At the chime of the grand, absurd doorbell, Peggy crossed acres of dining room and drawing room to answer it.
"Good morning, Mr. Jarvis. There are labor laws in this country, you know. Don't you at least get Sundays free?"
"Certainly, Miss Carter. Barring local or national emergency, of course." The corners of his mouth quirked up. "I realized that I neglected to inform you of one feature of your new home. It may prove useful to you. Do you have a moment?" Peggy followed him out to the private lift.
"On the floor below this one, the property includes a fairly well-appointed gymnasium." The elevator door opened directly into an enormous room stocked with mats, weights, even a full-sized boxing ring. Peggy's recent experience on the ledge outside the Griffith prompted her to give the 4-foot-high balance beam a wide berth.
"I don't mean to imply that your combative skills require improvement, Miss Carter. However, it is my understanding that maintenance of those skills may preserve your life."
Bemused, Peggy gazed up at the boxing ring. "It looks extremely useful, Mr. Jarvis, and a cut above what the SSR has. Thank you. I'm uncertain how I'll hone those deadly fighting skills without a sparring partner, though."
"I can provide assistance with that, Miss Carter. In fact, I am certain that you will feel the need to knock me out momentarily. I must tell you something."
Peggy sighed. What now? Well, it had been a quiet three weeks. She smiled in spite of her question. "What fresh crisis awaits us, Mr. Jarvis?"
Jarvis held very still and looked at Peggy. "Mr. Stark is not my sole employer."
Peggy squinted at him, trying to make sense of the words. "Oh Bloody Hell! You're with MI6!"
"How did you realize it so quickly?" Jarvis looked worried.
"It's obvious, now, isn't it?" Peggy fumed. "You play-act the caricature English butler. I thought your clowning was just self-deprecation, humor you needed to get you through your job. But your buffoon mask slipped occasionally. When the SSR threatened to deport you, you nearly broke cover, didn't you?"
"Yes. If I had done so, my assignment would have failed, and Anna and I would have in all likelihood been sent back to England."
"Oh good grief. Is your wife an agent, too? That's a rather romantic idea, actually."
"No." He smiled sadly. "She is not. Neither is she definitely aware of my position, though the carelessness of my superiors has, on occasion, made her suspect."
"What is your assignment, then? Spying on Howard? Did England think he was a traitor, too?"
"They thought his motives might be questionable. When my crimes on Anna's behalf brought me to Mr. Stark's attention, MI6 assigned me to encourage his trust. Please understand, Miss Carter, I have attempted to make the best of an intolerable situation. Howard Stark's inventions, aside from those we've encountered most recently, have done a great deal of good. Some of his future endeavors will do even more to better the world. He needs protecting. My superiors may not see my assignment in that light, but that belief guides my actions."
"You do realize you're inviting a noose round your neck, telling me this?"
"Yes. I could not continue lying to you. Perhaps that makes me a lesser agent or a weaker man, but I could not repay your trust and assistance with this continuing sham. I also find myself in need of the very support I insisted you should accept. It has been a very long six years, Miss Carter. This short time I've been able to work with you has been the most rewarding of my life. I beg you to consider carrying on our unique and complicated ventures together. Please. I believe we can serve not just the interests of two countries, but the larger world."
As if in apology for this sentimental declaration, he added, "I assure you that I was not a starry-eyed idealist before I met you and witnessed your own remarkable capacity for hope."
"Good lord." Peggy saw Jarvis' face flushed with desperate hope and fear together. "I shall miss antic clown Jarvis, but you'll do. Get suitably dressed and meet me in the ring at noon, Scarlet Pimpernel."
His relieved grin was followed shortly with his comment, "I feel impelled to point out that your choice of code name lacks a certain level of masculinity."
Monday morning. Half-awake after spending the night dwelling on her world's new madness, Peggy stepped into the SSR office. She was met with a variety of smirks from the men already there, as if all were sharing a private joke at her expense. Except Daniel, who looked chagrined before he looked away entirely.
Oh, good. Another practical joke. An adorable yet irritating result of her colleagues' new esteem for her was their need to prove she was 'one of the boys' by devising a sequence of adolescent pranks. Variations on these japes could be found in most English boarding schools, and she had dealt with each expeditiously.
As she reached her desk, she heard Jack call, "Hey, Peg, c'mere a minute." A memory of professional formality made her long briefly for England, but the feeling passed. She would have no profession in England, so formality would have to give way. As she entered the office, Daniel followed, and closed the door.
Glee bubbling from his voice, Jack announced, "The SSR has been invited to cooperate with MI6."
Oh, dear. Not a practical joke.
Jack continued gloating, "Really, we invited them to cooperate with us. The U.S. has decided to not lock up or hang their spy, and in return, he's going to work with us. For us."
Peggy kept her face carefully puzzled, waiting.
"The MI6 spy is Edwin Jarvis."
Peggy smiled patiently. She'd had time to prepare her approach, thanks to Jack's bloviating. "Isn't it rather late for April Fools'?"
"Nope. It's real. Washington's SSR chief had to take 15 minutes telling me, before I believed him."
"Someone is pulling your leg, Jack."
"You can hear it from the horse's mouth in another hour. Agent Jarvis is heading here for debriefing."
That was unexpected. Peggy didn't need to feign puzzlement at that. "Why would MI6 do such a thing? Was Mr. Jarvis suspected by Washington?"
Jack had no idea, but he wasn't going to admit that. "From what the D.C. chief told me, it sounds like London got their knickers in a twist over an immigration query. Somebody was trying to track down Anna Jarvis, born Anna Breuer. Now, why MI6 thought their spy might be exposed by some random war refugee, that's our new mystery. And in case our new recruit can't shed light on that, our Hungarian Sherlock here's on the case." Jack's grin stretched wider and Daniel rolled his eyes just as Jack's phone rang. "That'll be London, I'll bet. Shoo, find me some answers."
"He's far more tolerable when he's unhappy," Peggy remarked as she shut Jack's door. "What did he mean by 'Hungarian Sherlock?'"
"Maybe we'd better talk in the conference room." Relieved it was empty, Daniel put down the file he was holding and they sat down. "When my parents came here in 1916, my father thought he should shorten the family name to something more American than Szabolcsi. John Philip Sousa was his favorite American patriot, making the greatest American music. So, he picked Sousa. He loved that music. He had me playing the trombone from the day I could carry it." He smiled at a memory. "I was lucky he didn't insist on the tuba. It turned out he'd traded a Hungarian name for a Portuguese one. Maybe that makes it even more American - an instant melting pot.
"Anyway, when they left Budapest, they left behind my uncle, aunts, and more cousins than I know. Three of them work in city government there. I've been on the phone with them since Jack called me in here at dawn. I've spoken more Hungarian in three hours than I had in three years.
I've been trying to track down a history for Anna Breuer." He looked ashamed for doing his job. "There isn't any."
"Daniel, paper records are not bomb-proof. I'd be astonished if my own birth certificate made it through the Blitz. And Jewish families... It could take years to track what became of them. I doubt you need be so worried about this." Daniel's grim expression seemed to be contagious, though, and Peggy looked through the thin file in search of some reassurance.
"Nothing in there predates the month Jarvis came to Budapest. Her pay record started then. The hotel where she worked, it's still open. The tailor shop's gone, but my youngest cousin found a porter who remembers her. He remembers how a tiny, pretty young woman fought off a male attacker two blocks from the hotel. He saw the guy's neck broken. That porter's still terrified, even after making it through the war."
"Your cousin sound like an excellent detective." This bizarre narrative was leading to an impossible conclusion.
"Yeah. I'm going to owe him a month on the town in the Big Apple. He'll find out soon enough he's bunking on my glamorous secondhand easy chair." His try at joking didn't reach the funereal look on his face.
Peggy stated out loud the impossible thought. "We have to tell Mr. Jarvis he married a Russian agent."