For the Climate Control Challenge on the Ministry of Magic Discord.
Primrose Flowers
John surprises her with flowers. A small boy knocks at her door and presses them into her arms, hurriedly blurting their origins and then scampering down the street. Angelica hears none of it, only discovering the culprit because of the attached card. When she turns, a tight smile on her face, Alexander and Eliza are looking expectantly at her. Alexander, with his eyes narrowed. And Eliza, bright-eyed and joyous.
Angelica, her heart beating loud and voice threatening to break, tells Alexander. And when he laughs—because what a positively unoriginal declaration of love and doesn't this man know that flowers die—Angelica laughs along with him. It's only when Eliza, her hand squeezing her husband's in warning, says that she thinks flowers are sweet, that Angelica regains composure and apologises.
"Primrose flowers mean eternal love," Eliza says warmly. She reaches out, caressing the petals softly with the tips of her fingers. "You should place them on the dining room table. Then he'll know you've received them when he calls for dinner."
Alexander doesn't apologise. He just looks down at the small card, reads John's scrawl, and smirks.
"Calls for dinner?" Angelica echoes in question.
Eliza sighs. "Angelica, you promised. Alexander and I are hosting you both for dinner. Father and Peggy are coming too. Don't tell me you've made other plans."
Ah. The memory slips into place. A family dinner so that John might be judged by all over a bowl of peas. John had been thrilled when she'd asked, as if her invitation had guaranteed her hand in marriage. Angelica nods slowly, her grip on the bouquet tightening.
"No. I didn't forget."
Eliza raises an eyebrow. "And you'll be here?"
"Of course."
Angelica flushes as Eliza shifts from disappointed to excited, the younger woman flinging her arms around her sister and chatting quickly about the night ahead. Alexander's gaze, still narrowed and hard, burns.
Tickets to London
It's not exactly the gift Angelica was expecting. And to be honest, she's not sure it's a gift she wants. But in her hands are two tickets onboard the next ship to London. Could it be possible that her husband doesn't know her at all? How could he possibly assume that she would want to leave New York? Hasn't he heard her declare its greatness to all those willing to listen?
"Perhaps you should go," Peggy says softly. "Don't you think it'll be easier? To be away from Alexander?"
Angelica, too exhausted from even the prospect of moving to London, can't find the energy to pretend not to know why Peggy would say such a thing.
"I didn't know you knew."
"Of course I know," Peggy responds. "And John knows too. You see the way he looks at Alexander, don't you? Everyone knows except Eliza."
"John's never said anything," Angelica says. "And neither has Eliza."
Maybe it's not the best response. Peggy's eyebrows lift to her hairline, and Angelica gets the feeling she was supposed to say something else. Perhaps she was supposed to half-heartedly deny it. To proclaim her true love for John. To sing words with worry about Eliza. And perhaps it's that realisation—the realisation that's not thinking of anyone but Alexander—that makes her change her tune.
When she goes home that night, she gives her husband a wry smile and begins to pack her bags. She folds each skirt to the beating of rain against her window. And although she tries not to think on it, she does wonder if the grey skies are a sign of her life to come.
Scented Soap
On her birthday, John gives her some soap, scented with vanilla and lavender. When she coos her thanks, it doesn't occur to her that he has somehow managed to pick her favourite scent. Still, he accepts her gratitude with a wide grin and presses a kiss to her temple. She places the soap on her vanity and promptly forgets about it.
On the other hand, Alexander sends her a copy of Mary Latter's poetry, bound in leather and with his annotations in the margins. She pours over each word, searching for any hint at his affection. Late that night, she falls asleep clutching the book to her chest. John pries it from her fingers when he leaves for work in the morning, but doesn't say a word.
When she wakes, she sees the book. John, always tender-handed, has placed it carefully on her bedside table. And although he has left no sign of disappointment or malice, a wave of guilt crashes over her. She hurriedly wraps the book in some fabric and hides in a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. That's what they say, isn't it? And before John returns home, she takes a bath and lathers herself in the soap.
"You smell lovely," he says into her hair. Her arms are flung around his neck in greeting. His hands, cold from the chill, warm themselves on the small of her back. "What a nice welcome home."
"It's the soap you gave me," she says, pulling away so that he can see her smile. "Isn't it divine? Thank you."
But when they slip into bed that night, John looks sideways at her. His mouth twitches. Angelica sits upright, keeping her hands busy by twisting her hair into a plait. She keeps her gaze downwards, desperate to ensure that their eyes don't accidentally meet. It's after a long moment and loud exhale when John breaks the silence.
"You can read the book, Angelica. The book from Mr Hamilton." John's voice is tight as he says it. "Please don't deprive yourself of that joy for my benefit."
"It isn't for—"
"It is," John says firmly. "And I appreciate it, but it isn't necessary. I'm afraid that your fondness for the man is even more apparent when you try to hide it."
Angelica shimmies under the covers and turns away from him, shielding him from the flush in her cheeks. She doesn't reach the book, but she can't deny that she desperately wants to. And when she buries her cheek into her pillow, the scent of vanilla and lavender smells bitter.
Writing Desk
The mahogany writing desk in the corner of the room is a new addition. Its presence is immediately noted by Angelica who can't help but gasp when she sees it. The writing desk, its rich red wood polished and gleaming, is beautiful. A truly charming piece of furniture. Angelica turns to her husband, head tilted to the side in question.
"For writing to your sisters," John says stiffly. "Though I imagine you'll spend most of your time writing to Mr Hamilton."
Ah. Her relationship with Mr Hamilton. What was once a silent burden has become the topic of frequent conversation. The more she protests, the less her husband is inclined to believe her. Angelica sighs. Loudly enough to show her annoyance, but not quickly enough to be defensive. Or, at least, not too defensive. It's enough to make John soften, and the sharpness in his tone all but disappears when he apologises.
"Do you like it?" he asks, tentative and hopeful. He reaches out, his fingertips dancing across the table's face. "I thought it was a very well-crafted piece. It reminded me of you."
"Because I am also a well-crafted piece, I assume," Angelica teases. She lets her hand join his. "It's beautiful, John. Thank you."
It's possibly the most expensive gift she has ever received. And perhaps the most thoughtful. After all, Alexander's gifts of poetry had always been more about him than her. This gift, on the other hand, is one perfectly curated for her. The thought makes her flush. It's a hotness in her cheeks that she's not used to—not around John, anyway.
The first letter she writes is to his mother, in which she takes great care to sing his praises. She also takes great care to leave the letter out so that it might catch his eye. She does the same when she writes to Eliza. Of course, she does write to Alexander. Probably more than she should. These letters, naturally, are written with great discretion and not for others' eyes. But over time, the thumping in her heart begins to quiet. And while she continues to write to him, she does so with less fervour and urgency.
Tickets to New York
Angelica and John's relationship eventually settles into something she imagines is bliss. Her thoughts are no longer pre-occupied, and so his jealousy fades away. The two come to have nothing but affection for each other. The children, she supposes, might have helped with that.
And so, although news of the Reynolds Papers reaches London quickly, Angelica is slow to reach for her suitcase. Instead, it's John who presses the handle into her shaking hands and begins to collect her coats. She stands frozen, watching as he neatly folds her clothes and packs them away. When she fails to join him, he pauses and stands in front of her.
"For your sister," John says, pushing an envelope towards her. "I imagine she'll need your support."
She gulps. "John…"
"For your sister, Angelica." He smiles at her, his eyes shining. "You leave this evening."
Immediately, Angelica launches into action. She does not pack as neatly as he does, but she certainly packs more quickly. Dresses, coats and undergarments fly across the room. And just before she closes the case, she scampers into the bathroom where she collects a fresh bar of vanilla and lavender soap—a gift she has become accustomed to receiving whenever John's good mood allows—and places it on top of her belongings.
"John." She waits for his eyes to meet her before she continues. "Thank you. To be there for Eliza…"
"It's where you need to be," he says. He places his hands on her shoulders, giving them a comforting squeeze. "You don't need to explain, Angelica. I understand. Just come back to me. Come back to the children."
"Of course. For you, John. I'll come back." She nods quickly. Then, with her eyes watering, she asks, "How could I not come back to you?"
It's true. Angelica isn't sure when or why it happened, but somewhere along the line her life and heart became so intertwined with John's that she can't imagine being anywhere but his side. And so, it doesn't surprise her that when she boards her ship to New York that the skies are calm. Her storm has long since passed. Now, when she runs to her sisters' side, she can comfort her with no guilty pang in her heart. When she sees Alexander, her breath will not quicken. And when she falls asleep to the scent of vanilla and lavender, it's John's eyes that fill her dreams.
"I'll be back!" she calls down to him, waving her handkerchief so that he might see her waving from afar. "I'll be back for you."