Choose Your Own Misadventure: You Are Attending a Victorian Ball — Part 1
You step into the ballroom and hear a chorus of gasps. None of these people have seen you in a formal dress before. And since you are the main character, you look stunning!
You wind your way through the throng, occasionally turning to whisper slightly humorous nonsense to your friends. They all giggle at each of your comments! You were so shy before, so overlooked. But now here you are, the most beautiful, charming, and witty person at the ball.
Women glance and attempt to figure out who you are. “Wasn’t she the poor, plain girl in the barn slinging shit and talking to mice? No, that can’t be her,” they think.
The men, each with one arm behind their backs and the other cradling a drink, observe as you walk past. They betray the slightest of smiles as they murmur “mmmmyyyyeessss” with arched eyebrows.
Near the back, a miserable old lady who thinks you have no business looking so good and acting so confident HARRUMPHS at the sight of you and storms off.
And then the potential suitors approach.
“Well, hello there,” greets Lord Bilbobatch Cumbergrantham as he kisses your hand.
Your friends whisper and giggle to each other, and then retreat to give you space. They instinctively know they are merely supporting players.
“And hello to you, good sir,” you counter. You smile as you take in his face, but your eyes are forced to blink by the sheer sharpness of his jawline.
“I’ll be brief, because my time is short and I have much to accomplish,” he begins. “Marry me. No need to draw events out with a long courtship. You are perfect, and perfection is what I seek. I promise, you will want for nothing.”
“Oh, dear me,” you respond with a hand at your chest. “My word, you are quite forthright.”
“Indeed. And now if you’ll excuse me, there is a game of chance I must attend in a far-flung smoky room of this castle. I intend to increase my own considerable fortune tonight. Some poor wealthy fool with too much to drink will surely bet his holdings eventually. I must be there to win at that moment, to acquire more … percentages. I don’t expect a woman to understand, so I shall bore you no longer. But wait for me. Wait for me in the library. I shall come for you when I am finished.”
And with that, Lord Bilbobatch Cumbergrantham kisses your hand once more and leaves you with your friends. They giggle!
“How arrogant that man is,” you speak aloud to no one in particular. As the main character, you are entitled to verbalize your thoughts. “And yet, how charismatic, how successful, and how … handsome.”
“Handsome? I hope that word is meant for me,” a low, strong baritone ponders. You turn to see another potential suitor has arrived. Your friends fade from your peripheral once more.
“Oh, I am sorry, good sir,” you apologize. “I was foolishly speaking of someone else and not minding where I was. Of whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“Firstly, I must say I hope you come to find me as handsome as whoever that other lucky fellow may be,” the hulk of a man replies.
“Yes, perhaps so. And what are you called, good sir?” you coax.
“I am Captain Chris Christopher-Robin-Wind-in-the-Willows-Oil-Bottom.”
“Ooohh, how lovely,” you say. This man’s name is not necessarily one you wish to take as your own. And yet, his arm muscles are practically bursting through the sleeves of his jacket. His face has been weathered by the elements so as to grant rugged attractiveness. His voice booms from lips surrounded by a thick beard. The scent of aged bourbon flows forth when he speaks.
“I have not attended a ball in some time,” he reveals.
“Oh, and what has prevented you from appearing at such festivities previously?”
“War, my dear. And also the hunt. And the satisfaction of building. I fight for the crown, you see. I lead men in battle. And when I am not away on some far-flung campaign, I hunt. I slay beasts and gut them myself. I also tan their hides and present the pelts as gifts. And when I am not doing that, I am building. I am felling the mightiest tree in the forest without jacket or shirt so that my muscles may breath. And then I use that lumber to construct furniture.”
He takes your hand in his. His palms are huge and so calloused they feel like leather gloves. His musk drifts to your nostrils and you nearly fall over.
“But,” he begins as he stares intently into your eyes, leaning forward, “if dancing and fancy dresses make you happy, then I should wish to attend more balls … with you.”
You exhale loudly, involuntarily. You hear one of your friends faint and hit the floor behind you.
“Good heavens!” a man near the entryway shouts. “Those horses have gone mad! They’re running wild with that carriage attached! Won’t someone pursue them and tame them?!”
“HA! TO ACTION!” Captain Chris Christopher-Robin-Wind-in-the-Willows-Oil-Bottom bellows. “Meet me in the garden, my dear! I shall return!”
And with that, a giant chunk of man races off.
You turn and help your friend to her feet. She recovers quickly and the giggling resumes with haste.
A waiter bumps into you. Shocked by this bumbling, unprofessional behavior, you prepare an appropriate (but not too mean) response. However, you cease your harsh words when you recognize the waiter as a man from your past.
“What?” you exclaim with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Ha, well, I’m sorry, so very sorry,” fumbles the waiter nervously with his eyes cast downward. “I didn’t mean to … ah, I promise it won’t happen again. Oh, I’ll just quit, I suppose. Blew another job, I did.”
“Peter,” you say softly.
He looks up and his eyes meet yours. His goofy smile sparkles even whilst wearing the wig and fine garments of a server at this luxurious ball. In fact, his uniform amplifies his smile. You have known Peter for years, going back to your childhoods in the village. But you have never seen him look so comely as he does right now.
“Oh, oh my goodness. Oh my, deary me,” he grins as he adjusts his white powdered wig. “Here, here you are! My, you look lovely. You, you’re not cross, are you? Me nearly spilling drinks on you and all.”
“Peter,” you smile with warmth. “Oh, Peter Bogstench-Poorblighter, I could never be angry with you.”
“You, you couldn’t?” Peter asks. He straightens his wig yet again and smiles sheepishly. He glances downward. You can feel him summoning courage, and his eyes meet yours once more. “My word, you’ve grown into a right lovely young lady. Barely recognized you, I did. Not that you weren’t always lovely!”
You laugh! Oh, Peter! What a joy to see him again. “And you,” you begin, “you’ve grown into a man. And a gainfully employed one, at that!”
“Oh! Oh, no. Oh heavens, no!” he protests while swatting at the air. “Barely making it, I am. Can’t seem to keep a job for longer than a fortnight. But you! Look at you! Where’d you get them fancy clothes? And how’d you get invited to this ball? Exclusive, this is! Common folk like us only allowed as hired help!”
“It’s a long story,” you admit with a smile. You turn to your friends and YOU ALL GIGGLE.
“Well, I’d much like to hear that tale, I would. If you’d be willing to share, of course!” Peter smiles nervously again (it is the only way he knows how to smile).
“Well, perhaps,” you tease with a haughty tone. “If I feel like letting a commoner steal some of my precious time.”
Peter laughs the same laugh you have known all your life, triggering memories of childhood and then memories of adolescence. A recollection from your teenage years comes on suddenly and strong. A memory of an event with Peter that began with awkwardness but then became … very interesting and quite memorable in the best of ways.
“That’d mean the world to me, it would,” Peter responds. “My duties cease at midnight. Meet me downstairs in the kitchen. You won’t be able to miss it! Just follow your nose. There’ll be a bounty of leftover food! We’ll eat like kings! Oh, well, in your case, a queen!”
Peter lifts his hand for some sort of goodbye, and you observe him first consider a handshake, then a wave, and then finally he simply smiles and bows before moving on into the crowd.
Your friends surround you. There is no giggling this time. They want to know — WHO WILL YOU CHOOSE????????
Post a comment with your preferred course of action. After a week (or two), the votes will be tabulated and the most popular choice will act as a springboard for the next part of the story. Your choices are:
- Wait for arrogant, charming, successful, handsome Lord Bilbobatch Cumbergrantham in the library.
- Wait for manly, muscular, bearded, soldier/hunter/lumberjack Captain Chris Christopher-Robin-Wind-in-the-Willows-Oil-Bottom in the garden.
- Go down to the kitchen at midnight to reconnect with nervous, awkward, sweet, lovely Peter Bogstench-Poorblighter from your past.
Good luck!
