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The carriage rolled along fairly smoothly. The rains had ceased, finally, and the roads were fine. I sat gazing out the window and smiled at the day's events.

The cafe at Rocca had been quite busy, and good fortune, as Signora Aph received a medal I had produced for her in front of an audience. I dare say I glimpsed a blush on the lady as it was pinned to her dress. But well earned -- her tireless care of all who enter is beyond the scope of what any of we, who impose upon her, could reasonably perform.

The ball had been very well attended, and the couples were lovely, swaying to the lute music filling the greenhouse. I found it a bit warm, but did enjoy myself. Local artists had assembled, as well, as there was a competition, and many of the entrants, despite any means for formal instruction, had done quite well. 

A familiar sharp lean of the box told me that we were nearing the estate, and as it came to a halt, I stepped out, grateful to be home and near my bed after such a diverting, but terribly wearying day. I was set upon a cold meal and an early night but my messages had other plans for me.

I stepped in, handing Anne my gloves and wrap when she reciprocated with a sealed letter and a concerned expression  "It's from Mister Warren. He said it is important, milady. I know the solicitor doesn't come often. I hope that..." I cut her off,  "Thank you, Anne... that will be all for now." Anne was a very good maid, even by my standards, but the rare habit of speaking to me as if I were a school friend left me irritated. I would speak with Mrs. Rawley about it; I did rely on her, but if our roles could not be defined, perhaps she would be best found a more suitable arrangement.

I cracked the seal and opened the paper to scan the letter as I ascended the stairs, and it was as I feared. Mister Warren had been charged with a matter of import, and was writing to avail me of the knowledge he had thus far discovered. 

Some years past, it came to be known to me that my father's title had been handed down, generation after generation -- which wasn't at all odd -- but that it had been created in the time of Queen Elizabeth, which was. It came to light whence I found a letter kept in a book, that his ancestor had informed the Queen of a plot by a Sir Antony Babbington to have her assassinated; a plot which he had discovered quite by chance, and that he had almost certainly almost been bribed to ignore it.

I certainly had my own good fortune to thank for his moral fibre.

I did not, however, hold the title, and should it become extinct with no one to claim it, I should also most certainly not have the property. And that would not do.

The original discovery that my status was based on the generosity of a monarch, rather than what I had - up until then - believed to be a connection to royalty, left me very ill at ease. I had relied upon that supposed status and wondered how it might affect my social connections, should it become known. I knew that Mama had descended from royalty, but that was Spanish blood; a match which, ironically, would likely not have been met with favor by the monarch who had first bestowed the title.

The second matter had become whether there were letters patent somewhere and more importantly, what they stated about inheritance.

If it were a matter of male lineage, which was almost certainly the case, I would be back to the hunt for a husband and to secure an heir; at 25, I was well aware that this was possible, but not having issue from my brief and distasteful encounter with my dead husband, the Baron, I was also well aware that I might not be able to produce one. 

The other aspect to all of this was that created Dukedoms were few and far between and with the rebellion in the colonies, and another brewing in France, it was clearly becoming apparent that the commoners had come to the conclusion "the less nobility the better." I could not risk losing everything should the title and properties be revoked. And without knowledge of the terms of the patent, I couldn't determine down which road I should travel. And with great haste.

Mister Warren's letter was dry, as was the norm. He had arrived in London, and engaged a Lord with whom he was acquainted and whom he trusted, to assist him (with some manner of discretion) on his little expedition. 

I flipped the page over in the hopes that some postscript provided more information, but alas, it was merely a report that the roads were dry, and that an effort to find the copy had resulted in excuses of lost documents due to this fire, that flood or these historical moves.

Frustrated and still without answers, I continued my walk up the stairs to my apartments. The longer I waited for an answer, the more time lost in determining which option was most sensible. A husband seemed the path of least resistance, and as I opened the doors to my bedchamber, I let out a shaky breath and moved to my dressing table.  Not another Baron at least, I mused, at least this time, it would be my choosing. . . but if I must endure it, I must choose quickly.  

After an early evening meal, I planned to walk to my old retreat; a small structure just south of the main house on the hillside that, at one time, may have been a small orangery. It was a cool evening but I chose to continue on rather than go back for a shawl. Climbing the old stone steps to the surface of the hill and entering, I saw the chaise no worse for the wear, and settled back onto it, looking about.

There were canvases stacked against the far wall, untouched by paint or brush, and the plaster was peeling in places. The evening sun made the dusty windows almost ethereal, and a small spider spun its web in a ceiling corner. I had asked that some refreshment be brought up. Wine and some fruit were laid out on the old wood table. 

Rising and walking over, I ran my hand over the surface. So old and weathered, so smooth from the daily beating of the sun. My hand rested on a plum and then retreated. I regarded the fruit and thought of all who may have shared this moment who were no longer with me. My dear Papa; the loss of his humor and protection left a gaping hole in my heart. Mama, whose sweetness and undying love for her family were both her shield and her sword. And my Gianni. I sighed aloud "... oh, dearheart"

I stood there, regarding all that had occurred, all that I had endured, and still, what was that compared to the suffering of the world? A small speck of paint on a far larger canvas. But what was I, a lone woman, to do about all of that? I could, in truth, only tend to my own affairs. 

The time drew long like an evening shadow, and I stood there, silent and unmoving, while thoughts, memories and regrets marched through my mind like an invading army. The matter of Edward, and my foolish belief in him, the Baron and his treachery, and the Earl, which I had at one time regarded as a lost opportunity but now found just as well left undone.

The last of the daylight was slipping out the window like a thief and I realized, while I stood in front of these empty canvases, and this bowl of untouched fruit, that I was, in fact, a still life. No movement, no momentum. No mission, no achievement.  I was an adornment. First to be painted, then framed and hung on a wall. I had no need of a husband, but longed for the companionship. I wanted for nothing, yet yearned for a goal.

Again, my fingertips gently brushed the old wood table, "perhaps it's enough to be what we are." 

The sound of my own voice startled me back into reality and I pulled the soft blanket from the chaise, wrapping it around my shoulders and walked to the doorway. After glancing back, I stepped through and descended the stairs, committed to adding some motion to my life.

The ocean's salted kiss alighted on my brow before I ever saw the sea. The dust from the hooves ahead swirled about the curtained window of the carriage like fairies, beckoning me homeward. To be home...

So much had happened in Spain. My mother's family never took much interest in remaining in contact with me after Mama's death, but my dear cousin was the lighthouse off the shore of their sealed continent. His illness and resulting death had left me battle-weary and nearly laid my soul to waste as his body was lain to rest.

After a period of mourning both my cousin and the void that was what was left of my mother's family, I escaped to our northern estate for months. Each time I thought I might make the journey to Hatchford, I felt the cracks deepen and knew I was as yet too fragile.

But now, the carriage jostled as it made that all-too-familiar curve toward Hatchford. I found myself pressed to the glass, until finally it came into view and my breath returned. I knew that I should find it nearly impossible to maintain a serene countenance until I could finally lock myself away in my apartments while, inwardly, my heart danced a reel.

Snorting and whinnying the horses settled down. The carriage stopped rattling my bones and the door swept open. Thomas and William were there, hands out, to help me debark. I stepped inside, handing Anne my gloves and although she offered tea, I ascended the stairs, calling over my shoulder that wine be brought up. 

After shrugging off yards of silk and settling onto the chaise in my muslin, the wine was set on a table along with letters I had left unanswered. I pulled the crystal stop from the decanter and poured, the red twine creating a claret pool in my glass as I shuffled through the communications from this one or that, until I came upon an invitation for an Easter ball. 

I read the date and as my wine glass was set on the table my hand was on the bell. So near, all of my gowns wrinkled and nothing on the steamstresses' tables being worked on! Anne entered, and halfway into her curtsey and pleasantries I rattled off, "Send for Mrs. Hartwell and that other... Margaret? Margory? The one with the blonde curls... " Anne barely made it out the door before I called again "And send word that I'd like Mister Prentice in the library at eight!"

Whether it was the invigorating sea air, the joy of being home, or the prospect of merry company, I found that I was finally crawling out from beneath the weighty stone of grief.

========================================

Hatchford Park is open and I welcome guests. If I am not at home, do avail yourself of the tray on the table in the entry and leave your calling card. Anne will see to your needs if you require a respite after a long journey.

Your carriage awaits

I'm hoping to be able to hold a party where all can attend, but am also considering weeknight activities such as whist and ladies' tea/sewing & gossip hours, both of which will not only allow for all of us to catch up on the goings on, in person, as well as the ability to share information about news and events, (which I am also happy to either pass along or see in chat, in the Hatchford Park group) but also, to add some 'social' to our distancing.

Interested in taking part? I'm happy to partner up. Need a home? Send a note.

Affectionately,

~O.

Hello,

I'm sorry it's been a long time ago that I added something on this website. Bellevue has been laying dormant for some time but I did pick it up a few months ago again and been working quite hard on the basement. Basic models of the vaulted ceilings are done, doors, rooms, most of the elementary props. But looking at the old blueprint there is something I can't visualise how it used to be. Unfortunately the castle has been destroyed to make way for some railroad so rl references are just not possible.

Perhaps somebody has seen this kind of situation and can pass some reference. One never knows even though in many cases the basements are not open to the public even though they where an essential part of the complete picture.

I uploaded the picture... right and then how to get it here... feels a bit dumb . So I've added a Gyazo.

On the blueprint you'll find the different spaces. Up right is the "argenterie et panneterie", the place where the silverware was kept en bread was prepared to be distributed to the tables. Panneterie is an old French word and in this case probably will be related to "paneer" "basket" but it was more then that. Anyway there one clearly can imagine the existence of some shelving on the wall left. Which would make sense.

Office pour le travail: down right: we can clearly find a stove, a baking oven (the "round thingy") and a sink + next to the oven another shelving. Also seems to be logical.

Office pour dresser: middle left, Normally the place where the plates, dishes where dressed, just as we nowadays still call the place in a restaurant where cutlery are kept and just before entering the place where people eat we still have something called an "office". Up I presume is still some shelving but then to the right of the room... Bit of a problem, lower shelving where the dishes where placed before going to the dining room?

I try to make the castle as accurate as possible within the limitation of second life and grids in general. 100% want work. Looking at the blueprints of the several floors I suspect there where actually at least two levels in the basement. I know this was done and have been in the past in a quite large house that had 5 subterranean levels (Bruges, Belgium). 

If somebody has ideas I would be sincerely interested reading your reactions.

Thank you very much in advance,

Zed

P.S.: If somebody would like to see the, still unfinished building, sorry it's not in sl yet though it can be seen in Kitely where I test/build most of the time.

Hypergrid address: grid.kitely.com:8002:Val Sancy

Or feel free to ask for a LM in Kitely, avatar: Zed deTremont

Please note that this was copied from the Timeline section to a Blog by Tatiana.

It's no secret that one of my greatest pleasures in Second Life is creating and out of all the ways you can create graphic design is really what I love the most.  I'm seldom happier than when I'm researching and putting together something as simple as labels for virtual jars of jam or honey.

I have spent many happy hours "down the rabbit hole" searching for inspiration as my ever-expanding Pinterest sections, such as Graphic Design-Labels , can attest.  I'm also inspired by my creative Second Life friends who share the same passion and produce their own mini-masterpieces on a regular basis.

It took me a number of weeks to come up with the labels pictured above, much of that time spent drooling over Redouté engravings and other examples of ephemera.  If I'm not careful I find that pixel editing can become a bit of an obsession.

I'm also delighted when Second Life intersects Real Life in an almost whimsical fashion. Some weeks after creating my own label for the Queen's Hamlet honey the Chateau of Versailles released the following Miel de Trianon on their Facebook page.

"The honey of Trianon, available for the first time on the online shop of the Palace of Versailles! Produced by the beehives of the Queen’s Vegetable Garden as part of an ecological approach. With delicate flavours of lime, summer flowers and chestnut."

Another day of walking.  My bare feet now dirty, sore and bruised.  My body as well.  I had not bathed in days and my food was low.  Unable to read the written signs at crossroads or turns or outside estates, I had long ago lost direction.  And I saw no other people.  Yes, field workers in the distance tending to their labors harvesting wheat or corn or fruit trees.  I dare not approach for fear of being labeled “vagabond” or worse …. “thief”.  And so, I walked on keeping to myself, thinking of my family and praying they were well and safe.

Near to sunset, weary and forlorn, I passed a grand estate and came to a dead end.  A high wall with large blue doors stood before me marking the end of the road.  I simply could not go on another minute.  Lost and dejected, I wandered a bit off the road into a stand of Elm trees where I set about setting out a meager camp.  I ate the last of my bread and cheese saving the last ripe peach for the morning.  I do not know how long I sat there under the whispering Elms as the evening breeze rustled the leaves over my head, but it could not have been long before I was fast asleep.

When I awoke in the early morning I was surprised by a man standing over me and looking quite stern.  He was obviously well off for his clothes spoke of wealth and power.  Before I could rise to present myself in a proper manner he spoke.  His voice was firm yet had the slightest hint of sympathy woven  through it.  He spoke very formally as would, I suspect, most Lords who owned prosperous estates.

“Who are you and what are you doing on my land?” he asked then added before I could speak.  “Trespassing is punishable by a fine or by prison.  You do not look to be able to pay a fine, so I suppose it will be prison then.”

Another man, not so well dressed, stood a few steps behind him eyeing me in a very stern manner.  I imagined him to be the groundskeeper or perhaps the sheriff?”

Not wishing to appear unmannerly or rude I spoke quickly and  told him my story as to how I came to be in this place at this particular time.  I held nothing back and related every detail of my predicament. I then placed myself at his mercy.

For some long minutes he said nothing only exchanged looks with the other man who seemed to have an opinion on the subject.  The two walked off a short distance and held a quiet conversation both glancing in my direction from time to time as if assessing my worth or perhaps deciding my fate for I could not ascertain their intent. 

For myself I stood still as wood, my eyes lowered, praying for mercy.  To have traveled so far only to find myself imprisoned for trespass would bring shame not only to myself but to my family and would, of course, destroy my youth and any prospects the future might hold for me. I determined that, if need be, I would throw myself at his feet and beg on my knees for mercy.  As it turned out, however, that would not be necessary.

Their conversation ended the two men had reached a decision and approached.  I, in turn, curtsied low holding it with my head bowed as I awaited my fate.  The owner of the estate spoke in a clear voice and with obvious authority.

“I am Louis-Francis de Beauharnois, owner of domaine and castle de Champs-sur-Marne and these lands surrounding us are called Antiquity.  This man you see with me is Zeph Milos estate manager. Rise young lady and follow us”

I did as I was told and followed the two men through the main gates and into the estate proper. Never before in my life had I seen such beauty. The main house and adjourning buildings were magnificent in their splendor.  The surrounding grounds were meticulously appointed and well kept.  I fear I was gawking at the sight when the two men suddenly veered right passing through two tall doors and into a small courtyard surrounded by low buildings. I hurried to catch up as they entered one of the buildings.

Inside the building were two adjourning rooms.  The high ceilings and walls were painted white and the floor was inlaid tiles.  I followed the two men into one of the room where six small beds were arranged along the walls. A privacy screen blocked the view of a large tub that I assumed was for bathing.

His Lordship (I am not well educated in proper titles) indicated the rooms saying. “This is the dorm where the workers sleep and bathe… the next room over is for cooking and eating and has a fireplace for warmth in the winter.” He paused as if to see what my reaction might be.

I glanced around the room with a bewildered look upon my face for I had no idea why he was showing me this room until he spoke again after seeing my confusion.

“I have determined that, instead of turning you over to the constable, that you will instead be employed by me to work my fields. There is a shortage of good workers and it is my decision that you will better serve our community and my house by working here rather than languishing in prison.  This is not negotiable.  You will sleep here. You will be paid the sum of one copper for each field harvested.  Do you have any questions?”

I was speechless.  Could I be more fortunate than to be shown such mercy and such generosity?  I could not think of any words to express my relief or my gratitude for these rooms offered a poor farm girl such luxuries that hitherto were unheard of.  Instead I curtsied low and, bowing my head, offered … “Mon seigneur, je ne peux pas exprimer ma gratitude. Merci pour votre miséricorde et votre gentilesse”

On his part he waved his hand saying with a smile. “Yes, yes.  Of course.  Now.  If you prove to be as good a worker as you claim, I have a close friend in another part of the country who can also use a good worker. Should you prove yourself here I will send you there to help her as well.  Now, come and sign a paper that will indicate you have accepted this position and are part of my household staff.  If you cannot write you may put an X which will serve as your signature.”

Several moments later I had placed an X on the paper provided and His Lordship then handed me over to the estate manager who showed me the fields and provided me a small meal of bread, cheese and simple wine.  I sat on the ground and, as I ate, thanked God for my good fortune.

To be continued….

A spoken tale as I do not yet know how to read or write and for this I beg your indulgence.

I was born a poor French girl to a poor family of farm workers. My Papa is a fine man, a gentle man, a wise man who knows much about life, its wonders and its sufferings.  He has worked hard all his life and has earned the respect and gratitude of those both above him in station and below.  He is a fair man, an honest man and has kept his family fed and warm and safe.  And he is forever in love with my mama.

My Mother is a person everyone looks to for guidance and strength.  A woman of strong faith and moral character she has born her husband two fine sons and a daughter (the youngest of the three) whom they named Margarete after Margaret of Anjou who became Queen of England.  I do not yet know if it was a jest on their part to name me so, or a challenge for me to live up to her example.  Time has yet to determine which it was, but I am trying my best.

I do not recall much of my early life save the fact that we, as a family, worked the Lavender fields of Provence North of Marseilles.  My Father and brothers tended the fields for a wealthy, but kindly, land owner who grew vast acres of Lavender for the perfume trade.  My Mother kept our small house in order and grew vegetables and herbs that she used in cooking and would sometimes to sell some of the herbs for a copper or two.

At seven years of age I was given my first job.  To carry baskets of Lavender flowers from the fields to the cleaning house atop a hill that overlooked the farm. For this I received one copper per week.  But what I remember most was standing atop that hill and looking down on the amazing violet blanket that covered the land as far as the eye could see.  Lavender below, blue sky above…my eyes still burn with that sight.  It was a happy time and in the evenings after a days work we would sit with neighbors and sing songs or tell stories and share a meal.  At night I would sleep in the loft while my brothers slept outdoors or in a nearby barn in the winter.

As I grew I was given more responsibilities… I would help my mother with the small garden and with some of the cooking….but three days a week I would go with my Papa and brothers to tend the rows of Lavender.  Here my Father taught me all about how to care for the plants from seed to mature plants.  How to properly harvest them so as not to damage the root plant.  How to protect them from the chill nights of winter and how to prepare the soil for planting new plants.  I learned every step of the process from seeds to harvest. And I was happy.

When I was fifteen years of age the owner, who was a kind man as I mentioned before, offered to send my eldest brother to school so he could learn more of the business.  The owner had no son’s and had taken a liking to my brother who was more than grateful for the opportunity.  I, in turn, being a girl, my father saw no reason for the need for me to learn to read and write as my life would be relegated to either work or family or both.  So, as my older brother went off to school, I went off to the fields. And life continued much as before… until.

This past winter a number of severe storms swept down from Northern Europe bringing with them such weather as has never been seen so far South.  Strong winds, heavy cold rain that was mixed with ice but worse were the cold, cold nights.  Perhaps everything might have been alright if only one of these storms passed through, but almost nine of them marched through Provence like an invading army and left in their wake … destruction.

The fields of violet and green became a battle field of dark mud.  The flowers, stripped from the plants by the wind and ice lay strewn across the land.  Broken plants lay flat against the earth like subjects bowing to the King of Storms.  Devastation and heartbreak.  Try as we might there was little to be done to save what was left.  It was not long after that the owner, a kindly man as I mentioned before, sent word that the he would be forced to release from service all of the workers; for he had lost everything.

What were we to do?  We had no savings nor relatives to which we could turn for aid.  For several weeks we prayed for assistance and our prayers were answered … partly at least.  My father had been one of the owners most loyal workers and, because my brother had become a trusted friend and protege of the owner, he was able to secure  employment at another Lavender farm twenty kilometers’ to the East.  But, it was a smaller farm and had only enough work for my Papa and Mama. My other brother decided to go South to Marseilles to join the Navy, which causes us a some distress, but he was insistent

I was now eighteen years of age and old enough now to be on my own.  Unmarred I was free to find my own way in the world.  For some days we spoke of these things and said our tearful goodbyes with promises to reunite again in the future for we were a close family, but life had handed us a challenge and we must face that challenge and survive.  My Papa gave me twenty copper pieces and my Mama packed a travel sac with food.  The owner had received word of a newly formed farming community some distance to the West and suggested I head there to seek employment.

With a heavy heart I set off, keeping to the main roads for fear of Highwaymen and other nefarious persons who might accost me.  I walked during the daylight hours avoiding any strangers I came across although there were few.  At night I would sleep a short distance off the road, sometimes in a small barn or under the protective branches of a fir tree.  I ate what food I had being careful to limit myself so as to make it last longer for I did not know how long it would take me to reach my destination.  I bathed in streams and sometimes picked fruit from a wayward fruit tree, but always I did not trespass or steal for both were a sin and a violation of trust.

I walked for many days, always keeping West until the land changed and the road narrowed where it passed through forested lands.  More and more buildings appeared along with walls marking the edge of vast estates.  I marveled at such sights for I had never seen such wealth.  Once, several nobles road past on magnificent horses.  So finely dressed where they that I thought perhaps my eyes deceived me.  My Mama and Papa had always taught us to respect those of a higher station and my Mama had taught me a proper curtsy which she made me practice over and over until I no longer fell down from the attempt.  This I did as they passed and, glancing up, I saw the gentleman tip his hat to me, but the Lady glared at me as if I were some ugly thing that had been tossed in their path.  Still I held my curtsy and my eyes lowered until they were well passed.

I do not claim to know the minds of some for I understand that manners do not always flow in a downward direction, but I accept such dictates of society and hope, one day, I may be in a better position from which to change a thing or two, but that is yet to be seen.  Still, as I continued on my way, my heart and my spirits were lifted for, surely among such wealth there must be employment. 

I had abandoned my leather shoes for they had worn completely out from the many days of walking and now I walked barefoot along the narrow roads which always lead me West towards the Sea. 

End Part 1

Morwena had spent the afternoon down by the shore collecting Clams and Mussels.  She could already imagine how wonderful they would taste with some Leeks and wild garlic.  She could get some on her way home through the forest.

As she looked up, Morwena realised that it was late, and the sun was setting.  It would soon be evening.  If she hurried, she might still see Malcom, when she went through the Village.  He often helped the shopkeepers and stallholders to pack up their wares.

As She got close to the Village, Morwena realised that a small group of Recoat soldiers had stopped for a rest on the path ahead of her.

The Redcoats had been stationed in the Village for some weeks.  So far there had been no trouble, the Soldiers mostly kept to themselves, and the day to day life of the Village hadn’t been affected.

It was to late to turn around.  This was the only path into the Village.  The Soldiers were standing and sitting around on either side of the path.

There was no way to avoid it, Morwena would have to walk through them.    

As she got closer, most of the Soldiers ignored her and continued chatting amongst themselves, but some noticed her and watched her as she walked past them, as quickly as possible without seeming to run, avoiding eye contact and keeping her eyes on the ground before her. 

A few shouted comments, but although she felt uncomfortable, it wasn’t the first time.  Boys always seemed to behave like this when they were gathered in groups.  The local boys were not better when they were all together.  Even Malcom behaved like this when he was with his friends, although when they met and he was by himself, he was always respectful and sweet.

Morwena made her way to the village square but realised that it must be later than she thought.  Church square was already deserted, and the shops and stalls were already shut up for the night.  There was no sign of Malcom.

“Pity” thought Morwena, he could have walked her home. 

As Morwena left the village and entered the forest, she began to feel uneasy.  She forgot about the wild Garlic, and quickly looked around but saw nothing.  Morwena hurried her steps.

It was really getting dark now.  The more she hurried, the more convinced she became that she was being followed.  She could now hear footsteps behind her.  She began to run.

Rough hands grabbed her from behind.  Her basket fell to the ground, and rolled away, spilling the contents.  Another hand went over her mouth.

Morwena tried to scream

Rocca Sorrentina, July 15th 1789

Cara Madre ,

A brief note from Sorrentina, as I sit at the foot of the vineyard, overlooking the silver shimmering Bay of Naples. The port is all quiet. It is noon and the dock workers are having their luncheon, I can hear their talking and laughing from the tavern below. I finally have some time myself for a light meal between handling administration and correspondence. In the roads the ship's chimes of the hour glide over the water, as if the passing minute seems to visit one ship at a time. And then, discord from the middle: the bells from our ship, the brigantino Atalanta . They're late. I shall need to have a talk with captain Lombardi about that, before he sets the sails tomorrow for Algiers. Earlier today I have read the reports from Bianchi, our agent in Constantinople. Both rice and sugar have arrived in a fairly good state, only two packs of rice were slightly damaged. The sugar will now be sent to their respective destinations, hoping they will bring us good fortune in future . If you could be so kind to write to Rome about the arrival - although I am beginning to doubt the use of uncle's connection: the French ambassador. With all that is going on in his home country, he is probably soon either without a job or influence.

These past two months I have been mostly busy with rearranging our last business interests in France. Although we are not scared from any speculation, plain foolishness is a completely different thing. France is becoming a tinderbox of increasing proportions, the question can only be when the spark hits the powder. Therefore I have ordered our agent Perrenot to close the Bordeaux office for now, and send all accounts to Balotelli in Marseille for the time being. Auguste Perrenot shall be given a generous pay for his last services; but moreover he is probably relieved. He has been poorly these past months. On my last visit to Bordeaux he could not even receive me. His wife then presented the accounts, she seemed even more capable than her husband. So I permitted her to stand proxy for him. With him, her, and their fifteen year old son, I had thought we would have been secured of a decent bookkeeper in Bordeaux for future years, but with the current situation: everything is taken to the point of doubt. The boy however did seem to have inherited both his parents' wits. I've just decided to write to Perrenot. If he wants, he can send his son to Marseille to learn the trade under Balotelli.

The accounts from the Parisian office have been sent to Anvers; the distance may be inconvenient, but at least the Austrians are more stable. I also sacked that inebriate Danton, he was unfit to be our agent anyway. The brewery and distillery 'Le Cheval Qui Rit' has been liquidated. The grounds and building brought up a decent enough price. With all that settled, I'll be quite content if the last accounts and gold have indeed been brought over. I have ordered Marseille to keep the fastest xebec of our fleet, the Bellona , in a state ready to sail out within a day. Let us hope it will all turn out to be unnecessary precautions.

Anna is still traveling. From her last letters I understood she is well and visiting many friends in the north. She will also deliver some paperwork and review the accounts of Anvers from the last six months, which still (!) had not been sent to me. I have a feeling something might be wrong there as well. It is for some time now that I do not share your confidence in our agent Marot. I would much rather combine the offices of Anvers and Amsterdam, or open a new one in Brussels or Ghand perhaps. In any case: Anna will find out quickly enough if something is indeed out of order; she carries a power of attorney for when needed and knows what to do, as always she does. I just fear for her next bills, during her last visit there she bought so many gowns and shoes we could have ordered the construction of a new brigantino! I did however wrote to her to avoid France and only travel south via the Swiss cantons.

On a brighter note from France: The recently hired captain of the brigantino Elisabetta , Giambattista Salvatore has already proven himself an able man that looks out beyond his orders. While anchored at Brest he got the offer of some strawberry seeds. Seeds indeed. Apparently, during these past years, the Bretons have been working on cultivating the strawberry by crossing species, using half cultivated wild ones with Chilean strawberries. This has now resulted in a strawberry that can be grown in a more agricultural method. Very interesting news. He obtained some boxes and I have already given the first boxes to our tenants to plant them forthwith.

Cara Madre, I shall finish now by conveying all the regards and well wishes from our friends here; and send this letter to you with the courier to Bassano, and a copy to Roma in case you are currently there or passing.
- Your always grateful and affectionate son,

Abbondio

And with this, during these summer months the farming tenancies at the Queen's Hamlet will grow very unexpectedly something quite new: Strawberries are the latest release within the G&S system. 

Amidst the discussion on idea of our ability to adapt to the environment and "family tree" of all living organisms as proposed by Pallas, unbeknownst to the courtiers then, the Vice-Chancellor's only daughter was suffering from heartbreak after a short-lived fling with aknown womanizer (it's not known who but Knyaz Alexander N. Dolgorukov is suspected). Afterwards, some staff swore they saw her sob silently in the hallway before returning home. Certainly, it wasn't a fling for her!

When someone mentioned her decision to sponsor the poor Smolnyi Institute final years to get higher education in maths & botany, Dashkova seemed most eager to return to the discussion topic. Is she hiding something? Is her sponsorship more than just advancing young girls' education? Regardless of real intentions, she certainly showed herself unable to skillfully "adapt" to court intrigues...

Later on the same day Dashkova's tea salon took place, Tzarevich Pavel eagerly left the capital, feeling a sense of (timed) freedom.

What could await him there? Certainly, meeting his admired relative King Frederick the Great was at the top of things he'd like to do!

NB: Pavel's events will be halted for the duration of his absence from Saint Petersburg until his return announcement.

Learn more about our "Royal Treatment" plotline (# 6 )

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