My Lady Magdalene

The gravel crunches underfoot as you make your way up the drive. The sky overhead is overcast, with little ladders of light descending from the heavens. It smells like rain.

You check the time. Perfect. As intended, you've arrived fashionably late.

A doorman approaches as you carefully store your time-piece in your purse. It was a gift from your grandmother, and you're loathe to tarnish it. Besides, your brother would give you hell if you chipped this piece of memory.

The doorman gives you a stern look. "Lady Ardenwall. You're late."

Playfully, you tap him on the shoulder with your fan. "Only fashionably so, Finnick. Now, be a dear and announce me please."

Finnick scowls, the tips of his greying mustache drooping, but he obligingly ushers you through the door, and down a familiar marble hall. A magnificent carpet muffles your footsteps, and from the walls the portraits of the family look down at you. You, however, have learned to be immune to their judging looks. A door to your left is slightly ajar, and this is the one Finnick opens, bowing you through. "Lady Ardenwall."

A group of women is already assembled in the room, sitting primly on the arranged furniture and sipping delicately from tea cups. The majority cast you disapproving looks as you enter, pointedly ignoring you and returning to their previous conversation. You remain unruffled by this: you only have eyes for Magdalene.

She sits on one end of a large sofa, the other side of which is taken up a large blond prima dona whose name you have never bothered to learn. The prima dona is talking loudly, causing both herself and her listeners to burst into laughter often, except for Magdalene, who only offers up the simple smile. She is wearing a simple blue dress, prettily layered with a large white sash. Matching ribbons have been woven into her tightly coiled hair, pulled up in a twirl away from her face. Some strands have broken loose, and they float about her head, dark little wind currents.

There is a mix of skin tones and ethnicities among the women, and while Magdalene is not the only black woman present she is by far the darkest.

Magdalene meets your eyes across the room, and her smile widens. She scooches over the the sofa, and you take your place beside her, intertwining your fingers behind the folds of your skirts. Magdalene ducks her head, flushing slightly, her eyes glinting mischievously up at you from under her lashes. Her eyes are blue, the deep resonant blue of a lake, and you are taken away once more by how beautiful she is. She leans closer to you, her thumb tracing a small circle on your palm. "I almost thought you weren't coming."

Her breathe tickles your neck, lighting up a string of fireworks inside you. "What," you whisper back, "and miss a chance of seeing you? Never."

She flushes in delight, then turns back to the prima dona's story. The loud, rambunctious voice rambles on; something about a husband, and a lawyer, and a jewel thief. You quickly lose interest, and help yourself to some biscuits. The woman sitting across from you, a red-haired bespectacled woman, purses her lips.

"And what happened to you, that you arrived so late, Lady Ardenwall."

"Only fashionably late, Mrs. Constance," you quip. "Something personal came up, I'm afraid. I'd really rather not go into it."

This is in fact the truth. While you do make a habit of showing up to all events fashionably late, this time it was slightly out of your control.

Mrs. Constance raises her eyebrow at you, but does not push it. You suppose you should be grateful, but all you really want to do it smash her glasses on the floor. You'd promised to enjoy yourself, and now she had to go and remind you why.

You take a ferocious bite of an eclair, unintentionally spurting cream onto your dress in the process. You curse under your breathe. Mrs. Constance's eyebrow has risen even higher into her hair. You stand, and the women turn their heads your way, eyes lighting instantly on the stain down your front. "Well ladies," you say grandly, "I'm afraid I must excuse myself for just a bit. Please, continue on without me."

The room is silent as you exit, making your way to the wash-closet at the end of the hall. You close the door with more force than necessary and begin to clean yourself up. Stupid Mrs. Constance. Stupid Mrs. Constance with her probing tendencies and disregard for human decency. Stupid Mrs. Constance for reminding you of all you want to forget. Stupid Mrs. Constance.

You rummage around in your purse, and your fingers alight on the little time-piece. Carefully you withdraw it. It's a pocket watch. The body is gold, engraved with a pattern of marigolds, and there is a tiny fob that hangs from it with a matching flower on the end. You run your thumb over the engraving, the pleasing grooves of the petals, and pop the time piece open. Inside, you've stored a tiny portrait of Magdalene. She's smiling, a small sweet smile, and looking straight at the viewer. It's not a great rendering; you had it done by a rather bedraggled street artist one day when you and Magdalene had gone for a walk in the park. She had laughed, and said it was silly, and that she hated having her portrait done, but you'd talked her into it. It's little more than a sketch, and the end result is slightly flat, but the eyes are correct. They are laughing out a you, happy and loving and contend. Your vision blurs.

Your brother had confronted you this morning. He'd held out the watch, the little picture exposed, and asked you to explain it. You told him it was private, that he shouldn't be going through your private possessions, that'd he'd overstepped a boundary and should apologize. Besides, it was a sketch of a friend, what was wrong with it? He said there were rumours. He said you were a disgrace to the family name. Did you know what you had done to his reputation, how hard it would be for either of you to find a partner now? Did you have no regard for the difficulty you had put him in? He had depended on you marrying well to help deal with the family debt. You told him you never wanted to marry, and snatched back the watch. That was when he slapped you. It had been so painful, so unexpected, that you had fallen to the ground. You were too surprised to cry. He'd stalked from the room, turning only once to offer up his ultimatum: "Either you part ways with this woman, or I send you to a convent."

"Ariadne?"

A gentle voice, a gentle hand on your face wiping away your tears. You turn, and find that Magdalene has followed you. Her blue eyes are filled with concern.

"Ariadne, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," you say. "Nothing. Just a bit... overwhelmed, is all."

You press her hand to your face, and kiss her palm. She smiles, but her eyes are troubled. "Talk to me."

You kiss her instead, pressing your lips to hers in an attempt to blot out the world. She gives a startled hum, then sinks into you, and she smells like flowers and comfort and home. You kiss her long and deep. Your lips part, pulling away, but she presses you back to her, running her hands through your hair, and you never want to let her go.

"I love you," you whisper into her mouth, then plant it in little kisses along her jaw. She giggles

"I love you too."

"Here." You press the watch into her hand. "I want you to have this."

She holds it gently, fingers running along the grooves admiringly. Then she opens it and gasps. "The portrait in the park!" Her eyes find yours. "I can't keep this."

You fold her fingers over the time-piece, closing the lid and pressing her hands to your lips. "Please. It's a gift."

"Then I must give you something."

She pulls a ribbon from her hair and ties it around your wrist. "There. For until I can get a portrait of you."

You smile and kiss, but your heart is heavy.

"I'm moving away soon, Magdalene."

She blanches. "What?"

"To the country. My brother is sending me. A...," your voice hitches, "a convent."

She looks at you. She doesn't cry, she doesn't yell, she doesn't ask you to explain. She just looks at you, and her eyes pull at you, devour you, her eyes take all the actions her voice does not. Her lips are loosely parted.

"I'll come with you," she whispers.

"You can't," you reply. "You have a reputation. Prospects. A future here. Family."

"Not without you."

"I'll write," you reply. An offer that will never be enough, can never fill this void you've created.

A tear slides down Magdalene's cheek. She closes her eyes, breathes deeply, a tremor in her chest. "Why are you doing this Ariadne?"

You bit your lip. She's so beautiful, standing before you with a little river down her cheek, her hair escaping its confinement, the asymmetry of the ribbon. You press your lips to her forehead. Magdalene lets out a quiet sob as you pull away.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. There's so much more to say. How you should have been more careful. It's your fault you're being sent away. Your brother's ultimatum. How you had to see her this one last time. How it would never have worked out anyway. How much she means to you, how she lights up the room when she walks in, smelling of flowers and sunshine. You'll miss her. Her lips on yours, her fingers on your skin, her presence, her laugh.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, and your voice cracks.

You leave the water-closet, ignoring the tea room where the prima dona is still prattling on, and exit onto the gravel drive. You ignore Finnick. You ignore your coachman as he tries to help you on board. You ignore everything, blotting out the world. Trying to forget your final image of Magdalene, a river princess, standing forlorn in the dim water-closet.

You bring the ribbon to your nose, inhaling the scent of her.

Flowers and sunshine. Comfort and home.