Fic: The Regency Theory (1/?)
Title: The Regency Theory (1/?)
Spoilers: None really, this is Regency AU.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1600
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters blah blah. I’m not making any money from this blah blah. The words, however, are entirely MINE!
A/N: So I wrote this some months ago but never got around to finishing it (yes, I know I suck - that’s 3 WIPs I have now. Boo, me.) However, Misskoum’s magnificent artwork (post entitled 'Sheldon as Mr. Darcy') just inspired me to post this. Hope y’all like it.
Extended A/N: This story is set somewhere in the early 1800s, just after the Napoleonic wars. A couple of things to make reading more understandable (because this is one of the genres that I write my original fiction in and I’m picky like that - skip this note if you don’t care, or are already well-versed in the genre):
Gentleman of noble rank usually had a title, for example: Sheldon Cooper, who is Viscount Houston - a title he inherited when his father died; had his father still been alive, as the oldest son, Sheldon would be “Lord Cooper”. He is generally referred to by his peers by that title i.e. peers would call him Lord Houston (men of similar or higher rank may call him Houston); he would have to give specific permission for someone (gee, I wonder who that could be) to use his given name (usually only very close relatives and friends).
Major titles in order of importance after the King: Duke, Earl, Viscount, Baron, Baronet
Dukes and Duchesses are addressed as: ‘your grace’.
Earls and Countesses/Viscounts and Viscountesses are addressed as: ‘my lord/lady’
If a Duchess or (Vis)Countess is widowed, she is generally addressed as: the Dowager Duchess/(Vis)Countess.
The cut direct: blatantly and rudely ignoring someone, usually in public. Disastrous for the person being ignored.
Out in society: making their first debut as a young adult of marriageable age.
Bluestocking: nerdy girl; bookish
The ton/ the haute ton: London’s high society
Breed the heir and spare: What was expected of the eldest son with a title - marry and beget a son (the heir) and hopefully another son later (the spare; since death at a young age was not an uncommon occurrence at the time - charming, huh?)
The Regency Theory (1/?)
Sheldon Cooper, Viscount Houston, snorted derisively at his compatriots in the albeit impromptu meeting of some of the members of the Royal Society currently ensconced at White’s, London’s premiere gentlemen’s club.
“I beg to differ,” he argued, blue eyes directing an icy glare at his audience. “I believe there is merit in Lord Cavendish’s findings!”
“My dear boy,” Lord Gablehauser, Duke of Kenworth and Head of the Physics Consortium at the Royal Society, addressed him with all the condescension befitting his title and his purported scientific prowess. “I don’t care that he was the old duke of Devonshire’s sire, the lad was a lunatic.”
“He was eccentric,” Sheldon ground out. “I studied under his tutelage, your grace; the man was a genius. I can only hope to make such an impact with my own research.”
“Do not allow yourself to be deluded, Houston. The way to establishing yourself and your theories is by communicating your work through the Royal Society. I myself would be most pleased to discuss your novel ideas.”
“You are too kind,” Sheldon intoned, striving to the keep the irritation from his voice and his visage. It would not do to alienate Kenworth, but did the man think he was addled? Rumour was rampant that Kenworth routinely took credit for the work of others. Never mind the fact that the man’s puny intelligence could not even begin to fathom the brilliance of his, Sheldon Cooper’s, mind.
“Tell me something, Lord Houston,” Barry Kripke, Earl Sniden, piped up. Sheldon’s mouth pursed in displeasure, but he could ill afford to give Kenworth’s right-hand-man the cut direct. He levelled a questioning brow at the man. “What’s this I hear about you working with an Indian physicist? Good grief, man, keep it up and you’ll become as notorious as your late mentor. It’s bad enough that you continue to collaborate with the likes of the Colonists!”
“Professor Koothrappali is a gifted scientist and a good friend. The same may be said of Howard Wolowitz and Leonard Hofstadter. I do not see how my collaborations with them are the concern of the Society.” Sheldon’s tone was frigid, and while a few of the other men looked distinctly uncomfortable; the warning hidden in his words, however, was far too subtle for Sniden’s inferior mind.
“You attempt to validate your bizarre theories with two Americans and an Indian; I shudder to think of the consequences to the field of physics, my dear fellow!” He guffawed heartily.
“Well, at least you’ll be thinking,” Sheldon muttered under his breath. Outwardly, he showed no emotion, of course. And after a moment of awkward silence, the conversation veered off into other waters. Sheldon kept his gaze fixed on the clock on the mantle of the nearby fireplace, and as soon as five minutes had passed, he made his excuses and left.
He all but stalked out of White’s in high dudgeon. What on earth possessed him to think that these lesser minds at the Society would be amenable to new ideas? The concept of international collaboration in the interest of furthering scientific discovery was completely lost on them. How dare they impugn his collaborators based on their origins - what had that to do with science? Good Lord, he blasphemed in his mind, people were incomprehensible.
He harrumphed as he settled his hat on his head and crisply adjusted the cuffs at his wrists before continuing on his way. London’s so-called haute ton was where some of the most insipid minds of the age could be encountered; why did he ever think to come here looking for financial assistance? Leonard and his silly ideas. At least the Americans appeared to be more forward thinking; he hoped Leonard and Howard would be able to secure some funding now that Rajesh Koothrappali had already done his part. He supposed he would find out soon enough when his three friends arrived at his country estate a month hence to review their ongoing collaborations.
He was just about to duck into a stationery shop, when he heard a shrill voice call his name.
“Lord Houston! Lord Houston!”
Good grief, it was that infernal woman who was a friend of his mother’s. He barely refrained from rolling his eyes in disdain.
“My lord,” she panted, “I wished to enquire after your mother.” To which he merely raised an eyebrow; she saw his mother more often than he did.
“Lady Meriweather, how do you do?” Sheldon muttered, his tone politely aloof. “My mother does well, thank you for asking.” He had no idea how his mother currently fared of course; he had been in London three days now, under the same roof as his family and had yet to see them. He supposed the butler would have informed him if anything was amiss and so was quite confident in his response.
“And your dear sister and brother, how are they?”
“Also quite well.”
“Excellent, excellent!” Lady Meriweather beamed at him and pulled the arm of the young lady at her side. Ah, Sheldon thought, here is the real reason she had almost been run down by a carriage to get to his side. “May I introduce my daughter, Ramona? She is only just out in society.”
“How do you do, Lady Ramona?” Sheldon greeted the girl, raising her gloved hand to his lips as was the custom. He kissed the air just above her kid gloves.
“I do very well, I thank you, my lord,” she gazed at him worshipfully. There was really no other word for it. It made him feel slightly better. He rewarded her with a small, self-satisfied smile. She glowed.
“Will you be at Lord Mather’s ball tonight, my lord?” her mother asked in breathless anticipation, having noted his response no doubt. He endeavoured to school his features back into the mask of civil detachment.
“Perhaps. Do you know if my mother plans on attending?”
“Yes, as do your siblings of course.”
“Very well, then I shall be in attendance as well. Now I must bid you both good day.” He tipped his hat at them and continued on his way. It would be better to attend this ball and visit with his mother and siblings while he was at it - two birds, one stone and the like.
He supposed he may even bring himself to dance with Lady Ramona.
***
The next morning saw Sheldon undertake the hard day’s ride to his Essex estate. He could not wait to get out of London, and his attendance at the Mather ball just reinforced his need to be free of the ton. Having stopped to rest his horse at an inn on the way to Houston Hall, he munched on a crisp, green apple and a wedge of aged cheddar with gusto and some haste, eager to continue on his way and avoid the drenching that was apparent on the horizon.
The ball the night before had been a tedious bore, he mused as he slowly sipped his scalding hot, sweet tea - for tea-imbibing should never be rushed - but that was to be expected. He abhorred the popular social interaction so favoured by the rest of the ton. Although he did now have first-hand knowledge that his mother, sister and brother were indeed well.
In addition, Lady Ramona had been surprisingly delightful company. She knew when to speak, and when to hold her tongue; in fact, she was the epitome of grace and good manners. The girl was also a bit of a bluestocking, which had certainly peaked his interest since when she did speak, comments of some intelligence were usually made. It gave him slight hope for the future, especially with his mother’s constant reminders that he must wed soon in order to ensure the continuation of the Houston line. He had thus far avoided all discussion of it, but now he realized that per society’s norms - he needed to breed his heir and spare.
Lady Ramona seemed imminently eligible in that regard. Her familial lines were impeccable and her father’s title ancient. She herself was pleasant and handsome, in addition to being intelligent - a rare combination indeed. He may never find a match more perfect, he mused on the ride home. Certainly his mother was thrilled at the prospect of his wedding Lady Ramona, even if his sister did not appear to share her enthusiasm; his brother had not offered an opinion other than a rather superciliously raised eyebrow.
Still, it was far too early to be planning his nuptials; his opinion of Lady Ramona was lacking something somehow - she was somehow lacking, but he knew not in what way.
Although, she was infinitely more suited to him than Miss Leslie Winkle, the last of his mother’s bluestocking 'finds'.
He suppressed a shudder. A more disagreeable woman, he had yet to meet. Certainly, Lady Ramona was beginning to look like a better and better prospect in comparison.
He was about a two hour ride from Houston Hall when the first drops of rain hit him. Ruing the fact that he had elected not to travel by carriage because it had been such a clear, beautiful dawn, he secured his coat closed and rode on.
In another hour, he was soaked to the skin, and chilled quite to the bone.
He tried to think of science in a valiant effort to distract himself from the cold and the gathering dark brought on by massive rainclouds. He was already on his own estate grounds, somewhere near the rectory, when suddenly, it began to hail.
Ridiculously large chunks of ice pelted his body, causing him to curse quite colourfully at the pain, and he quickly sought shelter under a tree. Well, at least his horse, Newton, had shelter; he, on the other hand, had was still being assailed by icy hail, most the size of large marbles, but one - the one that hit him on the head and knocked him unconscious, had been the size of a cricket ball.
***
Spoilers: None really, this is Regency AU.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1600
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters blah blah. I’m not making any money from this blah blah. The words, however, are entirely MINE!
A/N: So I wrote this some months ago but never got around to finishing it (yes, I know I suck - that’s 3 WIPs I have now. Boo, me.) However, Misskoum’s magnificent artwork (post entitled 'Sheldon as Mr. Darcy') just inspired me to post this. Hope y’all like it.
Extended A/N: This story is set somewhere in the early 1800s, just after the Napoleonic wars. A couple of things to make reading more understandable (because this is one of the genres that I write my original fiction in and I’m picky like that - skip this note if you don’t care, or are already well-versed in the genre):
Gentleman of noble rank usually had a title, for example: Sheldon Cooper, who is Viscount Houston - a title he inherited when his father died; had his father still been alive, as the oldest son, Sheldon would be “Lord Cooper”. He is generally referred to by his peers by that title i.e. peers would call him Lord Houston (men of similar or higher rank may call him Houston); he would have to give specific permission for someone (gee, I wonder who that could be) to use his given name (usually only very close relatives and friends).
Major titles in order of importance after the King: Duke, Earl, Viscount, Baron, Baronet
Dukes and Duchesses are addressed as: ‘your grace’.
Earls and Countesses/Viscounts and Viscountesses are addressed as: ‘my lord/lady’
If a Duchess or (Vis)Countess is widowed, she is generally addressed as: the Dowager Duchess/(Vis)Countess.
The cut direct: blatantly and rudely ignoring someone, usually in public. Disastrous for the person being ignored.
Out in society: making their first debut as a young adult of marriageable age.
Bluestocking: nerdy girl; bookish
The ton/ the haute ton: London’s high society
Breed the heir and spare: What was expected of the eldest son with a title - marry and beget a son (the heir) and hopefully another son later (the spare; since death at a young age was not an uncommon occurrence at the time - charming, huh?)
The Regency Theory (1/?)
Sheldon Cooper, Viscount Houston, snorted derisively at his compatriots in the albeit impromptu meeting of some of the members of the Royal Society currently ensconced at White’s, London’s premiere gentlemen’s club.
“I beg to differ,” he argued, blue eyes directing an icy glare at his audience. “I believe there is merit in Lord Cavendish’s findings!”
“My dear boy,” Lord Gablehauser, Duke of Kenworth and Head of the Physics Consortium at the Royal Society, addressed him with all the condescension befitting his title and his purported scientific prowess. “I don’t care that he was the old duke of Devonshire’s sire, the lad was a lunatic.”
“He was eccentric,” Sheldon ground out. “I studied under his tutelage, your grace; the man was a genius. I can only hope to make such an impact with my own research.”
“Do not allow yourself to be deluded, Houston. The way to establishing yourself and your theories is by communicating your work through the Royal Society. I myself would be most pleased to discuss your novel ideas.”
“You are too kind,” Sheldon intoned, striving to the keep the irritation from his voice and his visage. It would not do to alienate Kenworth, but did the man think he was addled? Rumour was rampant that Kenworth routinely took credit for the work of others. Never mind the fact that the man’s puny intelligence could not even begin to fathom the brilliance of his, Sheldon Cooper’s, mind.
“Tell me something, Lord Houston,” Barry Kripke, Earl Sniden, piped up. Sheldon’s mouth pursed in displeasure, but he could ill afford to give Kenworth’s right-hand-man the cut direct. He levelled a questioning brow at the man. “What’s this I hear about you working with an Indian physicist? Good grief, man, keep it up and you’ll become as notorious as your late mentor. It’s bad enough that you continue to collaborate with the likes of the Colonists!”
“Professor Koothrappali is a gifted scientist and a good friend. The same may be said of Howard Wolowitz and Leonard Hofstadter. I do not see how my collaborations with them are the concern of the Society.” Sheldon’s tone was frigid, and while a few of the other men looked distinctly uncomfortable; the warning hidden in his words, however, was far too subtle for Sniden’s inferior mind.
“You attempt to validate your bizarre theories with two Americans and an Indian; I shudder to think of the consequences to the field of physics, my dear fellow!” He guffawed heartily.
“Well, at least you’ll be thinking,” Sheldon muttered under his breath. Outwardly, he showed no emotion, of course. And after a moment of awkward silence, the conversation veered off into other waters. Sheldon kept his gaze fixed on the clock on the mantle of the nearby fireplace, and as soon as five minutes had passed, he made his excuses and left.
He all but stalked out of White’s in high dudgeon. What on earth possessed him to think that these lesser minds at the Society would be amenable to new ideas? The concept of international collaboration in the interest of furthering scientific discovery was completely lost on them. How dare they impugn his collaborators based on their origins - what had that to do with science? Good Lord, he blasphemed in his mind, people were incomprehensible.
He harrumphed as he settled his hat on his head and crisply adjusted the cuffs at his wrists before continuing on his way. London’s so-called haute ton was where some of the most insipid minds of the age could be encountered; why did he ever think to come here looking for financial assistance? Leonard and his silly ideas. At least the Americans appeared to be more forward thinking; he hoped Leonard and Howard would be able to secure some funding now that Rajesh Koothrappali had already done his part. He supposed he would find out soon enough when his three friends arrived at his country estate a month hence to review their ongoing collaborations.
He was just about to duck into a stationery shop, when he heard a shrill voice call his name.
“Lord Houston! Lord Houston!”
Good grief, it was that infernal woman who was a friend of his mother’s. He barely refrained from rolling his eyes in disdain.
“My lord,” she panted, “I wished to enquire after your mother.” To which he merely raised an eyebrow; she saw his mother more often than he did.
“Lady Meriweather, how do you do?” Sheldon muttered, his tone politely aloof. “My mother does well, thank you for asking.” He had no idea how his mother currently fared of course; he had been in London three days now, under the same roof as his family and had yet to see them. He supposed the butler would have informed him if anything was amiss and so was quite confident in his response.
“And your dear sister and brother, how are they?”
“Also quite well.”
“Excellent, excellent!” Lady Meriweather beamed at him and pulled the arm of the young lady at her side. Ah, Sheldon thought, here is the real reason she had almost been run down by a carriage to get to his side. “May I introduce my daughter, Ramona? She is only just out in society.”
“How do you do, Lady Ramona?” Sheldon greeted the girl, raising her gloved hand to his lips as was the custom. He kissed the air just above her kid gloves.
“I do very well, I thank you, my lord,” she gazed at him worshipfully. There was really no other word for it. It made him feel slightly better. He rewarded her with a small, self-satisfied smile. She glowed.
“Will you be at Lord Mather’s ball tonight, my lord?” her mother asked in breathless anticipation, having noted his response no doubt. He endeavoured to school his features back into the mask of civil detachment.
“Perhaps. Do you know if my mother plans on attending?”
“Yes, as do your siblings of course.”
“Very well, then I shall be in attendance as well. Now I must bid you both good day.” He tipped his hat at them and continued on his way. It would be better to attend this ball and visit with his mother and siblings while he was at it - two birds, one stone and the like.
He supposed he may even bring himself to dance with Lady Ramona.
***
The next morning saw Sheldon undertake the hard day’s ride to his Essex estate. He could not wait to get out of London, and his attendance at the Mather ball just reinforced his need to be free of the ton. Having stopped to rest his horse at an inn on the way to Houston Hall, he munched on a crisp, green apple and a wedge of aged cheddar with gusto and some haste, eager to continue on his way and avoid the drenching that was apparent on the horizon.
The ball the night before had been a tedious bore, he mused as he slowly sipped his scalding hot, sweet tea - for tea-imbibing should never be rushed - but that was to be expected. He abhorred the popular social interaction so favoured by the rest of the ton. Although he did now have first-hand knowledge that his mother, sister and brother were indeed well.
In addition, Lady Ramona had been surprisingly delightful company. She knew when to speak, and when to hold her tongue; in fact, she was the epitome of grace and good manners. The girl was also a bit of a bluestocking, which had certainly peaked his interest since when she did speak, comments of some intelligence were usually made. It gave him slight hope for the future, especially with his mother’s constant reminders that he must wed soon in order to ensure the continuation of the Houston line. He had thus far avoided all discussion of it, but now he realized that per society’s norms - he needed to breed his heir and spare.
Lady Ramona seemed imminently eligible in that regard. Her familial lines were impeccable and her father’s title ancient. She herself was pleasant and handsome, in addition to being intelligent - a rare combination indeed. He may never find a match more perfect, he mused on the ride home. Certainly his mother was thrilled at the prospect of his wedding Lady Ramona, even if his sister did not appear to share her enthusiasm; his brother had not offered an opinion other than a rather superciliously raised eyebrow.
Still, it was far too early to be planning his nuptials; his opinion of Lady Ramona was lacking something somehow - she was somehow lacking, but he knew not in what way.
Although, she was infinitely more suited to him than Miss Leslie Winkle, the last of his mother’s bluestocking 'finds'.
He suppressed a shudder. A more disagreeable woman, he had yet to meet. Certainly, Lady Ramona was beginning to look like a better and better prospect in comparison.
He was about a two hour ride from Houston Hall when the first drops of rain hit him. Ruing the fact that he had elected not to travel by carriage because it had been such a clear, beautiful dawn, he secured his coat closed and rode on.
In another hour, he was soaked to the skin, and chilled quite to the bone.
He tried to think of science in a valiant effort to distract himself from the cold and the gathering dark brought on by massive rainclouds. He was already on his own estate grounds, somewhere near the rectory, when suddenly, it began to hail.
Ridiculously large chunks of ice pelted his body, causing him to curse quite colourfully at the pain, and he quickly sought shelter under a tree. Well, at least his horse, Newton, had shelter; he, on the other hand, had was still being assailed by icy hail, most the size of large marbles, but one - the one that hit him on the head and knocked him unconscious, had been the size of a cricket ball.
***