A/N: I know, I promised explanations in this chapter, but it turned out that there was a bit more scene-setting to be done first – hopefully readers won't mind too much!
Just as I am beginning to feel seriously concerned, my mobile phone buzzes insistently; I grab it from its perch on top of the piano and flip it open, peering at the screen and hoping it is not a red flash. I exhale in relief as I see Ruth's number. "Hello, my love, where are you?" Ruth answers in a strained tone, "I think we're lost – the driver is insisting that we're at the correct address, but it can't possibly be right. We've been around the village twice now…what's your house number, again?" I tell her, and when I hear her sharp intake of breath, and her hurried apology to the cabbie, I hasten to open the entry gates. On the colour CCTV monitor behind the front door, I see her standing outside the gates, clutching her overnight bag in both hands and gazing up at the house, a peculiar look on her face. The gates roll back smoothly, and she steps through as though she is sleepwalking, before stopping uncertainly at the foot of the drive as the gates close silently behind her. I decide I had better go out and meet her, or at this rate it might be midnight before she reaches the front door.
When she sees me hurrying towards her, Ruth begins to walk up the long sweep of the carriage drive, looking around incredulously as she approaches. I meet her at the turn, where the house first comes into full view, and I hear her gasp as she sees it properly. Taking her bag from her, I turn to look at it too. I tend to forget its effect on visitors, as I have so few…
My home started life as the principal residence of a wealthy and eminent Georgian gentleman; built on the outskirts of Hampstead Village, it wasn't quite a country house, but it did stand in its own grounds, backing onto the Heath. I was drawn to its graceful, Palladian proportions and air of serenity, situated amongst gardens which had been allowed to revert to nature in some parts, by its previous, elderly owners; my mother had approved of the separate guest wing (now her own), and the formal reception rooms on the ground floor. I had loved the ancient, gnarled oak which sheltered the front of the house; my mother had loved the formally planted borders from which she could take all the flowers she wanted for her arrangements. The beautiful Adams ceiling in the drawing room was the icing on the cake for me, so to speak; for my mother, it was the discovery of an Edwardian-era dumbwaiter, still in working order. I had bought the house about fifteen years ago, and I had done very little with it since, scorning the trend to redecorate and modernise and remodel which seems to grip our country like a mania, if current television programming is to be believed; instead, I preferred to let it continue ageing gracefully instead.
Now, through Ruth's eyes, I see it all afresh: the time-mellowed red brick, framed in white stone, the three storeys visible above ground, the rows of small-paned windows, the elegant entrance, the formal urns on either side of the door, planted for summer with cascading blue and white lobelia, the lawn rolling away on all sides to the meticulously clipped box hedge which conceals the high wall around the perimeter of the property. Ruth seems lost for words, and is in danger of becoming rooted to the spot like Daphne; so I offer her my arm, and we continue towards the house, our feet making a pleasant crunching noise on the gravel. As we approach the front door, Ruth stops, her eyes fixed on the top floor of the house, before she turns to me and speaks, her voice full of wonderment. "It's beautiful…but it's so big! I feel like Elizabeth Bennet, seeing Pemberley for the first time…is this your family's house?"
I answer with a nervous little laugh. "Oh, no. We were literally as poor as church mice; there was no family money left by the time my father was married, let alone property. But before I joined Five, I had been involved in a media start-up, just on the cusp of the 90's dotcom boom…when the company was floated on the stock exchange, I did rather well out of it. I thought that Mother might come to live with me at some point, so I wanted a place where we wouldn't be in each other's pockets…and I had always wanted to live on the Heath." Ruth watches me closely as I speak, and to my immense relief, there is none of the calculating, speculative look in her eyes which I was dreading; I have seen it before, when people find out. Instead, she takes my hand, and I lead her inside, marvelling that the moment I have so often longed for is here: I am bringing the woman I love home.
As we walk into the entry hall, Ruth's eyes widen in surprise. "Is that an actual suit of armour?" I glance at it, as I set her bag at the foot of the stairs. "I'm afraid so. There are a few things like that about the place, old relics that have been in the family forever…Mother couldn't bear to leave them behind." I hadn't intended on giving her the grand tour, indeed I have only lit the few rooms that I think we might use, but then Ruth catches sight of the library, and she's off, scanning the shelves, happy at being amongst her favourite objects. I watch her affectionately from the doorway as she simply disappears into her own world, tilting her head to read titles, running her finger gently along spines, occasionally pausing to pull out a volume and dip into it. The library comprises my own books, as well as my father's collection, and some from my grandfather. There are works in Latin, Greek, and French; and Ruth could read them all. It is one of the things I love most about her; we are so well matched, intellectually. After a lifetime of being singled out and made fun of for my love of learning, I feel as if I have finally met the one person who truly understands the sheer excitement of attaining and applying knowledge.
Ruth is working her way around the room, making little exclamations of pleasure as she greets books like old friends, when she comes across the well-worn King James Bible, once my father's, now mine. She lifts it out carefully, and turns to the genealogy page; I flinch, knowing what she is about to read there. As she does so, her eyebrows arch, and she looks over at me with a mixture of consternation and amusement. "Peregrine?"
"For my paternal grandfather, I'm afraid", I answer as offhandedly as I can manage – I was teased at school for years about my forenames, and am still sensitive about it. "Malcolm Peregrine Geoffrey St John Wynn-Jones", she reads out the whole catastrophe as she approaches me across the Persian-carpeted floor, skewering me with those extraordinary aquamarine eyes as she asks, "Who are you? It says here your grandfather was a baronet…this house…that suit of armour in the hall…should I be practising my curtsey?" I blush fiercely, the colour burning its way up from my throat to the roots of my hair, as I reach out to gently take the Bible from her. "Erm, well, my father's father was indeed a baronet, and the Wynn-Jones have been in Dunvant since Domesday, but my father happened to be the second son, and went into the Church. My grandfather's money was lost, literally sunk, in shipping during the Second World War, and my uncle died without issue, so that leaves me, the last of the dinosaurs." Ruth listens to my potted family history with her usual deep concentration, smiling at the end, "It's just as well, then, that I've always been rather fond of dinosaurs, isn't it?"
I return her smile shyly; I am feeling surprisingly nervous about having her here, partly because I am not used to having visitors – in all the years that I have worked for Five, only Harry, Colin, and Lucas North have ever been here, and only Colin more than once – and partly because I am still unsure about just about everything when it comes to Ruth, especially given her recent behaviour. It's as if she didn't even consider coming to me with her pain and loneliness, following the loss of Danny; instead she chose to isolate herself from us all. From her conversation with Harry a week ago, I know that Ruth holds herself responsible, but to my mind, this is both untrue and illogical; no one could have done more to find the Iraqi terrorists, and none of us could have known that they would be prepared to execute an officer of the British security services in cold blood, merely to prove a point. For that matter, none of us could have foreseen that Danny would choose to sacrifice himself to save Fiona; it is the noblest act I have ever witnessed, and somehow, even given the closeness of their friendship, Ruth's reaction is off. I don't doubt for a second that her feelings about Danny are genuine, but at the back of my mind, I have begun to wonder if there is something else at work here too, something deeper which has precipitated her descent into grief and guilt. Only time will tell, I suppose; Time, the great healer, and merciless revealer.
I straighten up from where I have been leaning against the doorpost, and ask Ruth if she would like to see the rest of the house, an invitation I hadn't planned on extending, but which now seems to be the safest way to proceed, given her evident shock at discovering the manner in which I live. It is, I must admit, a far cry from her little rented semi, but had I not had that quite unlooked for stroke of good fortune, I would probably be living in very similar circumstances, given the paucity of most civil service salaries. It has taken a number of years to adjust to it myself; indeed, I would go so far as to say I am still not completely reconciled with the fact that I do not actually need the wages I am paid today. Some I give to Mother, for what she quaintly calls 'pin money'; the rest, I give anonymously to a number of charities, with my father's voice ringing in my ears, Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven.
Putting the Bible down on the little piecrust table just inside the entrance to the library, I take Ruth's hand, and lead her through the hall. "Mother chose most of the furnishings in here, so I give you fair warning; be prepared for chintz." Ruth squeezes my hand affectionately, as we walk into the parlour; it's not a room I use myself, preferring the more austere elegance of the original drawing room, but Mother had wanted a place she could call her own, somewhere to entertain the bridge club once a month, and she had settled on this room. Ruth's eye is caught by a family photograph I had forgotten was on the mantelpiece, and it is in her hands before I can stop her. It is a picture of my parents and me, taken one summer when I was up from Cambridge, in the back garden of the parsonage, under a glorious old beech tree. The dappled light through the leaves makes it hard to clearly see our faces, for which I am grateful; but Ruth's keen eye misses nothing.
"Look at your hair! It's almost to your collar…and it's curly!" She scrutinises the image further, while I squirm uncomfortably beside her – I hate seeing pictures of myself – but Ruth simply sets the photograph back on the mantelpiece as she tells me, "You've got your mother's colouring, but you're your father's son, otherwise. I think I would have liked your father…he looks so kind." I feel my throat tighten at her words, and once more I am reminded of how much I miss him. "Oh, he would have liked you, too. For one thing, you'd have given him a run for his money where the classics are concerned!" I am striving for a happy tone, as the heaviness which has blanketed Ruth for weeks is threatening to return: I can see it in her posture, her shoulders bowing as she retreats into herself. I wonder what has started it, when she had been so much more like herself since arriving, and decide to keep moving through the house, hoping to distract her. I show her the dark green formal dining room, where Mother keeps everything covered with dust-sheets, waiting for the day when I announce that we shall be twelve for dinner that night, and could she please order dinner accordingly; the smaller dining room, just off the kitchen, in which we take our meals together, and which is furnished with the warmth of Welsh oak in the farmhouse style; then we go through to the kitchen itself, and the conservatory, which runs along the length of one wall, its glass walls serving as windows into the house, filling the kitchen with light.
My diversionary tactic seems to be working; Ruth exclaims in delight as she walks through the profusion of plants I have cultivated over the years. "These flowers are exquisite, Malcolm, did you really grow them yourself?" she asks, admiring a particularly good specimen of a native green winged orchid, its iris-like blooms a deep purple. "Yes, I like the challenge of working out exactly what they need to keep them happy and flowering. A background in chemistry is a useful thing in more than one way, it would seem." I don't much go in for the showier exotic orchids, the Cymbidium and Phalaenopsis varieties which are ubiquitous nowadays, choosing to concentrate instead on British species, which, while not as spectacular to look at, have their own quiet charm nonetheless. The evening light is fading now, and much as I would like to show Ruth around the garden, I am more interested in showing her upstairs, and ascertaining what our sleeping arrangements will be. We come back inside, although Ruth is reluctant to leave the conservatory, and I lead the way upstairs, towards my wing of the house.
We reach the guest room I have made up for her first, as it is located just off the main landing, and I hesitate – what if she sees this as rejection, instead of consideration? before I show her into the room. "I wasn't sure if, if you would prefer your own room, or…" Ruth looks around, and then back at me. "It's lovely, but I've been sleeping on my own ever since…it happened…" her voice trails off, and I see the uncertainty in her eyes – does he not want me? am I too broken, now? Picking up her bag, I carry it down the corridor, towards my own room, trembling with the strength of my feelings for her, and the need to control myself…tonight, I remind myself fiercely, is not about me, but about Ruth, about being there for her. I pause at the door which partitions my wing from the rest of the floor, bracing myself to allow her into my most personal space, and then I tap in the security combination on the touchpad and swipe my left thumb over the sensor, hearing the familiar click and whirr as the door swings open automatically. I step aside to allow Ruth to go through first. "Just down the hall, third door on the right."
Ruth stands on the threshold of the bedroom, one hand still on the doorknob as she looks inside, and I have to resist the temptation to sweep her up into my arms and carry her across it. I set her bag down and take a deep breath. "Well, this is it…" I reach past her to turn on the main light, and she blinks, before walking towards the centre of the room, where she makes a slow, complete turn, taking it all in. After a moment, I join her. "The bed is something else that came from my grandfather's house", I tell her, feeling the need to explain why I have a very large and ornately carved Jacobean four-poster (minus the canopy – I had absolutely refused to let Mother replace the threadbare original, citing the dust it would gather as the reason for my unusual stubbornness on the matter) in what is otherwise a very unremarkable room.
The floors in my wing of the house are all polished wood – carpet is murder for a chronic asthmatic like me – and my bedroom is no exception. The walls are half-panelled in walnut, with an original William Morris wallpaper in faded red and gold above the wainscoting. A window takes up most of the wall perpendicular to the bed, and when I moved in, I had the fussy, dusty velvet curtains removed, opting instead to install electronic privacy glass, controlled by a switch. Apart from my father's favourite old armchair, a pair of bedside tables, and the window seat that was added sometime in the Victorian era, there is nothing else in the room. A connecting door goes through to my even simpler dressing room, and down the hall is the black-and-white tiled bathroom. Ruth explores these silently, reminding me of a cat, set down in unfamiliar territory, but curious to see its new surroundings, while I wonder if I should go downstairs and prepare our supper. Just as I am about to do so, she returns from her reconnaissance, shaking her head in disbelief or amusement, I'm not sure which, as she sits down on the bed; evidently, she is feeling at home. She pats the counterpane next to her, indicating that I should join her, and somewhat apprehensively, I do.
"I feel as if I've fallen down the rabbit hole," she begins. "I knew you lived with your mother, so I'd somehow gotten it into my head that you lived in her house…but this, this is so far from what I had imagined…I had no idea…I feel as if I don't know you at all." My heart sinks at her words – I had been afraid that something like this might happen – and I take her hand as it lies in her lap, seeking to re-establish contact. "My darling, I'm still the same man, sitting here beside you…how does seeing where I live, or how I live, change that?" She looks away, gathering her thoughts, while I wait in an agony of nervousness for her to speak. "I don't know, but it does. You don't actually have to work at all, do you?" I involuntarily grip her hand tighter, and she yips in protest.
I hastily release her hand, and dip my head, trying to make eye contact; when I finally succeed, I speak as quietly as I can, belying the gathering storm of emotions behind my words. "Ruth, listen to me. You're right, I don't have to work ever again, if I so choose. I have been tremendously fortunate, some would say blessed, in that way. But I come from a long line of men who have always served our country and our community. I chose to work for Five because I wanted to continue that tradition, and my skills seemed a good match for the Service. I wanted to give something back, after I had gained so much, and I wanted to make a difference. That sounds idealistic, I know, but I really do believe in the work we do, the lives it saves…and besides, can you imagine what I'd be like if I didn't have something meaningful to get up for each morning? My brain's not built to stay idle, it would soon tear itself apart like a racing engine if I didn't give it work to do. I'm not meant to lead a life of indolence, but of service. It was drummed into me from a very early age, along with my Latin and Greek verbs. I can promise you, having money hasn't made a whit of difference to who I am. If it had, I would be living la dolce vita in Tuscany, or sailing around the Caribbean on my private yacht…"
Ruth gives me the tiniest smile, at these last words, and says, "You'd be burnt to a crisp…does anyone else know? About this, I mean," as her hand moves gracefully through the air to indicate my home, and everything in it. "Only Harry, of course, and Colin…for obvious reasons, I don't talk about it at work. It's nobody else's business, and I am all too aware of the pitfalls that can occur when there is jealousy or malcontent in a team. Far better to say nothing, don't you agree?" I watch her swiftly analysing everything I have told her, and finally she nods. "It was just a bit of a shock, seeing it for the first time…it's a long way from the Fifties mock-Tudor villa I grew up in, near Exeter. It's why I was so late, getting here – when the cab pulled up in front of those gates, I just couldn't believe my eyes, so I made him drive right round the village again. I had been expecting a terrace, or perhaps a mansion flat…certainly nothing like this! And then, when I saw it up close, it just seemed so right for you, so very Malcolm, that I couldn't imagine how you had put up with my little place, full of cats and clutter…" I put my arm around her shoulders. "I wouldn't care if you lived in a tent on Exmoor, and had twenty cats…although I would probably have to increase my antihistamines" – she laughs a little at that – "I love you, Ruth, and all the money in the world wouldn't change that." Ruth's eyes, huge and dark, in the dimly lit room, hold mine hypnotically, as she gently takes my face between her hands. "I'm going to kiss you now, Malcolm Peregrine Geoffrey St John Wynn-Jones, if that's quite all right with your Lordship?" And before I can answer, she does, leaving me breathless to protest the incorrectly attributed title.
My head is in a whirl; this is the Ruth I know and love, but the change in her is so sudden, I am finding it difficult to keep up. For almost two weeks, she has been inside her private bubble of grief, and the rest of us have stepped around her as if walking on eggshells; and now this? My body, however, has no such reservations, as is becoming more obvious by the second. Ruth moves into my arms, and the kiss becomes a full embrace. Eventually, she sits back, smiling. "Oh, I've missed this…I've missed you, Malcolm." "And I, you," I reply gravely, "but I don't understand something, Ruth…I've been right here…why didn't you come to me before, if you were feeling so dreadful about Danny?" She looks away. "It's complicated," she says softly, "and I don't want to talk about it right now…" Of course not, I think, frustration and concern merging. Aloud, I suggest that we go down to supper, and she happily accepts. As we go, I disarm the security for my wing, so that she can come and go as she likes; when she raises an eyebrow at the sophistication of the system, I simply say, "Colin" and she smiles. "I wanted to make sure that I would have a secure place, in case I needed to bring work home…"Ruth adds, "Or keep people out," in a dry tone of voice that suggests she is onto me and my hermetic tendencies.
Supper is a simple affair; poached salmon, that the nice lady in Fortnum's has given me precise instructions for heating up, along with a little tub of Béarnaise sauce and a wink. I have already scrubbed some new potatoes, and soon they are boiling nicely, while I wash watercress and Ruth slices tomatoes for a salad. I had wanted to do it all myself, and serve Ruth as a proper guest, but she had insisted on coming into the kitchen to help, and I am surprised at how pleasant it is to be doing something as mundane as preparing food with her. Mother never allows me into the kitchen, other than to do the drying-up. All my life, I have been perfectly content with this division of labour; but now I understand the primal attraction of making food for one's lover. It is quite different to pouring a bowl of Weeties for oneself, or eating a hasty ready meal; it is, dare I say it, sexy – and that is not a word I would ordinarily apply to anything I do. When all is ready, I invite Ruth to go through into the informal dining room. She glances longingly towards the conservatory…of course, why didn't I think of that myself? "Just wait in there one minute," I beseech her, guiding her towards the dining room, before racing back into the kitchen.
It takes me five minutes, not one, but when I am satisfied that everything is in place, I reappear in the dining room, where Ruth is waiting with a glass of Chablis and a patient look on her face. I glance at my watch – heavens, it's almost eleven o'clock! – and proffer a folded napkin. "If you wouldn't mind…I want to surprise you, so…" she nods, and obligingly allows me to blindfold her. I tuck her hand under my arm, and lead her carefully towards the conservatory. As we step inside, I move behind Ruth to untie the blindfold, and at her gasp of delight, I fold my arms around her and drop a kiss onto her hair. "Is this what you had in mind?"
The conservatory is lit by dozens of candles, their soft light gleaming against the silver of the formal candelabra which I have brought from the green dining room, along with two balloon-backed chairs and a small card table, now covered by a damask cloth, our plates already set out on it. A Victorian monstrosity of an ice bucket holds the Chablis. Through the roof, the faint starlight of London can be seen, and best of all, there is a moon, not quite at the full, but shining brightly on this clear summer's night. The plants seem to glow from within in the soft light, and on the table I have placed a tiny vase of freesias, picked from beneath my favourite oak, their sweet scent soft on the air. Ruth turns to hug me with joy, and I know I that got it right. "Oh, Malcolm, it's perfect…" I pull out her chair for her, before taking my place opposite, and we begin to eat, after toasting each other with the lovely old crystal goblets I so rarely use; but tonight is an occasion worthy of the best china, the family silver, and the finest linen. I am glad, for more than one reason, that Mother is away in Bournemouth…
I am feeling slightly light-headed, and not just because of the wine, or the lateness of the hour, nor even because Ruth is finally here with me, at home; I can't quite identify it, other than as a dreamlike sensation of euphoria, which I finally recognise as being pure joy. In that moment, I realise that I want this forever: Ruth, living here with me, making my house her home; in the next, I see how impossible a dream this is. Even if Ruth were to consent, should I propose to her, there is still the vexed question of what to do about Mother. I would not ask Ruth to live with me under any other circumstances – I know that I am old-fashioned when it comes to these things, and as much as I enjoy and even crave the physical side of our relationship, if I am entirely honest, I still feel a kind of residual guilt over it, although Ruth has made it clear that she has no problem with the status quo. I could blame my strict upbringing, or my religious beliefs, I suppose, but it what it really boils down to this: I want Ruth, body, mind and soul, and I want to make it official, in front of all the world...God help me, I want to marry her, but I can't…we can't even tell our colleagues, far less our families…I must make a noise of some sort, because Ruth raises her eyes from her plate, and asks if I am all right. "Yes, sorry, I think I just swallowed a bit of bone," I reassure her, taking a long draught of wine. Ruth frowns at my unfairly maligned salmon, and says, "They should have made sure to take out all the pin bones first…where did it come from again? Harrods'?" I chuckle; she is pulling my leg. "Fortnum and Mason, actually. They do a far superior class of salmon there…" Good, keep it light, keep her smiling, until this odd pain in my chest passes off…she mustn't know.
I pour more wine, then clear our plates and bring in dessert – I'm not much of a sweet tooth, usually preferring some cheese and fruit at the end of a meal, but I have heard Ruth's opinions on cheese before bedtime before, so I have bought a summer pudding, with clotted cream to go with it; her face lights up at the sight. "I haven't had this since I was a child," she tells me, spooning the rich yellow cream onto her pudding, "when Dad used to take me berrying, and then we'd stop at this little farm on the way back, and buy clotted cream. He would only allow me to have it about once a year, so it was such a treat…" she closes her eyes in bliss as she savours the first mouthful, and I smile at the expression on her face. She must have been a sweet, serious child; I'm sure, like me, she would have been a bookworm. "What are you smiling at?" she wants to know, so I tell her, "I was just wondering what you were like, as a child, berrying along the hedgerows with your father. Did you have a book in one hand, and a bucket in the other?"
The light dies in her eyes, as I wonder what I've said. Getting up from the table abruptly, Ruth leaves the room. I sit there uncomfortably for a minute or two, debating whether or not to go after her, and then she returns, holding something small and flat in her hand. Sitting back down, she hands me a Polaroid shot, slightly crumpled at the edges. It shows a girl of about ten, dressed in denim dungarees, dark hair tied up in a kerchief, standing next to a stocky, smiling man; the girl's eyes are the same as the man's, a piercing blue-green. Both are holding buckets filled with berries. "No book, but otherwise…sometimes I think you must be psychic. How did you know?" I shrug, "Just a lucky guess. Oh, you have your father's eyes..." I pause as she delicately takes the photo back to study it for what must be the millionth time, judging by the feeling of the paper at its edges. In a low voice, she begins to speak, almost as if she is addressing the image she is holding. "I was so happy, that day…we had gone down to Lulworth Cove, because I wanted to look for fossils…I was going through a big archaeology phase, at the time. We didn't find any though, and I was very disappointed… to cheer me up, Dad suggested picking berries on the way home, and we got loads…Mum was surprised to see us turn up with buckets full of blackberries, instead of pebbles and shells, so she got the camera out." I reach across the table to take her hand, bringing it to my lips to brush a kiss on it, wanting to show her that I understand, and she looks up at me through her lashes. "I'm so tired, I'm rambling…I'm sorry, Malcolm, but I really need to go to bed." And so we do.
Going to bed, I soon discover, means exactly that; Ruth emerges from the bathroom in striped cotton pyjamas, and curls herself into the far side of my bed. I hasten to join her, but by the time I slide in next to her, also pyjama-clad, she is almost asleep, worn out from the events of the last couple of weeks, and the novelty of her discoveries today. As the bed shifts beneath my weight, she rolls over, her back towards me, so that I can wrap myself around her in the way that she likes, and her breathing subsides into a regular, slow rhythm; the last thing I hear her say is "Peregrine…" her lips curving into a smile. I try to stay awake for a little longer, drinking it all in: Ruth, in my arms, and in my bed, at last, but inevitably I follow her into a deep and dreamless sleep; all my dreams are here beside me, and at the moment that I finally succumb, there is nothing more I could wish for in this world…almost.
When I wake, sometime in the wee hours, she is gone.
A/N: The Bible verse is from Matthew 6:1-4, King James Version.