Chapter Five
December came and I found myself staying in a handsome room with dark wood panelled walls and white cornice moulding inlayed with ivy and leaf patterns. It was a room at the Nott mansion in Lyme, where they had decided to remain until the next summer season, having found such love for the small village that they could not bear to part with it yet.
The bed hangings and adornments were dark blue, and the other accents of the room were deep tawny brown à la the leather of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace. It was here where I finished Pride and Prejudice in secret, as my father's interest in my idleness was increasing steadily. I was perfectly in love with Lizzie Bennet, and half in love with Jane Bennet too, and as they were hardly real people, I had nowhere to place these newfound affections.
It was a cold winter morning when everyone took a carriage to the cliff walk nestled along the sea. We explored with blankets and warm apple cider, cocoa, and coffee. I folded a tartan patterned blanket over my shoulders and stood at the uppermost ledge, watching the waves crash against the high cliff and roll into a white spray.
Swaths of clouds extended over the rolling horizon, their white tips stretching up into the sky, and it was almost eerie, as the layer below the white tufts of cotton were murky and greyish green.
We should expect sleet or snow, I thought idly, as I watch them move slowly toward the shore.
As I stood there, a small figure appeared at my side. I had not heard her arrive over the cacophony of waves.
Miss Marianne Nott was home from school for the holiday. She was covered in a green and silver blanket with small serpents embroidered on each folded corner. She made it herself, I presumed. Her dark hair was down her back in soft waves to keep her warm, a scarf crossed over her throat and spread out across her front over the top of the blanket, and she wore black fur lined gloves on her hands, which she tucked into her the folds of fabric around her.
Her eyes were dark, much darker than her older brother's, and a dotting of freckles were across her face along the bridge of her nose, and as she was often very active, her cheeks were pink from the exercise of walking and dashing about.
I turned to see where the rest of our party were, and they were spread out in small groups at various ends of the cliff walk, and so we were alone together for the first time in our lives.
"Why do I feel such a strange urge to jump?" she asked me suddenly, "Is that normal? I know I would die, and yet I imagine for a moment, it would be an excellent sensation."
I looked at her sharply, but when I realized she would not really jump off the side, I relaxed. "It's a common sensation. My mother has explained it to me before."
When she looked up at me, with her fine brown eyes and eager expression, I felt myself unable to explain such a macabre subject to her in more detail, and faltered in my musings.
"Shall we walk back to the village?" she offered instead, noticing my uncertainty, "There is a bookstore I wanted to visit. I must get Theo one last present before Christmas."
I held out my arm for her to take and walked her away from the ledge. There were a series of concrete steps from this ledge to the plateau of grass where, in the summer, families would come to sit with blankets and baskets of food. In the winter, however, it was a vacant and dead lot we had to cross to go down the sloping hill toward the village.
I took the first wide step down, a ledge that dropped off about three feet, which led to the series of other steps like them. I offered to help Marianne from the highest point. Obliging me, she let me lift her by the waist and place her down onto my step and then we turned and continued walking. She, laughing brightly, dashed away from me to the concrete steps and began to jump them two at a time.
"Miss, perhaps you should be careful," I called uneasily, "I could escort you safely…"
No sooner had I said those words than she tripped over her blanket, which had unknowingly unravelled along her shoulders and swung just beneath the hem of her dress. She fell forward, her arms lost and swimming in the fabric about her torso, so she could not catch herself. She tumbled, down one step and then another and another, and I heard the loud crack of her skull against the stone slabs and knew at once that she was dead.
I ran down the steps after her. Soon, I reached her pitiful body, which had fallen like a helpless doll to the very bottom to the knoll.
I saw blood pooling from a wound at the top of her head and down her forehead. I took a deep, ragged breath into my lungs.
"Marianne!" I exclaimed, crouching at her side.
I turned her over by the shoulder timidly. Her eyes were glassy and uncertain, but she was alive. She gave a shuddering breath, and stared at me blankly. Her blanket had unravelled like yarn from her body on the steps, and she began to shiver at the exposure of the cold, so I pulled my own from my shoulders and wrapped her in it.
"I am going to take you home," I told her, "And fetch a Healer for you."
She nodded, a quick dip of her chin, and winced in pain at the effort.
Unceremoniously, I placed my arm around the middle of her back. With the other, I moved her legs together and lifted the fabric of her dress so that I could reach the back of her knees and lifted her up from the ground. Their mansion was not far, only on the other side of the village and up a steep hill, but I would not be able to walk without causing her further injury, so I Apparated with her to the border of their property and stepped across the front lawn to the door.
I kicked the front door hard and waited. Her maid swung it open and gasped. Ordinarily, a lady's maid would accompany her on any outdoor adventure, but Marianne's took to the cold too easily. She was the daughter of a lower ranking family, and it was common that women like her made their way as governesses or maids until they secured a husband.
"Call for a Healer," I commanded, as I stepped into the foyer.
"Yes, of course, sir," the maid said, and she ran to the parlour to fetch the Floo Powder.
I went to the parlour after her and placed Marianne's delicate body onto the couch. The maid was leaning into the fire, calling for a Healer urgently. I remained in the room long enough until a Healer called at the door, and the maid went out to direct them to the parlour. Then, I sat on a bench by the main staircase while the Healer inspected Miss Marianne Nott, and her maid went out to fetch the rest of the family.
However, she returned alone, and shutting the front door behind her, she pulled her cloak from her shoulders and spoke. "I spoke with the family, Master Malfoy, and they said they would return within a few hours. They wish to complete their outing, and then they will see in on Miss Marianne."
"Not even her mother?" I asked, my voice turning to a sharp, crisp line of suspicion and judgement.
"No sir, and I assured her quite well that Miss Marianne did not look near death," the maid replied, "Only that she looked a little dazed, and Lady Nott assured me would come soon, but said so long as Marianne was not to die, to leave her be. I was told you could go back with them, should you wish, sir."
I felt the sting of their coldness at their daughter's injury more than I believe the maid did, as she seemed quite accustomed to such a thing. She went up the stairs after dismissing herself to me, to go back to her stitching or making up beds, or whatever it was maids did while their lady was stricken in the parlour.
That said, I remained until the Healer came out and shut the door behind him, and then I stood up from the bench and approached.
"How is she?" I asked.
"Sleeping, Mr. Malfoy, and should not be disturbed," the Healer responded, tucking his wand into his black leather bag. "I have given her a draught for pain and healing. I should say her worst affliction will be her bruised ego, no doubt, but her flesh and bones are quite intact, as well as her mind. I doubt she'll be prone to fits of hysteria from this."
No more than usual, I thought, recalling the way Theodore had described her.
"Very well, thank you," I said.
He nodded and left, and it was not long before the door closed that I heard him Apparate. After a few moments of deliberating, I left the house once more and walked to the village alone.
I found the bookstore Miss Marianne Nott had wished to visit before her fall, and I quickly stepped under the eve of the roof and opened the door.
A bell sounded above me as I came through. The store was small and old, with natural wooden shelves that scaled halfway up the wall. There were smaller, mismatched darker wooden shelves around the store front as well, and small tables with books piled onto them. As I looked around at the few who were there, I seemed to see a strange amalgamation of people, some of whom were obviously witch or wizard, and some I was not certain and may have been Muggles. Neither party seemed bothered by the other.
I was somehow, quite luckily, obscured from either in my plain suit, capable of blending with either party. Quietly, I made my way around the shelves. The room was organised by type and genre. The first section I veered off to was magical; there were numerous titles and authors I recognized, points in history I knew of, and so forth. I procured a novel for Theodore on Arithmancy, as his sister would be unable to do so, and then found myself on the other side of the room. I passed through into a back corridor and stopped short, staring at mundane herbs pressed under glass and small cuts of crystals on tables. There were novels on crystal healing, herbal medicines and other divinations. I poured through a small, thin book on herbs and closed it in disgust when it advised to use essence of lavender as a cure for lethargy.
"That's all Muggle magic," a voice said behind me, "We stock it for the Muggle borns interested in that sort of thing and to have a laugh, but the real stuff is in the main room…you are a wizard, aren't you? You look it."
I turned. A squat wizard in glasses was pulling a cart to the backroom. I placed the novel back on its shelf and nodded curtly.
"Yeah, go in the front if you're looking for real information on herbs," he said, and then with a pause he added, "But the herbs and crystals are still good to use, and on sale…"
I walked back toward the front of the store. As I crossed the doorway to the main room, I veered to the side of shelves I had not explored yet. The first shelf was filled with authors with the surname beginning with "A" and I stopped in my tracks as one name seemed to lend itself to my eyes over the others: Austen. Not only were there copies of Pride and Prejudice, but it appeared Austen had written other novels—I saw such titles as Northanger Abbey, Emma, and Sense and Sensibility. Reaching forward, I curiously plucked a novel from its place on the shelf…
"Lucius?"
I shoved the book back in its place and whirled around, my heart hammering in my chest. In my haste, I stumbled, and my shoulders hit the back of the shelf where Jane Austen's novels lived.
Miss Black was standing in front of me, holding a canvas bag overloaded with books. Her hair was tied into a chignon bun and she wore a long sleeve shirt with a tiny leaf pattern across it and black rimmed glasses perched somewhat crooked on her face. I could see the faint outline of her corset beneath the high-necked shirt, and her skirt was long a long, dusty sort of red with pleats.
"Miss Black," I replied, uneasily.
She cleared her throat and shifted the bag dangling from her wrist to her shoulder. "I had no idea you came here," she said.
"I am staying with the Nott's," I explained, "This is my first time."
"Well, you have discovered my secret source of power," she replied, her face suddenly twisting into a smile.
She crossed the distance between us and walked to the shelf I was leaning against.
"If you are looking for additional reading materials, I can help you there," she said, "If it is Jane Austen you seek, I recommend Persuasion—it's one of her shortest novels, to be sure, only two volumes, but it happens to be my personal favourite."
I twisted my shoulder away so that Miss Black could see the shelf and she pulled Persuasion from the shelf and placed it into my hands.
"What is it about?" I asked hesitantly.
Miss Black focused on the shelf but answered me. "It is about long-lost love. See, Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth were engaged to be married, but Anne is persuaded by her friend and mentor to break it off because Wentworth is not wealthy enough for her. When he returns to her social circle, she realizes that even eight years later, she is desperately in love with him."
"I see," I murmured.
"It's just exactly the type of longing that is both excruciating and sublimely felt," Miss Black continued, "In my opinion, it is a better love story than Pride and Prejudice—of course, Persuasion was written when Jane was well within her stride as an authoress. She knew what she wanted to write and so she wrote it. People discredit her novels with 'lesser' heroines like Anne Elliot when they compare her against witty Lizzie Bennet or sweet, well-meaning but oblivious Emma—and I do admit, there is much to love about Lizzie—but Anne Elliot feels like a real person."
"In my limited experience," I told her, "All of her characters feel real."
Miss Black looked at me with surprise splashed across her features and a cheerfulness in her eyes. "Yes, I have always found comfort in Jane. Her stories are rife with adventure and hardship, but she always, always gives her reader a soft ending. Like a protective big sister."
She shrugged her shoulders lightly as she handed me Mansfield Park and then stepped over to the next shelf, forcing me to shift away from her as she moved.
"Perhaps I only see it that way because I am the 'baby' of my family," she added, with a smile.
I turned the book over in my hands. She shoved Villette by Charlotte Brontë at me next.
"So, I assume by what you said before that you have finished the novel for this month?" she asked me.
"Yes," I replied.
"And?" she asked, "Are you enamoured with Elizabeth Bennet or Mr. Darcy more? I can never decide."
"Elizabeth, I should say," I replied, perplexed, as I had never considered I could like both.
Miss Black nodded her head and handed me more novels: a book of poems by Lord Byron, novels by Anne and Emily Brontë. I had little knowledge that there was more than one authoress by the name of Brontë, but Miss Black quickly educated me.
"And I think, or at least I assume, that you'll find solace in the Romantics," Miss Black rambled, as we went down the row of books, "So if you have Byron, you must therefore have Keats. I find Keats to be a better poet. Lord Byron could really stir up a frenzy, however, amongst both men and women, so there is that."
By the end, my arms were so full of novels that I could barely hold A Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde on the top stack of novels, but Miss Black seemed to take notice of this and dislodged part of the stack for me and held them in her arms. She walked to the front counter and placed them on top, and gestured I do the same.
The squat wizard who had the cart appeared and checked each book before pronouncing the total. I paid for them, and he placed them all in a canvas bag that widened magically to hold all of the purchases, and when he closed it, the bag returned to its normal shape.
I stood with Miss Black as she sold some of the items from her bag to the shop, and the wizard added it to her account for credit.
As we exited the shop, Miss Black turned to me. "There is a tearoom just down the way, perhaps we should seek some warmth before parting ways?"
Agreeing, we walked down the street and turned right. A storefront coloured teal was brightly contrasted against the peeling white and grey buildings, worn from salty sea air and age, but the tearoom was new and wedged between a butcher shop and a sailing shop. We crossed the street to the brightly coloured building and walked inside.
Teacups and saucers levitated in the air and spun around and around by themselves Ivy and wildflowers adorned the tops of every surface, the ivy curled in in on itself in a beckoning gesture. The employees wore flower crowns on top of their heads and brightly coloured robes of either cyan or pink.
We sat in a booth by the window. Miss Black ordered oolong and I ordered earl grey with lemon. In the matter of moments, the server brought our teacups and pots of tea and complimentary biscuits.
I watched Miss Black thread her fingers around her cup and bring the steaming liquid to her lips and softly blow before she took a drink. Her cheeks flushed immediately, and she cursed under her breath.
"You always do that," I remarked.
Grimacing, she blotted her lips with her fingers and put the cup down. "Excuse me? I always do what?"
"Drink before it is cool enough," I replied. I reached for the lemon slice and held it over my cup and squeezed the juice into the tea. "You're impatient and so you burn yourself."
"Perhaps you are too cautious," Miss Black replied.
"If I drink too soon and burn my mouth," I retorted, "Then I can hardly taste or savour it. In fact, I might burn it so badly I won't taste anything correctly for a day or so."
"Perhaps I am attempting to drink as quickly as I can to get away from you, Mr. Malfoy, have you ever considered that?" she asked.
I deposited the used lemon off to the side and chose a small teaspoon to stir and mix the lemon and the tea together. "If that were so, you would not have invited me in the first place."
"Well, polite compulsion is a feature of our society," she remarked, her lips twitching into a smirk.
She shifted back against the booth and placed her hands in her lap, seeming to oblige me on waiting to drink her tea. "May I make an observation, Mr. Malfoy?"
I replied, "I have never experienced a conversation with you where you did not give me your opinion, regardless of my asking after them."
"Very well," she said, "I have made several observations of your character today. I shall bestow this knowledge upon you to see what you think."
Timidly, I brought the cup of tea to my lips and drank. With my free hand, I gestured for her to continue. She smiled brightly.
"Well," she said, sitting forward on the table and folding her arms flat against it, "First is that you seem to be in much better spirits than usual. Granted, the last I saw of you was the night you were so drunk you could not stand, so clearly sobriety suits you."
I narrowed my eyes to slits and glared at her from across the table. She tried not to laugh.
"But I have noticed less rigidity in your countenance, and I wondered if you were so self-aware to notice them too. First, I see your hair has been left quite alone, in its natural state, and you are letting it grow longer than usual—it drifts down your chest now. And I notice there is a natural wave to it, so you must not be drying it with magic but allowing it to dry of its own accord. Am I correct?"
"You are," I replied mutely, with an annoyed expression.
She seemed pleased that I agreed with her. "And I see no horrible little cravat at your neck, nor a tie even!"
She snickered wickedly at this and I sighed and leaned back from the table. I played with the small lace cloth between the saucer and cup with the tip of my fingers.
"All of my observations come to one summarization," she announced, "You look decidedly less stupid."
"Narcissa!" I implored.
"And you have finally learned my name. I am impressed with your growth of character," she exclaimed.
She took her first reasonable drink of tea and eyed me smugly over the top of her cup as she took a drink without burning herself.
"I knew your name," I argued.
"Yes, but you never use it," she said.
"I should not," I replied, "It is very improper to call you by your first name. In my thoughts or out loud."
"Fuck propriety," she said flatly.
The words fell like stones in between us on the table for a long, pregnant silence until I laughed. This broke the tension between us.
"So," she said, changing the topic easily, "Tell me how your stay with the Notts is going."
I plucked a biscuit from the plate between us and broke it in half. "As well as can be expected. Everything is arranged and perfectly social and appropriate—well, there was Marianne just an hour ago, practically falling to her death on the steps at the cliff walk."
"Way to underwhelm a story," she replied, leaning forward to take the biscuit from my fingers and slip one of the halves into her mouth. "What happened?"
"She went dashing about the stairs, like an overexcited colt," I replied with an edge to my tone. I rolled my eyes and sighed. "And then naturally, she tripped, and fell down nearly every step to the bottom of the hill. I was certain she was dead."
"I take it you do not like Marianne?" Narcissa asked.
"On the contrary, I do not know her well enough to dislike her," I replied, "And after meeting you, I am not certain I know anyone."
Narcissa leaned back from the table as if I had insulted her, but she was smiling still, "What is that supposed to mean?"
"You introduced me to a secret all women in our society are apparently privy to," I accused her, "And then provide me with novels I have never heard of, but somehow they feel more life affirming than anything I have ever known. And I am supposed to go back to believing that every woman I know is a shadow of what you have exposed me to? I now question everything."
"Not all women know about the Moonflower society," Narcissa corrected, taking up her cup again, "Only the best ones, of course. But I am sorry, for ruining your experiences with other women forever."
"You should be," I retorted.
She sipped her tea and placed it back onto the saucer and prompted me back to the subject matter. "Anyway, Marianne had fallen?"
"Yes," I replied, "So I picked her up and took her home. Called for a Healer. Her maid went to fetch the others, and none came because she was not in peril. I admit I was surprised to find her mother was unconcerned with her daughter's wellbeing."
"It's a misnomer that mothers are nurturing by nature," Narcissa said, "Some are careless and cruel, but we place a great deal of emphasis on forcing mothers into this role, don't we? And when they disappoint us, they are vicious and undeserving of sympathy."
She finished her first cup and began pouring a new one from the white porcelain pot in front of her as she spoke: "Yet fathers are routinely absent, care little for their children, and take mediocre responsibility in rearing their offspring, and we excuse this behaviour. Perhaps Mrs. Nott is accustomed to Marianne's clumsiness. Perhaps she cares very little of it, or perhaps she cares a great deal but feels obligated to be hostess. We shall never know her thoughts because it is unlikely we think to ask her."
"I am continually left speechless by you," I admitted, "I never think about such things the way you do."
Narcissa shrugged her shoulders. "You have never been forced to think differently; your experience is the status quo, Lucius. Your perceptions are normal."
"Is your father very involved?" I asked, "I only wonder, because you mentioned..."
"On the contrary," she interjected, "My father, despite being a judge and very busy with his occupation, is doting. My mother too, I should add. Our parents love us very much, more than we often deserve. But they are also powerless against the rules. I should think my father would keep me unmarried and at home forever if he could."
I sighed. "Mine has become meddlesome; I am forced to find some occupation and soon, as he believes I am too idle, and then he will most likely begin the courting process. I must take a wife."
When the last dredges of my cup were emptied, she lifted the pot of earl grey off the warming plate with the small flame licking at the metal base and poured me more. I thanked her, and she added lemon, mirroring my actions from earlier.
"I presume clumsy and concussed Marianne is not at the top of your list?" Narcissa asked, smirking.
"Decidedly not," I replied, "Though she does look as I imagine Elizabeth Bennet would."
"Does she have fine eyes?" Narcissa asked, fluttering her eyelashes and turning her shoulder in flirtatiously.
Laughing, I said, "She does indeed, but Theodore has told me she is prone to hysteria."
"Well," Narcissa said placidly, "In her defence, men often think women they do not understand are hysterical."
"I will concede your point, having little experience in it myself," I told her.
"You will make a fine husband with words like that," she said, her cheeks flush pink with merriment and warmth from her oolong tea.
I darkened as I took a drink from my refreshed cup. "I suppose I will."
Noticing this shift in mood, she changed the subject again. "Do you have any idea of what you want to do for an occupation?"
"Not at all," I replied.
"I may have a suggestion," Narcissa said, "Government work is gruelling, but my father will eventually retire from his place on the Wizengamot, and I could talk to him about you taking over a position. Of course, with politics comes a great deal of society work. Men will constantly be vying for your vote and input. You become very powerful, but also very busy."
"Malfoys prefer buying their influence, not orchestrating it," I said, "I should take up some creative pursuit. Be a patron of the arts and donate a great deal of money toward a gallery or something."
"Academia is no doubt an occupation for a Malfoy," Narcissa said, after a slight pause to think, "If you have a desire to teach, I suppose you could."
"Too involved," I argued, "My family occupations are passive. My father would not approve."
"School administration, then?" she suggested, "All of the influence, none of the work."
I furrowed my brow. "That might work, perhaps as a governor over Hogwarts. I could write academic policy without enacting it. This would keep me busy enough to suit my father."
"But not so busy you cannot have independence," Narcissa added, "My mother knows members on the board; she donates to Hogwarts each year to their fund for students who cannot afford school supplies. I can have her reach out and connect you with the proper channels, if you would like?"
"Yes," I said, somewhat more enthusiastically than I should have.
Because of course, if I took up an occupation, the part that I was dreading would follow suit. I would have to marry, and I was no more prepared to have a wife than I was to do anything, really, at twenty years old.
"Well, with that settled," she said, "The only thing left will be for me to procure you a wife. I think I may just be the most effective person in your entire life, Lucius. One day, when you are blissfully occupied and equally happy in a marriage with a match I have made for you, I should say you will look back on me fondly."
She paused, her grin plastered over her face, until she saw my expression and it slowly fell to a confused frown. I admit I felt grave as she said it, and a coldness swept over me.
"I do not want you to find a wife for me," I snapped, "Because I do not wish to be married."
"Now that seems inevitable, doesn't it?" she replied hotly.
I could not translate the emotions inside of me into a language I understood. The idea of Narcissa Black procuring a wife for me encouraged a well of sadness and misery in the deepest pits of my soul, and I simply could not bear the idea of it. In fact, the notion felt like a knife, jammed to the hilt into my body and twisted over and over again.
"I see I have upset you," she said, "I apologize. It was said in jest. Of course, I will not help you find a wife if you do not wish."
I looked away from her to the window, at the empty street. Lyme was not in season, and so there were very few people milling about. This was a summer resort, when the sea became useful for sunbathing and swimming. As it was now, it was a place of cold silence and loneliness even in groups of other people.
"It is quite all right," I replied smoothly, and with these words I leaned away from the table. "I must be going though, Miss Black, I am sorry to leave quite soon."
I plucked coins from my pocket and placed them onto the table. I stood up smoothly and left, despite her small protest and expression contorted in concern. I left the tearoom and opened the door, pressing myself out into the cold and empty street. I placed my hands in my pockets, the canvas bag swaying on my arm, and walked across the street. I heard a bell chime behind me as the tearoom door opened again, and footsteps came stomping after me.
"Lucius!" Narcissa called, and she sprinted until she caught up with me and grabbed me by the arm.
She slammed me against the brick wall of a shop. Shocks of gold light swam before my eyes and the air left my lungs as I collided with the wall. And her eyes were wild and bright. Running had caused a flush to her face and her hair was escaping down the back of her neck and the side of her face.
"I really am sorry," she said, her chest heaving from the effort of running in her corset. "That was a foolish and cruel thing to say."
"Narcissa, you are forgiven," I said, the words spilling out through clenched teeth, "You were forgiven before you even said it."
She nodded, and touching her chest lightly as if to soothe herself, and took a few steps away from me.
"The…the next book," she said, looking out toward the street. She ran her hands down her torso and inhaled sharply. "It's going to be Wuthering Heights. We're combining it with Pride and Prejudice since this month is a holiday. I made sure to hand it to you in the bookshop, so you already have it."
And with that, she turned and left me against the wall. I realized my chest was heaving, breathing just as hard as her, and I was certain exercise had nothing to do with it.