e·lite
/əˈlēt,āˈlēt/
noun
noun: elite; plural noun: elites
a group or class of people seen as having the greatest power and influence within a society, especially because of their wealth or privilege.
• in which the darkness-loathing heiress meets t...
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August 1929
What is it about Irene and the ships?
The heiress could never understand her fear of the bulky vehicle even though she frequented it. At least once every three weeks. Country hopping is one of her favourite pastimes.
Her fear of ships came from the simple fact that the great big ocean and its mysteries were underneath this humming floating vessel. Who knows what could be in there? Humongous whales, slithering octopuses and what not. Waiting, ready to devour Irene, Isabelle and the rest of their party of five. Oh, and probably the other passengers too.
"You have got to stop," Izzie reached out her hand to grasp her older sister's wrist. "It's becoming too comical; Vicky's been taking photos of you jittering about ."
Irene shot a wary look toward the du Pont heiress, who looked away grinning, suddenly interested with the pelicans squawking above their heads. "I thought coming outside was supposed to be a breath of fresh air,"
"It just made me realize that we're in the middle of the fucking ocean with Jesus knows what swimming underneath." Irene hugged her knees close to her chest, resting her head on Aileen Guinness' shoulder. The latter put her head on top of hers. "You must be excited to be back."
The Grosvenor heiress shrugged, eyes turning into slits once she heard Isabelle snort. "Eh."
"Eh? That's it? I'm excited to meet this hunk of a blue-eyed man you keep on bragging about years ago," Doris shook Irene's shoulders, a smile spreading from ear to ear. The great-niece of J. P Morgan was indeed a romantic.
Irene rolled her eyes, heart filling with dread once reminded of that bastard of a man. "I never said that. I only said he's decent looking and extremely hateable,"
"With piercing blue eyes that can dig a hole through your skull." She grumbled not happily, biting at her lower lip.
"And he's married now." Tears bloomed between her lids, which she blinked away in panic. I don't cry; I never cry.
It was not untrue, though, the fact that Irene Grosvenor misses her fatherland. She misses the hustle and bustle of London city, she misses her family and friends, and most importantly, she misses her jewels. The powder blue and yellow Fabergé Irene got from her distant relative was also terribly missed. Probably collecting dust by now, as the heiress doesn't let just about anyone inside her rooms.
Irene shook her head slowly. The idea of being so attached to worldly possessions might be queer to the rest of the population but not to her people.
At least diamonds would never wring your heart dry. Or moan another woman's name as you suck the life out of them.
And pearls would never lay their hands on you in the most despicable ways.
