Welcome to Charming, where swirling petticoats, the language of flowers, and old-fashioned duels are only the beginning of what is lying underneath…
After a magical attempt on her life in 1877, Queen Victoria launched a crusade against magic that, while tidied up by the Ministry of Magic, saw the Wizarding community exiled to Hogsmeade, previously little more than a crossroad near the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In the years that have passed since, Hogsmeade has suffered plagues, fires, and Victorian hypocrisy but is still standing firm.
Thethe year is now 1894. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.
During her time with the Devine household, Imogen had helped to prepare for a number of events. As such, she knew that what she was looking upon was not nearly so grand—and why should it be?—but, nonetheless, the sight of the servants' ball had inspired a girlish flutter in her that hearkened back to never, given her upbringing.
She had spent ten days as a rodent—the longest of her life—and, rather than make excuses for her prolonged absence from her post, had fled like a thief in the night (metaphorically) with only a letter about a family emergency explaining her absence. Imogen had anticipated some sort of hardship obtaining work at the Sanditon, but her Blishwick credentials and a story about an ailing aunt had done the trick. Indeed, this was her seventh day on the job and...not how she had anticipated spending it.
"Pardon?" she asked, snatched from her reverie (her cheeks flushed as she realized she had been imagining some sort of grand ballroom unfolding before her) by the voice of another.
“You’re the new housemaid, aren’t you, I said,” Sampson said, making this repetition of it a little more exaggerated than it need be, just in case she was slow, or deaf. Curiosity tended to get the better of him whenever someone new arrived. He had already seen her in the mornings this week, of course, mousy as she was (why did practically all housemaids in the world have to be so mousy looking? ...well, he knew why, but nonetheless, it was a shame), but she had always been too near someone else to have a proper conversation with her. There was a strong possibility someone - or a few people - downstairs had already warned her against him.
So it would be better to get a gauge of her when she was by herself. As such, he offered her his hand, suddenly sparkling with friendliness. “Fancy a dance?”
Imogen blinked before turning to face one of the footmen, clad in his own attire rather than the livery. In fact, she might not have placed him as a footman at all had she not noted him some days ago as...well, rather handsome. In the bustle of the past week, the witch had not gleaned any more useful information about this Sampson...something, but she as she glanced up at him, it reinforced once again the information she already had.
He probably thought her slower than molasses if she'd missed so easy a question. For a moment, Imogen bristled at the thought before deciding it would probably play in her favour if she was to remain at the resort long-term. After all, no one suspected the dull housemaid when things started being misplaced.
"That would be lovely," she beamed, deciding she might as well double-down on empty-headed if it let her better get the measure of him. Though he was friendly and charming, these were two traits she had long since learned to be wary of. As daintily as she could mange, she reached to accept his offered hand.
She had definitely heard that question, then. She even livened up a bit at it, which was promising enough. Grinning in return, he pulled her along genially enough to a space in the room, figuring, as he usually did, that politeness and pleasantries would get more out of her at the off than his... somewhat sarcastic moods, at least until he knew her. It all depended how impressionable she was.
“How are you finding it, so far?” He asked casually, over the music. “Is it all you expected?” Pausing first to lead her in a turn, Sam added with another deliberate smile, “Sampson, by the way.”
"Imogen Fox," the witch demurred as he began to lead her in the dance. Dancing had never been something Imogne was particularly accustomed to, so she was grateful for his lead—for all that it didn't make her any more graceful.
"It is much bigger here than I think I realized," she continued, trying not to trip over either of their feet even as she endeavoured to sound as natural as possible, struggling to accomplish both feats. "I fear I've gotten lost far too many times already—so many nooks and crannies about!"
He was a good dancer, she would give him that much, and confident about it.
He laughed obligingly at her comments, so as to better focus on that and not her dancing ability - this kind of grace was not something she’d ever much need in her life, nor were the dancing standards here any match for the balls he sometimes served at - which was somewhat lacking, and thus slightly putting him out.
“I wouldn’t worry, Imogen,” he assured her, leaning in a little: “some of the girls have been here for years and still don’t know left from right.” Sam laughed as if he were joking, but the slight roll of his eyes was borne of honestly not thinking much of some of the downright dimwits on the staff. Hopefully she would be a sharper tool than she seemed, and make a point to learn her way about!
“Where were you before?” He added, with a glint of interest. “Or is this your first place?”
August 1, 2020 – 9:48 PM
Last modified: August 1, 2020 – 9:48 PM by Imogen Fox.
"With a family in Wellingtonshire," she answered brightly. He would have to earn specifics; even though she was no longer in the Devines' employ, Imogen had never been one to spill secrets. "For a few months only—before that, I was at Blishwick's!"
The bar, admittedly, was low, but Imogen thought she was getting marginally better at this dancing thing.
Her answer was either knowingly cryptic or airily thoughtless - and so far he had to suspect the latter - but he was sure he could ask around elsewhere if she was not going to be forthcoming. ‘A few months’ only added to the mystery: what had seen her leave?
If she had been to Blishwick’s and had gotten a position here, her references and experience could not be that dire, but Sampson was certainly intrigued. He smiled as if he were satisfied enough with her account, glancing down to check his steps.
“Hopefully you’ll be here longer,” he offered cheerfully, mostly to butter her up for his going back to some casual digging for intrigue about said family in Wellingtonshire. “I suppose they hosted too many parties?” He guessed. “They weren’t very terrible to you, were they?”
"Not half so many parties as I'm told to expect here!" Imogen remarked. She would prefer to be at the Sanditon longer than she was with the Devines—she had already concluded that anonymity here would be much easier to come by than it had been in Hogsmeade, making her true intentions far simpler to pull off. Besides, the company was proving more stimulating as well.
"They were lovely though, in truth, but I did not care overmuch for Hogsmeade—it is dreadfully cold there in the winters!"
“Well, if it’s better weather you’re after,” Sampson said with another half-smile and a theatrical shrug that meant to say this would be the place. Better weather than most of Britain, thanks to its southern geography. And the weather charms.
He wouldn’t confess it, but sometimes when it was exceptionally warm, the sea was in view, and it was not too populated with guests, he could almost picture himself owning some singular, exotic Pacific island, coconuts and palm trees and a grand villa in the sun, the whole of the Sanditon’s staff to serve him.
Suddenly he was very bored of this dance in this lesser ballroom and Imogen Fox’s contented little remarks and the painfully humble ideals with which she probably filled her vacant head. Wasn’t this all a bloody waste?
The dance came to a close—Imogen half a beat behind it—and the housemaid rewarded the musicians with the half-hearted applause she was inclined to give them, not the thorough clapping of the vapid young girl she was playing the role of.
"Thank you again for the dance, Sampson," she offered, a self-possessed smile on her lips. She might have learned little of the footman, but was quite sure he had learned even less of her—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
![[Image: imset.png]](http://pile.randimg.net/2/86/146625/imset.png)
