Chapter 7 (between 14.07 Murdoch Escape Room and 14.10 Everything is Broken)

Julia flittered around her house with a smile upon her face, humming along to the gramophone, and doing the odd dance step as she lit candles and dimmed the lights. A freshly made pie was warming in the oven, she was wearing a new dress of rich blue tones, and her hair had for once cooperated in her attempts to arrange it softly around her face.

She had left the hospital on time for once, and a sureptitous call to the front desk of Station House Four informed her that there were no new cases to take up William's time after the one he'd closed the previous day.

The previous few months had been busy for the couple, not to mention super rabies, and almost being stabbed, shocked and dissolved in acid. Julia had therefore decided, quite on a whim, that she and her husband deserved a quiet night together, to relax and enjoy each other's company.

With everything set, the only thing left to do was to choose a passage to read. She hoped that William might be inclined to read to her, although she would orate if he was too tired. She therefore pulled down their special book and flicked through the pages in search of something befitting the occasion.

After some minutes, her attention was captured. The soft smile gradually fell from her features. Her hands trembled. Tears filled her eyes.


A key sounded in the front door. William! He can't see me like this! And not only William, but George Crabtree's voice was audible once the door was opened.

She shot to her feet, dropping the book in her haste. "William!" She forced a bright note to her voice, but averted her face, as she dodged the two men to snatch a hat from the coat rack in the foyer. "I'm so sorry. I have to go – work!"

And with that, she dashed out of the house, mounted her bicycle, and was soon speeding down the road, her hat still clutched in her hand.

There was silence in the wake of Julia's whirlwind departure, until George spoke up somewhat tentatively. "Did Doctor Ogden seem upset to you?"

William's concern immediately spiked. He knew he could be famously oblivious to his wife's finer feelings at times, but he hoped he had not missed anything glaringly obvious. He frowned. "I admit didn't notice anything. Why do you think so?"

He shrugged. "Well I had a better view of her face than you did, sir, so I shouldn't wonder that you didn't see. I just thought her eyes seemed a bit red. And she was in such a hurry."

"It did seem as if she was desperate to leave quickly," William mused.

"And, if I may add, sir, she was hardly dressed for work. And the hat she picked did not match her outfit. Mint hat with dark blue dress; hardly a suitable pairing, I tell you!"

Usually, William would be bemused by George's extensive knowledge of women's attire. However, he was then distracted by his observations of the main room. The tableau seemed to confirm the constable's suspicions; candles were lit, soft music was playing. It seemed like the house was set for romance, rather than a night in the office.

George stooped to pick up the book that Julia had dropped in her haste, but William stopped him. Something told him that the mystery of Julia's behaviour lay in its pages. He lifted it, careful to ensure it stayed open as it had fallen. The pages were slightly crumpled, but not too worse for wear. Immediately, he could tell that they were the sonnets. A small, swollen circle of paper drew his gaze, as if a drop of water had fallen upon the page. As if a tear drop had fallen upon the page…

He quickly scanned the page, bewilderedly at first, but eventually his attention fell upon words and phrases that made his stomach clench.

"It seems you were right, George." He resettled his homburg upon his head, quickly dousing the candles and silencing the gramophone as he spoke. "I'm afraid I'll have to show you my invention another night. I need to find Doctor Ogden."

He hopped on his bike and proceeded forth as fast as he could, yet the words he'd read replayed in his mind.

'Mark how one string, sweet husband to another/ Strikes each in each by mutual ordering/ Resembling sire and child and happy mother/ Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing'

A brief rain shower that ceased only minutes before he arrived home had dampened the ground.

'As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest/ In one of thein, from that which thou departest/ And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest/ Thou mayst call tine when thou from youth convertest… Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.'

The damp ground, coupled with the light traffic of the evening, allowed him to trace Julia's bicycle tracks.

'And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence/ Save breed, to brave him when he takes tee hence.'

When they seemed to turn off in the opposite direction to the hospital, he paused. Yet this seemed to back up his theory that her hastily uttered 'work' as her reason for dashing away was likely untrue. So, he resumed the trail.

'And your sweet semblance to some other give… When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear… Who lets so fair a house fall to decay/ Which husbandry in honour might uphold… You had a father: let your son say so.'

It was a good thing that the traffic was light, for he paid far too much attention to the ground and to the bard's words, and barely heeded anything, vehicular or otherwise, in front of him.

'And many maidens gardens yet unset/ With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers.'

Eventually, he came to the park nearest their home. At the entrance, the tracks became shallower, and a pair of shoeprints appeared, leading William to conclude that the rider had dismounted and had proceeded to push their bike forward.

'But were some child of yours alive at that time/You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.'

Eventually he spied her. Despite the waning light of dusk, he could recognise her form. She was standing erect, facing out across the lake. As he neared her, he could see she held herself, arms wrapped around her torso. As he came closer still, he noted with a wrench that she was shaking, her fingers trembling so very violently against her sides.

"Julia?" he uttered gently, hoping not to startle her. Nevertheless, she whipped around, gasping out his name. She wasn't crying, as he had feared, although her pressed lips trembled like the rest of her body, and her breaths came in uneven, rapid inhalations through her nose. "Let's go home." He placed a hand on her elbow. "We can talk about it there."

Her eyes widened, moisture rapidly pooling. How did he know to follow me? He surely can't know the reason. Please let him remain unawares.

"Come on," he encouraged as she remained immobile, with a little more pressure on her arm.

He wished that they did not have their bikes with them, as he wanted nothing more than to tuck her against him, and cocoon her close. As it was, they both had their vehicles to steady, so the best his could manage was a hand on her back, while their bicycles flanked them on either side. For her part, Julia trudged in a miserable huddle. The words of the sonnets replayed in her mind, only to be replaced by the various scenarios she imagined would play out once they reached home.

The drizzle, which had held off during the journey to the park, began again upon their walk home. William was not about to suggest they cycle, however, lest Julia lag behind. Thus, they were rather damp by the time they entered their house. Julia was perhaps more so, as she had never gotten around to donning her hat, and her clothes provided less protection than William's suit.

"What plans did you have for this evening?" he asked into the silence, while he brushed the water from his homburg and set it to dry on its customary peg.

"I thought we might have a meal, perhaps dance a little." She gestured limply to the gramophone. Her voice quieted all the more. "Perhaps read to each other…" Her eyes darted to where she had dropped the book, but it was no longer there.

William nodded, her words, and more revealingly her manner, suggesting that he was probably correct in his assumption that it was the sonnets that had precipitated her upset. "Why don't you go and get dry. I'll prepare some food for us."

She nodded, and made her way to their bedroom, lips pursed, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. His heart ached at seeing her so dejected, and he resolved to do all he could to return a smile to his usually joyful wife.

By the time Julia returned – he suspected she had been dawdling – he had lit a fire, provided a light repast of cheese sandwiches (the pie had by that time become burnt), and set the gramophone to playing quietly in the background; he hoped that the music would serve to lessen the oppressiveness of any silences in their conversation, and he was sure there would be many.

Julia stood before the scene, her posture erect, the very embodiment of how a lady should comport herself. Yet her hands twisted together, and a deep crease lined her brow, as if unsure as to whether he would welcome her presence. She looked so despondent, that he could not stomach the thought of eating until they had talked. And looking at how tightly Julia held herself, he suspected she would not fancy eating, either.

He approached her, laying a hand on her tense arm, and ducked his head in an attempt to catch her wavering gaze. "Shall we talk now?" When she didn't speak, he prompted, gently. "Can you tell me what upset you? I'd like to know."

At his gentle words, she curled into herself even more. I don't deserve him, she berated herself miserably, just as she'd mentally attacked herself all evening. "I was overreacting, William. Please, I'll be fine."

He supressed a sigh, not wanting her to even think that he was disappointed in her. Because he wasn't. He merely wished that he was better at discussing emotions. Still, he cared deeply for Julia, so despite his discomfort, he did not back away. Instead, he led her gently to his desk, upon which Shakespeare's book lay.

"Did it have something to do with this book?" he questioned.

Gaze lowered to the open pages, she nodded.

"Perhaps the sonnets?"

Another nod, this time accompanied by a quiver of her lips.

"Would it have anything to do with the topic of procreation?"

This time, she did not nod. Her affirmation came in the form of a strangled 'yes' and then her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, Julia," he murmured, wasting no time in crushing her against him. He had hesitated too many times in the past, but he was slowly learning his lesson and did not want his wife to be without his comfort even for a moment. He did not speak, merely let her cry out her pain into the security of his embrace.

Eventually, the shaking of her shoulders slowed, the sniffs ceased, and her gasps settled into steadier breaths. Deciding that the book of Shakespeare's works would be best placed out of sight for a time, he tucked it away upon the shelf behind his desk, while keeping a firm arm around her.

As he did so, he decided that a reading of another book might serve to soothe her. If he could convey his love through this simple act that they both enjoyed, he hoped she might feel cherished enough to open up to him about her most recent upset.

He pulled a number of books from the shelf and placed them on his desk. Julia, eventually roused enough from her tears, raised her head from his shoulder to follow his actions with interest. One particular book caught both of their attentions, although for very different reasons: 'A Critical and Explanatory Account of the Poetry of Lord George Gordon Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley', complete with a bullet lodged firmly in the centre of its cover.

"The bullet that nearly killed you!" she exclaimed, her voice strident and high pitched. "You were shot!" Her breath hitched. "I could have lost you then."

He cringed; additional distress was not his intention when attempting to choose reading material. "But the book stopped the bullet." He tried to soothe.

She eventually nodded, raising a trembling hand to trace the cover contemplatively, although her fingers avoided the bullet. "The book saved you."

"You saved me." At her frown, he explained. "If I had not loved you so much, I would not have been so, ah, jealous…." He shifted uncomfortably. "I would not have taken the book."

She was silent a moment then raised her gaze to him, her expression even more pained than before. "But back then you didn't know the whole truth. You only knew about the ab- You knew only about my actions as a student." She stumbled over the wording of something that had caused such strife between them. She continued, her voice choked with tears, "You had yet to discover my inability to bear a child."

"Oh, Julia," he sighed, her words further confirming just what those sonnets had pushed to the front of her mind. Just when we seem to be settled, the same issue keeps cropping up to haunt us in new ways. How can I convince her that it does not matter to me as much as she thinks it does? Gazing over her shoulder, another book seemed to call to him. He picked it up, then took her hand. "Come with me," he said softly, leading her to their customary chairs set before the fireplace. Yet he wanted closeness that evening, and suspected his wife needed it, so instead of settling in separate seats, he sat down in his own, and pulled her down with him. It was a tight fit, but with his arms around her, and her legs over his, they were able to sit somewhat comfortably, although Julia remained rigid, locked as she was in her upset.

He cleared his throat a little self-consciously, and then began. "She walks in beauty, like the night/ Of cloudless climes and starry skies." His voice was low, intimate, murmuring his love-filled words into her hair. "And all that's best of dark and bright/ Meet in her aspect and her eyes…"

Eventually, through his reading, she relaxed against him. Upon finishing, he put the book aside, and sat in silence for some minutes, merely running is fingers soothingly against whichever parts of her he could reach. "Julia," he murmured. "Can you tell me what happened when you read those sonnets?"

She did not respond straight away. But this time he didn't prompt her; he'd done as much as he could do make her feel secure, it was up to her if she felt able to divulge her feelings to him. "You were right, about the topic," she said quietly, forcing the words out, despite her instinct to keep them locked within her. Yet William had been so lovely, she felt she had to tell him. "Just when I feel contented and secure, something always comes to remind me of what I lack. Sometimes I'll see you gazing longingly after a family…"

He was about to protest, but she shushed him with her fingertips to his chin.

"It's okay; it's perfectly natural to imagine yourself in another's situation." She ran her fingers from his chin to his lapel, gripping it tightly as if to anchor herself. "I might see a pregnant woman with her husband, both so excited about the future… And tonight I read the sonnets, all urging the man to bear children. But you don't need any urging. You want children, only you can't, purely because you're married to me."

"Julia…" he began, but she shook her head.

"I had hoped that we could have a special night together; that's why I was browsing the book, to try to find something we could read to each other. But instead, you had to chase me down, and then spend your evening with your miserable wife."

More than a hint of self-reproachment had crept into her tone, and he hated that her psyche was still damaged from the issue of children. "I love you, Julia," he started, guessing it wouldn't hurt to reaffirm that important fact. "Our marriage, our relationship, has hardly been smooth sailing, has it? And I don't expect it to be. Yes, an evening of food, and dancing, and reading with you would have been lovely. But if you're upset, I want to be with you. I'd much rather you be unhappy and in my arms, than unhappy and alone somewhere." He paused, briefly musing how to address the next, and perhaps most important issue. "As for children… I've told you before that you are the most important part of my life. I am content to remain childless if it means I have the privilege and pleasure of spending my life with you. And I will keep telling you that until you believe me."

For someone who was at best awkward with emotions, and at worst oblivious, William could speak some beautiful and heartfelt words, so much so that she felt she had to start to believe his sincerity, as difficult as it was with such deeply incised and long-standing pain. So, she kissed him, thanked him, and kissed him again. "You're such a wonderful man, William. I am so very thankful that our unconventional lives became entwined. And I can't say that I won't need you to reassure me in the future, but right now, your words have helped."

"Old wounds sometimes reopen." He looked at her, considering how that very issue had come up time and again for them, and amended his statement. "Some wounds sometimes never completely heal. But I promise that I will always be here to reassure you that I love you."

She nodded with a sniff, snuggling down against him. He suspected that even then, she still harboured doubts. But he was true to his word: he would gladly provide her with comfort and reassurance, whenever she may need it. And with time and his attentions, he hoped that her wound might gradually heal. And that was really the best he could hope for.


A/N: Many thanks for reading! I'll admit I found it difficult to find Julia's and William's voices in this. Part of my difficulty might be because there have really been many lengthy heart-to-heart scenes on screen to go off. I wanted to try something different with interspersing the quotes. Hopefully it worked.

Sonnets are VIII, XI, XII, XIII, XVI and XVII. The poem William reads is Lord Byron's 'She Walks in Beauty'.