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Title: "His Wife," Chapter Two
Author: Darkover
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I do not own "Band of Brothers," the miniseries. Even less do I own any of the people upon whom the series was based, as they were and are real people, ones for whom I have great respect and admiration. While I have drawn from certain real-life incidents, this story is fictional, and no offense whatsoever is intended. I fervently hope none is taken. I write this for love, not for money, so please do not sue me.
Summary: An alternate ending to the story, "His Wife."
~ooo0ooo~
According to physicists and mystics alike, there are other universes, perhaps an infinite number of them. In one universe—perhaps even the one in which you read this—Ronald C. Spiers and the Englishwoman he married never did meet again. But in another—again, perhaps the very one in which you are reading this—they did. If you wish to know what transpired when they did so, read on.
~ooo0ooo~
Years passed. Their son Robert grew to be a man, eventually becoming a soldier like his father, although in the British Army rather than in the Army of the United States of America. She knew from what Robert told her that Ronald had married—or married again, depending on one's perspective. She was more relieved than jealous at this news. While she knew, even if Ron did not, that the American woman he married did not love him any more than she—for such a thing was not possible—perhaps marriage to this woman would bring him the peace he needed and deserved. The woman had children, or so Robert said; perhaps now Ron might know the joys of a stable family life. Or so she hoped.
For some years, when his military duties allowed it, he lived in Montana and Arizona with this woman. He helped her rear her children, watched them grow and marry and give him step-grandchildren. Robert in his turn married also and became a father himself, and she knew that Ron visited Robert and their son's family when possible—which was seldom—and that Ron regarded them all, especially Robert, as his "pride and joy." But during these years, she herself still had little idea of what Ron's life was like. She could only hope Ron was as happy with his American wife and family as she was happy with her first husband and Robert.
Then years later, when both she and Ron had grown old and even Robert was middle-aged, that man contacted them. His name escaped her now, but the man was a historian who was gathering material for a book. The man corresponded with her, as he also corresponded with Ron. The historian wanted to know about Ron and the other men of that company, the one he had become commanding officer of during the War. Easy Company, 506th Airborne Infantry Division. A mini-series was made about those years, about those men and their war experiences, and she gasped at the revelation of the great danger her Ron had been in, far greater than she had ever imagined. She had to endure this knowledge alone, for Robert was off fighting his own wars, and her first husband had died. She was enlightened, but not surprised, to learn that Ron had been an even bigger hero and braver man than she had ever known.
But one more act of courage yet remained to him.
It was when there was a D-Day commemorative meeting scheduled for the men of Easy Company that she saw a figure come over the hill, pause for a moment as if taking in the sight of the village, and descend down the road that led through it and to where she was working in her garden.
Aldbourne had changed much. It was scarcely recognizable as the markedly English village it had been during the War. Her cottage was even at last known as *her* cottage, rather than her grandmother's. She had changed, too. She was an old lady now, white-haired and in need of reading glasses, not the lovely young English rose she had once been. Nevertheless, the man who approached her on that life-altering day walked up to her as steadily as if they had been parted for a month, not decades. He had grown older too, so it was as much by his walk as his looks that she recognized him—that confident, steady, unyielding paratrooper's march with just a touch of swagger—that she knew him from afar, and when he grew close, it was his eyes. No other man in the world had eyes quite like his. Her Ron.
Impulsively she held out her arms to him, and he came to her. He smiled at her—shyly? Surely not: her Ron had never been shy. They kissed.
"Ron," she said when their lips parted, as if saying his name aloud made it more real. "You came back."
"I used to promise you that I would," he told her, and smiled again.
She nodded, remembering. "How is your wife?" she made herself ask. That was not what was uppermost on her mind, but she thought that perhaps they should not behave as lovers.
"She passed away." He paused. "When that historian wrote to ask me questions, he told me that your husband died."
"Yes. Several years ago." She continued to gaze at him. "Have you been happy, Ron?"
"Yes," he said. She waited for him to elaborate, but he did not. Still, that was typical of Ron; he seemed to believe he had said all that needed to be said. And perhaps with that one word, he had.
He seemed to be studying her just as intently. "Your husband—did he make you happy? Was he good to you?"
You were my husband too, she wanted to say. I have never forgotten you. But she found herself following his example and answering with a simple, "Yes."
"Good. Otherwise, dead or not, I'd have to kick his ass." Still-strong teeth flashed in that rare, vibrant smile of his, and his dark eyes glittered the way she remembered.
"Then…does that mean you forgive me, Ron?" She was trembling; she did not realize it until he took her hands in his own, drew her gently close, and kissed her passionately but tenderly once more.
"Honey, there is nothing to forgive. I realize that now. It took me a very long time, I admit, because…it did hurt." He spoke the last three words with an effort, she saw, not because his words were not sincere, but because men of his generation kept most of their emotions locked away, and it was an effort, even now, for him to reveal them. There was an unaccustomed vulnerability in his gaze, and she realized with astonishment that she still had power over him, more than she had ever realized. "Do you still…love me? Did you ever love me, or did you just need me?"
"Ron, I have always loved you. I never stopped," she said, so simply and truthfully that he was convinced. "You are my husband too. I love you both."
He visibly relaxed. "'Are?' Not 'was?'"
She kissed him again. "Come inside."
Hand in hand, they went inside the cottage. That was where they lived together for the rest of their lives. It was only death that ever parted them again, and even that parting was surely only a temporary one.