Roberta Whyte

[Roberta Whyte]

In Character

Full Name: Roberta Agnesse Elaine Whyte
Nicknames: Aggie, Birdie
Birthdate: Saturday, 6th October 1860
Current Age: 25 Years
Occupation: Pawn
Reputation: 5
Residence: The Gables, Newport, Rhode Island
Hogwarts House: N/A
Wand: Rhododendron wood, unicorn hair. 14 and 3/4 inches, pliable. Set with a wrought silver handle.
Blood Status: Pure
Social Class: Upper
Family:

☞ ‘Dickie’ Richard Whyte, Father

Papa inherited a business from Grandpapa, who made his fortune from manufacturing, which quickly expanded to two factories and an innumerable workforce. Papa’s certainly ambitious, now having set his sights on Europe, but despite his shrewdness, I suspect he does secretly have a heart. As is only proper for a man of society, Papa has a fondness for cards, and a lack of fondness for his wife.

☞ ‘Allie’ Alena Whyte, Nee Vablatsky, Mother

I think it little surprise Mama was named the Most Beautiful Debutante of 1840, for she inherited her Grandpapa’s Russian traits to the extreme- ash brown hair, pale blue eyes and delicate features, which she somehow managed to mix with a striking height. A true lady of society, I don’t think Papa realised her common love of decadence was mixed with a sharp tongue when he proposed, though rather fortunately for him, she is petty rather than vengeful and has little attention span to hold grudges.

☞ ‘Charlie’ Charles Whyte, Brother [1863]

I’m not sure Charlie has ever realised that he is the heir, and not a younger son. Indeed, his behaviour is exactly that which you would expect of the fourth-born son who has the knowledge he won’t be able to rely on his Papa’s fortune forever and so decides to make the most of it by squandering his allowance on cards and god knows what else whilst he can. I am sure it is a credit to him that he has at least managed to prevent Father becoming aware of his situation, and Mama is far too distracted to pay him any heed besides.

☞ Lana Whyte, Sister [1872]

Lana is, by far away, Mama’s favourite. Why shouldn’t she be? They are both of the same capricious, decadent cloth, with little aptitude for reading anything other than the latest fashionable magazines from Europe. I shouldn’t be too harsh on my little sister- I’m sure she has many redeeming qualities. I just haven’t ever had much to do with her, so have little to no clue what they are.

I believe Papa has some half-siblings from his Mother's second marriage, after his Father died, but they're somewhat younger, and I cannot recall having ever made their acquaintance. Dealing with Mother all day at Christmasses was quite enough for him, I suspect, without adding any siblings into the mix.

Appearance:

To my Mother’s eternal disappointment, it is my Father I favour almost entirely in looks, down to his aquiline nose. I stand at only a touch over five feet tall, and no amount of heeled slippers Mama purchases shall ever change that, even if she regularly protests that Lana is taller than I already- as if that is somehow going to magically add a few inches to my height. In fact, I wouldn’t doubt it if she once tried to charm me to grow taller, but seeing as she is forever mislaying her wand, I believe I may be safe on that regards.
My hair is from my paternal side too- a honey blonde that can only just be called blonde. I believe my hair is possibly the one aspect of my appearance my Mama might have been willing to excuse my Papa for giving me, if I had kept the gray eyes I was born with to attempt a more angelic appearance, but alas, I foolishly abandoned them at a few days old to my present dark hazel ones, which I am certain nobody is ever going to be able to write poetry about.

To date, the only aspect of my appearance Mama hasn’t found cause to complain about repeatedly and publicly -aside from being right handed- is my figure. Though, seeing as I am unwed, any curves that she may actually approve of and which are suited to motherhood are firmly wasted- my personal victory against her constant fault-finding.

Had I been born stupid, then I might have argued with my Mama on the clothing front for the sheer sake of obstinacy, protesting that I prefered plainer and more sensible dresses. However, if you show me a young lady who does not enjoy a new gown, then I shall show you a liar, a fool, or a bull-head. Indeed, my wardrobe is rather ridiculous in size; shopping is one of the few activities Mother and I can partake in together that doesn’t end with her smashing some china or declaring I shall be the death of her and ringing for smelling salts. I think Mama may think she is able to make up for my lack of beauty like her own by making my wardrobe as lavish as possible and by ensuring I have more jewels than I could possibly wear as dowry, and frankly, I don’t care a jot if that is how she feels. I am hardly going to complain!

Overall, despite Mama’s constant complaints (I think their sheer constancy is apparent in how I cannot describe myself without referring to her more times than I care to count!), I am certainly not some troll, though that may be a mixed blessing. At least an ugly daughter Mama could get pity for or hide away entirely; a plain one is simply a burden to be endured as best one can- and for Mama, that endurance is shown through endless nagging.

History:

I was born in the home I have always lived in- The Gables. Grandpapa built it when he wed as a lavish gift to his society bride. I may never have met him, but I think you can tell a great deal about him from the house. He obviously had a love of Italianate architecture, and also of gilt, and of pretty much every other European architecture known to man. The result is a mish-mash of a house with far too many chimneys that I doubt ever was considered of good taste, but which fits in perfectly with the ludicrous and ostentatious concoctions of ‘summer cottages’ Rhode Island is home to- an illustration of what happens when people realise they have more money than heritage, and so try to recreate the old world. With very little success.

During my lifetime, the house has been repainted several times in various pastel colors, though at present it is a more tasteful white- at least until Mama and Papa can agree on the next hue. I have reason to believe that, like with every other decision they make, they shall not reach agreement for the best part of a decade. I am sure it is only the miniscule particle of taste they possess that prevents them painting each section of the house a different color.
Perhaps I am being too harsh on them. A total lack of refinement is called for, after all, in society here, where the baroque is idolised. And besides, I am hardly any better, having been born at the start of what Papa calls the Gilded Age- I phrase I am entirely certain he has stolen from some author. I was born on the 6th of October, 1860- a Saturday. I only know the latter fact because every year without fail Papa brings up the fact my birth in the mid-afternoon interrupted his round of golf with some Governor- the identity of who changes dependent on who is considered the must-have acquaintance amongst the society folk at that moment in time.

It was a delivery that nearly killed my mother- not because of the difficulty of labour, but because of the duel she got into with my Papa when I was a few hours old, over my name. The conflict has never been truly resolved- to Papa, I am Roberta, or Birdie, named after his Father. Mama, however, prefers Aggie, from Agnesse, the nod she wanted to her Russian heritage- despite three generations of her family having been born and raised in America, and not one of them being able to speak their mother-tongue. Personally, I prefer my other name- Elaine, named for the midwife who shrewdly stopped the duel before I could be orphaned at not even half a day old and who suggested flipping a coin to solve which name to place first (Papa won). But as always, what I prefer is entirely not of consequence.
Aside from the curtains in the nursery being set on fire by Mama when I was a few days old when she discovered my eyes had darkened, my early life was that of any girl born into my position. I was cooed over at various garden parties, passed around at morning calls, largely left to a nanny, and given obviously well-intentioned gifts by the various ladies of society, whose practicality was overridden by the competitive desire to out-do each other’s gifts. Fortunately, my scar from where I dropped my diamond encrusted rattle on my chin has long since faded.

In 1863 my Mama did what all ladies of her station did, and gave me a brother- an event that had promptly zero effect on my life save a slight lightening on my workload of being cute in front of Mama’s friends. There might have been more of an effect had I not been just at the age where I could be purchased matching dresses to Mama’s and considered a quaint little accessory, or had I not been precociously bright and already capable of singing a few rhymes in French, an accomplishment Mama was incredibly pleased with, and as such had to be show to absolutely anyone who called.

My first real memory- besides that of the corridor I took with the prettier nursemaid between my nursery suite and Mama’s favourite entertaining parlour- is of being on Papa’s boat- or rather, one of them, one summer, what must have been a couple of years later. Mama got atrociously sea-sick, so of course, I naturally declared sailing my favourite hobby, which persists to this day.

Governesses, the occasional day at the gallery, and summer sailing trips make up the next few years of my life- idle repetition that suited me just well, but which furnishes me with very few specific memories of this period, and even fewer of note. By this time it was becoming clear I hadn’t inherited my Mother’s beauty, so I was needed less and less to perform in front of guests- a role my mama instead chose to fill with the purchase of one of several lapdogs, as any woman who shows no sign of carrying another child does. She was still rather fond, however, of showing off my translations or my drawings or samplers, as I had proved very receptive to picking up accomplishments, but this required no effort on my part.

I must have been nine when I first showed magic- late enough to give my mother cause for concern that she might have not only had a plain daughter, but a squib at that, I am happy to report. Nevertheless, I did have magic, as much as I would have liked to have mortified her further, as testified when she refused to allow me to sail with Papa and I disappeared from beside her in her parlour half an hour later, and appeared instead on the boat.

I was very nearly twelve by the time September of 1872 rolled around and I was sent off to school, an exciting development for any young witch or wizard. As much as I loved my studies, and excelled at them, it was still a trying time. I had never been so far from home, nor was I accustomed to the lack of opulence the living conditions possessed. My homesickness was worsened with the arrival of Lana- a girl, I was reliably informed, who was already prettier than I. I can quite honestly say I had never eaten off anything other than silver until that point, nor was I used to so few courses or not being waited on. Heavens, that makes me sound like some insufferable and stuck up princess, but that’s how it was! Luckily, I formed the right friendships, though I never really got over the awkwardness of being taught around people who sometimes didn’t have enough to eat or who didn’t have the security I had.

That’s why, despite how much I loved my education, for accomplishments seemed the one way I could make Mama happy, I wasn’t put out to leave school after five years there, and instead transfer to a finishing school. They might not have stretched me academically, but they had a fine library and encouraged ladies to read as widely as possible so at they might be interesting, so I hardly suffered.

My coming out was the culmination of what I suspect my Mama had been working on since I was born. In the only way she knew how, she attempted to make up for my plainness- sheer decadence. I had not one, but three coming out gowns, one for my descent into society and my first dances with Papa and Charlie, another for the rest of the dancing, and a dress for the dinner, before I was then ushered back into my second gown for the rest of the dancing until eight am. The maids were frankly superb- they managed to change me into each dress, with a totally new hairstyle and set of jewellery, faster that even the most experienced farrier could change a horse’s shoe at a resting post, I’d happily wager. I was frankly overwhelmed with it all, and I still hear news of things that went on  at my ball that I wasn’t aware of, such was the sheer size of it. I am still disappointed I didn’t see the pegasus-vaulting or the ghost choir, but rather handily the newspaper devoted several spreads to a rundown of it the next day, which I was sure to read once I came around from the lack of sleep and my first indulgence of champagne.

Mama’s efforts weren’t in vain, and despite my appearance, within a few weeks the offers of marriage began- five in total for my first season. I daresay Papa’s fortune didn’t hurt in the slightest. The first, I cannot even remember his name, but it was common knowledge he was a dreadful drunk, the same vice also shared by the fourth. The second was a widower four times over, and a contemporary of my Grandfather, so he was out, and the third’s false teeth fell out onto the garden path whilst he was awaiting my answer, and he promptly left. For Australia, I believe, the only sensible place to escape such embarrassment. The fifth, in truth, I would have happily accepted- indeed, I was planning to, and I was sure we would have been happy together, had it not been for my Father’s urging, who suggested it would give Mama too much satisfaction if I was to wed in my first season, before I was even twenty. He was certain my suitor would renew his proposal the next year, and so I listened to him- a course of action I believe he regrets even more than I do.

I shall skip to my next season- after all, at that age, there was precious little of anything other of consequence in my life but the routine of balls and dinners, operas and teas. The winter season was called off by and large, thanks to a large snowstorm that even atmospheric charms couldn’t stop laying waste to the ice-ballrooms that had been constructed weeks in advance. I kept in correspondence with the fifth suitor through that winter, making it as plain as I could without saying as much that I fully intended to accept his second proposal. He even read Pride and Prejudice at my recommendation!

Come the summer, however, just when I had my heart set on marrying him, though I confess I was not in love, there came a set back. Now, I am a firm believer that, for whatever reason, by providence or God or by the laws of nature, we are all allocated our share of positives and negatives. My plainness was compensated for by my wit and intelligence, my mother’s beauty by her lack of any substance. Miss Eliza Longford, however, still stands as the one exception to my theory. She was, and still is, a beauty enough that society papers compared her to my mother, a comparison they had been kind enough to omit from my own ball article. She was also witty enough to keep pace with the philosophers of society, was accomplished beyond fair reasoning, rode like she had been born in the saddle, played four or five instruments and several other sports to boot- not to mention her art, which I am sure would have been enough to earn her a fortune on her own, nor her writing or poetry nor needlework- any petty but necessary skill had been mastered enough to turn it into an accomplishment. Needless to say, against such a woman, I stood no chance. I received two proposals that summer, and another in the winter, but sick with disappointment, envy, and self pity- and self loathing at how petty and like my mother I had become- my Father was kind enough to send them all away, despite his own desire to see me wed.

The next year brought only one proposal. Father was insistent I married him, however my Mama, against all odds, came to my rescue. She refused point blank to allow him my hand, regardless of the fact she technically had no say. My father had not expected such opposition- after all, Mama complained as much as he wished to that I was unwed- but even after bringing in her indomitable sister to side with him, with whom I doubt even the devil could argue, she would not budge. It must have been the shock of Mama holding an opinion for longer than a week that made Father relent and the man was sent away, saving me from having to make a decision and effectively choose a parent to spurn. It later transpired Mama had done me a great favour- not four months after, the man wed a girl three years my junior, and within two months, she was dead. His second heiress wife didn’t last much longer.
I hit twenty-two, and Mama was frankly frantic the next season. She doubled her efforts, purchasing at a very public auction some famous diamonds that then made their appearance at the next ball around my neck, and so did Papa, signing several very lucrative deals, and so by the end of summer and my twenty-third birthday, I had two more offers on the table. One was a fifth son and a notorious gambler, and so Papa dismissed him, but the second neither of my parents could find any reason that I might object to him. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe I could marry for love, however I proved my obstinacy that summer when I declined the man. In truth, I don’t think I had properly gotten over the bitterness over losing my fifth suitor, and perhaps I had resigned myself to spinsterdom. Papa and I argued for a full fortnight before he saw that I had his stubbornness, not my Mother’s, and that either he would have to relent, or I would have to be carried to the altar. I don’t even recall if there was any real reason I objected to the match, other than foolishness, but there it is. Papa couldn’t speak to me civilly till at least November, but it was done.

For the first time I could remember, we spent the winter away from Rhode Island, with a sibling of my Father’s. I spent what time I could spare from covering up Charlie’s actions either reading or just sat alone. I realised that I was never going to be happy whilst I was stuck at home, and whilst none of the suitors had been like the fifth, that didn’t mean that I might not have been happy with them, and that turning them away was achieving nothing. Other than forcing me to remain at home, that was.

The summer before I turned twenty-four saw no suitors. This, however, was because of my father. He was telling everyone that would listen about his upcoming expansion into Spain, and of the Spanish gentleman who would be visiting come the Spring. Papa had instructed me to learn Spanish, ostensibly so I could befriend the man’s sister, Isabella, who was a year younger than I, though even the dimmest of wits in society couldn’t fail to see the implication. I was resigned- both to learning Spanish, which I did, and to marrying this man.
Of course, it didn’t work out. It turned out that Isabella, though charming and of a temperament by no means dissimilar to mine, was not the man’s sister, but rather his wife. Even the offer of the delegate’s teenaged brother couldn’t stop Papa from announcing that he would not, after all, be expanding to Spain. Probably wise, seeing as I learnt not long after that Charlie would have been in charge. I dread to think of the runs on Spanish wine had he moved out there.

Very little time after the Spaniards left, I turned twenty-five- the age by which most unwed women resign themselves to the steady collection of cats and tasteless china. Papa, however, seems less than resigned, and so I am left in the position of both readying for my life as a spinster, whilst also having to prepare myself for him to throw me in the way of the next business contact he seems to favour.

OR A very brief timeline (which does not do my life justice in the slightest)
☞ 1860 | I am born.
☞ 1863 | Charlie is born.
☞ 1869 | My first sign of magic.
☞ 1872 | Lana is born, I start my first year at school.
☞ 1877 | I move to a finishing school
☞ 1880 | I have my coming out. Five proposals declined.
☞ 1881 | My heart is thoroughly broken, and decline three other proposals. Total count: eight.
☞ 1882 | One proposal, to which Mama protests. Total count: nine.
☞ 1883 | Two more declined. Total: eleven. We spent the winter away from Rhode Island.
☞ 1884 | No offers this season after Papa mentions the Spanish situation.
☞ 1885 | The spaniards come in late Spring, but it backfires for Papa. I turn twenty five, still unmarried.

Personality:

I am sure that Mama would declare personality to be entirely irrelevant, provided a girl is not insufferable and rich- and that enough money could even excuse that. If pressed to list my good qualities though, I suppose she would comment that I at least have wit and intelligence aplenty, and that I have accumulated every accomplishment I need. Papa’s friends are fond of saying that I am a lively and animated young lady, and I agree in the most humble way possible. I certainly am not afraid to hold conversation on almost any topic, and neither am I afraid to let my opinion be known- though I despair of girls who think that that means ramming their unsolicited thoughts without any consideration or manners down the throats of anyone in the vicinity. I suppose self-confidence and reliance may be considered brash by some of our European visitors, though I do keep myself in check far more than I am sure Lana will ever manage to do under Mama’s instruction. I think that my managing to keep Charlie’s nose clean points to me being responsible, but I doubt any lady in my position had ever really shouldered any sort of real responsibility for me to prove that- a shame, for I am sure I would do far better at the helm of the business than Charlie ever could!
Of course, our negative traits make up who we are as well. I am, as you can probably tell, rather embittered and hold grudges spectacularly. As much as I would like to think I am above it too, I take after my Mama in terms of pettiness, and have my Papa’s stubborn streak that would make the most obstinate oxen envious. I try to limit my self-pity when I can. I am also proud, though I do think that is one of the more excusable vices in a woman. After all, I am not stupid nor conceited enough to be afforded the privilege of the vice of vanity, so pride in my brains must be allowed.

Out of Character

Name: Jenny
Age: 18

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   Odira Potter

[Odira Potter]

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