There Was Tailor Who Lived by the Sea

From the Journal of Andrew Lang

Recently asked Mrs. Dawkins about the defaced photography shop a few streets over.  Mrs. Dawkins became quite still and cold when I made my inquiry, and related that the shop is owned by the Einhardts, who arrived in Withernsea from Germany nearly seven years ago.

Anyone will do for a scapegoat in times of war, I suppose, even if they’ve lived as your neighbor for near a decade.

Mrs. Dawkins seems to think that the abuse is deserved, which is jarring to hear from her, though I suppose it is understandable. Her son is lost to her, and her anger is natural, if not just.

I shall have to gather more information by myself, as my employer refuses to discuss the Einhardts in any more detail. It would be best if I leave the matter as is, but I cannot help but wonder how they’re holding up under the town’s anger.

Hardly seems just, to strike at people who have lived as English citizens for seven years.

From the Journal of Andrew Lang

Found a most curious shop while rambling today. It seems to be a photographer’s abode, though I had a time of reading the sign between the growing dark and the poor condition of the sign. A collection of cameras and related items could be seen, but I think they’ve been allowed to gather dust for some time now.

Upon closer inspection of the building I noted some damage had been done to the siding and door- gouges and missing planks and the like. I don’t believe that it was all accidental, an idea reinforced by the words I found chalked over the door’s surface.

They were faded, for the most part, but I managed to make out ‘murderers’. I cannot imagine what the occupant of the building could have done to provoke such a reaction from the defacers- they could hardly be murderers in truth, for they would have been apprehended by the authorities.

It seems Withernsea isn’t as peaceful as I initially thought.


♀ Para mulheres …

It’s good to find that I still covet fine things- well, fine books, at any rate. The lessons of my boyhood will never be far from me, and any luxuries beyond gilded leather covers will, by my own will, be quite out of the question.


♀ Para mulheres …

It’s good to find that I still covet fine things- well, fine books, at any rate. The lessons of my boyhood will never be far from me, and any luxuries beyond gilded leather covers will, by my own will, be quite out of the question.

From the Journal of Andrew Lang

It’s been a long while since last Miss O’Brien wrote to me. I imagine things at the Abbey have become more hectic - I grew up in a big house like that, I haven’t forgotten how it can be. The Countess has kept her running, and it’s the Countess that would matter most to her, I suppose.

I’m not paying her wages, after all.

There’s some bitterness to it, I’ll admit, but that will serve me right, for becoming so dependent on a near-stranger.

That was unkind. I can’t speak ill of the woman, not even here. It’s not deserved. She was kinder than most, and it was more than I deserve.

Perhaps I ought to take more walks. I still know little of this town I hope to call home I doubt anyplace is home , and exploring would lift my mind from more melancholy pursuits. Serve as a distraction, at the very least.

I will stay away from the pier, however. That great a height, over the tossing sea

A Half-Day Shared

Andrew Lang waited in the kitchen yard, more by instinct than any particular instruction; he and Miss O’Brien hadn’t been able to make a specific strategy for this day, really, so he was left to his own devices until she showed up.

He smoked, keeping an eye on the cigarette to ensure it didn’t get beyond the halfway mark- he had taken to indulging in half and saving the rest for another time, to spare on cost. He breathed, and watched the flare of embers, and thought some, listless wandering ideas with little connection.

Mostly, they were about Miss O’Brien.

Andrew hoped to leave a good impression on her in town today. All his friends were dead or soon would be, and the isolation he felt within Downton was starting to get at him.

It would be nice, he supposed, if he and she could at least get to talking regularly.

Sarah and Andrew: In the Kitchen



The smile that Andrew offered Miss O’Brien was the first genuine smile he could remember giving in what seemed like a lifetime, and though it felt strange to smile after so long he found himself relieved he could still do it.

"I sometimes steal away into the trees on my half day," he muttered, absently pressing her hand in his. “An’ I wouldn’t say no to sharing my smoke breaks with someone."

Andrew knew his fairer companion smoked, but had never really seen her at it. The concept intrigued him, though he couldn’t say why.

Sarah finally slipped her hand free from his. She enjoyed the contact but it occurred to her as she heard footsteps shuffling above them that she may well be enjoying it a tad too much. It wouldn’t do to become too attached to a man after all, even one as amiable as Mr Lang. Men were temporary or trouble her mama had always said, and though Sarah didn’t like to think what that meant about her much-loved father she had always believed the words.


She couldn’t be cruel to him. Usually the admonishments and dismissals came to her lips so easily – too easily – but she couldn’t think of a single thing to say that might deter him and in her heart of hearts she knew it was because she didn’t want to deter him.

“Would you like to join me tomorrow morning then? I know that they’re both out, Lord and Lady Grantham, and I’ve got no mending to do that can’t wait.”

She curled her fingers together to stop herself taking his hand again.

“We could go to the village. Or the trees if you’d prefer?”

(OOC: Sorry about the wait! Perhaps we should end this little thread and start a new, fresh one that involved a walk to the village and possibly some tree-based shenanigans?) 

Andrew nervously glanced up as footfalls sounded overhead and pressed the heels of his hands against the table’s edge; he tried not to think on that little sting of regret he felt when she let go of his hand- he was a man, supposedly, not a daft little schoolboy.

Yet in the next moment he was smiling gladly as she made her proposal, something that was perhaps a distant cousin to excitement waking inside his chest. To be out of the house and in the free air, with Miss O’Brien for company…that sounded pleasant. Better by far than aimless wandering.

"That…that sounds lovely. Sometimes it’s better to have company."

(OOC: I’ll start up the half-day thread, if you’re game. Lighthouse RP still a thing?)