TWENTY-FIVE
FLAVORS |
of the
elegant |
RACHEL MOIRA
CORNER |
| happy • angry • sad • concerned • scared • anxious • embarrassed • hurt • determined • innocent • betrayed • regret • confused • jealous • traumatized • wary • drunk • flustered • bitchy • content • frustrated • stunned • muggle • family • pyo |
innocent
1966 spring
Her robes were scratchy.
She knew it was impolite to do so, and she was loathe to be impolite even away from her mother's uncanny eye, but Rachel had to pick at the skirts. If she did not this instant remove the offending crinoline from poking the backs of her very sensitive legs, Rachel thought she would go quite mad. Trying to remember to be inconspicuous, she wriggled just the tiniest bit, and nearly had them before a hand seized her small wrist and yanked it away.
"Arrête!" her mother snapped sharply in an aside, pushing the little hand firmly in its little lap before straightening and adopting her beatific smile for the rest of the company.
"Sabine," her uncle clucked from his place at the end of the sofa. "Let the child be." He granted Rachel a conspiratorial smile which she returned with a stony look. Her gaze turned wistfully to her father, who sat in another corner, immersed in business dealings with his associates all the way from Britain, much to the chagrin of their wives. Their strangely accented voices were a funny and harsh buzz to Rachel's ears when she could hear snatches of their conversation.
Rachel so wanted to love parties. The people overwhelmed her, and she quickly grew tired and bored, but she always had pretty robes to wear, even if they made her itch and she would fight to shed them later. For the first moment she put them on and looked in the mirror, a lovely picture always stared back at her. She knew it was lovely, since her mother would smile and say "Tu es ma jolie poupée, n'est-ce pas?" because she was a pretty doll in her lacy outfit with her perfect brown curls and little heart-shaped face, and she was adored in that moment. Even, her little childish heart started to recognise, if it was as a thing.
But what did it matter? For when she was paraded around the room, there would be delighted coos of "Elle est mignonne!" "Sabine, vous êtes doté!," and "Tu es un amour de fille, oui?" and everyone would smile down at her, which made her mother preen. Rachel knew that small moment was worth the fussing and dullness, because these shiny, glittering people saw Rachel as beautiful, and so did her Sabine.
Even with her pleasure in such a moment, however, she did not care for when they touched, as they inevitably would. The petting ruffled her curls and the patting on the bottom put her scratchy, painstakingly-arranged underskirts into uncomfortable disarray. But Rachel had learned it was rude to protest and so endured it quietly, watching such larger-than-life people with wide brown eyes, even when it was her tonton Vincent, who held her just a little too long and mussed her skirts worse than anyone.
As it was, few peers existed with whom she might play, and certainly there was no company for her that night. After an interminable length of time, her presence was surely disregarded by the all, save one set of eyes, and so she slipped off the chaise in the far corner and slunk off to the kitchen, where Mariette the puffskein had made a nest inside a cupboard, much to the displeasure of the house-elf. Laying down on her stomach, Rachel opened the door and peered in at the little ball of fluff, giggling when the long, slick pink tongue wrapped around her extended finger like a greeting. She stayed there, talking sweet, soft, childish nonsense to it, so rapt in her attention to the pet that she missed the figure in the hall slip quietly into the kitchen until the door slid shut behind them.
Rachel's stomach dropped at the idea of her mother discovering her like this, and whipped her head around in fright. When she saw the lean form of her tonton Vincent, her stomach did not return to its proper place, but the harrowing fear diminished. If she had to choose between her upset mother and her peculiar uncle, it would certainly be her uncle, though she didn't understand why he'd come to her just now. She eyed him uneasily from her place on the floor.
"Bonsoir, ma minette," he smiled as he advanced a few steps closer.
Ever polite, she inclined her head in a regal little nod that, even at the age of six, she'd managed to copy exactly from her mother. Sitting up, Rachel shut the door to Priscilla's nest and rose from the ground, wishing to be far away from the parlour, or the kitchen, or her entire house at that moment in time.
"You must be bored, ma petite, yes?" asked Vincent, switching languages as he dropped to a knee. Her consternation grew, as, imperfect though her understanding of English was, she knew she liked him even less when the whispered, guttural language fell from his lips. "I too tire of such old, boring nonsense." Rachel heard this with no small amount of scepticism, as she found tonton Vincent to be as old as any of the witches and wizards sitting out there, perhaps more, though he always liked to tell her how young he considered himself. "But we might play another game together, oui? It is always so much fun."
She did not much want to, particularly not with him, as his games were not the sort that she understood nor found fun. Yet again, it was rude to be so forthcoming with her elders, as she'd heard from her mother and father very often. But perhaps, if she asked nicely, he might take her back to her mother, having come to all this trouble to find her. After studying him for a long while with a wide, unblinking gaze, she neglected to brush her skirts off, not wanting to draw his attention to them, and ripe with trepidation, walked to him with a now-clammy hand extended for him to take. Vincent's delight was palpable as he reached for her, but just before their fingertips touched, a loud crack sounded beside them.
Hilly, Hiram's family house-elf, Apparated to the centre of the room, and her already large eyes grew at the sight of Vincent and her young mistress. After comprehending the scene, the house-elf the narrowed her eyes as much as a house-elf could. "Madame Sabine says time for bed," she issued authoritatively in her squeaky, broken French. "We will take your leave, Master Vincent."
She now held her own hand out for Rachel's, which the little girl hurried to without the least bit of hesitation. Something ugly flickered across Vincent's face and he flicked his fingers as if in casual dismissal, as though he commanded any authority in the household. With another crack, Hilly Disapparated with Rachel firmly in her grasp.
"But I'm not sleepy, Hilly," she protested in her low timbre once in her cavernous bedchamber. The drooping eyelids and listless stance betrayed the young girl, but the house-elf knew better than to point out such things. Instead, she now murmured sweet, high-pitched words to her; carefully undressing her from the fancy robes, nimble fingers undoing the intricate hairstyle with inhuman ease and speed, then fluffing the brown cloud free of tangles and knots. When she was in her chemise, Rachel half-climbed, was half-carried into the bed of downy covers where she lay her head drowsily on the voluminous pillow. "Hilly," she mumbled sleepily, "tell me a story."
The elf looked around uneasily, knowing there would be trouble if the madame sought fit to poke her head in to check up on her daughter. It was not a frequent occurrence, of course, but the Sabine did as she pleased whenever it best suited her. Not that Hilly was disloyal to her mistress, of course, never. But when her child lay so sweetly under the covers, breathing in that heavy, even way only half-asleep children managed, it was difficult to say no.
"Hilly will, miss, yes," the house-elf agreed, tucking the blanket under the little miss's chin. She thought a while, fussing with the pillows. "Once upon a time, in a—"
Rachel's eye opened in a squint. "Not Babbitty Rabbitty again, please."
Hilly blanched and nodded hurriedly, her high voice hastening to say, "Of course not, miss, Hilly would not!" And then continued after a moment, "Once upon a time, there was—" and stroked a pretty brown curl that lay across the pillow as her petite mistress fell stone asleep by the second sentence in the tale of the Fountain of Fair Fortune.
stunned
1977 spring
When her mother smiled, Rachel knew her life would most likely be destroyed.
Sabine would not, after all, risk the wrinkles if such an emotion could be contained. And meticulously bringing strife and upheaval to her daughter's life was a joy second only to returning home to her beloved France, so the emotion must have been great, indeed. Rachel glowered at the spotless china perfectly set before her in the parlour.
Hogwart's Easter break always meant a trip to Paris, always. And while Rachel had no immense love for her motherland, she had been allowed to bring Giada Vance with her on more than one occasion, which provided endless entertainment. She'd even let herself be excited as the girls concocted grand plans for their last year visiting abroad. Thus, imagine her shock and dismay when hardly a fortnight prior to the trip, she received a letter telling her they would be staying in England for the duration of her holiday. Naturally, then, she'd spend the week with Caradoc, but when she informed her mother of her plans, Rachel was told under no circumstances would she do such a thing.
Her infuriated owl demanding why garnered only a tepid response from her mother, with some rubbish about a cousin visiting at the manor. That need hardly precipitate the cancelling of an entire week scoping out the latest and most daring in Wizarding fashion or restricting her from an actual life, but Sabine was not to be budged. Inquiring about the identity of this audacious cousin, her mother had written that it was Mireille's son, Xavier, of course; how could she not remember? Even going so far as to say Rachel thought him quite handsome when she was younger.
Rachel resisted the urge to roll her eyes upon reading that response, certain it was untrue. While she quite adored Guy and alternated between flirting dangerously with Rupert and wanting to club him over the head, such as his visit this past winter, the eldest two had always rubbed her the wrong way. Xavier had been absent the last few years she had visited his family, working abroad. He was involved with international law, Rachel dimly recalled, and her mother's family continuously lauded him as being the protégé of some famed diplomat. Positively, insufferably boring, no doubt. The vague, uncomfortable impression he'd left on her of three or four years past did not bode well for the upcoming week.
Or so she had thought. The first time she saw him was during tea with her mother the day she arrived from school. When he strode into the parlour, impossibly tall and undeniably handsome, quite as if he owned the manor, she felt a flare of interest, and that perhaps she could find it in her to forgive, if not her mother, at least him for the demise of her perfect week abroad.
It had taken three minutes of conversation to retract every one of those thoughts. She had the uncomfortable impression that he was looking at her even when absorbed in his plate or her mother. The times he did turn his gaze on her, between the small smile constantly threatening at his lips and the eerie blue eyes, she felt exposed and slightly ridiculed. Rachel Englewood did not stand to feel either of those things.
Though their paths did not often cross beyond the afternoon tea, she continued to feel unsettled over the next few days. The way he would watch her, the innocuous comments he would make to her… Even when shut up in her room, she had the feeling he could see her.
When that next afternoon found Sabine on a social call, and Rachel all alone with Xavier, she prayed, actually prayed, for her mother to return to be a buffer. Not that he was awkward, not at all—the man was never at a loss for conversation, never without a witty quip or sardonic observation, much like her. He was perfectly decorous in every way, yet Rachel left every interaction feeling as though she had been slightly violated in a respect she did not care to remember.
Today, on day four, she had claimed a headache, providing for herself a neat little reprieve from his company. Not ten minutes after deploying the house-elf with news of her ailment, Sabine knocked at her bedroom door. Putting an immediate end to Rachel's ruse, she expressly forbade her from begging off the afternoon with only a few words.
"Je veux que tu le fasses," Sabine finished, with a steely shark's smile. "Pour moi." If that sinister upturn of the lips wasn't the kiss of death, the request to do it "for her" surely was.
With a sinking feeling, Rachel agreed, which was how she found herself headache-free in an armchair, critically overseeing the tea service (alone), when the wizard in question entered.
"Good afternoon, Xavier," she greeted smoothly. Rachel had hoped in the beginning that refusing to speak French would throw him off-kilter, but he seemed to hardly notice her efforts. In fact, he matched her in tones nearly as smooth and accentless as she fancied her own. She would have openly sulked, had she not been so baffled.
Indeed, he pronounced her name in the way of the British, with the hard 'ch' and had not dared kiss her on the cheeks beyond their first greeting. It was irrational, but the ease with which he wore the Englishman's robes grated at her nerves.
After the requisite small chat, Xavier briefly cleared his throat. She looked at him sharply, wondering if he was preparing to excuse himself. She'd seen him drink only one cup of tea, which was unusual, so perhaps he had an engagement for which he must rudely cut short this encounter? Her heart soared as she prepared a gracious response from the list in her head, nearly missing what he said next.
"Rachel," he began. "It has been a true pleasure to remake your acquaintance in these past days."
Blinking, she dropped the hand she'd been raising back in her lap while Xavier continued. "The graciousness with which you've received me, your clear intelligence, and—forgive me for being forward—but your… remarkable beauty have all truly spoken to the fascinating witch you've become. And which you can only continue to be as the years pass."
He reached into his front pocket and extracted a small, black, rectangular object with which he presented before her with some flourish. "And you would do me the very highest of honours by agreeing to be my wife."
She stopped breathing
Rachel froze exactly as she was in that moment, willing herself to have misheard his coolly delivered speech. By the grace of her upbringing alone, her eyes were not the size of the saucers they felt to her, but she had paled visibly and her throat was inexplicably dry. "Is that—" she said faintly, "—a ring? You're giving me a ring?"
When she was finally able to lift her eyes from the small black box, she saw his smile was patronizing, as if to a child. "Rachel, I think we both know this has been in the making for some time," Xavier murmured, gently.
No, no, it hadn't been, because surely someone in this household would have told her that they'd just casually signed her future away without so much as a cursory memo. Having not set eyes on her betrothed for four years and being immediately unable to recall his name when first told about him meant Rachel was, unequivocally, floored by this development.
"You can't be—proposing, I don't—"
Certainly there had been talk of it. Several severely inappropriate jokes from young-to-middling aged colleagues of her father's asking for her hand. A distant relative Sabine sometimes got it into her head to threaten her daughter with, oh too true. But it had never been such stark reality as a man she hardly knew, with the blessing of their families, holding a ring before her. Asking her to be his wife.
"I can't—" she mumbled dully, unable to pull her gaze from the object in his hand. "I'm—seventeen, I haven't even left school—" She was involved with someone. The thought of Caradoc had her heart pounding double.
"Rachel," he laughed, "we will not be getting married tomorrow. I understand it is a big adjustment; even I need some time to get used to the idea." Xavier set the ring down on the small table between their chairs and grasped her small hand with his large ones. "I would not have agreed to this lightly, especially if I did not think we were well suited. Certainly you must realise that."
Rachel most certainly did not realise that, and she wished she could yank her hand out from his. He had her at a disadvantage in every way, and she did not dare be unforgivably rude in his presence. Xavier was a very thin layer of velvet over a very sharp point of steel. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she swallowed, unwilling to meet his eyes. No, she watched in frozen alarm as his hands plucked the ring from its satin resting place and slid it onto her finger, where it made a perfect fit.
Naturally.
The satisfaction in his voice had her feeling that the deed had already been done. "I would be good for you, Rachel. I think, together, we shall be exactly what the other person needs."
When her senses finally began to re-awake, she shook her head. "Xavier, I do not—"
Stroking his thumb along her knuckles, his voice turned soothing. "I understand you are overwhelmed." Xavier's thumb seemed to slide right over her pulse point, and press. "Do not respond just yet. Take some time to think—to really think—about what this means."
With a flourish, he raised her hand to his lips for a kiss, then laid it down quite purposefully over the ring box. When he rose, he gave a slight, informal bow, and said, "And know I await your answer with bated breath."
Before she had the chance to do anything, before she could breathe, he was loping out of the room with an easy, almost predatory grace.
As soon as he had left, Rachel ripped the ring off her finger and threw it on the table as if it had burned her. But still, she could not take her eyes off the exceptionally tasteful, very to-her-style diamond that seemed to glint sinisterly at her. She could not agree to this. She would not agree to this, it was madness, and yet…
There was no choice. There was no "answer" to be awaited. Not when it had been a scheme already hatched between Sabine and tante Mirielle. As the severity of the situation struck her, there was laughter from the other room trickling in. The airy tinkle of her mother's carefully modulated laugh was unmistakable, and her hands suddenly balled into fists at the idea that Xavier and Sabine should be sharing in an amusement at her expense. Rachel could only imagine the charmingly condescending way he would choose to paint the afternoon, though she had no doubt her mother had kept a sharp ear on the entire conversation herself.
Yes, it was one of those facts of life. Anyone who said horizontal stripes were flattering was lying. A Parkinson would always host the best parties despite being the on the very fringes of acceptable society. And a smile from her mother meant Rachel's life as she knew it was about to end.
bitchy
1979 summer
Working for wages in a menial job was, as Rachel surmised it ought to have been, humiliating.
People always asking if they could see such-and-such in a larger size, expecting one to know if there was a new ship from this designer or that coming, and of course there was more stock of this particular item in the back—wasn't that the most logical place to display merchandise? Demanding service with a smile, but snapping a shipwitch's head off.
Rachel's already low opinion of the human race simply sank lower, and lower, until it went right through the ground.
Of course, the rest of the year seemed positively peaceful when compared to the summer rush of snot-nosed, snivelling school children and their insufferable parents who demanded robe fittings, alterations, discounts, and any number of other, impossible feats for Rachel to accomplish. She wanted to cheerfully murder anyone who caused the bell above the shop to jingle.
One of the new seventh years had actually pinched her bottom.
As if that wasn't demeaning enough, Rachel was far from proud to admit she had actually snuck into the back and remained there on several occasions when someone she was acquainted with came inside. As recent as last week, in fact, Madam Malkin had been irate with her, but most of the lecture had flown in one ear and out the other—it wasn't the first one she'd ever received, and Rachel doubted it would be the last.
Today was one of the days she was on her last nerve. Her feet were aching from standing and running around the whole day, not to mention that her back, never at its finest since Amissa, was screaming from her inability to sit down even for a moment. Though she'd re-touched her make-up and fixed her hair so not a strand lay out of place from her fashionable and mandated black bow, she felt paranoid the strain was plainly visible on her face for all to see.
She had only just begun putting away the ready-to-wear robes a group of giggling girls had just bequeathed her all over the dressing room floors when the bell jangled yet again. Stifling the urge to roll her eyes, Rachel glanced over her shoulder at the new customers.
Pretty, blonde, and wonderfully entitled, Winnifred Llewellyn was equipped with a large purse of galleons and a mind to spend them all as quickly and lavishly as possible. Accompanied as ever by the coolly beautiful Rebecca Corner, she'd set her sights on Madam Malkin's with an eye to a fancy scarf in the window display.
But upon entering the shop, it was not the pathetically small selection of couture which caught her eye, but the Titian-haired witch in black who efficiently folded a large pile of garments. Under the guise of browsing, Winnie's eyebrows pulled together in a frown as she studied the woman.
"Isn't that Rachel Englewood?" she drawled, dragging her fingers along the display of mannequins, shuddering at the thought of ever wearing something so off-the-rack.
Rebecca looked up distractedly from the hat she'd been eyeing, asking, "Where? Who?" Her eyes darted to where Winnie gazed. "I—suppose."
"I rather think it is," she said, tilting her head. "How curious. The last I heard of her, she'd been humiliatingly jilted." Winnie didn't bother to keep her voice down, though she spoke with the air of giving confidence. "I suppose her parents must have been so ashamed, they packed her off to stay with relatives until the shock blew over. But then," her voice turned questioning as she tapped a finger against her chin as if in thought, "that hardly explains why she's here. Perhaps it was that I heard her fortune had all been lost and she was forced to earn her living."
Winnie's expression was immensely pleased with herself as Rebecca laughed, though her eyes darted back to the witch by the back. She hadn't spared them a glance since they had walked in.
Noticing the same, Winnie's voice increased in volume. "Naturally, it's positively ridiculous what people were saying, about her being shipped off to some foreign nunnery after that incident with the Travers boy—do you remember that? Of course, I wouldn't be able to look anyone in the eye ever again, but she seemed—much freer with her liberties, than that."
While Rebecca was left to puzzle over the incident referred to, Winnie yanked a robe unseeingly from one of the shelves and strode forward with it draped over her arm before her friend could catch up.
"Winnie," Rebecca called cautiously, "I really—"
"Pardon me," Winnie said smoothly over Rebecca, turning her smug smile on Rachel, "I want a fitting for this."
Rachel, whose hearing had never been finer, lifted her head slowly from the pile of garments she was attending too and dragged them once over the blonde. "Of course," she said politely.
Reminding herself to keep her affect flat, as giving in to her scowl would mean giving in to her temper, which she could afford, Rachel studied the girl who preened in front of the three-fold mirror Rachel had directed her to, tossing her fluffy curls over one shoulder as she admired herself. She didn't for one second think Winnie had any intention of buying what she was being fitted for, but she couldn't very well refuse her.
"Arms up, please," directed Rachel, as the tape measure snapped out to measure shoulder width. Her face was vaguely familiar, but even with the name, Rachel was unable to place her. She wasn't sure which would annoy her more, knowing the gossiper or knowing she was infamous enough that vague socialites conversed about her. The tape measure slid to Winnie's waist and squeezed like a fist.
"Not so tight," she gritted, straining against the bind.
With her teeth bared in a beseeching smile, Rachel said, "I apologise." Flicking her wrist, the tape loosened and Winnie wiggled her shoulders slightly. Straightening, she eyed Rachel in the mirror and began her attack anew.
"I suppose you must find it very… liberating, being able to own your own keep."
Rachel murmured non-committally, but might have had a slip of the wrist when pinning the darts in the back of the robe.
"Ouch!" The blonde jumped and rubbed her hip balefully. "Have a care."
"I am dreadfully sorry, did that hurt? I seem to be all thumbs this afternoon."
Her crystal blue eyes narrowed sulkily at Rachel. "Well, it's no wonder you've been lowered to a shopgirl. If you can hardly manage something as simple as a fitting, it's a surprise you weren't disowned before this."
Rachel's jaw clenched audibly before the tape slid up to measure bust size. Then, quick as lightning, a sorrowful expression overcame her and she sighed heavily. "There have always been, and I imagine shall always be, those unfortunates who have nothing more worthwhile to do than gossip about their betters."
Winnie began to turn around, clearly of a mind to give Rachel a stinging piece of hers, but Rachel pulled the measuring tape tighter around her chest, effectively trapping her.
"You see," she said coolly, meeting the blonde's slightly wild eyes with her own flat ones in the mirror before them, "we of impeccable breeding and substantial wealth are rather like those who walk on a tight-rope." Rachel leaned in closely so she could speak softly, smiling pleasantly, in her ear, "We simply do not notice that which is beneath us."
An ugly red flush spread across Winnifred's pretty, pointed features, and when the tape measure dropped from around her, she jerked away as if she'd been burned and tossed her perfectly curled mane to the side as her gaze landed on her wide-eyed friend.
"Come, Rebecca," she snapped, jerking the fastenings of her pale blue cloak around her. "I believe Twilfit and Tatting's would suit us far more than this banal place. I fear the selection—and service—to be cheap and tasteless as ever."
Expressionless, though there was a hard set to her brow, Rachel watched the pair hasten out of the store, with the tape measure and pincushion still clutched in her hands.
"I believe the Madam would have something to say about that little display," she heard a voice say behind her. Turning, Rachel arched an eyebrow defiantly at Mira Jasper, whose arms were folded as she watched the two girls flounce down the street. A little smirk tugged at her lips. "Such a shame she wasn't here to see it."
With a vindictive little smile of her own, Rachel dropped the pins and tape on the velvet stool and turned to adjust her bow and smooth her skirt in the mirror. She waited until Mira disappeared into the back once more before finally letting her shoulders fall.
flustered
1980 winter
Rachel Englewood was in a panic. This was perfectly unacceptable, because Rachel Englewood did not, in fact, panic. She was the coolest in cool temperaments. She scorned people who allowed themselves to become frazzled with the daily minutiae of their dreary lives. And while her life was in no way dreary, it still seemed that, today, this attitude felt the full ire of karmic retribution. Because today, Rachel Englewood was in the hottest of hot panics, because she was getting married in nine days, and because then her life would be over. Everything was a disaster. Everything was a dramatic, panic-ridden disaster.
This, of course, meant she had no wish to see her fiancé. She'd specifically told the house-elf that Gabriel Lawrence Corner was persona non grata in the Englewood household, yet somehow managed to be browbeaten into seeing him. Rachel made a note to give a good, strong reprimand to Hilly, which, while appeasing her for the moment, but did nothing to solve the problem that was the man presently standing before her. Whom she was pointedly (or doing her very best impression of pointedly) ignoring.
Intuiting he should tread lightly, which further exasperated her, Gabriel politely began, "I believe we had dinner arrangements for last night; I was sorry to see your acceptance rescinded."
Rachel made no comment, barely flicked a disinterested look in his direction. He was undeterred.
"Then, as you may understand, I felt some unease when the owl I dispatched last night went unanswered." He paused. "And again this morning."
"Did you not think I had no wish to speak to you, then?" she snapped, unable to help herself. But no, that was good, fine! It was imperative Gabriel understand she would not be pushed around.
Uncertainty flitted across his expression. Then he thought better of it, and Rachel could literally see his own resolve harden. "Rachel, if you have concerns, I wish you would voice them to me. I did mean it when I said I wanted to help in whatever way I am able."
It bothered her more that she sensed he meant it in earnest. Rachel, however, had no intention of burdening him with her doubts, insecurities, etc. They were for her own private pondering, and if her subsequent behavior happened to interfere with his expected plans, he would either learn to overcome or leave her alone. Re-affirming that her affairs were her own, she looked haughtily away into the fire place.
"Have you not considered what a tremendous mistake we might be making?"
Blast! She breathed aggrievedly through her nose. It bothered her most that he tricked things out of her in such a way.
"It's not a mistake," he immediately replied. Then, perhaps he sensed her preparing to argue, perhaps it was to convince her, or perhaps even himself, he moved toward her. His hand slipped around her waist, the other cupped her jaw, and without hesitation, he kissed her soundly.
For a moment, Rachel froze. In nearly two shaky months of courtship, they'd hardly touched because she wordlessly forbade it. A dance here and there, yes, of course. But she danced with grandfathers; it was hardly the same thing! Once, she dimly recalled, he had kissed her hand in jest when saying good-night. But never, not once could she have conceived this. In fact, one might go so far as to say she had done her level best to ensure she did not ever. And yet, tentatively, her hand stole to his cheek in a ginger caress, unaware she was rising up on the tips of her toes.
As suddenly as it had begun, it ended. Rachel kept her eyes closed for a moment after their hands slid back, too lost for words and too mindful of her unsteady heartbeat, her uneven breath. Slowly, they fluttered open to find him watching her with a strangely tender air that at once disquieted and calmed her. Gabriel once again raised his hands to gently turn her around to the window of the estate.
"See that?" he mused quietly in her ear. "First day of winter, and more snow on the way. Strange for this time of year, you know. Even we can't always predict the weather, though one may prepare for it. And once done, might even find enjoyment in the occasional unexpected and unknown of the phenomenon." He let the words hover, slowly slink in. Stepping forward as he angled her back toward him, Gabriel repeated, "It's not a mistake."
She lowered her eyes and her gaze reflexively slid to the window, studying the view. Studying him, though she tried not to show it, nor the fact that he had rendered her completely and utterly speechless.
"Not a mistake," she echoed, pressing her fisted hand against her heart.
anxious
1983 summer
Crack!
With a hoarse shout, Rachel shot up in bed, hopelessly twisted in the covers. For a moment, she wondered what had woken her so horribly this time, but the rumble of thunder brought the answer swiftly as she leapt out of bed and choked back a scream.
It was the first thunderstorm of the summer, and it was a nasty one. Rachel enjoyed a summer drizzle as much as the next person, but thunder and lightning storms had just about terrified her ever since she could remember. Which, granted, was not the best application of the saying to her person at the moment, but it was true. She didn't know why they should distress her as thoroughly as they did, but her clammy palms and rapidly racing heartbeat could not be denied. When a tree branch scraped noisily against the manor's façade, she was startled into scurrying out onto the landing.
Not a sound from within the house greeted her, which Rachel surmised meant everyone, including her two-year-old son, was weathering out the storm much more graciously than she. Were it not an ailment of old that seemed fairly impossible to deal with, she might have bristled at that.
As it was, she hurried herself off to the kitchen, thinking a cup of something hot would quell her nerves and warm her up, as all she was dressed in was her nightgown. It was also, she noted with intense distaste, the only room in the house that did not seem entirely composed of windows. No, it had merely one immense window (more of a wall of window), but as safe havens were currently lacking in this horridly constructed manor, it would have to do.
She opted not to summon the house-elf, thinking a pot of chocolate was easy enough to prepare herself. Yes, surely this was just what she needed to soothe herself, something warm to drink and all would be right once more. Or, as right as they could be. But as soon as she reached for it, there was a blinding flash of white that had her rearing back.
Rachel clutched the mug tightly between both hands and screwed her eyes closed as the thunder began to rumble. If she breathed very calmly and deliberately in and out ten times, surely these feelings of dizziness, palpitations, and cold sweats would dissipate. She did it once, twice, drew in her breath for a third one, and—
"Couldn't sleep?"
Her exhale was more of a strangled shriek as the mug dropped and she whirled around, clutching at her chest.
"I'm sorry," Gabriel threw up his hands tentatively, "I didn't mean to frighten you."
Rachel scrutinised him suspiciously for signs of laughter or mirth, but he looked only serious and the tiniest bit contrite. It was difficult to decide if that was better or worse. She considered lying to him that he hadn't frightened her, but the shards of mug on the floor and her still heaving bosom (not to mention her ungainly shriek) probably belied her true state. How positively wretched.
"It's of no consequence," said Rachel as smoothly as she was able to, brushing her hands down the skirt of her nightdress. Striving for a very blasé tone, she asked, "Why are you awake?"
Rather than pointing out to her that he had essentially asked the same question first, Gabriel tugged at the knot of his dressing gown. "Not very tired, I suppose." He then glanced to the south-facing wall, the one which was really more of a giant window, and added, "The storm is rather difficult to sleep through, as well."
Oh, could she relate. As if the drilling of the rain on the roof or howling of the winds (which of course then made trees scrape menacingly against the walls of the manor) weren't bad enough, the lightning cracked again, the subsequent thunder rumbling causing her to flinch despite her best intentions.
Opening her eyes again, Rachel thought it would be best to keep moving in an effort to mask the persistent quivering of her body, but she saw Gabriel already flicking the broken mug into the rubbish. The mug that had been for her pot of chocolate which she no longer felt like brewing, so all that was left for her to do was twiddle her thumbs and pretend she wasn't staring at her husband.
The tension between Gabriel and she was still palpable, but it had taken on a curious form since the incident at Bertram and Bianca's wedding. In fact, there had been six such similar incidents since then, and if she were remembering correctly (and oh yes, she was), the last one had taken place in this very room, during Michael's birthday some ten days prior. While she intellectually still thought of him as a stranger, it was becoming clear to her that their bodies were very intimately acquainted, puns and double-entendres entirely intentional. At the very least, the idea made her wonder what their marriage had been like before The Accident. With her sleeping in the guest bedroom and Gabriel sleeping in Michael's room, the idea of finding out had never been an issue.
Which was a bald-faced lie, because she wanted her hands on him badly, and the strength of that longing shocked and rather scandalised her. Yes, fine, she was a scarlet woman of yore, but never once had she felt so strong a yearning with so little provocation. Just looking at him, honestly, was rather doing it for her presently.
Harlot, she was such a harlot.
She needed that chocolate now, Rachel decided suddenly. She had to be doing something with herself. Just standing there, watching him politely not watching her, was too much. She reached for a second cup, entirely too wrapped up in her panicked thoughts to keep herself braced for the storming. When sharp white light illuminated them with another crack, she jumped with a yell and felt her grip on the mug loosen. She waited for the crash, praying she didn't step on any shards, but no sound came. Startled, she opened her eyes in time to see Gabriel straightening and placing the mug back on the shelf, perfectly in-tact.
"It's all right," he told her cautiously, stepping closer with his hands toward her, as if calming a spooked animal, which wasn't as far from the truth as Rachel would have liked. She eyed him miserably, frozen in place, until she felt his arms wrap around her. The thunder boomed, and she startled a little as she clutched him, feeling him grasp her tighter. "Nothing's going to happen," he whispered in her ear.
The next thing she knew, they were kissing, fiercely. Number seven, she managed to think. She wondered if it was lucky. Each one had been different, and each had shaken her more than the last, the scariest having been just a simple peck on the lips one day when Gabriel seemed to have forgotten himself. Just the… the implied intimacy of such an action, the inherent right to touch so casually, to have so clearly made a mark on one another with the smallest of kisses, terrified her. But also thrilled her.
This kiss, though, it was all urgency and need, demons she was more than familiar with. Rachel's back bumped into a counter, and she hadn't even realised they'd moved. Barely breaking apart, she was boosted onto it, and they resumed feverishly as she fisted her hands in the silky material of his dressing gown and pulled him as close to her as she could manage.
"Rachel," he said hoarsely, when they finally had to relinquish their suffocating grip on one another, desperate for air. Touching his forehead to hers, Gabriel tightened his hand cupping her face infinitesimally. "Be sure." His voice wasn't pleading, but she understood its desperation, its longing, because it was all the things she was feeling as well. For the first time since she'd seen him in the hospital, he looked real to her, like he was as fragile and easily broken as she so often felt she was. Like he would be selfish and take only because he wanted or needed. Like he could no longer maintain that impenetrably polite façade where he need make no demands of her, needed nothing from or of her.
Perhaps it was that vulnerability she needed so desperately to see, perhaps it was their burgeoning, precarious, tentative relationship re-forming its once-strongholds, perhaps it was simply the inevitable, but her hands released his collar and slid up to his face, which she guided back to hers until their lips met, so she could kiss, and kiss, and kiss him.
"I am," she whispered. "Just take me. Please." She would beg if she had to.
But she didn't need to. Gabriel seemed just as at sea and searching for a life-preserver as she was, and they wrapped themselves up in one another.
And suddenly, there was no storm. No fear, no worries, no drowning at sea. Just them. Just a beam of light that seemed to cut through the darkness, like a light in a tower, and a feeling that was startlingly like coming home.
