a grand design and coming to rest just below a pale bosom.

Bryony tugged the curtains closed again and walked to the door. She lifted her overcoat from the brass stand, pulled it on, and grabbed the cane she’d left in the umbrella basket. Spinning it round once she let it rest on her shoulder before swinging the door open and stepping out of the room. After locking the door and tucking the key away, she slipped her hand into her pocket and took the stairs down to the lobby two at a time. 

Yes, a very different hunger indeed.   

So. This is Bryony. Born Bryony Elisabeth Pritchard she usually goes by Darius Bryon Hargrave. In my notes I have a description of her that reads, “SUCH A FUCKING FLIRT. Seducer of ladies, bromancer extraordinaire, charming son of a bitch.” I was in a nice bit of London this evening and there were some dapper dudes walking by and Bryony popped into my head after a long absence. And since she was thought up to be a passenger on the Unnamed Steampunk Ship (right, it’s still unnamed?), I figured I’d let her have her say. She is probably off to seduce some young ladies out of their inheritance money. Or possibly just off to seduce some young ladies, inheritance money or no.