It Only Takes a Minute

[Aislin Beckett]

It occurred to Aislin Beckett as she sat in the Rose Lee Teabag with a fresh pot on the table and an unattended cup opposite her that she had no actual idea what her intended employer actually looked like. She had been expecting to see him the moment he came in and know by instinct but she had been sat here for at least one pot of tea now and he could have passed her for all she knew!

Then again she was earlier than expected. Her encounter with Saoirse had meant that shopping had been the furthest thing from her mind and so rather than appearing bang on time, as was her habit, she had been here for fifteen long minutes. She checked her watch, ignoring the odd looks she received from the other patron for having what was clearly a man's pocket watch û William had left her comfortable but there was no sense in wasting a perfectly good item when there were no sons of nephews to pass the thing onto anyway û and she determined to give Mr Primpernelle another ten minutes at least. This was a tremendous opportunity for someone in her position after all: a semi-regular position at the Ministry would be a great boon and being here for the upcoming Quidditch World Cup would be marvellous!

The bell rang over the door and she looked up with interest. Goodness, what she wouldn't give for him to be the man she had been corresponding with!

  

[Patrick Primpernelle]

It had been quite remiss of Patrick not to at least suggest Mrs Beckett wear some sort of corsage to identify herself. Asking after her appearance after all would have been entirely inappropriate, but he supposed a woman with a job, an aging woman with a job, would be a somewhat dour-looking old maid with graying hair and glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Patrick, of course certainly had nothing against older women û he himself was no longer the young man he had been when he had married his Maria û but it was far more pleasant conversing with an attractive specimen than one whose beauty had long since faded.

But, entering Rosa Lee Teabag, Patrick surmised that Mrs Beckett was either late, or he had been rather wrong indeed about the dowdy old illustrator he had imagined her to be. There was nobody here but gentlemen of leisure crowding several tables in the centre of the room and flirting shamelessly with the waitress, a pretty little thing that despite her age looked entirely capable of holding her own.

And then, sitting at a table tucked away in the corner but by no means invisible, Patrick glimpsed a rather attractive redheaded woman sipping gingerly at a cup of tea with what appeared to be several manuscripts resting on the table before her. Not the old maid he had been expecting then, and certainly not the spirited youth he had been hoping (rather foolishly) for, but something quite, and pleasantly, different. Forty, at least, not quite fifty, but he had never seen such pretty hair before.

"Mrs Beckett?" he ventured as he tentatively approached her table. He had been hoping for a nubile young woman but this handsome woman would more than do!

  

[Aislin Beckett]

The handsome man in question spoke and Aislin's stomach turned into knots that belied her age and experience in the world. He was handsomer than any man she's spoken to in at least two decades - in her truest mind she knew that technically he was probably more attractive than William had been but her heart protested against such treachery - and a bright smile came upon her face in a vague attempt to cover the twisting of her insides.

She was no girl after all and it would be foolish to react like one to a man who was probably married with children and grandchildren and a happy home, with no interest in a foolish widow with a girlishly romantic heart. She toned her smile down considerably and extended her hand as she got to her feet.

"I certainly am. And you must be Mr Primpernelle. It's a pleasure."

  

[Patrick Primpernelle]

It certainly was that. Her rather attractive hair was only one of Mrs Beckett's virtues: clear blue eyes, an upturned nose, and an air of elegance that commanded his attention. And her voice. It was a silky sort of voice, like melting butter, and was terribly pleasing to the ear. Yes, Mrs Beckett was a woman of many virtues, and likely married with children and grandchildren, though perhaps not. Married women didn't usually run around illustrating Ministry manuals, so perhaps she was widowed. Sad, of course, but he felt considerably more comfortable admiring an unattached, and particularly handsome, woman.

He took the outstretched hand, momentarily admiring the softness of her skin before dismissing such romantic nonsense, and brushed an exaggerated, lingering kiss against her knuckles. It was the same greeting he extended to most women he encountered but Mrs Beckett was deserving of slightly more chivalry.

"The pleasure is entirely mine, Mrs Beckett. I'm honoured you consented to meet with me today, and to consider my request."

  

[Aislin Beckett]

Aislin had never pretended in her entire life to be anything she wasn't. She had been a romantic when she was a child, reading endless storybooks about heroic Magi who slayed dragons with their wands alone and claimed their wild druid Priestesses and the foolish sense of romance had followed her into her adolescence. She had only been saved from utter ruin by the fact that William Beckett was an honourable man who had truly loved her and wanted to make her his wife: Aislin was quite aware that had he been a cad she would likely have still fallen into bed with the handsome man who had seduced her with the prospect of a more dynamic life.

Her romantic heart had never fully matured and William had kept her well-flattered and even right up till the last days, when he had been bed-ridden with his illness he had still found time to conjure a rose for her. After his death she felt as though she had been in a state of limbo, until this very moment and she felt her stomach flutter with foolish, romantic hope.

"Of course, I'm thrilled to be here," when he left go of her hand she felt the loss rather keenly and concealed her disappointment with a bright smile. "I've already ordered, I hope you don't mind?"

  

[Patrick Primpernelle]

"Not at all," Patrick replied smoothly: he appreciated a woman who knew her own mind, and ordering one's own beverage was hardly a difficult feat. It hardly required approval and he had been unforgivably late and he was pleased to see that Mrs Beckett had had the initiative to start without him. Business was the primary purpose of today's meeting, after all; it wasn't a social call, though Patrick was certainly eager to get to know Mrs Beckett better. "I see you ordered the ___." He smiled warmly. "You have excellent taste."

He indicated their table with a wide sweep of his arm and sat down in the chair Mrs Beckett had not been occupying: she could have picked no better table really. Away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the restaurant, they would be better equipped to talk business and perhaps he would be able to learn more about his companion: the wedding ring, for example, was something he was rather curious about.

"Have you spent much time in Hogsmeade previously, Mrs Beckett?"

  

[Aislin Beckett]

"I'm afraid not."

Aislin couldn't be entirely sure of course, but she thought for a moment she had spotted his eyes drifting towards her hands and her ring. It had never once occurred to her to remove the piece of jewellery � small and unfashionable as it may be according to Saoirse � and she rubbed her fingers nervously over it, twisting it around until she managed to get a hold on her silly fluttering and instead reach for her teacup.

"I'm not stranger to the village but sadly I don't reside here. It's changed considerably since I went to Hogwarts of course and my late husband and I lived in London and rarely came up."

Gripping her teacup she felt oddly as though her ring was glowing and making itself especially prominent and for the first time since William had died she found that she didn't entirely like the thought of being written off by warrant of her ring. Naturally nosey she was quite unable to stop herself returning the glance though and, with a small swell of disappointment she spotted his own wedding ring.

The spark of something like hope that had been kindled within her was once again quashed and they turned their conversation to more mundane matters. Luckily she enjoyed her work, such as it was, and was able to speak passionately about it without the slight sense of disappointment being evident.