Posts Tagged ‘Abbigale’

Agatha and Abbigale

11 July 2009

Conversation and Revelations in Paris, France

Anyone whose anyone in the Wizarding World’s upper crust have been trying to secure themselves, their daughters, sister and even wives to the prestigeous Bastroiva family, the only known living heirs of the Romanov dynasty. Their target is batchelor of the year, Nicholai Bastrova III, handsome, rich, intelligent and rather flightly. The Russian heir has been avoiding martial ties for a long time now and despite their insitance he will marry by the end of the year, his parents have been seen in many public conflicts with Nicholai about taking a wife.

Nicholai has however been linked with many eligable, young and beautiful heiresses, one of the most famous being the Countess Evangeline de Bougerac. However none of these ladies appear to have won the young noble’s heart until now.

Nicholai has recently been sited by our reporters in Paris with a young, blonde and beautiful English heiress though as yet no one has been close enough to discover who she is. They were spotted in Le Diamant, the Parisian branch of the exclusive global chain, and again at several top class locations around Paris. All that remains now is the identity of this astonishing young lady who has won this Prince’s heart. Much like Cinderella at the ball with her Prince Charming, perhaps we shall not know until she tries on her glass slipper. We do know one thing, this Cinderella by no means sleeps among the coals.

Written by Margurite Lecoll

Lady Willoughby gazed longingly, searchingly out to sea. The azure waves lapped the white sand of the shore and the palm trees swapped their leafy tops to the almost imperceptible breeze. A red and golden parakeet squwaked harshly, flapped its long wings and took flight magnificently into the jungle behind. The icy cool interior of the Willoughby retreat belied the intense midday heat of the island. Lady Willoughby took one more look at the beauty before her and then turned swiftly, petulantly on her heel and went back to the marble counter where she recommenced flicking through the daily piles of haute couture magazines, junk owl mail and dull financial rubbish which Matthew accumulated.

She was bored. Oh so bored. She hated this stupid island. Beauty was all very well, but darhling what was there to do? Matthew had been called away on some business or other, Agatha had not cared enough to enquire into its nature.And she was left to rot in this hole. She pouted her lips and sighed, but really what was even the good of her most magnificent pout when there was nobody there to witness it?

Idly she opened Le Sorciere and on page six in the gossip column a name caught her eye. Ah Abbigale she thought, you sly thing you, and Agatha was torn between admiration for her friend’s catch and jealousy and the unfairness of the world where her protegee should be having more fun than she herself.

Impetuously she summoned herself a Willoughby crested parchment and her swan feather quill and wrote swiftly in emerald green ink,

“Abbigale cherie,

Having fabulous time in paradise idyll, house is just too too too gorgeously divine for words sweetie. Long to catch up however and to hear ALL the latest. Shall we say the Champs Elysses at 9am on Friday? One must shop!

Ciao ciao
Ever affectionately
Agatha

It was turning into a crisp autumn and the first signs of frost were twinkling like diamonds over dry orange and red leaves. It was a beautiful sight with the clear blue, cloudless skies but nothing she supposed to the sunny paradises where her friend and even patron was resting. The romantic recluses of the Willoughby estate.

She looked down at the short letter held in her hand and smiled. How much in her element Agatha would be. A dozen soirees and parties to choose from each night no doubt. Lucky, lucky thing. However there was a chance that by the end of her last year at Hogwarts she would have recieved the choice of that life. If Nicco and she got…closer.

She took out her own parchment, emboldened with the Calver family crest and name and began to delicately write her reply.

“Dearest Agatha,

How jealous I am of you, you lucky thing. Hogwarts is still as far from paradise as one could imagine, however it is not all bad. I shall tell you more on Friday. See you then darling.

Yours affectionately
Abbigale”

Short but the meeting would most definitely be sweet.

And so it was that Agatha apparated delicately down onto the wide pavement of theAvenue Champs Elysses at 9.00 precisely one crisp autumn morning. She shivered slightly and pulled her white wrap a little more tightly around her bare shoulders. Fashionable late was fashionably late but scarecly applied to close friends.

Ah but it was good to be back in the civilized world! So what if Matthew did not wish her to leave the island retreat in his absence. Who did he think he was anyway? Agatha tossed her head defiantly. So far they had lived in an uneasy truce. In company they were the golden couple of the hour. When alone….well they tried never to be alone. Agatha did not know if this was a conscious exercise on his part or not but it most certainly was on hers. They played hard, partied hard, networked hard. They dazzled and glittered and glammed. And when everyone had left and the party was no more there was nothing left but an empty core. It had been a marriage of convenience. Nothing more. In a last minute desperate attempt Agatha had even told Matthew the truth. Had not been able to conceal the truth at her own wedding. Had tried to stop the unstoppable. And his dismissal had spoken volumes.

She had never yet cared enough to push his patience. But she was sick of it all. After Paris she mused, why not BA or even dare she think it..London?

Just then a minute pop in her right ear announced the arrival of Miss Abbigale Calver and Agatha turned a genuine smile upon an old aquaintance.

“Agatha, darling!” The two airkissed as once was commonly seen whenever they passed in the corridor or joined each other for a light lunch before skipping classes in the afternoon. How wonderful it felt, the old days. But these were times anew and her friend was no longer the graceful heiress but wife and Lady Willoughby.

“You look fabulous” she commented genuininly admiring how Agatha’s taste seemed to grow more impecable every time she saw her. Looping arm in arm the two friends began to walk down the beautiful avenue and there was so much to say, on both sides.

“So, Lady Willoughby, do tell all”

“Ah merci beaucoup cherie,” Agatha knew she looked fabulous. And there had been a time where to have money, taste, social success and admiration would have been to have achieved the pinnacle of success. But sadly that time was long long ago.

“Of course you look divine yourself, autumn Prada collection if I am not mistaken?” Which she knew she was not. “Very becoming.”

Social nicities at an end Agatha pouted and perused a street side menu. “Expresso?” she asked gaily, “Fortification before shopping? And then you know catching up la la so much happening,” she waved one bejewelled hand airly.

A few moments later and they were sitting in a beautiful Cafe, espressos in hand and laughing airily at whatever joke played oone played to the other. It was all above board, nothing scadelous and all very proper but Abbigale was dying to know…just dying. The life of Lady Willoughy a fairytale or a fantasty? But she seemed unwilling to spill forth her secrets from paradise so Abbigale started with her own news.

“Well if you shall not, I will begin. I’ve met the man of my dreams Agatha, he’s simply perfect! I am dying for you to meet him and see just how divine he is!”

Agatha raised one perfect eyebrow. So she wasn’t able to resist flaunting her triumph was she? Her lip curled ever so slightly and she drawled, “Why but my dear I have already had the pleasure of his aquaintance.”

She raised the tiny cup to her mouth and flicked her eye towards her astonished friend.

“So is it all arranged?” she enquired, wondering when it was that life had made her so bitter and cold, even towards those she genuinely liked.

“You’ve met him already?” replied Abbigale, astonished. Taken aback too by the coldness in her friend’s voice.

“No, not yet. I’m lying low until the news of my breaking of my engagement to the Count has washed over.”

“Yes naturally I have met him, although until yesterday I was quite in the dark about your relations with him. Quite the little secret keeper you have become dearest. Although,” she leaned forward and murmured with more warmth in her tone and a flicker of appreciation, “I dont blame you of course. He is quite the catch of the season if not the century. Gorgeous too really..” Agatha wondered idly if she should not have a fling herself and the thought of it played a small smile around her lips.

“And of course mummy and daddy could not possibly object under the circumstances I imagine them to be enrapted.”

Quite a turn up for the Calvers, Agatha thought snobbily. Beyond their wildest dreams in all probability.

“Poor old Count de Lancret would never have stood a chance against such competetion, really sweetie he is such an old stiff, not really worth ones notice. I do trust he is going to bow out gracefully and not cause a scene. One does so hate scenes my dear.”

Agatha gestured the garcon with a flick of her bejewelled hand. He came immediately to wait besides the imperious blonde.

Nicco had never spoken much about himself, now Abbigale came to think about it. He had not even told her his second name, or where he came from or even where he lived. She had been quite swept away by his looks, his charm and above all his eyes. And he was money. Abbigale had never seen him stinge on anything and no matter how she thrust purses of galleons under his nose he refused to let her pay for anything. He was pureblooded and noble, she could tell that just from the way he talked but there was something so much more regal about him that she couldn’t ever put her finger on. She had sometimes tried to stray onto the topic of him but he just steered her straight off again on another wild adventure to some backalley bar or a secluded, enchanted park. Over the course of the very few weeks they had known each other they had gone everywhere together.

He knew so much about her, she reflected. He knew what she liked because when he ordered for her he’d got it spot on, right down to the freshly squeezed lemon in the honey flavoured tea. He knew how to flatter her, how to charm her and what she needed when she needed it. If she needed a dazzling smile and a mature, grown up conversation he was right there and when she wanted to be playfull…he was more than willing. But Abbigale couldn’t say what Nicco took in his tea, or if he even liked tea – the only thing she had ever seen him drink was straight vodka.

Now she sat in the Cafe on the Avenue with her ‘best’ friend talking about him as if he was just another one of those prize batchelors that everyone was out to catch and Agatha knew the game on that one all too well. She hadn’t informed her parents of either the split with the Count or her new fling with Nicco but she was sure they wouldn’t be best pleased, pureblood or not Nicco was a nobody as far as they were concerned. Then she caught Agatha’s words about him being the catch of the season, as if she knew who he was. If he was anything to be written about in Le Sociere Abbigale would know about it, wouldn’t she?

“Agatha, I don’t know if we are talking about the same person. I mean, we can’t be. His name is Nicco, I met him in Paris in Le Diamant when I was…there to buy a dress for the Yule Ball.”

She had lied, rather intentionally, about what she was doing in Paris, but what on Earth would possess her to tell Agatha Willoughby, nee Swales that she had been dining in an exclusively pureblood restuarant with the half-breed of the centuary, Diamond Nondavala? No, as far as the world was concerned, she was there with an old friend of hers from childhood, Penelope Hartherton and no one could say otherwise under threat of very serious pain. The Ministry weren’t the only ones good at covering their tracks. She took a sip of her coffee and

“I think my dearest, you’ve got the wrong man.”

“The wrong man?” Agatha looked amused. “Believe me dearest I nver get the wrong man! Well, hardly ever….” and a misty far off look came and went as she thought for the most painful second of her own most horribly wrong man. She shook her beautiful blonde head and attempted to laugh though her heart and stomach both jerked violently. Stupid girl.

Abbigale must think I am mad, thought Agatha as she paid the serving boy, dropping a huge tip carelessly as she arose.

“So cherie,” she continued linking arms with her friend as they clicked and clacked their way down the wide boulevard to the oh so chic and precious boutiques. “Nicolai is indeed the man I am well informed by La Sorciere. Is he in town? Perhaps we could lunch?” she suggested brightly.

“La Sorciere?” repeated Abbigale, practically snatching, in a very unladylike way, the magazine from Agatha’s grip as she waved it around carelessly. On the front page a large photograph of Nicco and a sultry looking blonde, both giggling, holding hands and smiling broadly, faced her. It was titled, ‘Tied to the Knot’ and was written by that most annoying gossip monger Margurite Lecoll. Her eyes scanned through the article quickly, taking in the most important information. Nicholai Bastrova III, last known heir to the Romanov Dynasty…Russian Noble, spotted in Paris with…her.

She thought back in mind, ever time she looked at Nicco a familiar feeling had swept across her, as if she knew his name before she’d even met him, it was at the tip of her tongue but she could never remember. Now, gazing at his strawberry blonde locks and handsome stormy eyes she couldn’t believe how she didn’t realise he was Russian nobility.

You really are an idiot Abbigale Calver.

She looked up at Agatha, her starry eyes wide and in between emotions. Should she be leaping for joy that the man she was pretty sure was going to marry her was actually above and beyond even Agatha’s station? Or should she be angry that he had not mentioned it, not even once, not even a little bit. The cad!! Rather speechless she began to mutter quietly.

“A Russian noble, my boyfriend is a Russian Noble! Nicholai Bastrova…THE Nicholai…I…”

She straigtened up, folded the magazine once again and stared at Agatha with her best poker face.

“He might be able to make it, I suppose. Let us go to the Post Office and send him a message, make arrangements for luncheon. In the meantime, I believe you and I have some very serious shopping to do.”

You date a Russian Noble woman. You have to step up a notch, if that’s even possible…

 

Clutching a copy of the newest edition of La Sorciere a man with strawberry blond hair had managed to break the handle off his favorite coffee cup. The hot dark liquid had splashed upon his legs, only clad in his sleep wear, having woken up early, early enough that he had been able to make himself pancakes with apple lemon filling, and watch the sunrise. The magazines and newspapers had arrived soon after that, and fetching them, he was an amazing site to behold. Honestly he could have chosen to have enough servants that they would breath for him. It would have been sickenning, and only prove him to be a ditz of a fool, much like several of his cousins that hadn’t been able to cut their steak at the ‘young’ age of mid 20s. He had counterred their incompetence with a sip of his drink, vodka, and a remark of ‘you should just put them in diapers now, it will be easier to w-‘ he had been cut off with a look from his mother, which in turn he laughed at. It wasn’t that he was the rudest person of the face of the planet, he was just not enamoured with his useless family. And for the reference of knowing, he had not been drunk either, his ancestory seemed to have given him an amazing ability to hold his liquor with extreme grace.

But that grace was gone for a moment as he looked at the magazine. Spelled upon it was a picture of him, and a woman that made the most awful pain, such as the blistering heat in his lap, fade into the distance. The smile on her blushed lips, the curve of her neck, the swells at certain area’s of his body that left any man with twin minds of mush. But it was more than that, he had seen the bite matched with it as she stood up for herself, the care she demonstrated to someone else, beauty on the inside and out that caused the anger he was feeling to be multiplied three fold. Tossing the paper down onto the table, not caring that it hit the coffee perculater, a crack going through the glass as the dark liquid seeped out like blood, and the beans went spreading across the wooden floor. He could care less of the stain it might leave. His anger took care of everything. The heated pain radiating from his legs was brushed to the side, as salve would easily take care of it.

He was angry, Nicholai Bastrova III was as mad as a bull that had been stabbed to many times and now had a rag waved in its face. Grabbing the magazine again, he tried to look at where it was taken, he believed that he had been so careful. Sure he had seemed carefree the entire time he spent with his Goddess, but in truth had been checking for flashing cameras out of the corner of his eyes…had taken care to bring her to places that would either not remark on his status, didn’t know, or really didn’t care…and it seemed to be all in vain, as the proof was staring at him right in the face that his attempts were thwarted, and he was not happy about it. A call to La Sorciere was completly pointless, as the copies were out now, and no doubt his dear Abbigale’s eyes had graced the page, had read the truth. It could either amount to three things, a disaster as he hadn’t told her, a ninny-headed twit of a girl who was after his money, or her not caring either way. He hoped that he knew her well enough that the third option would happen, not believing that she could ever be a ninny-headed twit in her life ever. Except when she held a romantic gaze to the tranny. Having still felt sore about his Abbigale looking flustered by ‘Diamond’, he had mentioned it to Nicholai Bastrova Jr., whose looked as if he was about to start drooling at the idea of adding a Keres to the zoo. Nicco regretted what he had done, but he did have a possessive streak that atleast his friends knew about. Walking towards his bathroom, he began the ritual of getting ready for his day, going over the events of where he picture may have been taken.

He remembered an amazing time, he had been unable to keep his fingertips not touching her for a moment, choosing to sit next to her rather than across from her, if only so that he could let his fingertips brush against a cheek, or an earlobe. He had…he was…a fool in love. Whispering words to her that some considered sweet nothings, but having never done it before, meant the world. He spoke the truth, what he saw as the truth, it tumbled from his lips like a golden stream. He had brought her to places that were prestige, places that no one knew about, and places where he would never let her go alone. He had felt the first stirrings of love when he watched her down tequilla in a quick manner.

She wasn’t normal.

Not in the way that she was strange, but more in the way that she was a rare jewel in a sea of pebbels. Hardly ever found, but shining radiantly against everything. She lit up the entire place wherever she went, her starfilled eyes reduced him to a simpering lovestruck man that found himself fighting for control of his brain against his male anatomy. He had wanted to kiss her, to kiss her till she pushed away from him to breath. He wanted to grab her and hold her down until she feared him and began to cry if only so that he could kiss off her honey tears, and offer solace. He found himself loosing control with a smile, a brush of her fingertips against his own, just a simple look. It was a terrifying feeling, yet made him feel as if he was walking through the clouds at all times. He never wanted her to be unhappy, never wanted to see her upset, but at the same time…

it was love.
and it was scary,
and confusing,
but wonderful.

And now it had a good chance of being ruined by Miss. Margurite Lecoll, an idiot with a typewriter. She could have ruined everything, stolen his sun, stolen his oxygen. He had no wish to admit it, but Abbigale was his drug, and he was hopelessly addicted, would die without it, would kill and destroy without out. And when he had returned home, when he had to return home, when he had to leave her, he had been in a foul mood. He had gotten into an immediate fight with his mother, this one worst than this last, and in public too. He was surprised that articles about it hadn’t been written yet, but he supposed that a very large sum of galleons had made sure to keep the press quiet.

It seemed that his mother had fixed up another meeting with a girl. It had started with her handing the photo of a petite girl with long dark hair, and hauntingly dark eyes. She was beautiful, but compared to his Goddess was nothing more than a peasant. He had ripped the picture in two, then four, then eights, thrown it into the woman’s face, and declared that he had decided to become a priest and worship his Goddess. It had prompted his mother to feign and fainting spell, Nicco had laughed at her, and taken the picture scraps and sprinkled it over her. ‘Rest in Peace Mother’, which had caused her to rise from the dead and the yelling match in Russian had started. It became heated very quickly with slander, and curses, and several people had managed to get hexed by their bad tempers, and had to be carted and helped away while ugly looking boils errupted on their skin, and their noses grew nearly bigger than their heads, or their hair turned white. It was an ugly event, and had left him retreating to his house in a German forest…and had been grumbling ever since. Only leaving several times to visit some of the top jewelers in the wizarding world to have several masterpieces created, for a fortune that he didn’t blink at, but that most would kill for.

—-

And now he was stepping out of the bathroom, a pair of dark striped pants on his bottom half, and his top half bare as he was drying his hair with a large soft towel, a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. It was during his state of undress that he received a message. He had a system set up to him, so that owls were absolete and he got his messages faster and could respond much quicker if he needed to. Letting the towel fall to his shoulders, strawberry blonde hair forming a halo around his head, he began brushing his teeth with one hand as he reached for the note with the other. It took only a second for his eyes to find who it was from, and his heart skipped a beat. He saw luncheon, and nothing else, and immediatly was grabbing a pen, such convinient devices, and in looping chicken scratch was writing back as fast as possible.

My Goddess in which I have fully devouted myself to, I fear that lunch is but a small meal that will not nearly whet my apetite for your company. Please come to ‘Arpège’, I shall fix a table there, and I await your presence on baited breath.

Immediatly sending the message off, he felt as if he was back to floating again. Arpège was a very famous non-wizarding resturant, that was one of the most expensive resturants in the world. It deserved the name too, he had gone to it several times, and though he was normally a meat eater, their vegetable dishes often left him wanting more. It was normally very booked up, but all he need to do say his name, and he was certain he could get a private room, as even out of the wizarding world the Bastrova’s were well known. They commanded respect from both sides, and did so. Taking the phone, he dialed in rather quickly, and in an instance was stumbling through his russian accented french of asking for a table, when he was told it was booked, he needed only say his name, and did so. He heard several shouts in the back, and before he had to wait 5 seconds the owner was on the phone promising a private room, with several extra chairs if he wanted to invite some of his more prestigious friends. With thanks and hanging up, Nicco was heading to his room for something to put on his top half. Though briefly wondering if his Goddess would have any problem with him showing up without it.

From his adventures with Webs and Type-O he had to work out to keep up with a were and a vampire, and his body showed what hard work did. He rememberred that they had had to recall a ladies magazine like La Sorciere because they had caught him at the beach… It hadn’t been a pretty site, dozens upon hundreds of girls pureblood, muggle, rich, young and old, ripping magazines out of the others hands. He had laughed at their antics, but now was wondering if Abbigale would like this, she had seemed to enjoy looking at that scrawny anorexic ‘girl’. “you are being awful…and when was the last time you worried about how you looked?” Words spoken aloud made him feel better, and he was pulling on a dark button up shirt, several buttons left undone, hands run through his hairs, and leaving the stubble on his face, it looked very good and suited him nicely.

Hoping that he looked presentable, or atleast sexy, he took the quick express to Paris, through apparation into one of France’s wizarding alleyways. It was just a short walk to the resturant, and he would be waiting for his lovely lady to join him when the time came. In the mean time he had some expensive wine to buy, and some jewelry to pick up.

“I will buy you the stars Abbigale, and fasten them around you neck, but they will still pale in comparison to your eyes. My Golden Honey Goddess.” Hopefully La Sorciere hadn’t ruined everything. What a Wonderful Way to find out that you were dating Russian Nobility through a gossip magazine.

Goodness. The little fool really had had no idea. The startled, bemused yet starry eyed expression on Abbigales’s face would have given her away in an instance, even if her words had not. Under my tutelage, Agatha thought wistfully of her days in charge of Hogwarts School, she would not have betrayed her emotions so easily. She was no ice queen then, howsoever she wished to pretend to such a title.

“Indeed, yes Nicholai Bastrova, quite,” she murmured and decided not to persue the issue – for now.

“Shopping on the other hand is exactly what is needed,” she smiled and wondered if she herself should write the letter which she herself had been burning to write. Oh to hell with charades and party games. She would write that letter alright. False face must hide what the false heart doth know. She would write at last to Avery Berke. And then…well and then they would see.

“I am in desperate need of shoes darling. In the tropics you know one has no need of autumnal fashions. Manolo Blahnik?” she enquired hopefully naming one of their mutually favourite shoe designers.

Just as she spoke an Artic owl swooped down and deposited a rich golden sealed envelope neatly into Abbigale’s gloved hand.

Just after noon, later that day, the two English beauties entered gracefully into Arpège where the staff, who had been expecting them, showed them through to the private room that Nicholai had reserved for them. Their bags of shopping were taken away to be kept safe and there were many bags of shopping to hold onto. They had had a successful morning.

Pushing aside the topic of particular Russian nobles and moving swiftly onto fashion the two spent a most delightful morning shopping on the Avenue for not only shoes but any number of other things carrying expensive price tags. Abbigale’s most favourite purchase for the day was a cocktail dress, deep scarlet in colour with a long slit up one leg. At the young age of seventeen it pleased Abbigale greatly how much older she looked.

If Abbigale had know what to feel she might have tried describing it in her head, but at the moment she had no clue. Was it anger? He had not technically lied to her, just omitted a truth, but it was a pretty big truth and the betrayal felt just as bad. Was she happy? Nicco the man hadn’t changed at all and if he still loved her she was just getting more for a love that was already there, that would have been there if he was royalty or not. At the moment it was just fear that Nicco would turn around and be Nicholai and Abbigale wouldn’t be good enough for Russian nobility. And God knows what his parents would say.

He stood up, tall and handsome with his strawberry blonde hair falling over his stormy eyes and Abbigale’s minid went blank for a moment or two.

“Nicco” she whispered softly as he leaned in a planted a very proper kiss on her cheek. He was divine. He looked at her in a strange way, as if he was trying to figure out what she knew, or what she was going to say. Well, everyone knew now, it was just a case of getting it out in the open.

“This is my dearest friend, Lady Agatha Willoughby. Agatha, this is Nicholai Bastrova III.”