Claude had been fixed outside the Countess' doors for some hours now, a letter and parfum phial clutched at the midsection- both for delivery to the ailing princess; a charity for an expected private session regarding the Rosemoor Bill.
She lingered, breaths awry, with the expectation that the princess was merely deferring the meeting because of her contempt with the Lords after the injury to her person. A natural reaction to contempt, but had the Countess realized further detriment in her old age? Anathema could ill a soul already hurt, and expel the life from a finely fettled woman.
Claude had always known Elizabeth as the greater of the elder Novellens. The boldest and most affable, never less than the magnitude of her birth, and yet never greater than the youngers that outranked her, despite their common admonishment of the nature of such a rule of succession. The Princess Imperial was, in all things regal, proper and orthodox.
Thus was the moment when Amelia ( @libbybelle ) exited the room- tears festered in her grey eyes -the only moment that Claude had ever wondered what had gone wrong in anything with reference to HIH, The Princess Imperial, Elizabeth Anne. A model of grace, and now... a phantom of hope.